Angst of a writer

 Why at all to write? 

It is an urge that defies control, only to get trapped in a framework. It is generally constructed with accepted or understood pegs, marking the corners of the many-sided work. With each side demanding adherence to a certain regimen, the writer is stressed to squeeze out ideas as a topic, hoping to capitalise on the reader's interest. As in the sides of the framework, to evoke the interest in a reader, the writer does a gymnast's act of marshalling ideas as sentences, sprinkling some similes, humour and philosophy here and there, and waving the magic wand to produce an abracadabra. If lucky, rarely so, the writer gets someone to point out errors in spelling, grammar or facts. If not, a solo sailing into rough weather of errors being pointed out, after the writer goes public. 

Only an experienced writer can understand and empathise with the struggles of a budding writer. The exercise of writing is strenuous to put it mildly. The writer has to shoulder many roles, as hunter to trap ideas, as a linguist to search for apt words, as a drill sergeant to discipline and parade the sentences, as a soldier facing 'writer's block' lost in unknown land and finally as a seasoning chef to dish out the menu. At this point the menu awaits tasters.

It is like a sentence of solitary confinement for the plot in the mind. Seeking out thoughts, collecting one-liners from the life of historical figures, named syndromes and paradoxes without knowing where and how they would fit into the narrative, which itself has not revealed the course it is going to take. Finally, when all these things make their way into the narrative, the writer gets to see the rough draft. 

But before this rough draft – The writer walks alone, only with his thoughts for company. Thoughts in the meanwhile try to befriend words and then sentences to give some help.  Now, how can the writer keep quiet? The lonely walk is now becoming longer, to iterate, chart factual and logical routes to get them integrated into a rough narrative. All the while keeps an eye on pitfalls and grammatical mines. Tension builds up regarding the apt choice to be made- active, passive, neutral, past, present or future tense. A worried walk ends in a quarter- final draft.

Red signals dot the draft here and there. Spelling, verb, tense and punctuation marks continue to cry for rectification. Second reading of this quarter-final draft indicates, the tone of the narrative is not resonating with the topic in some places. This correction brings this draft to a third reading. In between, some inspired inclusions started knocking at the door for consideration. One more reading with the latest additions to the draft leaves the writer in a dilemma. Which draft was better - before additions or afterwards. In frustration, the writer labels it a semi-final draft and takes a breather. 

The upbeat or down stroke of weaving the corrections into the latest semi-final draft, due   to self-doubt on literary talent haunting after too many redrafting leaves the writer weary and low on energy. Now all but shouting the hurrah moment has come. The writer decides it is enough, becoming worried about some more walking, stamps this draft as corrected and final.  

This maiden attempt, without the guidance of an editor, makes the writer lean on to the willingness of friends - for a fresh look and comments. Like a writer's block, now he comes face to face with a reader's block. Hope alternating with despair, the writer starts to wonder, "Why at all this much pain?"  

What can the writer do, at this stage, if all the prospective readers suffer from bibliophobia? Run to the nearest pharmacy for a hair growth medication. Maybe, it might come in handy after splitting hairs, wondering how to drag the unwilling horse to the trough!  

The writer understands, the love for reading is neither contagious nor transferable; if forced, becomes an abhorrent. How to make such reluctant persons, to read, who are too happy to bond with the screen of a smartphone?  

The writer remembers this bath-room experience.  “Assume, having left a mug of water, thinking it is full, and what happens when you lift it after some time?  You lift it, assuming it as a water filled mug. Don’t you feel its weightlessness for a microsecond? It almost flies off your hand.”   

Or, unknown to the writer, any other personal reasons each held as an excuse to give his writing a rejection slip, without giving him a chance? So much for erroneous assumptions. Like this, previous perceptions come in the way to change and accept the present! 

The writer understood the reason for this. Relatives thinking what he knows about writing or I would have done it better than this or I have no time to spend on this type of reading material etc. Friends, on the other hand, may come up with responses like ‘ebullient’, ‘effervescent’, or 'tepid’.  The writer spends time wondering whether to take this as positive appreciation or indirectly hinting to improvise some more. At least, this sits better than ‘no response’ or ‘no comments. 

Persistent person that the writer is, quickly comes out of wishful thinking, to find a way to positively deliver the reach outs. For a writer dreaming a plot, populating it with characters and prodding them with dialogues, this ploy is like a child's play. Though the task of messaging appeared simple, the complexity becomes apparent, considering the differing tastes of the targeted prospective readers.   

Prepared messages, with topics of interest, and a surreptitiously buried link that will take them to the writeup.  Now at least the 'read or unread' itself will be an acknowledgement of interest. Incase this ruse fails, the writer is ready for a fresh round of thinking on how to catch an elusive fish!  

The messages generated neither ripples in the cell towers nor waves in the internet. It was disconcerting a bit but the hope of a slim chance of getting a reply lingered in the mind. Exasperation piled over exasperation. Why at all to write, only for getting cold shouldered?  

