Radha Warrier

Abstract Comedy Inspirational

4.7  

Radha Warrier

Abstract Comedy Inspirational

The Manager Who Could "Manage"

The Manager Who Could "Manage"

8 mins
368


It was way back in 1965-wartime Calcutta. A normal calm, cool, comfortable life was flowing effortlessly through the city- with festivals almost every month, the noise and din, the street fights of teens engaged in playing cricket, the coffee shop activities of the pseudo- intellectuals, the politically motivated demonstrations- all giving the city a warm hug, a sense of security, a feeling of comfort and permanence. But everyone was jolted out of this lap of comfort. Suddenly, there appeared from nowhere a sense of fear- fear of venturing out after dusk, fear of opening the door to unfamiliar knocks. As prices rose and throngs of refugees appeared, as shortage of rice and sugar, kerosene and bread came creeping in, our little world of four learnt to adjust and cooperate, shifting our position as we do in crowded buses accommodating everyone.


I was a noisy 5-year-old, busy in my own world of dolls and coloring books, oblivious to the world around. But I still recall clearly the eerie pregnant silence that resounded when a danger siren was heard signaling the sighting of an enemy fighter plane and the visible relaxation after the ‘ all clear’ siren was heard. The lonely dark streets with no streetlights, the windows of our house with newspaper stuck on to the panes to prevent light from escaping, the daily newspaper nervously scanned and softly discussed- the number of casualties, the number of soldiers missing, atrocities of war- they formed a blur in my young mind. That was the world of shortage and tension, fear and problems into which stepped our friend Manoharan.


But wait… I have to go a few years back to clarify things. Lakshmi was a servant in our ancestral home in the cozy, quaint village, Pavithreswaram in south Kerala. I grew up in Calcutta but every summer when we went there on leave, Lakshmi was there to receive us, all smiles that lit up her wrinkled face. She belonged to the carpenter caste and was a mother of three able bodied sons. The eldest Raman carried on the family trade and turned out to be an excellent carpenter. Her youngest Kumaran, a bright eyed boy, was more into studies and soon got selected in the BSF. But it was her second son Manoharan who was the cause of worry. He shunned the family trade as one fit for the uneducated. But he was not strong academically either. Having failed in several classes several times, he reached the Matriculation Level at 19. Further attempts followed and now his qualification was “10th Failed”. But no, it did not worry him. Free education, free books, free meals. The authorities were always there to hold the hands of the “downtrodden” and the taxpayers money flowed incessantly for their wellbeing. All he lost was time. But he ate well, slept well, played cards with a similar group of youngsters every evening and eagerly participated in all village activities.


But each time we went on leave Lakshmi would approach my mother with the same plea- “Please, daughter, request your husband to help my Manoharan with a job. He is fed up with studying and refuses to appear for Matric exam anymore. I told him that if he did not wish to study its ok. He can teach instead”. My mother took pains to suppress her smile. The poor lady in all her simplicity felt that studying and teaching were two similar options for her son to choose from. My mother’s answer used to be the same – “My husband will try his best”. Situation was grim in war time and she did not want to give false hopes. One day my grandmother called from Kerala. “Do you know what” she sounded excited, tense. “Manoharan is missing- kidnapped. And the kidnapper has stolen some cash also from their house.” “Did you hear that? Manoharan ….” my mother said to my father disbelievingly. My father as usual, calm, with a faint smile, bemused look replied “Who do you think will kidnap him- a liability! He must have taken the money himself and run away from home.”


So true, as we discovered the next day. A faint, diffident knock at the door. Once more. Then again. My mother opened the door and there stood Manoharan.

“I have come in search of a job.” But how did you manage our address- the directions? He knew no language other than his own- colloquial Malayalam. And there was no direct train to Calcutta. He had to change at Madras, alight at Howrah and take a public transport to our place at Ballygunge. And he managed it! As for our address, he had quietly entered our ancestral house in the village, unseen by my grandparents, got hold of a letter my mother had written to my grandmother and noted down our address, he said without any qualms.


My father was in a fix. Jobs were scarce even for qualified persons. ‘But I am 10th fail’- meaning he had come to the Matric Level even though he couldn’t cross it. “What kind of job do you think you can get?”, my father asked without really expecting a reply.

“Why! I think I am suited for a Manager’s post.” Manager! That was one of the few English words he knew other than ‘yes’, ‘no’, ‘left’ and ‘right’ Obviously he did not know what the word meant except probably that it stood for someone working in an office and giving instructions to others.

 My father casually mentioned Manoharan’s case to a friend Ravi Menon who was in the furniture business. Menon was interested when he heard that Manoharan belonged to the carpenter caste and wanted to meet him. But Manoharan’s brusque manner and attitude again came in the way.

“I need a skillful carpenter. I am willing to pay well.” “What,” Manoharan blurted out “I have no idea of carpentry. That is for uneducated people of my caste. My father and my brother who have passed 4th and 5th standard go for it. I am educated. I am “10th failed”. I am not here to do carpentry.”


Menon took it calmly. “Well,” he replied after a moment “I could have helped your father or brother with a job. But I have no place for you.”

After a few more false moves, unsuccessful attempts at job hunting, it, was clear that Manoharan’s chances were dim.

A month has passed and already he seemed listless and uncomfortable. He had problems with our food habits too. Wartime- scarcity. There was scarcity of rice and we mainly had wheat in the form of chapatis, dalia etc. But hailing from a Kerala village of the 60s he could not do without rice.

At last, he decided to give it up and go back home. My father also felt bad at not being able to help him out. “I am sure you will get better opportunities in Kerala,” he tried to pacify a visibly upset Manoharan. “But Sir, I am educated, and I always thought that I could be a Manager.”


My grandfather passed away soon after that at the age of 82. My grandmother shifted to my uncle’s place. She used to come and stay with us too regularly. Years passed 5, 10, 15. After a break of 25 years we once more assembled at our grand old ancestral house for a family reunion. My grandfather’s dear old armchair was in its place and so were his books and letters. The open grounds, the mango trees , everything brought in a strange sense of loss—loss of the simple joys of childhood.The fresh native air beckoned us, and we took a walk around. The greenery was intact but some new painted pucca houses had come up. A lonely T.V. antenna was visible a little way ahead far above the surroundings trees. “Whose house is that?” “Manoharan’s” replied our companion- a local who was long in the service of my grandfather. “What?” my father couldn’t suppress a guffaw. “That good for nothing fellow who spoke of becoming a ‘manager’.


The reply that came held us in our tracks. It seems Manoharan had tried job hunting for some time and then had given it up altogether. He took a loan from the local bank and started a coaching center. Education is a field that never recedes. Slowly students started approaching him. He was able to employ graduates and postgraduates for his classes and young boys and girls who attended high school in the city sought the help of his coaching center.


Neither his lack of skill in carpentry, his family trade, nor his poor academic performance held him back. Later he got married, had two daughters and settled down well. His brother, Raman ,the ‘excellent’ carpenter fell prey to alcohol and passed away. The younger brother Kumaran was shot in the legs while pursuing his duties, developed gangrene and subsequently died. Manoharan, came as a good Samaritan and helped settle the families of his deceased brothers. Today his daughters, both nurses are married and settled well in Dubai.


So, at the end of the day what did Manoharan do? He managed his profession, his finances, his family and his life well. Truly a born Manager. And as his poor mother had said unknowingly-he couldn’t study but became a teacher of sorts running a coaching center.

Today we teach life skills as one of the “graded subjects” in our schools. But our ‘10th failed’ Manoharan could have taught us a thing or two in managing life- a skill that cannot be taught.



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