Write your worries on the sand

I, a very successful Business Analyst, was referred to a well known psychiatrist for stress management issues. I lay on his couch, griped and whined about the issues faced at work, my health, confused and angry of the way life was throwing problem at me. The good doctor listened in silence and asked a question. "Where were you the happiest as a child?" I stopped, surprised in the middle of my tirade and answered "Why, at the Beach!" He reached and wrote something in 4 bits of paper, folded them and handed the bits to me. “Take a day off, Go to the Beach tomorrow. Take these at an interval of 3 hours starting at 10 in the morning". “You must be joking" I answered, "Trust me, wait till you see my bill" He said and buzzed me out.

The next day, I was at the beach sitting in my car, feeling rather silly, nevertheless obeying all the instructions handed out to me. I was not to take any form of additional recreation, no phones and no watch. I was not to open my 'prescriptions' before time. It was a week day and the beach as empty except for a few people. I looked at the sun, judging it might be 10 or so, opened my first medicine and read the words slowly...

Listen Very Carefully: Puzzled I turned and looked around. There was nothing but the sound of waves crashing on the rocks. Was that what I was supposed to listen to? Probably not. I got out of the car and walked to the beach. I sat near a clump of grass and closed my eyes. Beneath the sounds of waves, I could hear the whisper of the wind on the grass. Nearby a sandpiper whistled and ran past me. He stopped and looked at me, wondering what business I had there. He hopped and flew to a twig and went about the business of building his home. I got up and walked to the water. Beneath the receding waters, a conch lay half buried in the sand. I dug it out and washed it. I looked at it beautiful patterns, wondering of its journeys across the seas. I recalled vaguely how its occupant, the hermit crab, outgrows it, abandons it for a bigger shell, a perished shellfish must have left behind. They say that, if you put the conch to your ear, you could hear the whisper of your soul. I did and for a moment, time seemed to stand still. It humbled me to think that there were forces of nature at work from time immemorial, shaping the world I live. I had, for a time now, stopped noticing the world around me and concentrated in the cocoon where my universe existed. It was time, once again to pause to smell the roses and to hear the drum of the woodpecker near my home. I looked at the overhead sun and reached into my pocket for the second slip of paper and read.

Reach Back: Reach Back to what, I wonder? To the past, I guess. I closed my eyes and lay on the grass. I could see me and my sister, playing on the sands below. We used to come every summer to the beach when we were young. I could see my mother, settling on the mat with a book and my dad assembling the shade. Things were simple then, the school, homework and the exams; we had places to go, time to visit, things to do. Games were simple, involved running, hopping and climbing trees... I remembered when circus came to town when I was a child. We were ready to go when my father picked up an important call. We were sure that we would cancel on the outing. He apologized to his superior saying he won’t be able to make it to office, due to an important engagement. When we were about to leave, my mother said, "You know, Circus would be here next spring too", my father answered, "Circus would, Childhood wouldn't"

I smiled at the memories of my sister and me stealing from the neighbor’s apple tree. I scrapped my knee and we got into a row at home for mischief. My sister took the brunt of the punishment. Interesting, I have not thought about my sister lately, she died of brain fever when I was in school. I thought of my lovely wife and our 2 beautiful girls. I frowned trying to remember when I took them out the last time. It seems a long time ago. My girls doesn’t seem to have the fun, I used to have when I was young. Now beaches are crowded and apple trees rare.

I look at the sun making way to the west. I reach for my 3rd prescription.

Reflect and Re-examine: I became defensive, what is wrong with my goals? All of us desire to provide for our family, the best of the world and be happy. But you weren’t happy, an inner voice whispered. I reflected; there are times to see the sleeping heads of my daughters and leave at daybreak before they wake up. I was missing out of their growing years. I miss the times; I bounced them on my knees and listen to the stories. But you were a good analyst, Long hours are part of your job, said another voice True, but was it required anymore? I wonder. I have earned for all the luxuries I need for my family. I could afford to stop working, but was terrified to do nothing afterwards, unknowingly I became a workaholic. My pal suggested an idea of my own consultancy. I was reluctant for fear of failure. That seemed a long time ago. Now I toyed with the idea. To work at my own pace would be nice. To each, their own.

As I grappled and made peace with my own dilemma, I watched the sun start to sink into the horizon. The doctor was wise; He understood the efficiency of examining our soul in solitude, away from the confining wall, within the fold of nature. I reached for my last note.

