Shrink's Views

ramblings of an unknown psychiatrist

Posts Tagged ‘career’

Bollywood, Brothel and Being Born Again: a story

Posted by Dheeraj Kattula on September 25, 2010

This is a sequel to the story ‘A Dirty Job’ that I had written a couple of weeks ago. You can read it by clicking this.

It was the story of a girl who had very traumatic childhood. She landed in a brothel at an early age. She was rescued from there. She was given therapy to overcome her problems. She was also trained to live a decent life. She chased a dream to dance on film sets after she gained majority. She ended up having an affair and mothered a girl child. Hunger and desperation pushed her to the streets to solicit men.

The story was harshly realistic, reflecting lives of scores of women who land in brothels having chased a Bollywood dream. Is life over for them or is there any other way? Please read on…This story reflects a hope that I believe in.

Bollywood, Brothel and Being Born Again

Bollywood dream is over. I was not getting chances as expected. I made a new choice- to do the dirty job. I had detested it. I always had maintained that I would never do it. I was warned of this by few people. I wonder how they saw this possibility. I do not even want to think about where I went wrong. I always had prided in living in the present. No one knows what the future holds and no one can change the past. So why bother about these things which are not in one’s control. This is how I always thought. The doctor I had met used to advise me of being mindful, but my mind was full of ‘never mind’ philosophy. I think when one crosses boundaries and chooses to go far away from the previously set boundaries; it becomes easier as one moves along.

Having slept with a man once again to satisfy my hunger pangs, I was willing to continue this to sustain myself and my child decently. I went to Kamathipura and joined a brothel. I was given a small room. There were four others with me sharing the room. There were times when two of us were servicing our clients with only a cloth separating us. In the beginning I was a bit disturbed when I used to hear my daughter cry when I was engaged at work. I could see her through the diaphanous cloth which was to shield my shame. I have since gotten used to it. It is all right for a child to cry once in a while, especially if the tummy is getting filled thrice in a day.

I do not know why, but many of my clients come back to me for more. I had a record for this in our brothel. Mohammad Altaf was a local goonda who used to come for me frequently. He looked terrifying. He always carried his revolver with him. Another such regular client was Inspector Chogle. Chogle used to even bring biscuits and milk for my kid. Chogle had apparently recommended one of his bosses an IPS officer Mr Tripathi. He too came regularly. My status in brothel increased. I was given some freedom of movement. Moreover, I was voluntary here. Other girls who were trafficked from Nepal and Andhra had no contact with outside world except the clients.

One day Chogle came and told me to dress well for an outside engagement. He took me in a taxi to Bombay Orchid Hotel. He told me that it was one of the best hotels in India. The hotel looked astounding. He took me to a room more luxurious than the hotel. It did not require me to be an intelligence officer to know that I might have to service a big-shot.

I was shocked to see him. He was a minister. Everyone in the country knew him. Xavier Francis was his name. I had seen him debate on TV on issues of women like rights, dignity and self- reliance. He always wears Khadhi and speaks desi stuff. This is his real face- sleeping with young women in star hotels. After the job was done, he threw two bundles of Rs 100/- notes. I had earned Rs 20,000/- in one hour! I was thrilled. Suddenly he asked me to return the money. As I was giving him back, he tore few pages from a book that was placed near the table lamp. He wrapped the money in those papers. He then secured them with my rubber hair bands that I had left on the table and gave back the money to me with a smile. I liked his gesture.

When I went back to my brothel, I unwrapped the covers to take the money out. I was about to throw the papers, I thought I could as well read them. It was long since I read something in English. I might forget it fully if I did not read on and off. One sheet was the first page of a book. It had a seal stating ‘placed by Gideons International’. The other sheet had a story.

It went like this,

“But Jesus went to the Mount of Olives. At dawn he appeared again in the temple courts, where all the people gathered around him, and he sat down to teach them. The teachers of the law and the Pharisees brought in a woman caught in adultery. They made her stand before the group and said to Jesus, “Teacher, this woman was caught in the act of adultery. In the Law Moses commanded us to stone such women. Now what do you say?” They were using this question as a trap, in order to have a basis for accusing him.

But Jesus bent down and started to write on the ground with his finger. When they kept on questioning him, he straightened up and said to them, “If any one of you is without sin, let him be the first to throw a stone at her.” Again he stooped down and wrote on the ground.

At this, those who heard began to go away one at a time, the older ones first, until only Jesus was left, with the woman still standing there. Jesus straightened up and asked her, “Woman, where are they? Has no one condemned you?”

“No one, sir,” she said. “Then neither do I condemn you,” Jesus declared. “Go now and leave your life of sin.””

I got shocked. There were many things that I did not understand in the story like what are olives, who was Moses, what is this trap thing for this man Jesus etc but I did understand one thing. I am like that woman. I could be caught by police and tried according to the law. This would not happen as people like Chogle sleep with me. This man Jesus was different. He could have condemned that woman but he did not do that. He did not use this position in any other way too. He just told her to go and leave the life of sin. “Go now and leave your life of sin”- that statement rang in my ears for few minutes. I was so lost in these thoughts that I did not even notice that brothel keeper and my co-workers came and took away my money.

When I came to senses, I did not even feel the loss of money. I was awakened. Something was new in me. May be like a sapling. It was alive and growing. I was beginning to see things a bit differently. I do not know how to explain this. I could no longer enjoy the services I rendered. I was lost in some other world. My regulars also noticed a difference. Many of them asked me if I was not well. In fact I was feeling more than well. I realized that there is a thirst in me that needed to be quenched.

A few days later I was on my way to a beauty parlour. I was on an over-bridge near railway tracks. A drunkard walking with a cup of tea on the bridge spilt some tea on my shoe. I looked around for some waste paper. I saw an old man stand in a corner of the over-bridge giving away some booklets. I took one and tore a sheet from it to wipe my shoes and threw the rest of the booklet away.  Just as I was about to throw the sheet off, I realized I could read some English like I did on and off.

The passage went like this:

“Now he had to go through Samaria. So he came to a town in Samaria called Sychar, near the plot of ground Jacob had given to his son Joseph. Jacob’s well was there, and Jesus, tired as he was from the journey, sat down by the well. It was about the sixth hour.

When a Samaritan woman came to draw water, Jesus said to her, “Will you give me a drink?” (His disciples had gone into the town to buy food.)

The Samaritan woman said to him, “You are a Jew and I am a Samaritan woman. How can you ask me for a drink?” (For Jews do not associate with Samaritans.)

Jesus answered her, “If you knew the gift of God and who it is that asks you for a drink, you would have asked him and he would have given you living water.”

“Sir,” the woman said, “you have nothing to draw with and the well is deep. Where can you get this living water? Are you greater than our father Jacob, who gave us the well and drank from it himself, as did also his sons and his flocks and herds?”

Jesus answered, “Everyone who drinks this water will be thirsty again, but whoever drinks the water I give him will never thirst. Indeed, the water I give him will become in him a spring of water welling up to eternal life.”

The woman said to him, “Sir, give me this water so that I won’t get thirsty and have to keep coming here to draw water.”

He told her, “Go, call your husband and come back.”

“I have no husband,” she replied.

Jesus said to her, “You are right when you say you have no husband. The fact is, you have had five husbands, and the man you now have is not your husband. What you have just said is quite true.”

“Sir,” the woman said, “I can see that you are a prophet. Our fathers worshiped on this mountain, but you Jews claim that the place where we must worship is in Jerusalem.”

Jesus declared, “Believe me, woman, a time is coming when you will worship the Father neither on this mountain nor in Jerusalem. You Samaritans worship what you do not know; we worship what we do know, for salvation is from the Jews. Yet a time is coming and has now come when the true worshipers will worship the Father in spirit and truth, for they are the kind of worshipers the Father seeks. God is spirit, and his worshipers must worship in spirit and in truth.”

The woman said, “I know that Messiah” (called Christ) “is coming. When he comes, he will explain everything to us.”

Then Jesus declared, “I who speak to you am he.”

