Poornima Manco

Author

Poornima Manco

Blinded

by

I have always believed that if there was one sense I would be unable to live without, it would be sight. Of course, the loss of any sense would be devastating, but I am such a visual person, that somehow I could not imagine not being able to see. Last night, I was temporarily blinded.

It all started a year ago. A friend was cataloguing an intriguing variety of dates with her husband on Instagram. I asked her what this was about, and she explained that she had stumbled upon this concept on Pinterest. Ah, the power of social media! Basically, whoever took the lead, planned an annual marathon of monthly dates. They could be as simple or as complicated as the planner wanted. A lightbulb went off in my head, and I asked her if she didn’t mind my poaching her idea. My husband’s 50th was approaching, and I was sorely lacking in funds and imaginative gifts at the time. This way I figured, not only could I spread the love over the year, but also the expense.

The idea took root in my mind, and I started looking for interesting experiences that we could do as a couple, and even as a family. I sat and mapped everything out. I looked at the calendar, figured which dates would have to be indoors, and which (weather permitting) could be outdoors. I tried to make each date stand out, and be different from the previous one. Some were simple- like a picnic in the great outdoors. Others were more complicated- like a weekend away in Bath. The organisational control freak within me rose to the challenge with glee.

I did not want any evidence laying around, so I made a list on my phone. I then went and bought some pretty cards and proceeded to write a clue in each one of them. Not only was the date a mystery, but my husband also had the fun job of trying to guess what that mystery was. I then piled all the envelopes atop one another and tied them up with a pretty ribbon. On D day I presented this little pile of envelopes to him with a flourish. So far, so good.

On the 1st of every month, he would have to open the envelope marked with that particular month, and then play the guessing game, which I really enjoyed. Him, not so much. I thought my clues were really clever. He just found them impenetrable. Hey ho! The first couple of dates went without a hitch. Our kids are older, so we were finally able to venture farther than the local Pizza Express, for some romantic couple time. I was starting to feel quite smug. Then disaster struck.

My phone crashed and died. Along with it went my list. Of course, clever clogs here had no manual back up anywhere. Now, I was stuck with ten dates to book, and nary a clue as to what or when they were! I hastily scrambled together a list and once again went through all the mental gymnastics that it had taken to plan the dates the first time round. Eight I managed to retrieve by a combination of guesswork and dumb luck. Two still remained elusive. The mysterious dates were going to be a mystery even to me!

Eating humble pie was the only recourse. On the 1st of December, I asked hubby dearest to please open the envelopes for January and August too. Bemused, he did. I quickly took note, and shoved them back in his hands satisfied. And so followed a year of weird and wonderful experiences.

From ice skating to outdoor cinema to wine tasting to nude sketching, I dragged my half-a-century-and-proud husband the length and breadth of the United Kingdom. To his credit, if he complained, it was under his breath.

For our final date, I picked dinner in the most unusual of places. The clue in the card was: “Let me take you to another world”. Impenetrable huh?

As our Uber driver dropped us off, my husband looked at the heaving pub, and the people spilling onto the pavement, and asked, “Is this it?” He was genuinely confounded that I would bring him an hour and half into London to go to a pub. Not quite.

Right next to it, discreetly darkened windows, a black awning, and an unpretentious door beckoned. Dans le Noir? In the dark?
He was still in the dark as he peered at the menu in the dim lighting. “What is this place about?”,he whispered. “Shhhh, you’ll soon find out”, I whispered back.

Our hostess took our meal orders, told us to put all our belongings in the locker provided, remove anything with lights (watches, mobile phones etc), and then wait to be led in. Presently, we were asked to walk behind our host, sort of conga-style (walk not dance), each of us placing our hand on the shoulder of the person ahead of us. We were led through three sets of curtains, into a completely darkened room. This would be where we would eat our dinner.

Dans le Noir? has featured in a movie called About Time. Although not entirely accurate in its representation, it gives one a fairly good idea what to expect. One, as in, me. Hubby was totally dumbfounded. To suddenly and so totally be deprived of sight is a pretty disconcerting experience. Other senses get heightened. You are acutely aware of how vulnerable you are without the sense that gives you your bearings.