The writer’s mind was getting overloaded with a lot of ifs and buts. It spoke to the writer in sotto voce, “As you draft, the software does prompt mistakes that need correction. Not satisfied with this, you try it on email. Here too your mistakes are prompted with suggested corrections. Coming to the lamenting part about an editor, have you not already used more than one, till now? Calmly think, who has been reading your thoughts so far - Me, Microsoft and Google! Don’t we qualify as your readers? This exercise is harder than writing a new story!” 

The agitated mind, then came up with an energetic sentence, which it promptly hung beneath the other sentence.  

Why at all to write? 

Why not write! 

Of course, on the wall of the writer’s brain! 

The benefits in the fringe:

The retiree kept raking his brain to find out whether he had become a fringe element in the household, to enjoy some fringe benefits? 

The reality was presenting a different picture. He found himself gradually getting drafted to do sundry tasks in the household. Thinking that all of those unfinished tasks he had left, pre-superannuation, now might have taken a vengeful rebirth to taunt him. Then, he was saddled up to be ridden and now getting flogged, in addition. Still, to pay his dues, he obliged and did his best to the extent possible.

Like on the job, the initial days after superannuation left him wondering whether he had stepped into a dream land. Everyone bent backwards to ease him into his new role. To his dismay he found out soon, that he was not much different from the dejected fox. The grapes started turning sour, too soon to his liking. 

Coming to the present, he understood the value of the training he had received prior to retirement, of course that went with a job description. In his current placement, neither he has a job description nor in any position to demand one. This environment, even after gaining a few years of work experience in the household, irked him no less. Not in haste to construct a bridge over the water, he bided his time for the water level to recede. What a better way it would be to stand and deliver the mettle of his long experience! Whether he would go ahead and do it or not, the very act of thinking about the bridge and water gave him some satisfaction.

A typical day ran with a routine and once in a while words of wisdom got exchanged between him and the other members of the household, mostly it was one-way traffic - from them to him. Though not much different from his pre-retirement life, there was a small difference then - sometimes he was able to give and at other times it was from his superiors.

When sunlight breaks through for the day, a sleepy voice mumbles, "switch on the geyser". The please is left unsaid and he mentally added it to feel better. As though waiting for this, another voice joins "collect the milk sachets and leave the drop bag in its place properly". He understood the 'will you please' , that should have been used by an adult, as mentioned. Swallowing his pride, grumbling within the walls of his mouth, he starts the chores. His day just started with several execute command buttons getting frantically pressed, many times over. He wondered whether the super computers, crunching trillion bits per second, have those many buttons for a man-machine interaction!

 After this wakeup ritual, the rush hour arrives. While packing and sending children off to school, voices accuse him of misplacing books, sox or ID cards and forgetting to shine their shoes. This is the thanksgiving he invariably got for volunteering to ease their last minute tension. Not done yet, questions follow  - did you see my charger any where, got the medicines yesterday, called the electrician, where is my helmet and so on.  Mission is accomplished, for the day, but not before mouthing leftover recriminations and hastily fired instructions mixing the past and present tenses. The helmeted-warriors hurry out - leaving him like a chandelier hanging from the roof, without power supply. 

 The calm after the storm arrives. Unfolding the Newspaper, he walks to a corner in the foyer and tries to quickly read the headlines. Almost on signal, a shrill voice of one of the warriors, shouted through the gullet and admonished him to switch off the lights and close the front door. He neither switched on the lights nor opened the door, wondering why the shrill voice is not directed to the ears of the offenders. Even if he had attempted a reply, it would not have reached the AirPods adorned ears. Realising the futility in taking up the issue, he does as told, muttering to himself, "This drill sergeant's voice could have made easily me into a fine soldier."  

Running his hand through the non-existent crop of hair, he sighed with distraught and wondered where to go for a hair transplant! One thing he could not understand was who to blame himself or the superannuation? Though he knew the answer, he was not yet prepared to acknowledge it.

When the cacophony subsided, he calmly sat near a window, though it offered him only the view of a paint-peeling wall of another apartment across the road. By the time he remembered to read the newspaper, a crashing sound assailed his eardrums from the washing machine and jolted him out of his seat. The irony was the machine came with a seven-year guarantee for silent running! Then, a procession of courier deliveries made him to hop, skip and jump through the routine of receiving and sorting by the addressee. Surely, they could find time to do on-line shopping but not to spend some of it with him!

Discarding the newspaper, anyways the world would have changed much by then, he chose to remain quiet. Alone time brought back memories of his active participation in shepherding his children through educational pursuits, from baby-sitting to graduation ceremonies. That was a willing venture but now his extended service looks a bit downgraded to that of a caretaker, robbing the pleasure of really helping the grand children with homework and try a little mentoring. The grown-ups never forgot to remind him, "From your times to our times, the education had come away from simple to difficult and now to complex state. Don't confuse the children, in the guise of tutoring them."  

In the day-to-day life, we use numbers for addition, subtraction, multiplication and division. The numbers themselves do not have a sense of their value and sit with another without any issue. They even do not know that a zero on the left adds no value to the number whereas on the right it enhances the value ten-fold. As a matter of fact, the zero doesn't even know about the dual role it plays in the game of numbers. The grand children may not realise and understand but what about the grown-ups? Have I not been upgrading my grasp of subjects, all these years. Don't they even trust me?

