The Appraisal

“I received your performance appraisal file. As usual, you haven’t achieved your scorecard Mr. Gurudas.”

It was Mr. Sharan Motvani the chief editor, staring at the file while adjusting his spectacles frantically, with one eye staring at Gurudas.

However, Gurudas was unperturbed sitting with his hand on the chair. This was not something new for him. He was familiar with those words. Not just words. Even the room, the chair was familiar to him. The one seated on the chair would always change.

There was a question that arose in his mind.

Is this an analysis or my penalty for the analysis?

About eighteen years ago this magazine was started. It had a new editor almost every year. However a few months ago since the editor had left the job the present chief editor was managing the magazine.

 “You haven’t answered my question. Your scorecard reveals that in every aspect your scores are disgraceful. Do you want to say anything? Do you see any improvement since the last year?

“………….” Gurudas preferred silence.

About seven years ago he had begun as a reporter for Arrow Magazine. In the midst of these seven passing years, it was only years that went by and nothing else. The same three and a half thousand poor salary and the same two and a half thousand rent he had to pay for my rent. The same local train, BEST bus, the same mechanical life.

This didn’t mean that the magazine had progressed. It began first at Sion Koliwada in a 400 sq. ft. office with seven people. Today it is has secured its position among the Metropolitan cities in India. Now there stands a grand three-storeyed building accommodating more than 60 workers with hundreds of reporters attached to it. There are hundreds of marketing agents and research specialists. Not just in Mumbai, but also in Delhi, Chennai and Kolkata as well.

Sharan Motvanni was an ambitious man, having done his studies in journalism from Berlin, in Germany fully motivated and charged. His magazine reached the heights of glory in no time. “Arrow” was his dream child. He would turn the office upside down to achieve what he wanted. “Fast”, “quick” “accurate” were the watchwords of his life.

For some people writing is a hobby, for some, it’s a craze. While for others just a past time. But you cannot do journalism that way. Hence writing and literature are two different things. The writer thinks differently and measures things with different criteria. A writer can be irresponsible, but not a literary laureate. A writer can write meaningless things, but not a literary laureate. A writer can think of profit and loss, but not a literary laureate.

Gurudas had entered the field of journalism, not as a hobby. Not even as a responsibility. Where did he have time for hobbies? He had no one of his own. As life offered him opportunities, he went by.

***

Born to a poor farmer in Pirenwadi, Belgaum, Gurudas had passed his tenth with great difficulties, that too from a government school. Her mother would cook at home, clean the house and also go to the field. After returning from school he would be on the hills to collect manure. There were a lot of schools for the rich. But to pay fees he did not have enough financial aid and hence after tenth the future seemed to be unclear to him.

Being of a soft nature Gurudas wouldn’t speak much. His passion was writing. He would think in literary styles as if he had to speak to someone and tell him or her his ideas. He felt as if someone was reading him and trying to understand him. He would frequently write for competitions in school and win prizes. Even his teachers recommended him for journalism. Before he could finish his education, his father died. It was difficult for him to make up his mind about whether he should continue his education or take family responsibility. He learnt hard lessons at that young age. Yet he proved himself to be a good writer. Along with Marathi, Hindi, Kannada literature, he also had adequate knowledge of English literature. As he would win prizes in competitions, he became a familiar face known to many literary figures as well.

 

As he lived among the simple village folk, he had learnt about their simple life, mentality, longings, laughter, joy, and pain which they experienced. Planting sugarcane in the fields, cutting the sugarcane, tying it up and sending it to the factory for sale, making jaggery from the broken ones and making liquor of the remaining one is all that he had learnt. Along with it, he learnt to plant vegetables, prepare the paddy fields, and attend the dramas presented by Nilu Phule, Dada Kondke’s star movies and village feasts as well.

With great difficulty, he finished his BA studies, while losing his mother due to sickness. He now lived in Pirenwadi all by himself. Due to the influence of the village chieftain, he went to Mumbai and lived in Ghatkopar with one of his distant relatives. He was now looking out for a good job.

Jobless writer, jobless awardees, jobless educated!

Some say that “we educate ourselves to get a job” but this is a big lie. There isn’t necessarily a relation between work and education. We get educated to be good citizens in society, to understand the difference between good and bad, to question everything. But when these emerging questions are left unanswered there arises a war.

Mumbai has many feasts and festivals. Be it Diwali, Navaratri, Ganpati, Christmas or Eid, all took part in the celebrations. Whether they understood the significance of this festival or no. Some even burn Christmas Santa as the Old Man for New Year celebration, while others went to the beach with their Rakhee sisters and some would ask for money while immersing Lord Ganesha in the river…. So be it.

