Children of a Lesser God (not about the movie)

Well, there are only two. They hang around near the Mosque or the central monument which I pass by everyday on my way to work. The children, two boys to be specific, are in the 10s or early teens if you'd count their malnourishment factor, in ragged shorts, dirt covered t-shirts and with looks of a goat that is about to be butchered. There is also the one legged man, in crutches, standing straight-up and without movement as if a statue had been planted at the entrance of the Mosque to remind something, that I yet to realize, to attendees and passersby.

This morning, as I headed towards the office, which is a ten minute walk from my hotel along a wide four lane highway of this former Soviet Republic, admiring morning rays and the beauty of Mongol descendants in colorful summer attire, who sometimes mildly startle at the sight of this brown-foreigner, I was in fact thinking of our son, who'll turn fifteen in few months, and his future to become a real man. He is a great kid with personal and physical traits of his maternal grandfather and with computer and artistic skills that'd exceed my abilities as an IT man, in time and with experience. However, we also noticed that lately he's becoming someone who keep things to himself and not expressing thoughts in a productive manner. This could be a teen thing and since he's our first child, we are also "learning the ropes while climbing the mountain".

So, we decided to find him a summer job to polish-up his soft skills and found one with a neighbor as a video/ photo editor. Mind you, this video business is run out of a basement and the only other employee is my neighbor's wife! Although my son seems to like his job, I still found the surroundings inadequate to achieve his or our objectives. While, I'm sure there are other jobs and avenues to go by, as a traveling dad who's home is mostly a hotel room somewhere in an oil-patch country, it was disheartening in my inabilities to deal with the situation.

Yet, as I was walking this morning, along the highways of Atyrau (in Kazakhstan), admiring the morning rays and Mongol beauty and about to pass the Mosque that is with a view of central monument in sight, things changed.

The one legged man didn't move as usual. But the kids, who usually mind their own, ran towards me and in a non-recognizable language (not Kazakh nor Russian) started to say something, tapped on my shirt and also touched my feet. Startled at their behavior, it took me few seconds to realize that they are asking for money. As a person who spend my early years in South Asia, I knew how to shoo away roadside beggars and instinctively, I did exactly that. Somehow, it didn't work. The kids were persistent however, very abnormal to the country's humble nature and culture. While I was dragging myself away from them, one of the kid pulled the trump card from his shorts' pocket, as if to have perfectly read my state of mind.

It was a picture of his family, a dated, crumpled black & white photo with dirty-brown crease marks all over. He pointed himself in the middle, a baby faced six year old standing amongst five siblings and his parents, with scary look and no smile. He also pointed at his parents and acted out as if they are dead. We spoke no language, no words were exchanged yet I understood his dilemma or the perception of such, and everything else didn't matter and deceased to exist. I saw my son in his eyes, a distant young person sleeping thousands of miles away in his cozy bed, computers and a play station to wake up to. I saw two children of a lesser God, one with everything to enjoy yet with a bit of challenge in getting out of his comfort cage and another one with nothing material but with competent skills, how low the objective may have been, to communicate, negotiate, use and achieve it. I fell and my heart broke thus came five hundred tenges ($4) out of my pocket!

Ones the money and the unknown languages of thank you-s were exchanged, as I continue my walk towards the trimmed lawns and beaming offices of an oil giant in this under-developed land, I thought of how important social skills are to survive this world. As globalization requires learning, accepting and working with unknown people, culture and diverse social lives - to be must-have skills, even an experience with irrelevant beggar-kid becomes important. Every task we undertake requires presentation, communication, positive negotiation and persuasion to achieve best results.

The child of a lesser God I met today doesn't seems like that anymore. He is also a child of our generous Gods, such that he's blessed with certain skills of which some of us are still facing challenges.

I decided to take my son of out his video editing job and put him in a more diverse environment where he can polish up on soft skills. A summer job at a super market comes to mind, with no regards to the pity minimum wage he'd earn. I'm not worried anymore.

The Flat Tire

How many times you encounter flat tire on a tarmac, under the pregnant belly of a seven-four-seven?

It happened this morning, at exactly three-O-four, at the Shivaji International airport of Mumbai, during my cradle time (the few minutes between push back of an airplane from the gates until you are woken up to the rev of the engines on runway twenty four).

An 'object' had punctured a wheel, the captain announced hence bringing the mammoth back to a parking area, with the flat tire pulling itself shamelessly along with others full of 'air and pride'.

 

We were told that it may take a while to change the wheel. And we all believed, blindly, because most had their sun shades over the eyes and ready to sleep with no regards to the interruption and because none of us are used to changing a flat tire of seven-four-sevens.

 

One hour passed; two hours passed; three hours passed; the distant sun entering through semi-circle windows, waking up sleepy heads, reminding them that the world is not pristine and normal anymore. There is a new environment here that we should be concerned about because in normal circumstances, by this time, we would be flying over Istanbul merely touching the rim of Europe. But we are still here in Mumbai, going through a flat tire saga.

 

We wake up, one by one, relieving ourselves of nature's calls, quietly inquiring, by tapping on the shoulders of air hostesses, on what's going on. They point outside, with arm gestures that relate an open situation, with no control. Now the main door is open, a metal staircase attached, its bright light outside.

 

Can we walk outside? Sure; she doesn't care; the plane is on the ground; you wouldn't need a parachute or a multiple-entry visa and beside she is at the same level and situation as you are. Sure, go ahead!

 

Anxiety kicks in. Schedules are reminded; missing connections; a loved one's birthday party of that evening, a six week pregnant wife waiting to complain about all her pain (it's all because of you, three-minute-man!), a talk with a troubled teen daughter, unclenched million dollar deals and me, eagerly waiting to get out of Mumbai, for home food, own bed and warm hugs to snuggle-in and never wake up again, not entirely in that same order.