He found out, doing these mental gymnastics did not help him in anyway. Soon the children will arrive, later the parents will arrive to start a second session - and life has to go on without a hitch. Amidst their daily grind, little do they appreciate his physical and mental support. Maybe they all will realise one day or the other. He recollected having read or heard these lines: " Borrow a leaf from the tree, be useful in whatever small way possible. Switch off the lamp of expectation, the worrying insects will go away."

Now, he was prepared to acknowledge the reason - It is his love for the family, and he could not blame the superannuation. He concluded with satisfaction, that probably this is the purpose of superannuation.                              

Pencil pushers and allied warriors

Even today, the internet and beyond age, the moment the words 'Pencil pusher' is mentioned, our cerebral juice works out the reference and context. Mover of papers and files (Desktops and Laptops be damned!). Wonder what is the context with respect to the title? Let us differ to Imaginch to gather his thoughts and words to clear your doubts. Order a dose of patience and wait as Imaginch never comes straight away to the point. Oh, I forgot to add one more point - he likes to speak in the first person to give the impression that he is speaking from personal experience. Now, over to Imaginch.

Let me focus first on households, especially mine. Bringing up children and later mentoring grandchildren (cajoling worked better than compulsion) is a thankless job. Generation gap lost its divide when both groups (my children & grandchildren) came up with the same moniker for me - The dictator. Affection or out of spite, I chose to hang this medallion proudly on my neck and to let them know, these tactic fails to deter me. Little, they did or do, realise that the moniker hung apt on me as I always drilled (somehow they missed to gift me with a whistle) into them that recitation improves diction with pronunciation whereas dictation does wonders to ones' handwriting. 

Being inventive, they resorted to evasive measures; sharpen the pencils (I insisted use of pencils to improve handwriting, with hindsight, I understood it as a bad choice) till nothing was left outside sharpener; over-wrote and erased till light appeared through the skylight on the paper. When confronted, with this their 'sharp' response they tried to light the fuse, " Next year buy and stock more notebooks, pencils and erasers; problem is solved." Anticipating another such disconcerting answer, I refrained from voicing, "Who will pay for it?"

In this fashion, we managed to survive each other and stayed the stormy courses of academic years, progressing from pencils to pens with a different set of stocking advice. In my free time, I could not but reminisce managing with few of notebooks, pencils, erasers and for that matter pens too! This type is the first of the pencil pushers, though only to sharpen and dodge homework.

Next in my sight is on mover of papers and files (Desktops and Laptops be damned). An official looking office is usually populated with tables, chairs, filing cabinets and ceiling fans. All in good faith to provide an excellent environment conducive to maximise work output and minimise public grievances. 

My natural instinct is to avoid certain official looking premises  - where white coated doctors simultaneously look at a patient and a monitor ,prints out a  health horoscope without predicting the future; where khaki clad law enforcement personnel do the rounds with a swagger making one to doubt whether the person is  a complainant or a person of interest; where a green ink wielding official with an assistant to stamp and send a file moving along the labyrinth of an official machinery, leaving the person in doubt whether the machinery is hungry or suffering from indigestion (read indecision). 

I am certain that many of you visitors to these premises might have been troubled by the same thoughts. Now time for me to answer, "Why these persons do come under the category of pencil pushers as none of them even buy a pencil for fun?" I have proposed an alternate term "case pushers" and till such time this moniker is officially recognised by "case pushers" in place of "pencil pushers". So, be with me and let us continue with pencil pushers for the present. 

I share my personal experiences, in support of my misgivings about visiting certain official looking offices. For lack of a suitable term, I have included the hospital / consulting premise in the same category.  

I was forced to visit one such official looking premises, to get a minor error corrected, in a document.  I knew it was   an error overlooked by an issuing official, and the person receiving the document politely asked me to come after three days. This indirectly confirmed two things - an official's slip and upcoming holidays covered his promised three days' deadline.   The sad experience started when I came to know that the concerned desk dealing with this matter appeared to be in use as a prop in a musical chair competition. Person manning the desk changed coinciding with every one of my follow up visits.

Finally, the machinery swung into action.  To save face they blamed me for their bloomer. and immediately the document along with my request forms went into a numbered file, with an assurance that it will be sorted out in a week. The calendar in the office became thin, loosing many weeks' worth  of day sheets. In the interim, the file started growing in size and on a fine day, after threatening the desk (because of the game of musical chairs) with a consumer forum complaint, (Honestly, I did not know where from I got this idea!) I was told the startling news.  The file had walked away on its own and would I be kind enough to apply for a fresh document, which everyone in the office collectively assured, it will be ready in minutes. Though the episode does not involve actual pencils (pens only were in use), the act of dragging along could be deemed as an act of pencil pushing. 

Visit to the hospital stirs in me a misgiving but becomes unavoidable - personal or to call on someone convalescing. The personal ones start at the reception lounge. Registering and getting a patient number along with a folder and a bottle of water. This bottle of water is a forewarning of things are to come.  This bustling atmosphere resonates very much with activities of a busy railway station. The wait for the consulting doctor never fails to accelerate anxiety hangs on as an unanswered question. A two to three minutes appraisal ends with a curt demand to get a list of tests done here and now. 

