Day: May 23, 2008

I am very busy today. The big day is here. The head honcho (who is referred to cryptically as “He”) is going to review my project and pronounce judgment on my ability to continue breathing. This is the day when all mortals have to stand up with the floodlight shining into their eyes and declare that all is well in their tiny part of the murky world. Being new to this company, I was briefed by my boss about the etiquette surrounding these Reviews. (more…)

It is Monday and every moment feels like you’ve stepped on doggy-do while jogging. It has happened. I am horribly late for my flight. The cabbie tries to soothe my nerves and announces that for an extra tip he will take me to the airport in record time. He weaves through the traffic and turns up the volume of the radio. Himesh Reshmaiyya’s song is blaring on the FM channel. The cabbie waits like a child trying to join friends who are skipping rope. Unsure of where he will join the song. He tries to copy the master’s own sound in some spots but the lyrics move too rapidly for him. He waits till Himesh sings the bit that all of us wait for, “eNk baaNr aaNja aaNja aaNja aaNja aaaNja aaNja aaaN”.

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The doctor’s office called me last Friday about scheduling my annual medical check up. I don’t like it when they do that. I must be on some kind of telemarketeer’s list. They seem to know everything. When you need a new magazine that could change your life. Or when it is your “last chance” to donate twenty bucks to some obscure charity. But asking someone to call me and remind me to go for my annual medical check up was scary.Last year I got it done because my colleagues told me that it was too good a Benefit to give up.Only after I had gone through a thorough intrusion of my privacy did I realize that my friends were referring to the ‘day off from work’ as the benefit and not the medical exam.As an ex-HR person I know how much the companies spend on this shit. And how many of them will be discreetly tracking the hit rate with bated breath. I mean every little HR policy has a hit rate. They (in HR) need to know how many employees are “utilizing the gesture of magnanimity” shown by the company. That’s what they get their annual increments on.That my visit to the company’s doctor will impact somebody’s list of achievements is indeed a heart warming gesture. It also puts me under pressure to help out my friend. He needs an increment desperately. HR people are always under pressure to produce “an innovative Benefits program”. Getting a medical check up done may not be one of them but putting the fear of God in the employee through the program is certainly innovative.I was told by my friend in no uncertain terms that I HAVE to go in for my annual check up by Tuesday at 9am. Today is Monday night. I do not want to get humiliated again. But heck, who wants to have enemies in HR? You can’t have friends there either – if that’s of any consolation. I opted for an easy way out. I will opt for a part check up.The first stop last year was at the weighing scale. Any efforts at looking slim by pulling in my paunch were futile. I had been asked to wear what appeared to be a guy’s version of a bikini and asked to lump my entire mass of flab on the scale. “Bahut lard pyar se banaya hai mujhe” I tried to explain. The nurse just looked at the reading and stared at me in disbelief. I secretly prayed that no one from my department would see me in this vulnerable state.Next stop – the vision thing. Now listen, I do a whole lot of those workshops on that stuff. But this is different. A stern looking gent took me off in to a dark room to … check my vison… in a dark room? Doesn’t take genius to tell you that no one can see in the dark. And now they will crib if I can’t read all the stuff in that poorly illuminated room. I could hear someone reading off that eye-chart. E L T H … X S C… no thats V Q P… He repeated it with the same painstaking effort presumably with the other eye shut this time. That helped. I knew the chart by heart and recited it. My vision was certified to be good enough “for a pilot’s license”. That should explain why some of them crash the planes. An alternative career?The final visit was to the Ear Department. I was put inside a soundproof booth – yeah and now you want to check my hearing, right… in a soundproof booth??? He gave me a set of headphones and spoke into a microphone attached to his white lab coat. There was a glass window in my suffocatingly small booth. I watched him take a position of authority behind a desk at the far end of the room. He explained the rules of the game in an accent that was from Star Trek.“I am going to sit here and press this lever. The moment you hear a sound, tap on the glass.”“Question! What happens if you have hearing problem and can’t hear the tap? Is this a test of my hearing or yours?”He ignored my query. A minute later it struck me that I was in a sound proof booth. The guy was already tapping the lever and making strange sounds. Some of these were particularly high pitched. I kept tapping the window obediently. The look on that guy’s face kept getting quizzical and he kept turning up a dial and tapping the lever of his contraption. I was getting tired of imagining listening to the shrill beeps. I wanted to be let out. I tapped on the window to attract attention but the guy was looking at some reading on the dial and fiddling with the tapping thing. I had to attract his attention. I was banging on the glass window. Finally the jerk heard me. He came to open the door of the booth to let me out.“How did I do?”“The last 3 beeps were at frequencies only heard by canines. You were able to hear them. Amazing!”I need a different Benefits programme.