I got excited as I read this. This is the same man Jesus. I had difficulties in understanding everything. Of course I was reading a passage out of a story book and I cannot get an understanding reading a small portion. I asked the man distributing for another copy. He gave piercing looks and looked at the booklet I had thrown away. It had landed open and face down on the railway tracks. I knew what I had to do. I ran as fast as I could and got there before a train came and destroyed it. I sat in the platform and read through this booklet. It was called ‘Gospel of John’. It was about Jesus. It says a lot of things about love.

It said that “God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life. For God did not send his Son into the world to condemn the world, but to save the world through him.”  It also said, “Light has come into the world, but men loved darkness instead of light because their deeds were evil. Everyone who does evil hates the light, and will not come into the light for fear that his deeds will be exposed. But whoever lives by the truth comes into the light, so that it may be seen plainly that what he has done has been done through God.”

What I had read earlier was also in this booklet. I realized that I was living in dark. In reality brothels are dark places. Many of our clients want their visits to Kamathipura to be kept in dark. I was living in dark and I was doing evil. Do I have a choice? Can I make a living for my child and me in a way that is not evil? Even if it were to be possible, was I willing to come into the light?

I realized that if I could do it, it would mean plainly that I have done this through God. I prayed to God to help me know the right thing and do the right thing. I went back to my brothel. Life was never the same. I could not enjoy my work at all. It was seen by my clients and soon my brothel keeper would know it. I could fake being happy, but I could not bring myself to do it. There was a discomfort welling within me about being untruthful. I could not even fake it for my survival. I was happy acting in line with my feelings.

I decided I must leave this brothel and this life style. I can work as a maid servant and life a truthful life. I should not let my daughter enter this dirty world if I really love her. Usually the brothel keeper never lets me out with my daughter alone. I had to find the right reason to take her out. That very week Chogle gave two passes for an amusement park nearby. One was for an adult and one was for a child. I had the right reason to go with my daughter and no one else would be with us.

Where would I go with my kid in Mumbai? Whom could I trust? I just wondered. I remembered that things are possible with God. I phoned Mohammad Altaf from a phone booth. I knew Altaf was a goonda and was a ‘bad guy’. Anyway, I decided to trust him, as he was on the wrong side of the law and was faithful to people on the wrong side. Chogle, Tripathi, Xavier etc appear to be on the right side of the law and are unfaithful to the ones on their own side.

Altaf came in about 15 minutes. I told him, “Altaf, I want to leave this trade. I need money to leave this place. I know that you are a tough guy, but I also know you are a good guy. So I have trusted you. Please help me. I want to do the right thing.”

“Laila. Come let us go to ATM…How much do you want?” he asked. “How much ever you can offer”, I answered. He gave me Rs 10,000/- and said, “Leave Mumbai. It is not safe here. They will be able to get to you. Wait for a minute… I will buy you a burqa from the shop near the mosque. You can cover your face.”

He came within five minutes and gave me a burqua. He told me to go behind the pan shop to wear it. In the meantime he took my daughter behind a barber’s shop and cut off the hair of my daughter and dressed her up like a boy. I was so happy for his resourcefulness. We had a chance to escape in nice disguise. As we were about to leave, he got emotional, “Laila, I wish I was a good guy. I would have given you a new life. My life has no future and so I can never commit. I would always love you.”

I always had this intuition that Altaf was a good guy at core but had life had built this tough shell around him. What else can you expect? His mother was also a worker like me, who died of HIV few years ago. He never knew who his father was. I was glad at least he realized there is something called love. I prayed that he too understands God’s love and power to change our lives.

I took a train to the place where I was treated as a teen-ager. I still remember the doctor who cared so much for me and gave me so much of advice. I hoped that he was still there. The hospital had not changed much. Extensions had been made in existing buildings. I went to the room where he used to meet me. I peeped in. He was there. His hairs have greyed a bit and he has put in few kilos of weight. His assistant wanted me to show the appointment card, which I did not have. All of a sudden the doctor came out, probably to grab a cup of tea in between few sessions. I called out for him. He took a couple of seconds, but he recognized me by my name. I was so happy. I was Laila, Lovely or Darling to many men according to their choice, but to the doctor I was, who I really was. He told me to wait till he finished his appointments. He asked me if I had eaten before he went in and resumed his work. I knew I reached a place which had some concern for me.

The wait felt very short. I told my whole story to him. He was not amused. He took it in as if he knew it all. He made some phone calls and then told his assistant to take me to the destitute home. He told me this was a short term arrangement till we could work out a long term plan. The home had 20 destitute women who were old and infirm. They had been deserted by their families. I enjoyed work in the home. Those ladies took good care of my daughter as well. I began to learn their language. There was a nurse who visited us twice in a week. She used to sing songs of Jesus at the beginning and at the end of her work. I shared with her my story. She got excited. She started praying with me for future of me and my child. I began to realize that this place was not my long term home. I wanted to move back to the brothels and help rescue many little girls and young women who are forced in to this trade.

I discussed this with the doctor. He bore the same expression he had when I had shared about wanting to be a dancer in Bollywood. He was true in believing that sparks should be kept far away from fuels. He thought it was intrinsically risky with the promise of earning powerful enemies. There was also the risk of me falling back into the trade. He encouraged me to stay at destitute home to help in the daily chores. He also encouraged me to complete my schooling.

I found a new love for books. They told me about how the world operated, a world created by God. This love made me learn with enthusiasm unlike the way I studied earlier. In a couple of years, I finished my XII standard. I even appeared for the Nursing School Admission test in the hospital where I had got treated. I got selected. My doctor and his friends supported me by paying my fees. They were also supporting my daughter’s school education.

In five years I completed my Nursing course and accumulated two years of experience. My daughter finished her VIII standard. It was an easy choice for me to wait for four more years till my daughter finished her XII standard and secured a seat in Nursing School. I continued to feel the pull to go and rescue girls who were caught in the dirt of flesh trade. I discussed with my doctor. He felt I was a mature woman now. He had developed links with NGOs who are trying to rescue girls and women who were trafficked. He said he would put me in touch with one of those NGOs. I put my daughter in hostel attached to our destitute home. My daughter knew the importance of my work. She was glad to release me. There was a mobile in the home. I could contact her anytime in the evenings.

In the first one month of my job, we were off on a raid. My job was to provide support to the rescued girls. We had social workers, volunteers and police in the raid team. The vehicle’s windows were covered. When the door opened and we alighted, it was like a déjà vu for me. The scent was familiar, the landscape, the building…everything. In fact it was not a déjà vu-It was all real. We had come to the place where it whole thing had begun for me about 20 years ago.

We rescued 15 girls that day. On our way back, I had tears in my eyes. I too had been rescued once, but I had fallen back. I needed a saviour. I knew these girls need a lot of love and a lot of grace to make this rescue meaningful. In our journey back, I prayed for each of these girls as they slept around me in the van. Maybe I lacked someone’s prayers and therefore I got back into the mess. I would not let that happen to these children. I have received love and it is time I share it.

Epilogue:

I became 50 years old few weeks ago. My daughter has become a nurse. She is a nursing tutor in the hospital that took care of us. Her husband is a Physiotherapist. They have a beautiful daughter Raksha.

I chose not to marry again though I had few proposals. I dedicated my life to a mission to rescue girls and I did not want any other engagement in my mind.

I have had my own share of problems too. I have been assaulted numerous times during the raids. I have had fractures a couple of times. Once I had a gunshot wound in my thigh and I lost a lot of blood. I was reminded of my saviours shed blood for me. Without sacrifice of some body, no good would come to this world.

I have been part of numerous rescue operations. Hundreds of girls have got rescued under my eyes. I do not know what has happened to each. I am sure there may be quite a few who have gotten back to the trade. I also know of numerous examples of those who get a new life after a rescue. I have seen them marry and establish homes and families. It is such stories which keep me moving forward. God has been faithful. He always gave me the needed strength. I would carry this on till my death. That is what I am called for.

******

Goonda- Ruffian/ Hooligan

Khadi- Indian fabric usually made employing rural populace

Desi-Refers to people, cultures and products of Indian subcontinent

Burqa- is an enveloping outer garment worn by women in some Islamic traditions to cover their bodies in public places which includes woman’s loose body-covering, head-covering and the face-veil.