Those last words I turned and stopped; reached into my pocket and read those last words and smiled. I let the note fly, put the conch in my pocket and reached for a stick. I wrote on the sand, just before the tide came in. I don’t guarantee to lead a stress free life again, when I do, I know where to come. I will once again pick up a shell and listen to the roar of the ocean. I walked to the car. As I started my car, I saw the waves washed away my words, remembered the note and let go.

Write the worries on the sand for the tide to wash away....

Poems That Struck A Chord

XLIII. "How do I love thee? Let me count the ways..."

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of everyday's
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love thee with a passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints, ---
I love thee with the breath,Smiles, tears, of all my life! ---
and, if God choose,I shall but love thee better after death.

by Elizabeth Barrett Browning (1806-1861)

Ballad of a river

Dawn fires the surface into gold,
gold-eyed the herons stilt and stalk.
At silver noon the water hold
Wheeling of a mirrored hawk.

I have not seen water lie so still
As here. Perhaps an otter may
disturb its peace, or white crane till
the green edge wading tall-knee-deep.

In gust of wind, a faint wood hum-
Plucked leaves and broken petals dance,
the wind departs, the wood is dumb,
and floating yellows gather brown.

To think up to a mile ago
this river bounded like a hound,
convulsed and nearly wreaked our boat,
and lies here gentle as a pond!

A rich practical man I'm told
Demanded, why this idleness?
He got no answer and compelled
The river into harness.

Like frightened birds the minutes fled
Pursued by roaring steel and fire
The river slaved and profits grew
To almost overtake desire.

Until, they say, one windy night,
In the deepest vigil of the owl,
The river rose and foaming white,
Descended like a murderer.

At dawn the water shone restored.
The wreakage stood like blasted rocks
Round which the burnished mirror showed
The artistry of a wild brown hawk

-Patrick Fernando


To my Brother, who loves poems

MENTORING A WORKFORCE

THE PAPER FISH THAT LEARNT TO SWIM

About 500 years ago there was a young origami master named Daishinji who lived in a small fishing village in Japan. Daishinji was beginning to become well known for what she could do with a single sheet of paper.

One day she decided to fold a sheet of paper into a fish. Daishinji was amazed by it; she thought it to be a masterpiece and so did others. The fish was fully shaped. With its folds of fins and gills, it looked almost real. One day, after listening for a long time, the paper fish finally spoke. His first three words were: “I am lonely.” Pleased by the fish’s ability to communicate, Daishinji said, “Then I’ll fold you a world in which to swim.” And so an entire folded world was made from paper – an ocean, seaweed, swordfish, whales, sharks, lobsters, crabs, an octopus, and even birds above.

For a long time this was good, and the paper fish was happy. But then one day the paper fish realized that as deep as he swam he would never get wet. And this seemed odd to him, to be a fish, but not to feel the wetness of water. The paper fish begged to go to the real ocean, which was deep, wet, and full of mysteries unknown to Daishinji. The young master began to get frustrated. After all, she had spent months building a world for her paper fish. “Imaginary things must stay in imaginary places,” Daishinji shouted with an anger that the paper fish did not recognize. The paper fish would not take “No” for an answer. His determination was like that of a samurai, and Daishinji finally relented. Although she knew in her heart that paper was only paper, Daishinji agreed to take the paper fish out to the deep, black, real ocean. So the next morning as the sun was rising, the young origami master placed the paper fish in a red wooden box and secured it to her father’s fishing boat.

Daishinji steered the boat to the center of the sea, far away from the small studio that was so comfortable to her. The paper fish was safe and dry in the waterproof box, but he became increasingly excited as he felt the pulse of the waves swell under the boat.

Finally, after what felt like forever to the paper fish, the master stopped the boat, dropped anchor, and lifted her creation out of the walls of the red box. “See the rough, rolling sea?” shouted Daishinji above the crashing waves rocking the boat. “Is this what you want?” “I want the real sea!” the paper fish shouted back. “Trust enough to place me in it and I will become as real and full of blood and bones as any fish swimming at the greatest depths.” The young origami master decided that her paper fish needed to learn a lesson. Daishinji lifted her folded creation, placed him on top of the ocean, and let go for just an instant, figuring that as the paper got wet and began to disintegrate, the fish would scream to be brought back onto the boat. But no such thing occurred.