There were no subdued whisperings like in the movie. Everyone was talking, and talking LOUDLY. All spatial awareness disappeared. We had to touch and feel for our napkins and cutlery. Pouring and drinking water was a challenge. Food ended up on the table or the lap more than it did in the mouth. Every morsel that did find its way into the mouth was delicious beyond compare. Abandoning cutlery for fingers and propriety for hunger, I marvelled at what a sensuous experience eating food in the dark could be. The flavours, the textures, the aromas took on an added dimension.

We were sat next to a very young couple, and as we exchanged pleasantries, we found ourselves opening up and revealing more of our lives than we had intended to. Darkness provided a sort of anonymity. They were similarly uninhibited. We tried guessing what each of us looked like. We swapped notes on how bizarrely wonderful this dinner was turning out to be. We talked, we laughed, and Roz, the girl, even commented on how, after having shared this intimate dinner in the dark, we could walk past one another on the street and not recognise each other.

For someone who has always believed that sight is the sense I could least live without, it was a strangely comforting experience. Yes, I was disorientated. Yes, I spilled my food, and drank my husband’s water accidentally. But I did not find the dark oppressive or scary. On the contrary, I found it liberating. For once, I felt I was not being judged on my appearance or skin colour or how short I was or what I was wearing. I was just me. And people were just disembodied voices. Some lovely, and some abrasive, some funny and some annoying. Just people.

The blind waiters were kind, helpful and understanding of our helplessness. For a change, they were in their element and we were not. They live with their handicap in our world. I wonder if we bother to extend them the same courtesies.

Thus, my #12datesinayear came to a close. It was an illuminating experience for the both of us. Whilst all our dates are happy memories, this one was extra special. It reinforced to us how very lucky we really are. How nothing, least of all our faculties or our senses, should ever be taken for granted. And yet, truly, even with being deprived of a particular sense, life is still wonderful, and worth living and experiencing.

Even if it is dans le noir.

 

 

 

Overthinker

by

There’s this lady that works at the Reception of my gym who really doesn’t like me. She has never been overtly rude to me, but every time I approach her, her face turns stony, her gaze glacial and her tone borderline obnoxious. I would think that perhaps that’s just her personality, except that I have seen her laughing with and being nice to other people. So, what is it about me that sets her teeth on edge?

I’m not a rude person. If anything, I am extra polite. Being in the service industry, I can’t help but be nice to people. It’s a default mechanism. Every so often however, I come up against people who take a dislike to me. Some, like the aforementioned woman, I have minimal dealings with. Others, who after a certain amount of time spent in my company, find that they truly cannot abide me. My overriding fear at times like these is: am I horrible person?

Now, I know that I am not a horrible person. I am just an ordinary woman living an ordinary life, and in the course of this life, just as I accumulate people who love me or like me, I am equally likely to accumulate those who don’t. Yet, with a writer’s predisposition to analyse everything, I’m truly perplexed when these instances crop up.

I examine my behaviour. I go over words, actions, expressions; tooth combing them to see how I may have caused offence. In short, I over think everything. Then I swing the other way, trying to feel blasé, as though none of this bothers me, when in reality, it does. It’s exhausting.

I wish I could be that person who lives and thrives, irrespective of others’ opinions of her. I wish these tiny slights or major snubs didn’t dent my self esteem and send me into a spiral of self examination. I wish I had the ability to not take everything to heart.

Yet, without any of this over-sensitivity, would I be the writer I am?

Perhaps that is the trade off.

 

Bloodline

by

Every nation has its Achilles heel. If in America, everything big and shiny and new is aways seen as an improvement, then in Britain royalty and any connection to it confers an automatic superiority over lesser mortals. I’m sure such like must exist everywhere. But in India, there is a fascination with dynasties. In the absence of royalty, we have lineages.

I grew up in India. I grew up in a household that had supported the Congress party. Up until the time I could think for myself, my allegiance lay in the same place as my family’s. Later, as the party fell apart, and a certain family name became inextricably linked with it, I started to wonder why, as Indians, we placed such importance on a bloodline. Did having the same genes make you necessarily better at the same thing as your forefathers?