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Posted in children, christian, distress, education, emotion, fiction, gender, indian society, love, marriage, parenting, personality, prayer, psychiatry, psychotherapy, religion, social, spiritual, stigma, women's issues | Tagged: , , , , , , , , , , | 11 Comments »

Love – Feeling, Reason and Choice: a story

Posted by Dheeraj Kattula on September 19, 2010

Background:

This is continuation of the story “Rights and Love”. If you have not read it, you could find it by clicking this. It was a story about a lawyer called James. His wife Agnes suffered with Schizophrenia. Under the influence of some delusions she attempted to murder him. He recovered and then took care of her. Despite all care she had not improved much. He continued to care for her despite the risk of harm that he could suffer. He surprised everyone with his love.

Love: feeling, reason and choice

It was nearly six months since Tab Clozapine was started. James reported that Agnes was doing well. She was not suspicious as before. She had started working again two weeks ago. She had put on some weight, but she got back the smile that she always had. As Agnes waited in the queue to get her medicines from the Pharmacy, James was called back by Dr Manas to the consultation room.

Dr Manas said “Mr James, I was glad to hear that Agnes is doing well. I wanted to tell you something. Do you have few minutes?” James was so happy that Agnes has improved so much. His eyes filled with tears as he said, “Of course doctor, you are always there for us. Please go ahead.”

“I have resigned my job here and I am moving to Kolkata. So I have transferred the care of Mrs Agnes to Dr Gurupreet Kaur. You have seen her during the in-patient stay. She is a fine doctor”, Dr Manas said as he looked away from James and stared into the empty sky through the window. He did not notice the crushed look on James’s face, as he nodded his head. James liked Dr Manas. He was a good doctor.

Suffering is not new to Dr Manas. He saw it every day. He was used to it. Despite his heroic efforts, his patients continue to succeed in suicidal attempts; they go off medications and relapse into full blown illness episodes. This was part of his life, but there was some suffering different about the case of Agnes and James that touched him.

“Mr James, I have seen many families with mental illness. They all care. If they did not care, the patients would not have been brought here or the family member would not have come here. I have seen people get beaten in episodes of rage. I have seen domestic violence exist in chronic form, but I have never seen one who had a brush with death because of an attempted homicide by a wife, care for his assaulter with so much of dedication and persistence. I admire you, Mr James. How do you do it? Is your marriage a love marriage?” Dr Manas inquired.

James smiled and replied, “I do not know if you could call it a love marriage. I guess you could. Agnes and I went to the same Church in Bangalore. Her parents had passed away in a road accident in her childhood. Her grandfather brought her up. He was a retired railway employee. They lived on his pension. He had multiple strokes and developed dementia. Agnes took good care of him. She used to bring him for the mass regularly. She was also active in the Sunday school.

I liked the way she behaved with children and elderly people. She was simple and had a simple lifestyle. I was interested in providing legal aid to poor people in Mumbai. I wanted to marry a girl who could fit in. I reasoned Agnes could be the right girl. I discussed this with the Church father. He was very happy. Agnes agreed to marry me. We got married after she finished her graduation. In the meantime her grandfather passed away. Then we moved to Mumbai.”

“Oh I see. Looks like you took a logical decision. Isn’t it?” Dr Manas asked.

James replied, “Yes sir. It was a 100% rational decision. I never had any flutter in my heart seeing Agnes nor did I miss sleep. In fact I have not had the feelings for Agnes that I once had for a girl…(smiles)

I had this feeling of being in love when I was in my 3rd year in the Law College. Permit me to leave her unnamed. She was the only daughter of a top criminal lawyer in Bangalore. She was obviously going to take over her father’s practice. Her father defends crimes done by politicians and their goons. She would have to do the same.

I desired a just society. If I married her, I would be aligning myself with enemies of truth and justice. I knew she was not the right girl for me.

Trust me; this knowledge did not help me lose feelings for her. I would get energized as if I had two cups of chai, if she were to just say a hello. I just cannot explain it. This ‘love’ seemed real, as I could feel it strongly. It lasted a year till she started going around with a minister’s son.” He smiled and added, “Thank God for that match! My emotions left. ”

“You said that you never had strong feelings for Agnes, but you seem to demonstrate love that I have not seen before. How is that?” Dr Manas asked inquisitively.

“Dr Manas, I have decided to love my wife Agnes. However she is, whatever she does, I will love her. I mean I would act in her interest. I might not have feelings like I had in college. I might not be as rational as when I had decided to marry Agnes. Love here is a choice I make.

In College years my feelings of love were not even in line with reason. They felt most real, but they were most deceptive. These feelings just evaporated. Imagine trusting those feelings and taking life decisions. My reason was stronger than my feeling when I decided to marry Agnes. If the situations did not change, reason would have been sufficient cause for a lasting marriage.

But things changed. You know it. I could have started a new life without her. Getting her out of prison and living with her in the same house with no one else, when she was still suspicious of me goes against sound reason. It was a choice I made to love Agnes that mattered. I thought in her interest. I had risk. I had fear. I faced it. It was ultimately a choice I made.”

“Mr James, I like the choice you made. I respect it. I appreciate it. In fact, you have inspired me to make such a choice. I normally don’t discuss my personal life with patients or their families, but I think you are different and I thought I could share this with you.

Let me first tell you that I hate Kolkata. I am a Bengali .I believe anyone who wants to work hard and grow cannot do so in Bengal. So, I always wanted to move out of Bengal.

I was involved in research which was being done in collaboration with the Indian Statistical Institute in Kolkata. I fell in love with a mathematician there. She was beautiful, brilliant and a Bengali. I had all reasons and all the feelings to get married. We married and were happy for few months. I then noticed that she was drawing closer and closer to her equations and was distancing herself from me. I do not suspect her for having an affair or any thing, but I felt she was not contributing to our relationship. I felt she was not valuing our relationship. Her equation was not an equality.

I got an opening here in Mumbai. I came here thinking that the distance would make her realize my absence and seek me. It did not work out. A couple of months ago I sent a divorce notice to her. Then I saw you. I saw what you were giving after having tasted what you had received. I knew this transcended reason and feelings. I thought I too should choose to love my wife.

Last month I called her and asked her forgiveness. I told her that though I hate Kolkata, I am willing to join her in Kolkata because I choose to love her. To my surprise, she wept. She felt sorry. She felt ashamed to call me and was desperately waiting for me to call. She too asked for my forgiveness as she had not been concerned for me.

She has requested a transfer to Indian Statistical Institute in Bangalore, with the idea that I can join NIMHANS. It is a matter of time that this would come through. I am glad I made the right choice. If I chose freedom as a right, we both would have lost. As I chose love, we both have gained.”

“I am so glad for you, sir. May God bless your marriage.” James blessed as a matter of fact.

Dr Manas held the hands of James and thanked him. Agnes came to the door after buying her medicines. They bid good bye to the doctor. Wiping his tears, the psychiatrist wondered when love as a choice is so beautiful and worthy, why we humans are so reluctant to choose it.

Posted in challenge, distress, drug therapy, emotion, ethics, fiction, love, marriage, psychiatry, schizophrenia, social, statistics | Tagged: , , , , , , , , | 11 Comments »

Rights and Love: a story

Posted by Dheeraj Kattula on September 7, 2010

He was a tall man. Dark and young, his name was James. He came for a full cup Chai* five years ago. He never stopped coming. To him, Chai was like petrol. It kept his engine running. He made friends easily. He became friends with Rafique on the very first day. Rafique was here to buy his bundle of beedis. The minute James realized that Rafique has just discontinued studies; he spent an hour with him to get him back to school. He failed. Of course! Who can convince a thug in the making. I have been hearing Rafique’s mother Salma begging him to study properly for the past 10 years now. It was of no avail. Rafique played the fool throughout his school life. He was no different from most of the guys in Dharavi. Honestly, at his age I was like that too. I left my home in Allepy when I was younger than Rafique. My original name is Abdullah. People now call me Nair. When I came to Mumbai, I wanted to be a hero, a star.  Fate had its way. I became a chaiwala*. I work hard and earn my roti*. That is a decent life. Isn’t it? At least I did not do crime.