Every year there would be Cultural Celebrations along with these feasts. Among them, Marathi Art Society was one. Their “Amcha Manus” award was to be given to Gurudas. Gurudas was awarded this on one such cultural event on the stage. The Chief Guest was the director of Pathak Industries, Dinanath Pathak, who asked the Marathi people to work relentlessly. Gurudas was also garlanded with a sandalwood garland and a warm embrace from him. As soon as the stage function was over, he gave Gurudas his visiting card.

This was the first experience in his life, to receive such honor and praise from the people on stage. He kept the visiting card carefully with utmost importance.

It had been almost one and a half year in Mumbai. He knew how to get to Churchgate, VT, Thane, Andheri and then how to get the BEST buses and the numbers of those buses that come to Ghatkopar. However, he did not get any job. On one hand he did not get a job and on the other hand, he was tensed about paying the house rent. “Let me meet Dinanath Pathak by myself”, he thought to himself. “Perhaps with his recommendation I may get a job.”

Dinanath Pathak had a small factory in Dadar – a fabrication factory. As soon as he appeared on the gate, the gatekeeper called the Dinanath. Dinanath then allowed Gurudas to meet him inside. He gave Pathak an artificial smile and sat inside. There were already two guests with Pathak. Hence he didn’t know how to bring up this issue about his job. And also the temperature of the air-conditioning was so low as if it was freezing there.

“Sir, you met me the day before yesterday, felicitated me…. Ghatkopar…” Gurudas stammered.

“Oh yes… what can I do for you now? Do you want me to….”

“Sir, I have passed my BA from Rani Parvathi College in Belgaum. If I could get some job somewhere, I would be grateful to you. Hence I came to you…”

“Where do you live?”

“At Ghatkopar, along with a distant relative of mine, in his room.”  

“Look at today’s youth… my dear young man… at your age when I came to Mumbai, I did not have even slippers under my feet. I did not even have relatives here. A watchman helped me to rest on the terrace of a five-storeyed building at night… no influence, no sponsors. And look today I have this factory still standing with my own effort and hard work. … you have studied BA. Don’t you have the ability to look out for a job by yourself?”

“Sir, that is not the case. I have not come here for any influence…. As the Guest of honour I was impressed by your words. I know that by my own ability I will be able to secure a job. But it is a month since I have come and have no time. Hence if you know anyone who can give me a job, please let me know. I myself will make an application for the job.”

“Have you brought your C.V?”

“No, I haven’t”

“Look at it…” Pathak giggled looking at his friends.

“He needs work… but no C. V. Have you worked before?” Pathak asked again.

“I have no experience working in an office set-up.”

“So where did you work then?”

“At home and in the fields….”

“Haha! You have left the village fields and now in Mumbai. Which fool ever told you that there are paddy fields here?”

“Sir, I have not come here to work in the fields. I am a writer. Perhaps for this talent of mine if you have a suitable job I can oblige.”

“Writer?.....” one of Pathak’s friend remarked.

“Yes…”

“Good… I know someone who is searching for a writer... good… here is my visiting card. Call me up tomorrow. I will give you some more details.”

Gurudas was at ease. He bid farewell and thanked them as he left the office.

*****

“My friend gave me a reference about yourself, saying that you are a writer” the boss of the cardboard shop in his white pyjamas was trying to converse with Gurudas.

“Yes sir…” Gurudas replied.

“Ok. Listen. There is a lot of work here if you intend working here. There is no time to rest. Are you willing to do hard work here?”

“Yes, sir. I am ready to slog. All that I need is work.”

“That’s good. You will get one thousand per month. Later you can earn more as per your hard work. Some earn ten thousand and others even fifteen thousand. It all depends on you….”

“Ok sir. What do I need to write?’

“Whatever you fancy, you may write. Here you have cardboard, canvas, banner and the like. If you want to write on the cardboards, you may write. If you want to write on the banners, even that is possible. Take the matter and a pen. The paint is in the next room with Tripathi.”

As he heard this he experienced a thrill of joy within himself.

On one hand there was the joy of getting a job and on the other hand, he was anxious thinking of the job ahead. Since he had never written on a painting, this was a real test…. a test for his hunger as well! This work was itself good for him. He wanted to give it a try.

Without much ado, he went to the next room and took the matter as well as the pens from Tripathi and began his work on the banner.

He did not know how to tie the banner. Hence he spread it on the floor and looked at the matter “VOTE FOR CONGRESS” just that… Along with the wordings, there was the party symbol, the hand and the tri-colour. He had neither a ruler, nor a map, nor a measurement nor a write-up.

After he dipped the paintbrush and was about to write he heard a Bhaiyya voice, “what are you doing?”

He had to admit the fact.

“Ohh… so you are the writer… got it... this is not your work. We need people who can artistically write on the cardboard and not nonsense.”

Gurudas lay speechless.

“This world is colourful market. Here only colour sells” These were profound words but loosely fallen into his ears.