In the instant that Daishinji let go of the paper fish an amazing transformation took place. If Daishinji had not seen it with her own eyes, she would not have believed it. Paper turned to flesh and folds turned to fins and gills. The blood rushing into his body was as fire burning paper away. The fish let out an anguished scream as if he were dying, but then the cry became one of joy. Daishinji gasped a great breath and held it as the paper she had folded with her hands in her private studio transformed before her eyes into a giant, radiant yellow tailed tuna. The yellow tailed fish did not look back at Daishinji once he hit the real ocean. He simply swam on into the deep.

“One day you may get caught in a net, now that you are real. My father may bring you back to market so you can be supper for the village!” Daishinji screamed anxiously. The wide-eyed finned giant finally turned back and shouted, “But now I am free — as real as you are!” And then the yellowtail splashed a spray of water to the sky, and swam down deeper than any fish had ever gone. Daishinji finally released her anxiety and, began sobbing. The ocean rocked her from below like her mother once had. After what felt like a lifetime, silence returned. A tender smile of renunciation appeared on Daishinji’s lips. “I don’t even know your name…” she whispered to the emptiness.

Daishinji focused on vast sea and on the empty red box until the two became one to her. When the time seemed right, she pulled up her anchor and turned her boat for home. After many years of folding paper, Daishinji became known all over Japan as a great master. She created worlds on paper that all became real in their own time.

One day, a young origami practitioner sought out Daishinji. She asked the old woman why she bothered to make things if she then just let them go, holding on to nothing to show for her labor. Daishinji thought a while. She looked around her shop until she found the old dusty box with just speckles of red paint remaining on it. Daishinji asked the young apprentice if she had come by boat. The apprentice said she had, and Daishinji suggested that they take a ride together. She instructed the young woman to drop anchor when they got to the center of the ocean. Daishinji then told the apprentice to go to the side of the boat with the worn wooden box and bid a fish to jump in so they could look at it. The apprentice went to the side of the boat and did as Daishinji instructed her. Nothing happened for a time. Then, out of nowhere, the largest yellow tailed tuna the apprentice had ever seen jumped into the boat. The force of it knocked Daishinji and the apprentice overboard. Daishinji was laughing hard as her old friend; the one-time paper fish got hold of her and the apprentice and helped them back on to the boat.

The apprentice watched as the one-time paper fish told his creator, “There is no going back.” “I know,” said Daishinji. And she pulled up the anchor and instructed the origami apprentice to steer back to shore. The young woman and the old one were silent on the ride back. When they reached shore, the apprentice implored Daishinji, “Master, will you please teach me what you know?”
“I just did,” said Daishinji.

Moral of the story:

• Work is a relational experience, not a transactional one: A relation between creator and created, such that the created is free to transform into its own autonomous entity. It is also a relation between one person and another where a lesson is transmitted through touching real experience.
• It is pretty simple: continue to treat people as trained seals and they’ll work for rewards alone; treat them as full human beings and they’ll work for the work itself. The answers lie inside the people you hired and if you don’t believe that, you never should have hired them and you are wasting your money.
• People need meaning and if they don’t have it, the workplace devolves into a zone of petty competition, selfishness, and political play. Give them a meaningful mission that is about more than transaction. Give them something that is hard, that is full of obstacles, and is incredibly worthwhile. And then tell them they must do it, that you yourself do not know how. Give them support, care, a relationship with you—a real one. Be human with your people and model a relational way of working.
• We have to trust that our ideas on paper have a power of their own, a power beyond our ego and personal strategy, a power that the world itself imbues, a power that only an interaction with the world can set free.
• A transformation is always a surprise. There was a drum maker who has been making drums in his shop for the last 16 years. He works with saws, a lathe, chisels, files, sandpapers, oil, and with goat skins and rope. He has made thousands of drums in his lifetime, every one of them with his own hands, which are calloused and worn. But each time he hears one of his drums played by a new player it is different to him. It feels as if he never made it at all. The player remakes the drum in her own image.
• It is high time for the business workplace to realize that manipulation is powerless next to trust. Control is not the ultimate elixir; and in making the mistake in business of drinking from its cup alone we have poisoned the most hopeful and alive part of ourselves. The antidote is to remain open to becoming continually and unexpectedly transformed by our relationships, our creative ideas, and our life—a life that has been crying out from the beginning to find a place for its authentic expression and revelation at work

On the Indian system of Marriage

The other day, I chanced to hear a conversation on train. Some one's daughter is getting married. Listened a while, to the hassles of the parent as he ran about arranging the wedding. Printing of the cards, Invitation to the gods, Invitation to the guests, the gold, the caterers, the dresses... The Indian couple enjoys a ceremony, as centre pieces in a group activity of relatives/siblings/parents/friends/foes, called the Indian wedding. As the conversation rambled,I waited for the inevitable question from the apparent buddy of the father of the bride, also on the mind of the shameless eavesdroppers seated around: "What are you giving her?"