Why the doctor is eager to inject some more anxiety in to my system. Subjecting myself to pricks, greasy probes, getting in out of a machine that sounded like a stone crusher - the complementary (charged under miscellaneous fee) water bottle and my bladder get emptied. As bonus I got to walk through maze of corridors, often confused, thousands of footsteps at least. Though I have all the analytical reports with me the medical jargon tells me next to nothing. Hours tick by, and after witnessing multiple entries and exits of my consulting doctor, I get invited for a face to face. This is the part of the encounter; I have become to dread and averse to repeat. 

"The white coated doctor looks at me and then at the monitor displaying my health horoscope without predicting the future. After exchanging few words, valiantly trying to avoid jargons, advises me to collect the printout of case summary and suggested medicines. Depending on a secret roster system, I get to meet with him/her after a regime of clinical tests. Thes "case pushers", being doctors play it safe, though the risk is mine. One saving grace, the file is never lost here.

My natural instinct is at its peak to avoid going anywhere near these establishments. Here the khaki clad law and order guardians walk around with a swagger, some vainly attempting to arrest the bulging punches, making me to doubt whether I am here as a complainant or a person of interest. The purpose of this rare visit was to complin about suspicious characters seen in the area. That is all I did. The eyes started a slant look at me as though my profile might match a wanted person, out of pictures hung on the wall. When I too looked at the pictures, the person engaging me asked politely to state my business. With trepidation, I dig out the compliant and hand it over. 

Adjusting his reading glasses, tried to digest the contents. Obviously not satisfied with the elaborate write up, he pulled out a paper and asked me to write it in simplified format. I did this and he nodded in my direction. Fearing something untoward I glanced behind my back only to see a chaiwallah standing with glasses of the brew. I declined the courtesy and hurried out - to escape a questioning session, to pin something on me or avoid paying for the supplied tea. I decided to leave this 'case pusher' alone with clear conscience as I have done my duty as a citizen. The rest is up to them.

Note:

I have recounted my experience. Yours' might be different.

You are free to request concerned authorities to provide desktop computers in offices. But be prepared to hear 'file got corrupted, system not booting up, hard has disk crashed' ; If connected to network then 'server down' as reasons for delay!

Woes of Tom

Tom, the cat gently opened his eyes, disturbed by a rooster’s call. He wondered when that rooster will understand that his services have been taken over by different kinds of wake-up alarms, at any time of day or night and on demand! Having woken up, he exited into the garden to welcome his personal day. He liked to watch the breaking streaks of dawn taking its tentative steps towards early morning.

With a fresh mind, he decided to start on a quest to find out his origin and trek back to the realm of his ancestors. Munching on a few blades of succulent grass, he closed his eyes, as he had often seen the master of house doing likewise and waited for a spark to ignite. A sharp pain broke the reverie – in place of stalk of grass he had bitten into the edge of his tongue. Besides the pain, his immediate worry settled on the discomfort to bear, while eating his next meal.

As if on cue, the front door opened and the master of the house rushed out, loudly streaming a barrage of instructions of dos and don’ts, before leaving for office. Though disturbing, this announced the likelihood of him getting breakfast, now. The master did not like Tom hovering around the dining table. Curious to know the items on the breakfast menu, he got up, stretched to his full length to shed the laziness. He ambled along the path to backyard, his preferred entry point. 

After gaining entry, straightaway he walked to the dining table, and saw the food bowl waiting in the usual place. No one was around, though it did not surprise or bother him. He could hear snatches of conversation and muffled musical notes from somewhere in the house.  He finished eating, glanced around once, and then departed to his station, in the garden via the backdoor.

With nothing worthwhile to do, he continued the task of tracing his ancestry. Somewhere in his brain, a hazy memory of tiny bodies snuggling around a warm bigger body, to which he could nuzzle to and feed popped up. He could vaguely remember being jostled by other tiny bodies, vying for the same treat from the same source. Now and then he experienced being clutched, lifted and displaced to another nook or dark corner. Yet the bigger body was always around, taking care of his hunger and warmth.  When he could see his world with his own eyes, he understood that the bigger body was the provider and protector and other tiny beings like him were her charge.

Then, one day he did the unthinkable. Lured by another kitten playing alone, he just wandered away from his dwelling. He ambled over, joined and started to scamper along, unmindful of the implications. He lost track of time and geography. He stood confused, in the gathering darkness. Hunger and fright twisted combined knots in his stomach. He was forced to search for a shelter. When the kitten saw an inviting gap in the front gate of a building, the solution presented itself and without hesitation he took it.  His pitiful meows did not reach and rouse any soul residing in the house. Shivering in fear and cold, he huddled close to a step.

His nightmare ended, as the sun rose in the morning and a pair of hands gently lifted him up. The radiating human warmth was comforting, yet the fear of unknown made him continue to shiver. The gentle stroking of the hands and soothing voice of his saviour gradually put him at ease. Only then, he opened his eyes to gaze at the face.  A few moments later, some more voices, one loud and questioning and others gently admonishing fell into his ears. Yet to get to know the family, his survival instincts switched to active mode to capture and store their physical form and associated voices. He thought this could be useful to identify and adjust, once inside the house. Even to this date, he could not understand why his saviour named him Tom! 