Then my aunt had a baby when I was 4 years old. I became “Rana-da”. When he was a little older, my cousin protested and said that I had no right to be addressed as “Dada” (literally meaning elder brother in Bengali) since I was ONLY four years older to him. There had to be at least a five year difference to qualify as Dada. He had a history of making up arbitrary rules like this. He did it when we played cricket. Insubordination had to be quelled. So I walked off to protest before my uncles and aunts who interrupted their adda session briefly to rule in my favour. I came back and announced the verdict to him. He made a face but succumbed to collective authority. The other day I picked up the phone to hear a heavily accented, “Happy New Year Rana-da.” And I knew it was him because only he refers to me that way.

The day I went to school, I got the right to use my family name. The clerk in the school’s office handed me a piece of paper that said “Abhijit Bhaduri”. I liked the name Abhijit a lot more than Rana which always made me feel like a kid who was not old enough to go to school.

I was almost five years old and I preferred to be called “Abhijit”. That name had a lot more gravitas. Change must begin at home. I wanted to tick the easy targets first – eg my Granny. With her victory was certain.

“From today, do NOT call me Rana. Call me Abhijit. Will you remember?” I asked. I knew she would say yes and I walked off.

I was wrong. She patted my head indulgently and said, “Of course I will remember that Rana.”

There was no point expecting my aunts and uncles to respect my wishes if grandma did not set the tone.So in the most inappropriate places “Rana” would surface much to the embarrassment of Abhijit.

My parents would continue to use my nick name “Rana” before my school friends and teachers during the Parent Teacher meetings. The teacher would keep talking about the routine “Abhijit” must follow so that his marks show improvement. My Dad would nod in agreement and tell the teacher, “Rana needs to pull up his socks.” Occasionally I would bleat in protest and whisper, “Don’t call me Rana in school, please. My friends will tease me.” Why do you think the rights of the child continue to be ignored even today?

Then my kid sister arrived when I was eight years old. Even by my cousin’s yardstick I was now entitled to be called “Dada”. I made sure that my kid sister did not have a choice in that matter. So from day one I would whisper into the baby’s ear, “You know me, don’t you? I am your Dada.” She would make faces and whimper. It was happy day for me when she finally managed to call me Dada on her own.

As a teenager I used to hang out with my friends from the Railway Colony who would call me “Abhi”. Those were the heady days of youth. One day when a girl looked at me and said, “That’s a lovely name, but may I call you ‘Jit’?” I stuttered and nodded my approval. It is not easy to disagree when you are in love. I changed my identity to please her.

Till date she is the only person who ever called me Jit.

In college, one day, I discovered that my name had been changed to “Abbey”. That name continued through my days at Delhi University and later at XLRI as I pursued my Masters. Their emails always begin with a “Hi Abbey!”

Some names have faded away. When my parents died, there are very few people left who call me “Rana”. Rana is the sound of my childhood. It is linked to my role. My role as a son is over. Others roles have taken over my identity.

At work for a brief period I became “Mr. Bhaduri” before I reverted back to being Abhijit. When emails happened in the organisation where I was working, I discovered there were four more Abhijits tucked away in various parts of the world.

I became Abhijit4@whats-the-name.com

My identity is still evolving. When I traveled abroad for the first time I got used to introducing myself followed by a quick tutorial on the pronunciation.

“That is pronounced as Uh-Bhee-Jeet.”

With each new role of my life or country that I travel to, my new name marks the beginning of a new relationship.

The day after I got married, my wife smiled and said, “I am going to call you Hubby-Jit.” That name continues. I have given up protesting.