****

As soon as Gurudas came out he reached the railway station. He took a return ticket and went inside. But as soon as we put his hand in the pocket he couldn’t believe his eyes. His purse wasn’t there. He was pickpocketed and long with it even his ticket was robbed.

This was his first experience in the paradise of Mumbai.

What to do now? Empty hands and an empty mind. He did not have a pie to buy another ticket. But this is the beauty of Mumbai city, you learn the tricks of the trade through pangs of hunger and the situation.

He entered the train going from Dadar to Ghatkopar without a ticket.

“An educated person and traveling ticketless,” he thought to himself, guiltily. But life had given him no other choice. There was no other alternative. “With what confidence did you enter?” was the question that began to haunt him. He had no answers to this. He did not have the mental framework to seek answers to this.

*****

Days passed by. He had to slog it out. A relative of his gave him a 50 rupee note and said, “Do not worry. You will get a job.”

He would mostly go to the railway station and the market on foot. He saw people with different characteristics. He would listen to their language. He had stipulated time to live. He knew where he could buy the biggest vada pav at the railway platform. A rupee for one vada pav and 50 paise for a banana. This was his food. After that, he would have a stomach full of water. He would previously go to a Jhunka Bhakar hotel in Ghatkopar. For one rupee he would get two bhakris and a thick dal curry with a green chilly. He would relish it. But now it was closed. Hence vada pav and banana was his daily menu.

Once he was tired of roaming and landed in an old book shop. His gaze suddenly fell on an advertisement asking for a writer. He asked the shopkeeper for the VT address as well as the advertisement.

He came hurriedly to his room, got ready and went to the railway station with his file. He reached VT station around afternoon. He asked the pan shop for the address and somehow reached the place. There was a Xerox shop and next to it there were 10 typists. Gurudas wondered whom to meet. Just then an average looking man intervened and tried to help him.

“This is an old advertisement. We have already got a writer. However, if you want to work on a temporary basis, let me know.”

“Yes I am ready” he instantly replied.

“Good. I will tell you about the job. You need to learn how to fill an application, an appeal, etc. This is a passport form, this is a share market form. There are different forms for the mutual fund as well. The insurance forms are different….” He went on saying.

Gurudas felt another thunderbolt.

“What a fool I am. I call myself a writer and try to create my own world. But outside this world, I am so helpless and weak. I now begin to understand. He thought to himself.

Right from his childhood days, he heard that Mumbai had a lot of job opportunities. These two and a half months made him realize how wrong he was to be in this paradise.

Why should the whole world know what a writer who is a BA pass means? Not all in this world are BA pass. They need a writer to write an application, to write a banner or even to write on a number plate.

But he could not lose hope. He stared at people as he passed by. Rich people would show their children the slums. Those kids were naked, dirty, laughing and playing, jumping here and there with water flowing from their nose. Some were eating what was fallen on the road. Perhaps the rich were telling their kids not to eat what is fallen down or what is dirty. Those who were living in the slums too did not have an option. Even they knew that soiled food was bad for health. But there was no other choice.

******

“Write an essay on what you would like to become in the future?” he remembered those days. Some said they wanted to be doctors and serve the poor, some wanted to be engineers and help in the development of the nation. Some wanted to be lawyers in order to defend the rights of all. That was the age to feel passionate about such things. There is no time making an analysis of one’s life. But real life begins after one’s education. Gurudas wanted to be a writer like Leo Tolstoy, Rabindranath Tagore… But the reality was that life was unjust to him. Before it was too late he decided to do whatever job he got.

A sales agent contacted Gurudas and offered him a job with “guaranteed money.”

Gurudas had to pay the deposit for the rent. He obliged and started distributing newspapers house to house. That too thanks to the agency. They told him the location, the building names and the flat numbers. And also gave him a cycle.

The first thing he did in Mumbai paradise was getting up in the morning go to the station and get the newspapers. He would carry the paper load in his cycle carrier. After this distribution he was free. No much work for the day. He would even read whatever he would sell, as and when the time would permit.

He read about an open interview for Arrow magazine. Though not very contented he went with his file for the interview. This was the first time he entered an office setup. As soon as his time came he entered the interview room. He handed over his application. He answered the questions. Apart from distributing newspapers, he did not have any other experience. But he was selected as a freelance reporter.

In the beginning, he worked with senior reporters to go to a place, make a news report, analysis, survey, interview people, etc. He felt the excitement in the beginning. Not only in the city, but also in the villages, the interiors. Mixing with different categories of people, he was able to vibe with them. He realized how different the reality was from the cooked stories that he wrote. There it was just a story, while here it was a reality. Everything true, live, comprehensible, practical.