Even though Rafique did not take advice, he realized that James was his well wisher. He became his friend and partner in his work. James was like a student who was interested in finding out our problems. He wanted to know about our lives. He wanted to find how we decided what was right and what was wrong. He wanted to know what we did when we perceived injustice. Rafique helped him meet up people in the slum. James came twice a week and did his job. He never missed his full cup special chai in my shop.

In about a year, James started educating us about our rights. He told us about how the real system ought to work. We knew how it worked. The constable on beat was the symbol of all authority to us. Give him a free cup of chai, he would not bother you for the day. The other symbol of power we know is the neta*. His ilk come here before the elections and would never show up again. The bigger guys here keep in touch with the netas. James taught us that these fellows are there to serve us and not get served by us. He also told us about the court system. In fact, that year Police picked Zuber and locked him up. They had suspected him in some bomb-blast case. We knew Zuber as a hard working tailor. He was cool and liberal. He could have no such links. James came to our rescue. It was then that we came to know that he was a lawyer. It seems he had studied in one of the best law colleges in India. I heard it is in Banglore. To us he was like God. Zuber was back. We learnt we could fight.

He fought few other court cases for our slum people. One was a divorce of Janaki and Kadam. Kadam’s drinking was routine. He beat his Janaki black and blue. One night she fell on a doorpost and bled from her scalp. It required 4 stitches to control that bleeding. Next weekday was the day James usually came to our slum. He spoke to Janaki and other neighbors and reported to the police. Police laughed at the issue. They said domestic fights between husband and wife are normal and they should be sorted at home and not police station. With James around they anyway had to register the case. James tried counseling Kadam. I would not have even tried. Some people won’t change. Atrocities on Janaki increased. Janaki decided to leave Kadam. Where would she go in Mumbai? How would she feed herself and her little five year old son Babul? She was concerned as Babul too was getting beaten regularly. She was also afraid that he could become like his father.

James fought for her and got her a divorce and also the custody of the child. Guys like Rafique too were not very happy with the divorce thing happening. Why? Aren’t other women adjusting with alcoholic men? Aren’t other women tolerating few beatings received from their husbands? James reasoned that we all have basic rights common to all mankind. One such thing is a right to life, liberty and security. He said our liberty should end one foot away from his neighbor. Here we had Kadam always violating his wife’s right to security and exercising his pseudo-liberty. He also felt Janaki could leave her husband exercising her right to liberty. I can very well understand that. Marriage should be based on mutual continual nurturing relationship. I was sort of convinced that she had a right to break the marriage. James also found Janaki a house maid’s job in Rajiv Gandhi Nagar, which is not too far from Dharavi. Kadam has died two years ago in a train traffic accident. Obviously, he should. He was totally drunk and was crossing the railway tracks. I wonder how he had survived 40 years on those tracks.

During last year’s elections most of our area’s people had gone to election campaign programs for money. There was very little business. I could have some personal time with James. I asked him about how he spent rest of the time. He said that he visited slums in Thane and Pune on a regular basis. He was doing the same thing that he has been doing to us, providing legal aid. I asked him how he managed to live. He smiled and said that few friends support him. Many of them were from a  network of Lawyers. There were others who also contributed. A dozen of them gave about Rs 1000/- each per month. That probably washed their conscience of the guilt of not doing anything for the poor. Many of those lawyers had monthly income running into Lakhs*. His wife Agnes was a teacher in a school and she earned another Rs 5000/-. They managed their livelihood in Mumbai with that money. It was difficult to imagine the kind of place that he was staying. He probably was not too better off than us.

Last year, he started coming less frequently. I was busy with pregnancy of my wife. I did not notice that I did not see him for six months. He came two weeks ago. He looked tired and worn out. His head was low as he walked past my shop.  I shouted for him, “ Saab. Chai?”  He pulled himself to the bench in my shop and sat down. I gave him his usual -special full cup Chai. He looked at me as he sipped and smiled. He looked older and mature. His dynamic force was gone. He was sober but looked to be in control. He finished his cup and went to meet others in the slum. I got busy with my work.

That evening I met Rafique. I told him that James had come that morning. I also shared my observations and expressed my wonder at the change. Rafique smiled and said, “You will never believe what he has gone through. He appears different, but this is what he really was- all the time that we saw him.” “Why? What happened? Tell me what you know”, I asked knowing very well that Rafique being close to James would know more.

Rafique narrated this story, “ Agnes, the wife of  James Sir had been suspecting him of having an affair with someone. She put strictures on where he could go, when he would be back, whom he would talk to and so on. She also felt that he was trying to kill her. Six months ago she stabbed James in his stomach with a knife. James was lucky; the knife pierced his bowels but spared his blood vessels. His neighbors heard the shriek and rescued him. They took him to Lokmanya Tilak Municipal General, Hopital in Sion. They did an operation and saved him. In the meantime his wife Agnes was arrested for attempted murder.”

“Oh! My God. It should be tough on James to go through all this”, I asked “What happened next?” Rafique said, “I am still shocked at what James has done. After his discharge, he fought for release of Agnes and won the case. He then got her treated in a psychiatric facility. They gave her shock treatment and medicines.” Rafique added, “She had not responded well to treatment. She is now on the best medicine in the world for her problem. James Sir takes her for blood tests every week. She still has not improved. She is suspicious of him even now. James Sir still lives with her, though he had to change the locality. The locals requested him to vacate. Our great lawyer chose not to fight.” I felt numbed. I could not say anything. Rafique had his cup of chai and left.

I could not sleep well that night. How can James live with his wife after what she did to him? How can he continue to be with her when she still poses a threat on his life? How can he share home with such a dangerous woman? Why can’t he divorce her and start a new life? He has helped so many people start afresh.

When he came today, I asked him, “Saab, Can I ask you something personal?” He agreed with his usual smile. “Saab, I heard what has been happening in your life from Rafique. I feel very bad about it. I want to know why you want to continue living with a person who is suspicious of you and has tried to even murder you? Can’t you choose a life of liberty that you want us to have? Why…?”

James then said, “Nair, we all have rights. Don’t you realize, if we all had our rights then nothing will be left. We all give up our rights for those we love. Don’t we? You have every right to eat from what you earn. Would you spend it eating Chicken Biryani alone or would you spend money to eat normal food with others in family? I have a right to liberty. I can divorce her as she would not allow me to be close with her, but I also have a duty to care for her. I have made a promise to be together in health and in disease, in happiness and in suffering. I will keep my promise even if it means to give up some of my freedom.

“But…You fight for our freedom”, I asked. He said, “Yes, I do fight for freedom and so many other rights. Many of our friends are unaware of their rights. If they are aware they would like to claim them. I help in raising awareness and helping fight to claim it. If someone does not want to claim a right for a different purpose, it is absolutely acceptable. It would be nice if that purpose is rational. Do you remember, last year Shinde joined BSc in Maths though he got a quota seat in Engineering. It is rare for someone to get to college level from Dharavi. Everyone scolded him. I knew he had a higher agenda. He wants to prove himself. A person who can run does not need crutches. Shinde will come up in life. He will live with self respect. Watch him. Anyway coming back to the point, rights give people a chance to make their life beautiful. Giving up your rights too can make life beautiful. In the case of me and Agnes, it is not yet beautiful. I agree I do not know what can happen to me, but that is alright. In a grand plan of people caring for their family, it is already beautiful.”

As I saw him walk away, I wondered James did give up much to be with us and has made life more beautiful for us. I found a new definition of love: That which makes the subject give up his/her rights to make life more beautiful for the object of his love.

————————————————-

*Chaiwala- One who deals with Tea.

*Roti- Pancake made from wheat. Contextual translation- bread.

*Neta– Leader, usually political.

*Lakh- 100,000.

*Saab– Sir

PS:( added on 25th September 2010) A sequel to this story “Love: Feeling, Reason and Choice” can be found here.

Posted in distress, drug therapy, education, emotion, ethics, fiction, gender, indian society, law, love, marriage, psychiatry, schizophrenia, stigma, women's issues | Tagged: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 18 Comments »

The Dirty Job: a story

Posted by Dheeraj Kattula on August 27, 2010

My mother was admitted in the hospital. She had burnt herself. We went to see her every day. Our grand mother took us there. The doctors in the Government Hospital were not friendly. They would not let us stay in the burns ward for long. My mother suffered from burn injuries, which I still think were not very serious. I have seen many with worse burns make it to life. She died within a week of her admission. It was the doctors who killed her with their treatments.