Though the dowry system is illegal in the country/state, it is highly prevalent in the various strata of the society in the classic form, and also in the most exalted form, in upper and middle strata of the society, as jewels, cash, realty. The state strives to abolish the custom, but as age old customs go... they generally do not vanish without a fight, as Indian wedding without gold is not yet imaginable. The custom varies across India, in some parts, esp. on some islands of Lakshadeep, it is the groom who pays for the bride. The custom is not native to the subcontinent alone; as Polynesia, Africa also practice varied form of the custom. So here I stand, not to condone or condemn... but as a impartial observer of a culture.

Kerala, prides in atleast 90% literacy and as the education is the responsibility of the parent till he/she is employed, as also the marriage of a child especially the daughter; I, as a management professor, has a chance to observe the future brides of the upper class and middle class society in my classroom. Most of them have excellent lineage and pedigree and enterprising parents to school them into the most advantageous position in life. Quiet a few are pleasing to the eye and are quite intelligent enough to garner top marks from the institution.

These young ladies may not work for a living, their sole objective may be to provide the most advantageous and best support for their spouse, in matters of business and home. Her mate is chosen carefully in terms of his horoscope/star, lineage, caste compatibility, and of course employability. The parents make sure to provide the provisions and the financial safety net to launch their life in the style they have grown used to. They get the best footing in a competitive world. Would there be any other subtle reason that the affluent father of the bride consciously condone the practice, in a minor strain imitating the concept of Johnny Lingo's eight cow wife?

Ah, Johnny Lingo's eight cow wife... The story came in Reader’s Digest (February, 1988). The original work was copyrighted by Patricia McGerr in 1965. I googled to make sure that it was not a figment of imagination. So, Here is the condensed version.

The author heard about him on a trip to the Kiniwata Island in the Pacific. Johnny Lingo was known throughout the islands for his skills, intelligence, and savvy. If you hire him as a guide, he would show the best fishing spots and the best pearls. The people of Kiniwata all spoke highly of Johnny Lingo. Yet, when they spoke of him, they always smile just a little mockingly.

"Oh, the people like to laugh," the manager of the hotel said, shrugging. "Johnny’s the brightest and strongest young man in the islands. He’s also the richest for his age."
"But …" the author protested. "… if he’s all you say he is, why does everyone laugh at him behind his back?"
"Well, there is one thing. Five months ago, at fall festival, Johnny came to Kiniwata and found himself a wife. He gave her father eight cows!"
The author knew enough about island customs to be impressed. A dowry of two or three cows would net a fair wife and four or five cows would net a very nice wife.
"Wow!", "Eight cows! She must have beauty that takes your breath away."
"She’s not ugly, …" he conceded with a little smile, "… but calling her ‘plain’ would definitely be a compliment. Sam Karoo, her father, was afraid he would n’t be able to marry her off. Instead of being stuck with her, he got eight cows for her. Isn’t that extraordinary? This price has never been paid before."
"Yet, you called Johnny’s wife ‘plain?’ "
"I said it would be a compliment to call her plain. She was skinny and she walked with her shoulders hunched and her head ducked. She was scared of her own shadow."

"But how?"
"No one knows and everyone wonders. They get special satisfaction from the fact the sharpest trader in the islands was bested by dull old Sam Karoo. All of the cousins urged Sam to ask for three cows and hold out for two until he was sure Johnny would pay only one. To their surprise Johnny came to Sam Karoo and said, ‘Father of Sarita, I offer you, eight cows for your daughter.’ "

So Driven out of curiosity, the author sought Johnny Lingo.

"They speak of me on that island?" Asked Johnny Lingo
"Yes. They say you can provide me anything I need. They say you’re intelligent, resourceful, and the sharpest trader in the islands."
He smiled gently. "My wife is from Kiniwata."