 

Some passengers disembark, half way through the metal staircase, "thud.. thud.. thud..", to take a glimpse at tire changing ceremonies. They embark again, "thud.. thud.. thud..", for a progress report, that all four tires of the particular wheel base has to be changed to maintain 'air, pride and balance' and that it may take longer than anticipated, however no one knew, technically, what to anticipate.

 

Fresh coffee distributed, orange glasses maneuver through narrow aisles, reflecting on the bright seven-O-clock sun, now encompassing the entire cabin, its orange everywhere, an eerie, delicate color scheme - the color of anxiety, it seems.

 

Calls are made, to loved ones, to awaiting meetings, missed mortgage payments, alimony and child support - nature's gift of a genuine excuse.

 

Then something happen. I witness something unique, extra ordinary, a common ground, breaking in lost hearts, hearts with no control of the situation.

 

Sharing of pain.

 

People gather around, talk about their anticipated plans and how it would impact their lives. They share, comfort, console, and promise each other goodness and that things will be okay and life would become normal eventually. There is optimism everywhere, no more "thud.. thud.. thud.." on the metal stairway. The birthdays will come again next year, and can be attended. The pregnant wife can be consoled; buy her something nice; how about a Dior perfume at duty free price. All teenagers go through these kind of phases; don't worry they'll come through it. A lost million dollar deal? May be this says something that it is not meant for your company. May be a bigger deal is on the horizon. Promises, promises and more colorful promises. Handshakes, sharing of business cards, new friendships, a twinkle of romance between an old couple and little down time to write this blurb, if otherwise would have spent watching Mr. & Mrs. Smith for the fifth time; one of "our" favorite, by the way.

 

Eventuality arrives. We take off. There is a destination. We will land and embark and embrace to face our bright life, once again and again.

 

Did I mention that I missed my connection in Frankfurt, questioned for not "looking" like a Canadian (need to buy a pair of shoes that reflects Canadian-ism: red-white-red and maple syrup) and almost thrown into a Terminal limbo?

 

Let me to share that in another dimension...

Little Girl at Left Turn

As you know, my friend, it takes about forty five minutes to go from hotel to the LTI offices through pot holed roads of post-flood-Mumbai. The bum sores, hurts, car rattles like Rock-fort express on the wooden bridge of Sri Rangam, dusty gravel hits the sides as if a hale storm at thirty degree angle. Trying to read a newspaper would become a task unaccomplished since eyes would involuntarily jump from one news item to another news item, combining Aishwarya Rai's hip-line to war inAfghanistan (yes the war there isn't over yet).

 

Then, towards around 22nd minute, Richard, my "parthasarathi", would make a left to turn catch a short-cut. The term short-cut in this scenario shouldn't be taken literally since the distance is actually longer than the "long-cut". It's just that due to reduced number of pot-holes the ride would become smoother thus faster.

 

This little girl, 12ish, with neatly combed hair tied in the back, a black dot right between the centre of eyes that reflecting an anonymous feel, distant look, a worn skirt and blouse, yet neat, dusty sandals and thin facial features would stand at the corner, everyday, during Richard's careful left turns, on the 22nd minute, holding bunch of garlands in colors of yellow, red and pink.

 

A flower seller, I presume, the girl has been catching my eyes, everyday for the past five days. She never bothers the passing cars, bicycles, pedestrians and omni present cows. She, I believe, is there, expecting an arrival, a regular customer, a mother going to prayers, a husband or lover in look to impress his better half or someone just wanted to buy flowers for no apparent reasons. But, the important things is she is there, expecting a new arrival, who in return would provide joy, for her daily meal, her master's satisfaction or probably for renewed reasons for plants to bloom again. I saw hope in her eyes everyday, although ours never met. I saw the distant expectation, something on the horizon, faraway; knowing it'll come, when the time is right, moon is lit, sun gives up and hide away under the blue ocean, the sureness of an event, goodness.

 

Today, I missed her. It was late when I went to the office, around 11ish, I think. She probably would have sold the flowers and gone home, to school, to her master's den or just to the flower gardens to watch the re-blooming of yellow, red and pink. Or may be she decided to give up the boring profession, procession of people, cars and my left turns to find a shortcut in life. May be she was killed by a rogue left turn, an anonymous villain; blood spattering across the tarmac and filling the uncared pot holes, a reminder to the mayor of Vashi with new methods of renewal.

 

I missed her, for sure, that an entire day lingered with memory of her thin face, combed hair, garlands dangling from her impoverished yet delicate hands.

 

How can someone miss someone never met? How a visual seen only ten seconds per day resides long enough to attack the serenity of a busy mind?

 

I couldn't find any answers. The only thing I can think of is her eyes; that hope, waiting for a distant arrival, when the time is right, moon is lit, sun gives up and hide away under the blue ocean, the sureness of an event and goodness.

 

Unseen, she teaches me to look for tomorrow, a better day, an eventful life, a life that would make others happy by an act I would play, by no accident but programmed by an alternate power. She tells me, without saying a word that never gives up on love and care. She tells me to hang in there, with lots of hope and belief.

 

Tomorrow, I'll ask Richard to make that left turn, even if roads are cleared, pot holes are filled, post-flood Mumbai returns to an abnormal normalcy. Because my first hope tomorrow would be to see this little girl again; stop the car; hand twenty rupees, without bargaining, exchanging for pink garlands, our smiles, unspoken introductions, thanking her to remind me of tomorrow that sure could be better than today.