Ramesh took Choti and left the village just after my mother’s admission into the hospital. Choti was born to my mother and Ramesh last year after they started living together. I think my mother knew she was going to die, even though she was conscious in the hospital. She wanted her family to take custody me and my other siblings Babloo and Moti. Her family is big. My grandma and her other children promised to take my brother. They did not want me or my sister. After all we were girls and they were afraid that we would grow up to be like our mother. I was seven years old and my sister Moti was four. An old lady in our village took sympathy on us and took us in. We addressed her respectfully as an aunt.

I missed my father and mother. My father was an alcoholic, but he loved us. He visited us every alternate day and gave us stuff to eat. My mother had wanted to keep him away from us. She used to shout at him, when she saw him meet us. I realize she too loved us. She was beautiful. We all look like our dad. Choti looked like our mom. I missed Choti too. My father never took another woman. He loved our family. A few months after mother’s death, I heard his body was found in a gutter in the neighbouring village.

This aunt who took us into her home was old. She found it difficult to control me. I was indeed naughty when I was small. I was always in the street playing with other girls. I did not help her as much as I troubled her. She put me into a hostel. I like school. I studied for five years.

In the summer holidays, I came back from hostel to be with my aunt. She was taking us to her native village. I refused. It was a dirty little village. We would have to share our room with two buffalos that they have. The smell was horrible. Instead of going I could stay alone in our village. She told her friend who lived few streets away to take care of me.

Her friend whom I called as Padma mausi took me to her house for a couple of days. She fed me well. I liked her. She took me to her aunt’s place which was few more streets away. The house had many young girls. They were all involved in dirty work. I knew that. My aunt too was involved in it, when she was young and able. There are no dirty little secrets in our village. Everything was open. Even primary school children knew what happened behind closed doors.

Our village had night school. It was where all children slept, when their mothers were busy with dirty work in the night. I knew it all, so I could tolerate it. I could accept the girls in the brothel. We played in the free time. I got good food there. It was better than what my aunt gave.

After a month, the care taker of the house called me into her room. A young man was there. She showed me to him and left the room. I was afraid. I screamed. He was strong. I could not fight. It was painful. I wept. He abused the care taker for giving him such a lousy girl like me. The care taker smiled and said, she is fresh to the trade. I was beaten that night for having shouted. Padma mausi never came again. Neither did my aunt. I was stuck there. I am now a 14 year old prostitute.

I could not leave the brothel. I was confined to the indoors. I had freedom inside. I could wear anything. I could eat as much as I pleased. I had the company of many girls, though many were older than me. Once you get used to everything you begin to enjoy what you once detested. I enjoyed the company of men. I liked the sensations of my body. When I lived in hostel, I liked Abdul. I dreamt of marrying him. His memories have got erased now. I lost the fear of men. I have seen them all. The rowdies who come and demand us for free, the police who are supposed to protect us, young men contemplating marriage, middle aged men who lost fancy for their wives and old men whose wives have died.

I was kept hidden for the fear of a police raid. I was moved from one brothel to another for protection. Indeed there was a raid and I was rescued. I was kept in a home run by the Government. Apparently my brother Babloo contacted a NGO and they had organized the rescue operation. I hate Babloo for having done this. I had adjusted to a new life. I was even enjoying it. I did not have to go to school. This rescue screwed my life up.

I was kept in this Government run home. I was not yet 18 years old, so I did not have right to be involved in this business. There were many girls like me in that home. Many of them were forced into it, just like me. They too began to enjoy their new life, just like me. They too were not getting any money, just like me. The men who came to us gave us money. We were to hand it over to the caretaker. She would give back a small amount to the older girls. The younger ones would only get food, clothing and accommodation.

After I joined the new home, they did some blood tests on us to check if I had contracted any disease namely HIV. I did not get it. The new home had a teacher who came to teach us some basic stuff. I was best in my class, as I had completed my primary school. Most other girls were dumb. I was getting irritated with their fixed schedule. I used to shout back to the teacher and the warden. They would beat me at times. They also taught us moral ways to live. I could see from the lives of our teacher and other staff that there are better ways to live.

I get confused at times about what is happening? The past and future flood me with irritation. I get tensed and do things that I later regret. I just cannot control it, when I get into that rage. Last year I broke the TV, Computer and telephone in a fit of rage. They thought I became mad.

They took me to a doctor. He admitted me in their hospital. He was a young man. He looked respectable. I saw him joking a lot with his friends in the hospital canteen, but he was serious with me. He looked straight into my eyes. He probably was mystified with my story. He had sessions with me regularly.  I avoided his eyes in the beginning. I became more comfortable with him and shared more freely. Of course I avoided many areas which were uncomfortable for me to discuss with. In fact I do not remember much of those either. He was interested in those things, as if they had a key to a treasure.

He asked me one afternoon, “You did not go to your aunt’s village because you would have been uncomfortable. Am I right?” I thought it was obvious. He then asked me, “If you had gone off to your aunt’s village, would you have gotten into this mess?” I was shocked. It is true; I would not have gotten into this puddle of shit if my aunt was around. She was old. She was in the dirty trade herself, but she was strong enough to protect us. He then said,” There are many things in life, which are uncomfortable. If we run away from them, then we would get into situations which are even more uncomfortable. Isn’t it?” I agreed.  He then added, “Can you see a difference between what feels good and what is good?” I did not understand that, but I nodded. He smiled and said “Good!”

He taught me how to relax my mind and how to ventilate my anger in acceptable ways. The day of my discharge grew nearer. He asked me of my dream. Of, what I wanted to be. I told him what I always desired, “A dancer, in the movies.” I could see his eyes sink. He was not happy. He tried to tell me that it felt good to be a dancer in the movies but it might not really be good. He said that the movie industry had risks for girls like me. He said it is likely that vulnerable people may get into wrong things.

I am sure I am not getting into bad things. I detest the dirty work myself. I would never do it to get a chance to be on silver screen. There is something called talent in this world and people would recognize and reward it. The doctor is educated. He can know what is in books. He cannot pick dancing talent. He has stereotypical beliefs on movie industry. Other girls in our hostel have danced on movie sets. They have told me that they did not have to do dirty work to get dancing chance. They told me the heroines do it not dancers.

When I got discharged, I could see that the doctor smiling. His smile was empty. It looked as if he knew something dangerous was lurking around. More knowledge spoils the mood for everyone.

Next year, they will release me from the home. I still am unable to love my brother Babloo, though he had done everything in my interest. It is probably because I fomented hatred over him just because he caused me the discomfort of moving me to the Government home from the brothel. I don’t care about Choti and Moti too. It has been many years, since I saw them. I have lost feelings for those whom I can call as a family. I can be a free bird with no restraints. I can chase my dreams. I can go to Mumbai and try my shot in movies.

Epilogue:

"The dirty job is always available."

After discharge from home she went to Mumbai to become a dancer. She fell in love with a light-boy. He left her after a year, leaving behind a two month old daughter in her hands. She was hungry and her baby had no milk to feed. She came to know why her mother sought Ramesh despite having a husband and three kids. The main roads are busy and side lanes are dark. The dirty job is always available.

PS: (added on September 25th, 2010) There is a sequel to this story ‘ Bollywood, Brothel and Being Born Again’.You can find it here.

Posted in behavioral therapy, bussiness, distress, economics, emotion, fiction, gender, indian society, personality, psychotherapy, social, stigma, women's issues | Tagged: , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 5 Comments »

“Can you please give me some poison?” – Part III

Posted by Dheeraj Kattula on July 10, 2010

It was usual Wednesday morning. Patients on Clozapine lined up to get the investigation request signed. It is a quick process for the doctors to sign a small bunch of slips. The OPD assistant filled in those slips and gets the job done. I looked up for a moment to see the patients. I saw Murugan’s aunt. I had come to know her well by then. You can read the posts “Can you please give me some poison?” and “Can you please give me some poison?- Part II” to get the context.