Arrow magazine was now among the top magazines in India. It was able to attract people of all categories. The manager published everything which the intellectuals loved. It had the ability to publish stories that made national and international headlines. The watchwords of the magazine were simple and straight forward, with the arrow symbol pointing upwards and the word ARROW under it. Their watchwords were – fast, accurate and high. All were aware of the progress that the magazine had made. Not only in the corporate world, but even the middle-class people also loved this magazine. However, there is also another side of the magazine. Its aim was making a profit, making money.

Gurudas was a passionate writer and frequently visited different seminars on journalism. He got to learn how to distribute news, make news, create news and with money… He learnt the technique of making a news report influence the people. He was able to analyse how in daily life rules and laws are necessary at the same time it creates hurdles in the lives of people.

It didn’t take him much time to learn this skill. He finished the first year of his practice. The relative who had given him shelter to stay was now married. He was able to secure a room in Saki Naka at a lower price. He would be out the whole day. He would eat in the hotel and also drink in the hotel. He came home only for a wash and rest.

He did not have a daily timetable. He would leave for work in the morning but was difficult to predict his return in the evening. At night he would have to go far and wide. This made him do a night shift at times. Sometimes if he had to go to a far-off village he would sleep in the train itself. Whoever has a disciplined life in journalism?

Journalism doesn’t attract people who give importance to sleep, hunger and thirst. The empty boasts of his companions were always to be exaggerated.

As soon as the first year was over, Gurudas was appointed as a permanent member of the Arrow magazine. He had got a raise in the salary. He had to follow the company rules. He had to keep a record of everything and evaluate everything, also his personal analysis.

He could freely move to other places. Along with Hindi, Marathi, English, and Kannada, he also picked up a little bit of Gujarati, Sindhi and even Bhojpuri. At the end of the year there would be an assessment of his work in the name of “performance appraisal.” Those who joined at the same time along with him were now senior reporters and co-editors. But Gurudas was the same as he was. The same beard, the cloth bag handing along his shoulder which had a book a long shirt. The shirt pocket had a pen. He wore spectacles, and an old watch on his wrist and Kolhapuri chappals under his feet.

His seniors would give him countless suggestions on his performance appraisal. But Gurudas’ thoughts did not match the goal of the magazine.

Gurudas was a reporter who liked to slog. Whenever there was a flood, a fire break out, villages were burnt, he would be the first one to prepare a report. This is how he spent five years there.

******

“I have seen your previous records. But I don’t see any progress in your work.” Sharan Motvani said to him still observing his file.

“……………….”

“You don’t seem to have a clear motto in your life. I don’t think you can work with your full attention. You are an educated man. Do you want to work like a donkey all your life or wish to rise higher to reach a goal?”

“Sir I am trying my best”

“Is this your trying? Look at the records of the last five years. You are not able to achieve more than 60 points for your promotion. You know very well that in order to be promoted you need more than 85 points…”

“Yes, sir. I am aware of it.”

“Not only that we have helped you to improve. Given you opportunities as well. Sent you for seminars and training. Those who joined with you are now editors of other magazines and also on a good post in our own company. But you are still the same reporter. Can I ask you what is the motto of your life?”

“Sir, the motto of my life is to live a good life”

“Do you know the difference between good and success, Mr. Gurudas? Look at me. I accept things in my life as a challenge. There are risks in every challenge. Even in our life, there are two types of risks. The first is a threat and the second is an opportunity. All that is a threat, we need to transfer it to others and grab the opportunity. This is the formula for success. Look at me today. My thoughts are in the Arrow magazine. My arrow is always pointing upwards. I want everyone to dream. I want everyone to grow. I wonder if you are still a baby in my mission.”

“Sir, probably you are saying the truth. I am not the right person in your mission. I have received a lot of training from the company. But not even one of the training was able to answer the basic questions of my life.”

“What!? What are those basic questions? If in your place there was somebody else they would have reached greater heights. Do you know this?”

“I don’t wish to live a calculated life. I know there are two types of risks. On the one hand we have threats and on the other hand, we have opportunities. I don’t know why my conscience does not allow me to transfer the threat to others. Also, my heart doesn’t agree to grab opportunities. I am sorry. In front of your arrow pointing upwards, my arrow is always pointing downwards. I cannot write in that upward direction. I don’t know why my ink doesn’t flow through it. In the same way, when there is a flood, I am more concerned about the people affected by flood rather than my job. When there are riots, I prefer to remedy the situation, rather than cook up stories. I am sorry, my dream is not to shatter other’s dreams. I don’t want a dignified position; I just want to live a dignified life.”

After that, there was no conversation whatsoever among them.

*******

Many years have passed by.

Gurudas doesn’t write now, no more journalism, nor that long shirt. He has a flowing beard, but no pen in his pocket. He just gathers children from the slums and teaches them, bathes them, serves them and even rests with them.

Oh yes! I forgot to tell you. He is not a reporter of Arrow magazine anymore. Whether he left or was asked to leave, probably you know better.

___________________