With passing days, he picked up the courage to wander in and out of the house to familiarise and meld with his surroundings. He had managed to identify the friendlies and frenemies, in the house. To increase the odds of acceptance and thereby his survival, he perfected “cat’s skills” – catching tail, and performing hop, skip, jump and other somersault routines, on any surface. He particularly liked the exhilarating thrill of walking along the edge of a crockery laden table and much more…

Initially as a kitten he yearned for their love and protection but as he aged, his personal space started shrinking, within the house. He liked tranquility as a way of life and went out of harm’s ways to ensure it remained so. He liked the house where he lived solely for the reason it had free space around it to roam around, take naps and at times hide from the frenemies residing inside. Effective and simple – he became a N P I G (Non-Paying Invited Guest), in his mind. When he shared this technique and the benefits of unfettered freedom under this status with another cat, living next door. The other cat not being the brightest bulb in the ceiling, shook its head and left in confusion, with tail tucked in between its hind legs.

The friendly residents started noticing the gradual changes in Tom’s behaviour, who was once an adorable kitten! They reminisced of the times when he would enthrall them with his antics – skating, scooting, grandstanding and swishing the tail like a warrior’s sword. Playing to the gallery, Tom became more energetic in the presence of visitors as if they were the perfect audience for staging his acts. This consummate actor had effectively fooled the residents from noticing the subtle changes happening over many weeks. He preferred outdoors to indoors and solitude to company. 

Tom lay watching the sun climbing overhead and asked himself why the mid-day sun always made him feel sweaty. Though he had options to snooze under the shade of the sit out or under the bunch of shrubs in the garden. He mused, what is life without a little grumbling now and then?  And why to snooze away on empty stomach when lunch time is round the corner?

Little did he know that this day would turn out to be a disastrous one for him. As usual, entering through the back door and kitchen he reached the dining hall. He neither saw anyone nor his plate with lunch. Perplexed, he walked around in search of a clue. Bit by curiosity, he cautiously tip-toed into the interior portions of the house, where he had been strictly denied access for any reason whatsoever. His ears picked up snatches of conversation, in a room behind a slightly open door. Having come this far into forbidden territory, he was dying to know why and on what?

As Tom's whiskers passed through the gap, the door was suddenly pushed open, stopping his heart-pump at mid stroke. A stranger in dazzling clothes came out. The unruly hair on his head looked like an overflowing bin, and beard resembled an overfilled beehive. The forehead had a zebra crossing drawn in multi colours. Long chains, of coloured beads, dangled from the neck to complete the get up, fit to frighten even the ghosts. Tom froze in his tracks and the stranger stared back at him with a withering look, as if to fry him alive. Shaken to the core, Tom beat a hasty retreat and disappeared in to the garden forgoing his lunch. He chided his memory for having catalogued these objects, colours and patterns, as an idle curiosity.

Hours elapsed but his mind did not thaw out from the fear of unknown. Little did he realise that ominous signals have started to blink at him. His erstwhile saviour, who many months ago had rescued and sheltered him, emerged from the house carrying food and water bowls and set them near the front entrance. Tom not a fan of starving diets, looked in askance at the bowls and decided to have a go at it. His saviour sat glancing at him with worried looks. The cat edged closer and meowed but his saviour, who normally used to cuddle and scratch him, sat still without showing usual reaction. Ominous signal number two just came on. Soon, subdued voices were discussing something from behind the scenes and the cat sensed it could be the signal number three but could not guess how many more signals are due and where these signals will lead him to. 

As it transpired, he did not have to wait for long. All of a sudden, his world became dark. He was lifted, shoved into a bag and loaded on to a mobike, for an onward journey to an unknown destination. After travelling a long way from home, he was unceremoniously abandoned at the foot of a garbage mountain. Before he could get his bearings, his packers and movers left the scene, without even a goodbye.

For all his guile, there was no way Tom could fathom the genesis of the 'operation eviction' from his erstwhile domain. Unbeknownst to him, the pincer movement was initiated by the bearded man in dazzling attire, whose path Tom happened to cross, unwittingly, on that fateful day. The man was at his wits end, as all his astrological solutions fell into deaf ears of the planets, dwarf planets in the solar system and as well as the demigods and gods of all hues and colour. 

No heavenly signs appeared, in the sky assuring to mitigate the sufferings and hardships of the family. Reputation about to hit rock bottom, he desperately tried to clutch at any non-existent straws. A eureka moment dawned in his befuddled mind, offering a little wriggle room. He blamed the cat in the house, as a way out. He hoped that this move could even kill the mouse of his failing predictions. The family members not having any other option, agreed to give the unsympathetic gods and un-cooperative planets another chance. They hurriedly held a conclave to find ways to bundle out the cat from the house.  forgetting it was one of them who opened the doors, a while ago, to let him in.