The first post was about this lady who was the sole care giver for her nephew who had Schizophrenia. She was struggling for long to get him well. It required an admission into hospital to make him better. She had no supports to facilitate that. In that post I promised that old lady that I would visit her village to help her bring her nephew to the hospital.

The second post was about my visit to their village and my encounter with the patient. Though I could not bring the patient that day, the patient came to the hospital for an admission as a voluntary patient. He was started on Tab Clozapine, the most efficacious anti-psychotic drug in the world after a fully informed consent. He improved much and got discharged. The senior psychiatrist of the hospital made a rare exception to Murugan by making hospital purchase Clozapine from an outside pharmacy to be given to Murugan for free. Murugan was lucky.

He was supposed to come every week for a routine blood test. This is because the drug Clozapine is associated with a rare but dangerous side effect in which the blood cells required for fighting the germs decrease badly. In rare instances, it can cause death too. Therefore we are very careful in monitoring the counts of those blood cells every week.

Murugan’s aunt asked me how she could get his test done as he has not turned up. What?!!! A Clozapine patient has not come for the routine blood test. He could die of agranulocytsis, where his blood cells which fight infections get reduced in the blood. The fact of this risk had been explained to both of them many times. They consented to come regularly for blood tests with their thumb impressions. Our explanation should be quite fresh in his memory. How can he not come? How dare this dear lady come and ask for ‘repeat medicines’ like it had been the practice before? I had every reason to be irritated.

I asked her, “OK. Why has he not come? Did we not tell that he MUST come for blood tests? What is he doing at home?” She said softly, “He has gone to the mill.”

“Mill? Did he go for work?” I asked with surprise.

“Yes. He started working last Friday. He gets Rs 120/- per day.”

Oh my God! This guy had not worked productively in any place for the past 20 years. He never earned a rupee. From my experience in their village, I knew that he had potential to work. When I was waiting at the bus stop, I heard a man call him out. Murugan had come with me to send me off. This man told Murugan to be ready by 6.00 am the next day. Apparently, that man wanted help in keeping an eye on a four wheeler for an hour the next day in a nearby village. All that Murugan would have received for that job is a bunch of beedis (rolled tobacco leaves about ¼ the size of a cigar).

I was amazed. Murugan has got a job in a spinning mill. I remembered my co-passenger had asked me if I was looking for such a job in a mill. Murugan has successfully found such a job. I credit Clozapine for such magic. If Clozapine was to continue, then it is mandatory that he came for the test.

I pulled a small sheet of paper and wrote a note to him. “Dear Murugan, I am very happy that you have found a job. Congratulations. Your blood test is very important. Do come and get it done.” I expected them to come the next day, but Murugan came back to get the test done before we closed work that evening. I also had an opportunity to write a letter to the manager of spinning mill to kindly give him leave on Wednesdays, so that he can come for certain blood tests which are necessary for his problems.

Next week I found Murugan had not gone back for work. His aunt prevented him from delivering the letter. She thought I had probably written to the manager mentioning details of his mental illness. She reasoned that such a letter could go against him because of the stigma attached to mental illness. She felt I was uninformed about the status of the real world as I was limited to ‘high society’!

I reassured her and explained to her what I had written. Murugan then informed me that it was not only this fear but the prophet-parrot had predicted that Murugan was in a ‘bad time period’. In India soothsayers/ fortune tellers use parrots to pick cards which are supposed to bear the secrets of the future of the client. His aunt had wanted to shield him away from authorities, just in case they stopped him from work. He was as irritated about her behaviour as me. I gave her a strong dose of scolding. Poor people take even a scolding in good sense, when they think that you are a concerned person. You cannot assume this for the rich patients. The rich though can be deceived by sweet talk even if you are not really concerned.

Next week Murugan was back. He had delivered the letter to his manager. His manager was okay with a weekly ‘off’ on Wednesdays. Murugan would regularly come from now on. His aunt wanted a letter to get a weekly ‘off’ from her company too. We gave one for her too. She too would get a weekly ‘off’ on Wednesdays. From now on she can happily accompany him. I am amazed at how much difference a typed letter sent to an employer by the doctor could make to the patient. I would use this method more and check if this makes any more difference than just encouraging patients to go for work.

Murugan’s story is a miracle. It is a miracle because of Clozapine, health care workers, hospital and the spinning mill which employs him. It is thrilling not only to see a homicide and suicide prevented, but also see lives transformed when modern medicine works along with social services and occupational rehabilitation.

Does this old lady want poison, now? May be…to kill rats and cockroaches! 🙂

Posted in challenge, drug therapy, emotion, indian society, love, psychiatry, schizophrenia, stigma | Tagged: , , , , , , , , , | 4 Comments »

eros@ergon.con*: a conversational story

Posted by Dheeraj Kattula on July 6, 2010

Recently an Indian CEO was sacked from his company because of a complaint of sexual harassment. He maintains what they had been in a consensual, flirtatious relationship that grew out of a close friendship with a colleague. This story triggered me to think on these issues.

Here is a fictitious story in form of conversations bringing out few issues which might have relevance to sexual harassment. I am no expert in this field. Though I have heard of many stories on domestic violence I have not heard much on sexual harassment. What I know is limited to conversations I have had with friends, patients and co-passengers in trains. I call the story “eros@ergon.con”.

*******

“Have you heard of what is happening?…This is bullshit going on here in our company.”

“I know. I work in Vicky’s team. I also know the reasons for all this.”

“What exactly happened?”

“See, Rashmi joined our team six months ago.”

“Is she the one we saw in the theatre last month?”

“Yes. She is the one. Remember, she was there with her boy-friend.”

“I remember being introduced to him. Ramesh is his name. He is in the accounts department…Ok. So, what did she do?”

“She has not been doing well in the job. Vikram had to admonish her for her mistakes. She felt offended. She filed a complaint of sexual harassment against Vicky.”

“Oh my goodness! I heard about that complaint but did not know the background. Anyone who knows Vicky can vouch for his integrity. It is terrible for his name to be stained like this. I wonder how he and his wife have taken this.”

“Rashmi has been roaming around with Ramesh whenever she is off duty. Their relationship is secret. Ramesh’s parents would never agree for their marriage. She is probably stressed. This gets carried to work. Instead of accepting responsibility she has used her trump card to defame Vicky.”

“Vicky’s name would clear off after the enquiries, but what about the trauma he is undergoing. She loses nothing for filing such a complaint.”

“She should be sacked for raising wrong allegation, when Vicky is cleared.”

“Some of these girls are crooked and some are just sensitive idiots. Last year, I had a complaint against me.”

“YOU!”

“Yes. It was a tough season. Our team leader Mrs Johnson wanted us to finish a job within 24 hours. She announced this at the end of the working day. It meant that I would not be going home that night. Our friend Raju was admitted in the hospital and I was to go to relieve his wife Laxmi for few hours. I was so pissed off at such untimely deadline, I pointed my middle finger as Mrs Johnson left the room. I basically meant **** off.”

“I can understand.”

“You have seen Swathi in the party two weeks ago. Didn’t you?”

“Oh! Is she the girl, who was sipping coffee when we were gulping beer in the party?”

“Yup! The very same girl. She saw my gesture. She went to Mrs Johnson and complained of this offensive gesture the next day.”

“Oh my God! What happened?”

“Mrs Johnson came and congratulated our team for staying up the whole night to finish the work. She also said that if we had not completed the job then she might have had to send us home to…as she said that she pointed her middle finger.”

“Really? She is cool.”

“We all had a good laugh.”

“Except Swathi…Perhaps.”

“We have to be sensitive to people around us. It is very true, but what if someone does not fit into our culture at all. What can we do if a person is overly sensitive? Thankfully Mrs Johnson is cool. If she was another sensitive nut, I would have had it.”

“It is a pity that Swathi could interpret a sign of frustration as a sexual gesture. But I respect her. She is good at her work and has good character. She is not like Urvashi, who sleeps with the boss to get promotions. In fact she has to do such shit to even retain her job.”