"What do they say?"
"Why, just … ." The question caught her off balance. "They told me you were married at festival time."
"Nothing more?" The curve of his eyebrows told her he knew there had to be more.
"They also say the marriage settlement was eight cows." the author paused. "They wonder why."
"And in Nurabandi, everyone knows it too?" His chest expanded with satisfaction. "Always and forever, when they speak of marriage settlements, it will be remembered that Johnny Lingo paid eight cows for Sarita."
So that’s the answer: Vanity.

Just then a woman entered the room to place flowers on the table. She stood still for a moment to smile at her husband and then left. She was the most beautiful woman the author have ever seen. The lift of her shoulders, the tilt of her chin, and the sparkle in her eyes all spelled self-confidence and pride. Not an arrogant and haughty pride, but a confident inner beauty that radiated in her every movement.

"You admire her?" he murmured.
"She … she’s gorgeous." said the author. "Obviously, this is not the one everyone is talking about. She can’t be the Sarita you married on Kiniwata."

"There’s only one Sarita. Perhaps, she doesn’t look the way you expected."
"She doesn’t. I heard she was homely. They all make fun of you because you let yourself be cheated by Sam Karoo."
"You think eight cows was too many?" A smile slid over his lips.
"No, but how can she be so different from the way they described her?"
Johnny said, "Think about how she must feel when the other women boast about the high prices their husbands paid for them. It must be embarrassing for her. I would not let this happen to my Sarita."
"So, you paid eight cows just to make your wife happy?"
"Well, of course I wanted Sarita to be happy, but there’s more to it than that. Many things can change a woman. However, the thing that matters most is how she views herself. In Kiniwata, Sarita believed she was worth nothing. As a result, that’s the value she projected. Now, she knows she is worth more than any other woman in the islands. It shows, doesn’t it?"
"Then you wanted …"
"I wanted to marry Sarita. She is the only woman I love."
"But …" The author was close to understanding.
"But," he finished softly, "I wanted an eight-cow wife."

Re-Evaluating Processes

For Want of a Tag String

The Indian Government introduced the e-filing of Income-tax Returns a while ago. The news brought back some memories of serpentine queues and most importantly the tag string. Those who were new to IT filing brought their Saral and declaration copies, waited patiently in lines till it reached the counter to find the clerk refusing to accept stapled documents. Terms of filing states that the clerk will not accept the documents unless tied with a tag string through the hole at the left corner of the documents. It must have taken bleeding official fingers, torn documents and the simplicity of doing away the tag with scissors for the rule to be a rule. The desperate hunt for the coveted tag string ensues and propagates through the line, while the veterans smile with wicked glee and push past the bent treasure hunters, scouring the floor for any discarded length of wool strong enough to meet the requirement, to file their return and go on with their other business. The outcome: These beginners will not forget the tag next year. More like the concept: To remember your anniversary, just forget it once.

It starts me off, to muse if there are any seemingly silly processes that are waiting to be replaced. These procedures must have come for a reason in a past and became quietly obsolete without being noticed. Very much like this story that I narrated in my management classes recently, to illustrate Need of re-evaluating processes.

A study was conducted on monkeys to study group behavior with regard to long term memories. A group of monkeys were introduced to a room where a big bunch of ripe bananas was hung right above a ladder for easy access. Monkeys being monkeys, raced for the ladder. Woe! The system was programmed to shower a jet of ice cold water on the group as soon as the ladder was touched. Bedlam! Shrieks of outrage were voiced by the group on numerous failed attempts. It was observed that all permutation and combinations, taking into account factors relating to understandable dimensions of the banana, ladder, the time and the days, were tried out diligently, with utmost cunning; only to be showered by icy water. Fed up by the shower treatment, the monkeys took to beating the perpetuator who attempted to touch the ladder. A Month passed; the bananas always looked inviting, being changed to retain its freshness. Lesson learned: The monkeys ignored the tempting feast and contented with their daily rations. It was decided to take the study further and replace the members of the group one by one at intervals. The new monkey, as usual, raced to the ladder, promptly got beaten up and at times drenched, wherein the punishment was more brutal. The new member usually retreats to a corner and participates in the punishment custom with vigor when another monkey arrives. Gradually the group was replaced and the bananas remained untouched. The group was again replaced, with the accompaniment of beatings on each introduction. After much iteration, the shower was turned off and the bananas continued to remain above the ladder untouched, amidst a group of primates who has learned to beat up any member who touches the ladder, for reasons unknown. Not sure whether the study reached its desired conclusion or waited for a smart monkey to ponder: "Why a waste of delicious fruit?" and brave the gauntlet, with maybe a new technique and change the system forever.