He wondered how the family could forget that they had willingly admitted him into their life! His cunning intelligence and courage took leave and fear of unknown filled that space like a balloon filled to the bursting point. Unsure of his geography, he shelved any notion of finding his way back into that household, however insulting they could become. Had he not always made the best use of presenting circumstances? Emboldened a little, he surveyed his surroundings with a clear vision. He located a dilapidated wall proudly displaying a sheltered hole and chose it as his residence. Food, surely beyond use by date, was available in plenty. Though, occasionally an overgrown rat came by to look at him from a distance. The cat and mouse game did not last long, as Tom showed no interest in chasing a rat.

He once again tried, unsuccessfully, to restart the quest of tracing his roots but instead decided to dwell upon the recent happenings that transplanted him to this dumping ground. Simply, there was no way he could have understood the moves initiated by the bearded man and the why? In what way a cat crossing a human's path is different from crossing across a road?  How he could have guessed that it was a conspiracy by that man to find a scape goat? How he could have prevented the family members, from deciding to give one more chance to the unsympathetic and un-cooperative gods, demi-gods and malefic planets? Are they not gullible, cruel and guilty to blame and banish a cat who had no power whatsoever to cast misery upon anyone? The hows and whys made him drowsy, but before falling asleep he avowed to find clarity, at least in sleep.

Here, Imaginch as Tom's biographer wanted to place some clarifications on record. 

How could he be the spokesperson as cats are not known to converse with people? Yes, but the tonal inflections, pitch, frequency and other sound making tools leave lot of clues, can be transcribed into words!

OK, how about the feelings and introspections attributed to the cat? The answer is, if one can empathise and think like what a cat would do and has an intimate friendship with any other kitten or cat, it is possible!

The mysterious code:

Deep in his mind, a sort of cyclone was always brewing. Not sure what it was about and knew not what to do about it? One saving grace was that the cyclone had not decided to climb up in the weatherman's categories - moderate, severe and very severe. 

But his mind did not allow him to be satisfied with these go-to cyclonic classifications. It started to constantly urge and goad him to find out which part of the deep foldings of the brain, the acronym "O.I. I " originated and what it signified?

He decided to allow his subconscious mind to grapple with the puzzle and started doing some of the pending works in the house. Clearing cobwebs, dusting bookcases or changing fused lights never appealed to him and in his mind, he always stamped them as 'not urgent'. As months rolled by, these pending works got downgraded to 'being neglected' category, which promptly came to the notice of everyone in the house.

More than the swirling cyclone in his mind, these long pending works presented a bigger threat to his freedom to pursue creative thinking. He set to work, thinking by chance he might remember in what context he scribbled this "O. I. I ". Coupled with forgetfulness now and then (his people termed it as selective amnesia to avoid helping) and his penchant for writing in secret code always took him to the precipice/ edge of despair.

He stood proof to 'habits die hard' Either he was not allowing the habit to die or the habit refused to die, and it remained as an unsettled issue, in one of the folders in his mind. Instead, he found another scrap of paper bearing "I .I .O". This innocent looking code (assumption till proved otherwise), started his mind to cartwheel on whether "O. I .I " or "I .I .O "that has to be addressed. 

Fearing about finding some more of such coded scrap of papers, he hastily shut the doors of the bookcase. Even in dreams, he had never dreamt of becoming a spy. Beaten and bruised, he browsed through his memory files and folders in search of clues. All of a sudden, a brilliant bulb of an idea lit in a hidden corner of his memory scape. Like crowdfunding, why not crowdhunting!

Talk about his proclivity of getting voluntarily caught into one's own trap, he effortlessly tops the list . The idea of crowd hunting led him to his grandchildren. He has a sort of a forced working relationship - as a donor to crowdfund some of their pocket money emergencies. How can he refuse but to give in as they held his 'secrets' as bargaining chips? 

They demanded upfront payment as crowdfund, before they were even ready to lend their hearing ears. Their ploy was to milk whatever possible amount to top up their pocket money. He grudgingly acknowledged their start-up strategy via crowd funding. He mentally thanked their schools for the short vacation and hoped the break   would help them to decipher break the "O. I. I" and "I. I .O" codes. It was unsettling to think that he might have left these scarps of papers himself and promptly forgot about them. That is not all, he was dying to know what he would have meant when he wrote them?, if at all To him, this cluelessness was more worrisome than the act of forgetfulness.

The grandchildren became super busy, skipping either breakfast or lunch and disappeared from sight. He had to wait till dinner time when the household sat together. In place verbal communication Only furtive glances could be exchanged between them, to keep the lid on the secret investigation. He had noticed curious looks from the other members as if wondering who had gone crazy. Finally, the sun rose on the last day of the holiday. Before he could confer with them, the grandchildren rushed out to enjoy maximum fun out of that day. He managed to stay sane, suffering the agony of suspense, in silence. After dinner, they trooped into his room, with smug smiles hanging from every part of their face. He admired their thespianistic acting skill to command the facial muscles, at will. 

They: It appears to be a mirror image. 

He: What? I didn't do any such imaging, why would I? 

They: We don't know. But the scrap of papers point us in that direction.

 He: Are you grand-kidding me or what! 

They: No sir, we are certain that it was a mirror imaging experiment gone misplaced.

He: Do you mean that this mystery got shrouded in that mystery? 

They: Grandpa, not only you got confused but are trying  to do the same to us. 

He: At least explain now or else...

