Set of Rules

I worked hard for forty five years as an administrator for a service company. I learnt a lot about how a service company can bill the clients for services they do not really perform and how to pay employees as little as possible while getting the work of two employees from each of them. Not surprising, then that employees did not stay long with the company. The ones who did not leave for greener pastures were deemed incompetent and were summarily dismissed before they were owed significant separation allowance. Yet, I spent my whole working career there. It was not because the bosses liked my work but because no one knew I was there. I kept such a low profile that I was not on their radar. I was never offered ten, twenty or forty year service awards and, thanks to the innate survival instinct, never claimed any. Anyhow, I became the first person to retire from the company in its long history. The company did not have any retirement plans but they did have a little reception on my last day in the afternoon break and presented me a ticking Timex.

My good wife was pleased that I was now available to help her at home. I was never good at cooking but I could chop the vegetables, do the dishes, vacuum the floor and water the garden of which she was particularly fond. I offered to pull out the weeds but she reminded me of the occasion twenty years ago when I pulled out the precious poppies. “No thanks. Just water it. Make sure hose is on long enough and no corner is missed. You can look after the grass, mowing, watering, weeding and feeding. Make sure the lawn furniture is put back.”

But things didn’t go as smoothly as we expected. Before long she was complaining that I am snooping on her phone calls though all I did was looked up from the Sports section when she laughed boisterously. Then the tea cup was left lying around, snacks disappeared before her visitors arrived, newspaper sections were scattered all over the house, complaints galore on and on. It couldn’t go on. I had to find a way out.

A friend at the Bridge Club mentioned that his company needed a consultant to straighten their administration. Aha, here was the solution to all my problems and some money in the bank too. I got the number of the manager from him and made an appointment. Before long I had an assignment. But to do the work I needed an office. To look after the office I needed an Office Assistant. Fortunately, the shopping plaza had just the space and an ad in the local paper brought forth an application. Jeanette was an experienced lady who could handle the phone, keep company books, make out cheques to Revenue Canada at proper times and of course did not mind serving tea when I needed it. Her salary expectation was not unreasonable considering the times and all she wanted in addition was the option to draw her salary in Canadian or American dollars, have lunch with her ‘boy’ friend in her office and be able to leave immediately after lunch on Fridays. I needed her more than she needed me and I knew there was not much room to haggle. I agreed to her conditions without giving them much thought. Following Monday Rare Management Consultants were in operation with a client, an office and the full complement of staff.

Well, not quite. Jeanette spent an hour making a list of things that we needed to function properly. She needed a computer, printer, fax, telephone system, copier, filing cabinets, more furniture, small office accessories like pencil sharpener, hole punch, file holders, on and on. It took several days and several months’ anticipated billings to acquire these basics. At last every thing was in place and working to Jeanette’s satisfaction and a smile flitted across her usually dour face.

Her boy friend, he indeed was a boy, couldn’t have been half her age, showed up at noon for lunch. She closed the door to her office and opened it at one sharp and her boy, I have a temptation to call him toy boy but I will resist, disappeared without saying hello or goodbye. I spent my time reviewing my client’s organizational charts, revising them in various ways and considering pros and cons of each. Jeanette spent her time playing solitaire on the computer. I was relieved she could occupy herself and didn’t bother me about giving her things to do. As the minute hand moved to zero with the hour hand at four she picked up her hand bag, put on her brown Holt and Renfrew coat with a fur collar, said goodbye and left. On Fridays she left at one after her lunch soon after her ‘boy’ had departed.

At the end of the month she told me that it was easier for accounting to treat American and Canadian currencies at par and make adjustments at the end of the business year. I did not see any problem and agreed. She responded by informing me that she will take her cheque in US dollars. On my way home I heard on the business news that our dollar was trading a little below par.

The following month, Jeanette’s lunch hour started at 11:45 and had progressively moved to 11:00 three months later. She left on Friday after lunch as was our agreement, now at noon. Another change occurred at this juncture. Canadian dollar was now trading at premium and Jeanette switched to taking her salary in Canadian dollars. These changes should have rung alarm bells but a trusting soul who had learnt to keep waters still in his working life is deaf to such things. I carried on merrily, often whistling tunes from Gilbert and Sullivan operas.