“Isn’t it interesting that everybody knows that the CEO is sleeping with a staff and nobody batters an eye lid. Urvashi’s father is a professor of Sanskrit and Indian Culture. I cannot believe how a girl like Urvashi is born into his family.”

“Who knows one fine day Urvashi might file a case in the court against the big boss for sexual harassment? Ha ha ha”

“Yes! The world would believe it to be harassment too. Poor girl…what other option does she have in this male dominated society…She had to do it…She kept it secret for long because she was stuck with fear…etc.”

“Absolutely true. These are bullshit arguments in her favour. She made her choice. She is doing this to move ahead in the corporate ladder and nothing else. If she really has some emotions for him, then she would realize with time that the CEO is just using her. Rashmi sleeping with Ramesh hurts the company in an indirect manner. It does not affect others directly. Urvashi’s sleeping with the boss is a lot different. She is growing in the ladder bypassing many worthy people. This would hurt the company more. Don’t you think so?”

“Incompetence and physical beauty put a girl at risk of being solicited for sex in her work place by people who can cover her incompetence. If she is ambitious, she uses her beauty to bait men around her to cover for her lacunae. I really do not think this kind of thing can be called sexual harassment. It is happening with the choice of the woman.”

“Whenever there is less difference between two people and the difference that a senior can make to them is huge, favours including sexual would tilt the scales. You can take the entertainment or fashion industry for example. At least this is not so much pronounced in our technological industry.

“True. In fact, the ones who can be considered as harassed because of sex like this are people like Mrs Johnson, Vikram and us. We work hard and finish our projects but we are sidelined to make way for people like Urvashi.”

“Hmmm…That is right. It is OK. In the long run we will catch up. So long as we enjoy our work and our compensation, why bother about others? Anyway, I got to go buddy. Bye for now. I will catch up with you in the mall this weekend.”

“Ok. Bye. Take care.”

************

(Inside a sub-urban train)

“Hey! What is up man? You look sad.”

“Sure. I do. I have reasons for it.”

“Want to share? You could…if you want to?”

“I got fired today.”

“Oh I see. Any reasons?”

“See, I am a laboratory technician in a college lab. I am in love with a final year student in the college. The college management feels that if they fire me they would send a strong signal to discourage romantic love inside the college.”

“Don’t mind this…Did you do something?”

“No…Nothing that you might imagine. We have not even touched each other. We know each other for the past three years. There was some Chemistry between us. We learnt more about each other over coffee. I proposed to her three months ago. She accepted. We have planned to get married after her graduation, which is two months from now…and now…I am unemployed.”

“What the hell is this? There is no complaint, no problem in your work or her studies, just arbitrary dismissal for being decently involved in love though there are marriage plans. This is surprising.”

“I am not surprised. Last month my friend gave a love letter to a colleague proposing to marry her. He got dismissed for this itself. She filed a complaint of sexual harassment.”

“Oh my God! This is ridiculous. I cannot stand this. Where do I go? Is there an escape from this kind of persecution? Looks like anyone can harass a man. A day will come when men file cases against men saying the boss is sexually harassing them. I have developed a phobia. I am going to leave working for a company. I will not start a company too, where I might have to employ people. I have to try my hand at politics. That is a safe place, where no one talks about even about the culpable ones. It is a place where the daring can brazen and the phobic can hide.”

“I don’t get you.”

“You don’t have to get me. Even I don’t get me. May be I need to consult my friends in NIMHANS $, Benguluru.”

*********

*

“Eros” in Greek means Romantic love

“Ergon” in Greek means Work

“Con” means

1. on the negative side

2. to trick; involve in abuse of confidence

$

NIMHANS- National Institute of Mental Health and Neurological Sciences ; a premier psychiatric facility in India

Posted in bussiness, distress, emotion, ethics, gender, indian society, law, love, management, social, stigma, women's issues | Tagged: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 5 Comments »

Whistle blowers- Beware: a story with notes

Posted by Dheeraj Kattula on June 25, 2010

Have you heard of the term ‘whistle blower’? I would save you the trouble of clicking an external link to understand this term by sharing what the Wikipedia says as on 24th of June 2010. A whistleblower is a person who raises a concern about wrongdoing occurring in an organization or body of people. Usually this person would be from that same organization. The revealed misconduct may be classified in many ways; for example, a violation of a law, rule, regulation and/or a direct threat to public interest, such as fraud, health/safety violations, and corruption. Whistleblowers may make their allegations internally (for example, to other people within the accused organization) or externally (to regulators, law enforcement agencies, to the media or to groups concerned with the issues).

The organization that I work with abides by the laws of the land, rules and regulations formed by itself, health and safety norms and works in public interest. It is very open to listen and is keen on being a ‘learning organization’. It only requires some time and energy to walk to a senior and put forth your views. The ideas will be taken note of and discussed. One need not fear any reprisal.

Unfortunately many organizations are not like that. You can read this story from Riverbank Laundry Inc. It is a modified version of a story I heard as a child. It does have lessons to be learnt in the context of working in organizations and on being a whistle blower.

Dhobanna was CEO of Riverback Laundry Inc.  Riverbank Laundry was a one man organization which had a human assistant and two animal assistants. He worked on banks of a river. His  two animal assistants were- Kuki, a dog and Gardhab, a donkey. He washed clothes in the river and let them dry in the sands of river bank. Kuki would keep a watch on those clothes as they dried. In the evening Dhobanna would pack all the clothes and load them on Gardhab. Gardhab would carry all the clothes back to Dhobanna’s house a mile away. His wife would Iron those clothes and then Gardhab had to carry these to the homes of the clients. On the way back, Dhobanna would have a ride on Gradhab.

The business situation in the region was like this. Many had entered the laundry market. There were no entry barriers. It required no major capital investment. All that one required was a clientele. Usually people managed it from the street of their residence. Dhobanna’s Riverbank laundry was an old player. It existed in that town for at least 5 generations. Dhobanna cut his costs and kept the price low to retain his market share. He continued to grow despite the competition. In the bargain Kuki and Gradhab were losing on their daily nutrition and they had to work more to cope with his market.

Kuki started resisting passively. He would intentionally look away if a thief was eying some clothes to steal in the hot afternoons in the river bank. He wanted his master to get insulted by his clients for losing their stuff. Dhobanna’s growth attracted attention of local thieves. One night they broke into his house. Kuki and Gradhab were tired after a day’s work, but they were still awake.

Kuki looked away. Gradhab told Kuki, “ Bark, Kuki…Bark. Wake up our master. There are thieves in our home”. Kuki replied, “Gardhab, I am tired of Dhobanna. Fellow is starving us and squeezing us at the same time. Let them loot him of the booty he made from our toil. I want to see him cry tomorrow morning. If you want to so loyal, go ahead and bray.”

Gardhab brayed hard. He wanted to wake up his master. Dhobanna had had a tiring day. He woke up. He was furious at his donkey for waking him. He grabbed a stick and rushed to the back yard. He started beating Gradhab, incessantly. Gardhab brayed more trying to get his attention to the problem. The more he brayed, the harder Gardhab got hit. Gardhab stopped after he could not bray more. Dhobanna went back to his bed.

Kuki slept silently in a corner. Next day Dhobanna found his house cleaned up. All things worthy of mention were gone! He cried out loud. He went to the back yard. He found Gardhab lying on his side. He went close. Gardhab’s eyes were open wide and blood which had oozed from his nose and ears had dried. Gardhab was not breathing. He was long gone. His master had beaten his loyal servant to death. Kuki was watching all this at a distance. He lost his friend. His master lost his everything. Even if Kuki were to be thrown out, he could always make a living outside.

Reflection:

Was security on Gardhab’s job description?

No.

Was he not recruited for logistics?

Yes.

Did Kuki do the right thing?

Passive resistance is found in organizations, but it is picked and addressed.

Did Gardhab do the right thing?

We all feel he did the right thing, because we see the bigger picture that he saw. He worked in the interest of the company. He went beyond the text of his job description. He was not a right fit into the job. He was too good for that job. His boss did not understand his integrity or his competence. In working for a wrong boss and wrong company Gardhab paid with his life.

Should we blow whistle in our organizations?