They immediately sensed the withdrawal symptoms and loss in crowd funding. Collectively they let the mystery cat out of the mystery bag. Grandpa, we were doing that mirror imaging experiment for a science project and the scrap of papers were left by us as lost. Thanks for finding them.

He knew his grandchildren have just come up with a face-saving explanation, as in their collective science books there is no such topic on mirrors or mirror images.  Flabbergasted and furious, he ambled out of the room and decided to pay back to them in the same 'bit coin'. The idea to threaten them with 'bit coin' came to him when he realised that they had played a prank on him, taking advantage of his occasional forgetfulness.  On the day of school reopening, he gave them each a piece of paper, depicting a curious looking drawing. He told them it would be their fee for completing his crowdhunting  work. Consider it as your crowdfunded pocket money till the next holidays. He smiled and mumble to himself, "Children, I too can play the game."

 Along with the schoolbooks, the children carried the scrap of paper also, to try and decipher it. In the long run, they could not sustain without the crowdfunding grandpa. They heard his whisper 'are we not cut from the same cloth?' ,in their heads  all day long. They were unsure whether the same cloth is trying to tell them that he has also played pranks or to warn them not to play tricks on him?

Making sure that the grandchildren were not around, he stood in front of the mirror and tried to imitate their voice and facial expressions to deliver his dialogue - " Buds. I know what "O. I .I" means. It is your code for me 'Over Imposing Individual'. To confuse the issue, you left another scrap of paper and when questioned bluffed it is a mirror image of  "O .I. I " from left to right, for a science project!" 

His brain itched vigorously to find out what could "I .I .O" mean? When he sat in front of laptop, his eureka moment arrived with a bang. He hastily powered it on and started a search for other words starting with I and O. Then he remembered an easier way - scrolled through their search history when they used his laptop. how dare you grandkids, am I "Invidious, Intoner, oblique individual?"

He did not want to douse their enthusiasm by telling them how he had cracked their codes. Though some words fell beyond their vocabulary's boundary, still he admired their ingenuity.   He decided to restrict their freedom, by once again changing the password, knowing fully well that it would be just for the time being. The grandfather fondly mused, "Oh, there are such fun filled, educative moments too in life!"

Suo motu, pro bono, judgement reserved:

                                                                          In a blame game, the umpire is powerless...

                                                                                       from " Judging the Judge"

 

As his appeals court has gone into deep hibernation, Imaginch frantically searched for a burning issue, to ignite under the court in slumber. It happened to be a lucky day, as he chanced up on a media report regarding a rule change in a foreign country. Undeterred / unfazed by the impact he is likely to cause, for meddling in the affairs of a foreign country (was not sure whether friendly or not), he actively searched for any valid reason that he could get a toe into the affair. He was not disappointed, as many social media posts have already started raising howls, crossing national boundary. He was glad, if and when MEA comes down on deeming it as dabbling in another nation's internal affairs, he will have company and media support to face the diplomatic music.

He decided to take suo motu notice of the issue and list it for very urgent listing and prompt hearing. As a follow through, he narrowed on the choice of an advocate to appear and argue on pro bono basis. While he was getting into his court attire, the image of the most suitable pro bono advocate appeared in his mind. He chuckled to himself and mouthed - An eminent choice, who else but his alter ego!

Imaginch liked to run a tight proceeding in his court. To lay the ground rules, he addressed the pro bono counsel in his chamber and said, " There is no defendant or a defense counsel and definitely no jury. The bench will not interrupt your oral arguments. This is an urgent hearing and submission of written documents is waived, at this stage. However, after the verdict is pronounced, you may submit such papers as necessary as per guidelines of this court. As both started walking into the court, the judge said, "If you are clear, I am all ears to hear your arguments. Thank you for appearing as pro bono counsel."

As soon as he took his seat, he invited the counsel to make the opening statement. 

Promptly standing to his full height, the pro bono counsel, cleared his throat once and gulped a glass of water and started with a "if it pleases the court..." The judge angrily banged the gavel (to test its sound effect) and stared at the counsel.  He knew and the pro bono counsel also knew the matter being argued. Yet for the judge procedure /presence is important whether it is a suo motu case or a regular one. Remembering he had experienced the wrath of this judge, even over silly reasons, the counsel immediately started delivering his opening statement.

"The so-called developed western nations, from time to time stir a hornet' nest with their liberal views of culture and way of living. It is like the placid surface of a very deep lake, hiding whirlpools. Naive, not so serious swimmers try to test its depths to ward off heats of summer. This "Right to disconnect" is one such a fathom less lake. Scuba divers decide to get into uncalled for operation to explore, expose and bring out the hidden whirlpools and other lying-in-wait snares. For a fish the lure always looks attractive.  Before weighing in with reactions, angry outbursts, it may be prudent to spend some time in retrospection."

The judge taken in by the flow, did not understand the point about the need for scuba divers, but let it slide as otherwise the counsel may start a lecture on oceanography. The counsel paused for a second detecting confusion dancing on the face of the judge, but continued -

"Instead of blaming business houses, I hope the agitators are not shareholders in them, they should think where our nation be. Bringing international business is not an easy feat with North-South divide, East-West bias and of course with the racial colouring. Risking financial catastrophe, loss of international standing never deterred them to excel. If this did not make them overwork, what else got them there?