Six months went by, Christmas was now approaching. Jeanette requested the week between Christmas and New Year off. I did not expect any thing important to happen and agreed. On Christmas Eve, she wished me a Merry Christmas, handed me a gaily wrapped packet and left holding the hand of her boy.

Three days after Christmas I was juggling the organization chat of my new client when the phone rang. It was the bank. They had my cheque for tax withholding to Revenue Canada but no funds in the account. I was shocked. We had received a large payment for my second job and I had asked Jeanette to deposit it promptly. “Sir, there was a big deposit last week, but many withdrawals as well, the last being 9,879.56 which took the balance to the credit limit.” I did not believe him, “I will be there in half an hour and we will straighten it out.”

I found the bank file in the cabinet, stuffed it in my brief case and rushed to the bank. There was the receipt of the big deposit in the file but no record of withdrawals. The bank manager showed me the cheques with what looked like my signatures made out to Jeanette. Obviously, Jeanette had forged my signatures and had taken off with every penny in the account.

The police were called. Jeanette had left her apartment and no one knew where she had moved to. I learnt my lesson and moved as well. Back to a small office in the basement of our home with a set of twelve rules just above the computer: rules dictated by my wife before she will let me stay at home in work hours.

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Turning a Corner

“I can’t cope any longer. I am being driven mad.” The call from our daughter-in-law in California alarmed us. She is separated from her partner, our daughter, and was looking after their two daughters, Jenny and Sally, seven and four years old respectively. Jenny had the attention span of a flea, temper tantrums fit for a mad monarch and lagged behind in skill development. One and a half hour commute, difficulty in obtaining medical services, departure of the part-time care giver all combined to create an impossible situation. The next call informed us that she was taking a year’s leave of absence and moving with us in Calgary.

Monica, a physician, had been anxious about this family ever since Jenny was born, a little premature and with very low hemoglobin count. Her anxiety was much worse because all her efforts to improve the situation had been in vain. As soon as she heard of their imminent arrival, Monica felt that at long last her opportunity had arrived. She started preparations in top gear. Rooms were readied for the children and their mother, list was prepared of all medical care specialists to be approached and some appointments made, the authorities contacted about schooling and process of registration and strategies discussed on how to handle a difficult child.

Jenny allowed us a few days’ grace after their arrival and then reverted to her usual tricks. She screamed whenever she was asked to do something, whether for fun or to help with chores. Her drawing was a few random lines on paper; her writing was that of a five year old. She was good at reading but I wondered how much of it she comprehended. She was extremely shy with adults and could only relate to other kids, whatever their age, on her terms. Putting her to bed was a major exercise in frustration and she woke up at five and made sure every one else was up too.

The pediatrician prescribed pills to increase her attention span. There was a significant improvement in her ability to focus and her skill level improved. Probably due to these factors, there was a gradual reduction in the frequency and intensity of her blow ups. Other medical care and family therapy, an excellent teacher at school, attention of three adults and discipline enforced by them, regular hours of eating and sleeping, all helped. A measure of improvement was that she was now trying to maintain some control on herself during the angry episodes and often apologized when she had calmed down. She stopped screaming when mother left them in our care and her going to bed routine became a piece of cake. Although all was not well in the estate in Calgary, it was becoming almost manageable. Our concern now was no longer how we will survive the day; it was how will the mother cope when they return home next summer?

Then the miracle happened. I was looking after the girls by myself that evening. Jenny busied herself in painting while I helped her sister to bed. This included reading two stories, cuddling her for a few minutes and setting the music to lull her to sleep. Entire process took a little more than half an hour. Jenny occupied herself for the whole time, something we could not even imagine only four months ago. When I came down she showed me the picture she had been working on. She had shaded in a complex outline drawing of the fairyland with felt pens. The drawing showed a good sense of colours and a reasonable level of competence. Progress from a few scratched lines to this drawing in such a short period was incredible. I complimented her on the good work and she neatly placed it on the dining table for her mommy to admire on her return.