Yes, if it is going to be taken seriously. No, if it makes no difference and especially if we might attract reprisal. If the issue is crucial and goes against the personal values a person stands for, then it may be better to leave the job. It is not our business to change a company’s values to our personal values however good they might be.

Posted in economics, management | Tagged: , , , , | 2 Comments »

adios: a poem

Posted by Dheeraj Kattula on June 23, 2010

Served you loyally,

with all my heart.

Got hurt royally,

painfully I part.

Took trouble and pain,

and gave you my youth.

It was all in vain,

To tell you the truth.

In love I committed,

I could not leave you.

My madness has remitted,

now I can see through.

I have not lost much,

as I didn’t bet my all.

I must agree as such,

it was my biggest fall.

Small are these eyes,

churning out many tears.

Stopping all my cries,

now it is time for cheers.

*****

PS: This is not about romantic love. It is not about any person at all. It is about a dream- a passion.

Posted in distress, emotion, love, poetry | Tagged: , , , | 6 Comments »

Six Rules of Employment

Posted by Dheeraj Kattula on June 14, 2010

“  Sir, Is the scientist’s post on nanotechnology project, still vacant?”

“Yes, I think so. We haven’t found the right candidate. We had given an advertisement and interviewed a few candidates… Oh! I remember, you were one of those applicants. Right?”

“ Yes, Sir. My name is Ahista.”

“Oh! Ahista. I do remember. You were the successful one. You were good. You had right qualifications, good track record and good testimonials. You were not ‘clear’ on joining, when we called you up last month. Weren’t you?”

“Yes, Sir. I had some personal issues. I needed more time.”

“Did we not offer you a dead-line before which you had to send your acceptance letter?”

“You did give a comfortable dead line, Sir. I missed it. I was not clear by that time. I am very clear now. I want to join the nano-technology project. That is my mission in life. I am quite convinced.”

“I am really sorry, Ahista. We are looking for people who would build their life and grow with the nanotech project. You have a Master’s degree in Chemistry. You have passed your PhD qualifying exam. You know enough about what nanotech research is about for the past few years. You know about our organization. You know our past. You know our present. You know, where we are heading. You have friends in our organization. You had a brief exposure to our research few years ago and last summer. You had all the inputs needed for you to make a decision. We were recruiting a scientist to be with us for rest of his/ her life. Your PhD would have come through in your walk with us. When you were not ‘clear’ given all these circumstances, I really do not think you were made for working with us.”

“But Sir, I had some personal issues.”

“ Come on, Ahista. You had two months to decide after our call to send in the acceptance mail. We had not considered other applicants for those two months, as we were looking forward for you to join. Then we closed the position. Of course we have not found suitable candidates. You know our work is challenging and not very rewarding. It requires one with commitment, passion and energy to work with us. We do not find that in many…That is OK. The position would wait till we find a suitable candidate.”

“Am I not eligible as a fresh applicant, Sir?

“Ahista, your file is closed. I am sorry. I cannot help you. You have not demonstrated interest in a life-time opportunity. You were the only one to have such a chance. You squandered it. Whatever be your personal issues, I really wonder how they affected you? Wasn’t it a decision for which you were trained for a third of your life?”

“What can I do, now?”

“I am no career counsellor. I am just a scientist. Anyway, I think it is simple wisdom to follow these six rules for your future employment.

  1. Even before you apply, check if the organization’s values and goals are in line with your personal goals. If yes then only apply.
  2. If you get selected, do not even think. Just join. You will enjoy your job.
  3. There will be a time you cannot choose. There would be an urgency to join something. It would be a time when you think any job is better than being unemployed. Then apply to all places, where you are likely to be happy.
  4. If you get in one join it.
  5. If you get in more than one, then choose the better one.
  6. Your friends and family can help you make a better choice.”

“OK. Sir. Thanks for your advice. You need not have given all this, spending your precious time.”

“That is Ok, Ahista. I do understand that you have potential to be a good scientist. All the best.”

Posted in education, fiction, management | Tagged: , , | 15 Comments »

A tale of two teachers: A story

Posted by Dheeraj Kattula on June 5, 2010

They were not just teachers they were cousins. They were lucky to get employed in the same Government run school. They spent considerable amount of time in our school, which is located in deeply rural area of Bihar, India. I knew both of them from the day of their joining. They were good at their work and were assets to our school. They worked overtime teaching village kids and encouraging their mothers. I liked them both. They were like my daughters.

Sita was the older one. She did her Bachelor’s degree before she did the certificate course in teaching secondary school students. She was able and energetic, when she joined. Her blemish less skin got scarred with pimples and got tanned in the tropical heat. By the time she struck thirty, she gained weight and lost her looks. I have seen her beauty fade right in front of my eyes. I was concerned for her marriage. How would she get married at this age in this society where all she has lost is considered important and all that she has accomplished is considered nothing?

Gita on the other hand was relatively young. She hailed from a large town. She had greater exposure. She was clear about being a school teacher. So she did her training appropriately without any ‘wastage’ of time, like doing a graduation. She was beautiful and carried herself well. She had a big family to back her. I wondered who that lucky one would be, the one who would marry her.

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Let us take a break. Do you think Sita and Gita ever got married? Take a guess and then read further.

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Yes. They did. Sita got married to a man who worked in a NGO in a tribal area. It is very far from here. It is even farther from residence of her parents and also her in-laws. He earned lesser than how much she earned here. I was concerned as she had to resign her Government job to go there.

On the other hand Gita got married in the town that she grew up in. Her in-laws and husband worked for the Government. They were rich. They could live a decent life from the money derived from their assets, even if they did not hold jobs. Her in-laws liked her so much that they did not take any dowry. (Sadly, it is a rare gesture in India.) Gita too resigned from the Government services. I was glad she could rest and enjoy life.

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Let us take a break again. How do you think these ladies fared in their marriages? Do take a moment off and think which would have been more difficult, which would have been happier, which would have brought happiness to their families?

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I would not guess if you have got it right or wrong. Let me tell you what happened. Sita left her Government job and gave up her stable salary, but she continued to do what she does best- teach. She started a small school in the tribal area where she was based. It is such a backward area, that even the Government did not have a school in a radius of 20 km around it. I am still shocked after I heard that tribal people are sending their children to study instead of using them for hunting, gathering and at their best- farming! Her husband’s development work took a quantum leap as she made in-roads into that community with education. Her parents and in-laws are proud of her as much as her husband. They may be short of material wealth but they are rich in their being. She is doing what principals like me can only dream of, even though we have a team and Government resources.

Gita resigned and rested at her new home. We teachers are as born as we are made. She taught children of her husband’s siblings and cousins, who lived in the locality. They were rich spoilt brats. Her methods were not appreciated by her relatives. She got fed up. In our school, even if a teacher beat a student, the parents always trusted our judgement. They aligned themselves to our terms of discipline in the best interest of the child. Gita lost that privilege. After all, there is a difference between teaching a rich kid and a poor kid.

Her husband loved her too much. He was very possessive of her. I am troubled to call it any other, so I fool myself calling this love. She could not visit her parents’ home without his permission, though it was just a couple of streets away. Going there alone would be such brazen behaviour that it would never be tolerated. After all, restrictions were for her safety. Her beauty conspired against her.

She had to restrict herself to household chores. She was never good at that. Her mother had pampered her by not letting her do them. While working in our school Gita escaped household chores. Her cousin Sita did the household work, while Gita attended to her personal grooming more diligently. What Gita treasured became the enemy of her life and what she avoided became her partner to escape a meaningless existence.

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I do not know what you had guessed. Let me tell you that my guess was wrong. My calculation was terribly wrong. I thought Gita was living a happy life and Sita was suffering. It is true that Sita has difficulties and Gita has comforts but that is far from reality. I wonder how I could be so wrong.

The patterns which make us anticipate outcomes may be right but these may fool us utterly at times. I also wonder if the patterns that we use are useful, if we could be wrong in both directions in both qualitative and quantitative terms. Hmmm… I would not doubt the usefulness of a pattern. Sita and Gita’s life indicates that there are more important issues than beauty and bank balance in determining soundness of a marriage and happiness in general.

Posted in education, fiction, indian society, love, philosophy, women's issues | Tagged: , , , , , , , | 14 Comments »