Don't you have personal freedom (as you have indicated in condemning the honchos, decrying their hefty pay packages) to choose how you want to balance your life vis a viz work, or to settle for a lesser paycheck and to anticipate unemployment dole?

To your knowledge has any company, multinational or otherwise reported that their employees are 100% satisfied and grumblings are unheard off? Left and right hiring and firing takes place in those Conglomerates, still don't people like you queue up for a possible opening? 

Nations which employed slavery (without monetary /human considerations), getting bored doing normal governance come up with such plans, from time to time. In blind faith, you have taken to heart and sling abuses - using the "Right to disconnect". Answer these questions (1) Did you realise or not that the magic word "Right to disconnect" has been used earlier during days of slavery and (2) what prevents you from quitting and go on a hike? Come on, try to take this small risk and then judge leaders of industries.

In your personal capacity, what employment potential you have created - be it for a house help, gardener or a driver? If you happen to be an entrepreneur, how you would have ensured life-work balance for your assistants? By you working 24/7 and allowing them to come and go as they please?

Remember, from similar cloth different types of dress styles can be created. But is it possible to make one dress that fits all?"

This analogy perked up the interest in the judge, on another matter- he was trying to get a new robe stitched. Seeing him sit erect in the chair, the counsel feared a verbal lashing, which mercifully did not come. So, he continued- 

"Acts enacted by other countries are applicable only for their workforce. Let us stop imitating them beyond a point and think - You have highly developed mathematics, Science and Engineering skills or otherwise some of you would not have reached their shores on a job offer. Another point is that some of your kith and kin might be eligible to enjoy this "right to disconnect" and is it not worth appreciating?

This country should not and cannot rest now, many more technical niches are to be taken over. It is like this- a passenger can take a nap but not those in charge of ensuring a safe travel to all the passengers, I mean the population of this country. Try to work better with what you have and don't fritter opportunities by falling for false utopia. Reality is hard and harsh.

Compared to millions, you get the basic needs and more, on the dot every month. The working hours long or short is coming with hidden perks such as not so expensive education, top class medical facilities and other host of other things such as vehicle, housing and furniture loans, based on the guarantee of the job - which you are not accounting, in terms of work-life balance.

Enlarge your vision and think about the law enforcement and soldiers. Are they not eligible to or excluded from the Right to disconnect? What about farmers who bring food, vegetables and fruits to your table?"

The judge started to feel the pangs of hunger and his stomach started to growl loudly, silencing the counsel. Sheepishly, he signalled  to continue, thinking why the learned counsel has not included over-worked judges like me!

"Can you adopt this "Right to disconnect" to stop browsing internet and social media? Can you stop net banking and travel, accommodation bookings? Or refrain from carrying out these activities during working hours?

The world is a global village, and it will remain a rhetoric unless the entire globe experiences day or night at the same time. We experience day and nights at different times is it not?  Likewise, we will be subjected to different set of style of governance, suiting local aspirations." The Judge wondered in what way this astronomical fact is relevant to the brief but showed it under advisement!

"Yes. Honchos get a hefty pay package but pay up to 40% as taxes. They have medical facilities but rarely find time to avail it. Hosts lavish dinners only to sip a glass of water (doctor's advice) Have a fleet of cars and private jets but never get to go on a picnic. They try to sleep but day to day business issues keep them awake.

You on the other hand, feast and host get-togethers; book travel tickets using company contracted vendor at a discount; get discounts on purchases using company credentials. You try to sleep but with issues of your own. You commute based on proximity to house, school, hospital and other services, but never fail to blame it on hours spent for work. At will you moonlight or gaslight, what you call it life-work balancing act?

This work-life balance is specific to specific countries. They may have unlimited natural resources, sparse population, large land tracts and immigrant work force. A serious comparison before hitting the glass house with stone is not wise.  Pause to think of your skill set is it in demand? Pause to think of the educated and yet to find employment workforce ready to grab the spot you vacate?

There are a minimum two types of employees: One with backup wealth for generations to come - you have issues with working hours. The other is trying to secure the future for the next generation - grumbles but knows how to triage."  Hurriedly, the judge googled the meaning for triage, without disturbing the flowing argument, only worried about when will it end?   

"Beware! Transplanting this seed into our midst will guarantee a wild growth of alien species. Native fauna and flora will wither and die. Similar will be the chaos of advocating "Rights to disconnect". Instead ask this question- Your needs or Job's needs?

I will answer them for you- If your needs are paramount leave the job and find life-work balance elsewhere. If it is the job that needs you, given the choice you will be made redundant in course of time. As an entity, the conglomerate cannot function thinking it also needs life-work balance."

The flow of incisive arguments strung and twisted the nerves in Imaginch's body. At one point during the arguments, he cursed himself for not exchanging places with his alter ego, he would have loved to make these forceful arguments, uninterrupted. He heard what has to be heard and when the flow of arguments paused, he immediately pronounced "judgement is reserved" and banged the gavel hard, fearing some more arguments. He cursed himself again, "Knowingly why I chose my alter ego as pro bono counsel, has no idea when to stop"