Jenny went to the wash room and I sat down in an easy chair in the corner of the living room. She came out a few minutes later and stood next to the wall facing me. I looked at her and was astounded. The person facing me was not the little girl who has had us on tenterhooks ever since her birth but might have been an angel. Her eyes were sparkling and face glowing, her body radiating a joy she could not have experienced before. She told me in minute detail her event of the day. A kid in her class punched her face without any provocation. Instead of ‘getting frustrated’ she kept her cool and did not retaliate. She was proud of the way she handled it. More than pride, it dawned on me, she realized that she had turned a crucial corner in her life’s journey; whatever had been tormenting the child was no more in her and from now on she was going to endure the misery daily grind of life brings and emphasize in her little brain the happiness that is also all around her.

I did not expect that she will become a ‘normal’ child instantly and she hasn’t. We have not cancelled appointments with therapists and other professionals. But I feel a fundamental change within me. I am confident that the family is on its way to stability and my little granddaughter will grow up into a fine young woman.

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Taking Up Writing as an Old Man

In my seventy years I have played many roles: an obedient son, a good student, a hardworking employee, a reasonably successful businessman and in last few years an investor and a part time author. Through every one of these stages, private aspect of my personality was stable. I put my family’s interests above all else; respected, loved, nurtured and supported family members in achieving their goals. In return I got love and respect of my parents, brothers, their families, my wife, daughters and granddaughters.

My public persona developed during my progress to each successive stage. As a student, in school, college and postgraduate years, I focused on learning and resembled a sponge, ready to absorb whatever I came in contact with. As an employee in a large corporation I retained the absorbing qualities while also giving out some of what I had received over the years. One difference with the sponge was that generally the knowledge was voluntarily dispensed as and when necessary without it having to be squeezed out of me. I learnt early that the timely utilization of academic and practical learning combined with an urge to be useful brought salary increases and promotions.

As a businessman I assumed a broader personality. New factors came into consideration: appearance had to be more appealing to prospective customers, product had to be an improvement on what was available on the market, staff I hired had to be the right kind and needed appropriate treatment for best results. Every human has different needs and responds to different pressures. A successful businessman recognizes these needs and applies the right pressures, as and when needed, for best results.

The personality traits of an investor appear to be different but only superficially so. I had learnt to interact for mutual benefit with very divergent personalities with different strengths and weaknesses. As an investor I learnt that the companies have personalities just like individuals and have to satisfy same two criteria as the employees, one must be comfortable with the business they are in (personality) and they must have the ability to use their assets to the best advantage (competence). Thanks to my past experience I was able to apply these criteria and became a successful investor in a short order.

As an author I needed bits of all the traits that helped in my professional careers. Enough had happened to me, and I had seen even more happen to others, which would make several volumes of short stories and a few novels. I had given enough serious consideration to various aspects of human existence to justify another volume of essays. Over the years I had published a number of technical papers in international journals, so I knew I could write reasonably well. To sharpen my pencil I attended two courses in Creative Writing. I wrote and circulated a few stories to my friends and received hearty compliments. Thus encouraged, I sent them to various magazines. This is when I needed the tough edge my personality had acquired during the years when I was repeatedly turned down by prospective customers. They called back with negative response only once in a while; publishers never do. It did not take me long to fathom why some editors accept electronic transmissions. It is much easier to press the delete button than to live with the guilt of being a party to so much wasted paper. The insensitive ones, by far the majority, set up rigid guidelines for submissions on the best quality paper and then consign most of them to a handily placed waste basket after reading a couple of lines. The good in this process comes from the editors/publishers hiring students in creative writing courses as assistants whose main job is to empty the baskets into recycling bins at regular intervals.

Why do I continue to write when there is so little encouragement? It is my innate sense that I have something interesting to say coupled with the tough edge I developed while dealing with resistant customers. But more than anything else, there is Barb who taught the second Creative Writing course I participated in. She took me under her wings and has been a constant source of encouragement. Finally, I do not need to make a living from my writing. Therefore, it is not critical to my existence for my work to be accepted although, admittedly, frequent acceptance will boost my ego. There is a danger that if I ever became a sought after author the vanity may make me even more difficult to live with. But so far, writing has been a humbling, though not yet humiliating, experience.

My literary publications are a few serious essays and a collection of humorous short stories. The essays were well received but the book failed to attract the notice of reviewers and sales were largely limited to friends. I think I know where the problem may lie. My essays are serious but humourless affairs and my stories are funny but with nothing of any importance to tell. Somehow I have to add wit to my essays and make my stories more meaningful by interspersing them with serious comments like Somerset Maugham does in The Moon and Six Pence. That needs a new trait, I will work on it.

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Inheritance

Ravi felt as uncomfortable as a fly caught in a jar of pickle – not the pickle lovingly made by his sister-in-law from mangoes just before they ripened, special canola oil from Kerala, spices from Kashmir. This was the pickle made by a rank amateur from ripe mangoes, cheap imported oil and spices of unknown origin from Singapore ladled in without any idea of correct measure.

“Poor Ravi, why did he feel so wretched?” you ask. Well, Ravi is not the kind of a guy who cries on every shoulder in sight although he brags in every ear within the range of his booming voice. He did confide in me one evening after quite a few bottles of Indian beer after dinner at the Curry House. Whether this frankness was induced by his reluctance to share in the bill I do not know but I did get stuck with it. Just to get even with him on this account I will share it with you. However, I am not a verbose kind of writer who can make a novel of War and Peace dimension from a trifling incident. I like being brief and to the point. So, I will relate to you in a few words the plight my dear friend found himself in.

Ravi was born in India with a brass spoon in his mouth, in other words in a comfortable middle class family with no pretensions to wealth. His horoscope predicted a lot of travel, brilliant success in his chosen profession and great wealth. He does not remember what else was in the horoscope – all that mumbo jumbo did not mean much to him. It is irrelevant for our purpose anyway.

First in search of a profession, then the success in it and the wealth Ravi considered his due, he traveled over four continents and finally ended up in Canada. He had some success, by no means brilliant but nothing to sneeze at either. He made some money, not the millions he felt that should be his for being born under the auspicious stars but more than enough to live in comfort, educate his three sons and send his wife Yasmin to law school. Eventually Yasmin, even though he would never admit it, was a bigger success and earned more. However, Ravi was in charge of all family finances and invested all their savings in what was touted as safe “A grade” bank certificates. All was hunky dory for a while then the disaster struck. Recession in the U.S. caused a calamitous drop in house prices which in turn led to a disastrous crisis in mortgage industry and the bank certificates were suddenly worthless. All savings of Ravi and Yasmin were down the drain of some American city, Memphis, Tampa or Santa Cruz. He didn’t know which nor did he care. What worried him was that he didn’t have any money left, nothing of his own and worse, nothing of Yasmin.

The sad story in the Curry House brought tears to my eyes. But this is not the end. Normally, people with so much worry as our dear friend stop eating and lose weight but not him. He was eating more, particularly the delectable Indian desserts; and drinking more especially when someone else was footing the bill. He began to gain weight at an alarming rate. Yasmin noticed this, she noticed every little detail when it concerned her precious husband’s health – after all she had entrusted her every penny to his safekeeping. This worried her so much that she took her eyes off from their financial affairs altogether. This stroke of fortune delighted Ravi as it provided him time to recover the losses.

One fine morning the sky was clear, sun filtering in Ravi’s office through the floor to ceiling window and birds singing gaily. He was in a good mood and joined the birds by whistling “I am a jolly good fellow” while consigning junk messages to oblivion on his email. Suddenly something exciting cropped up and he barely managed to stop his finger from pushing the delete button. A bank in London, England informed him that it was responsible for inheritances from Africa and ten million dollars was coming to him – Ravi. The necessary paper work had been done and all Ravi had to do was email Sir Robert James Fair, Vice President for Africa, his address and confirm some minor details.

Words from the horoscope rang in his ears. This may be the wealth promised to him. It is late in some respects but timely in others. He did Sir Fair’s bidding and the details traveled six thousand miles at the speed of light.

Next morning there was another message from Sir Fair. The package with the check was ready; all Sir Fair needed was a sum of 499 pounds to cover the insurance which could be telegraphed to Ms Oliphant at the address of an insurance company he had supplied. This sounded an alarm bell. Why did Sir Fair need money from him, why couldn’t he deduct it from what was due to him? Ravi was coming to his senses, albeit gradually. He decided to think the matter over for a while.

Two days went by. Ravi couldn’t make up his mind. Scams of all sorts were in the news for several years and many had come to light over last few weeks. He did not have any relatives in Africa, never had had and most likely never will have. Still risking a few pounds for ten million dollars seemed worth while only if he didn’t look such a sucker when it didn’t pan out. He was mulling this over his afternoon cup of Earl Grey when the phone rang, “Sir Fair from London. We have not received the insurance money. The package is sitting here ready to go. What is the hold up?” an African accent inquired with some annoyance.
“I am sorry Sir Fair. I just don’t happen to have the money you need. Can you please deduct it from my inheritance,” Ravi replied without his head really connecting with what the mouth was spitting out.
“We can’t do that. It will be against the law. We receive your money before the package goes out of this office. Can you telegraph today?”
“Sir Fair, it is impossible. I just don’t have the money,” the mouth still independent of the head.
Click; end of conversation.

Ravi is a man of strong convictions and he has not lost faith in the horoscope. Although it is painful, he is keeping his fat fingers crossed for the lucky break. As for Yasmin, her husband’s health is a much more important consideration than her wealth.

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Three Micro Stories
Birthday Gift

My old Diesel was noisy and emitted black fumes. Still it was my pride and joy because it reminded me of my prosperous days. Its silver anniversary was a week before my wife’s birthday. I invited a few friends to celebrate the occasion well aware of her opinion that I was risking my health every moment I spent in it.
Just as we raised our beer mugs to “She is a jolly good fellow” a brand new silver car rolled into the driveway. My wife got out and handed me the key, “This is a gift for you on my birthday. As for the old clunker, I have a buyer who will pick it up tomorrow.” Any offense at my faithful servant of a quarter century being called an old clunker disappeared the moment my ears and nose did not protest when I turned the key in the new car.


Family Reunion

Having unwittingly separated from my party in a deep forest three days earlier, I walked on slippery rough ground in heavy rain during day light and slept on wet ground under dripping trees at nights. I had not eaten since a sandwich on the first day and drank from the polluted streams. It was midnight, cold and moonless, when I found the familiar logging road. Suddenly headlights of a car blinded me as it came to a screeching halt. I heard the joyous sound, “It is Daddy.” My wife and three daughters, who had been meditating on how to console each other on the loss of a loved father and husband, jumped out and we hugged each other while shedding tears of relief.

The family reunion in deep forest of British Columbia on a dark night was the happiest we could hope; still not wish it on our worst enemy.


An Unfortunate Accident

Swami Dharyananda has built his retreat on two pillars: need of atheists for confirmation in their beliefs and his uncanny ability to relax the disciples when they are stressed close to the breaking point. In only five years Atheists' Ashram has grown to cater to almost a hundred devotees a day, thanks to Swami who worked tirelessly, sixteen hours a day, seven days a week since the moment he conceived the idea of the Ashram. Work is his recreation and constant communion with disciples is all the entertainment he needs. He does have another passion which only a few of his disciples are aware of. He is an avid collector of rare first editions of medieval manuscripts. On his lecture tours he always finds time to visit better antique book shops in town.

Imagine the surprise of everyone in the resort one morning when Swamini, Swami’s wife, took over the dawn service. To calm the anxious disciples she informed them that there was nothing seriously wrong with the revered Swami; only a sprain in the back he got the previous night while loading a cup in the dishwasher. There were murmurs of disapproval; what kind of wife would let a saint enter the kitchen, let alone do the menial chores like loading the dishwasher. Swamini had too much dignity to give any indication that she heard such silly talk.

I do hope that the faithful don’t consider me presumptuous if I claim that I have an inkling of the real cause of injury. If I am right I may even be unwittingly responsible and it seems to me only natural that Swamini is too embarrassed to disclose it. However, I will not be specific if only because I have no way of being certain. All I will disclose is that I presented Swami earlier in the week a very well preserved ancient manuscript which was in possession of my family for several generations, pictorial version of Kama Sutra.