A recent row that erupted in the Hindi film industry, also known as Bollywood, was over nepotism. That ubiquitous practice of promoting family regardless of talent or merit. Bollywood is rife with it. Millions of rupees are ploughed into projects with star sons or star daughters. So rarely do they bring any returns. And yet, riding on the coat tails of their ancestry, these talentless no hopers survive and thrive. If an outsider happens to question this practice, they are mocked at, shunned and publicly humiliated. Then life carries on, pretty much the same as before.

Be it the Gandhis in politics, or the Kapoors and the Bachchans (amongst many others) in films, there is an automatic presumption of accession. Yet, what if nature does not provide that which nurture wishes to promote?

Cricketers’ sons do not automatically become cricketers. Writers’ children don’t always write. Artists’ progeny may have no interest in art. So, why do parents or society see it fit to shoe horn people into professions they may have no natural ability or aptitude for?

There is no denying that amongst those that DO have the interest and the inclination, not forgetting the competence and faculty, ancestry can play an important role. Here, the foundation is laid and the environment is conducive to progress and excellence. Support, mentoring and an understanding of the profession can be invaluable. Nature and nurture can work in tandem.

Sadly, more often than not, its the chaff not the wheat that gets pushed to the forefront.

Perhaps it is time for us to abandon these idiosyncrasies, and celebrate talent, intelligence, courage and competence wherever it occurs. Perhaps it is time to relegate nepotism and favouritism to the rubbish heap where they belong.

Or perhaps, it is just time to get my head examined. Utopia, after all, exists only in the minds of the mentally challenged.

Ka-ching!

by

It’s been a long held belief to never ask a woman her age or a man his wage. Yet, only last week, BBC was forced to reveal the wages of their top earning presenters by the government. As expected, many interesting disparities emerged. However, what was even more startling was how uncomfortable this made most of us feel. Was it fair to these presenters to have the details of their earnings so publicly exposed? Was it fair to the rest of us? Who would this disclosure benefit?

Even as Jeremy Vine squirmed on air upon being questioned about his salary by an ex coal miner, and whether he thought he was deserving of it, the wage gap between the blue collar and the white collar was set out in no uncertain terms by this forced revelation by the Beeb. Did a presenter have more value than a coal miner? Did he risk his life and limb to put food on the table for his family?

Forget about presenters for a minute. Let’s look at footballers. A Premier League footballer makes more in a week than most of us do in a year. All for kicking a ball with flair. Why is it that movie stars, sports stars, models, pop stars and the like rake in the moolah while nurses, teachers, fire fighters, police officers struggle to make a decent wage? Do we, as a society, have the pecking order all wrong?

Of course it can be argued that ‘talent’ needs its own rewards. While anyone can do the more pedestrian jobs, there can only be one Cristiano Ronaldo, and he’s worth every dollar he gets. So also, there is only one Chris Evans and he presents the most popular slot on the most popular radio station, and therefore deserves every penny of his 2.2 million salary. It can also be argued that for most of these top earners, their shelf life isn’t that long, and therefore the adage of ‘make hay while the sun shines’ applies to them.

There is no denying that we all need a bit of sunshine in our lives. And by that I mean, the entertainment of our choice. For some of us it maybe watching sport, for others it maybe getting lost in music, or going to the movies or listening to the radio daily. We are happy to pay good money to be entertained. Yet, does this justify over inflated wages?

A study done some years ago revealed that Britons would rather talk about sex than income. Bedroom antics were more blithely revealed than earning figures, and that’s saying something. Talking about money is polite society’s last taboo. Why? Because talking about money is seen as tasteless. For those who are more privileged than others, on account of their backgrounds or professions, perhaps it sets off a few guilty twinges too. Who is to say?

BBC’s pay grades have not just revealed the glaring disparities between them and us, but also amongst them. Firstly the gender disparity. The highest earning female presenter happened to be number 8 on the list, and earned a fourth less than the highest earning male. The highest earning minorities presenters made even less. Could this be on account of being lesser talents? Or, is it because certain hierarchies are so entrenched in these institutions, that only a big reveal like this would shine a light on them?

What is crystal clear is that there is a massive imbalance in the way pay scales are structured. Whether these are presenters, sportsmen, entertainers or CEO’s of large corporations, it is grossly unfair that a section of society, however deserving, makes so much more than an equally deserving section that puts in the hard graft, and comes away with so little.

In Japan, the average CEO earns 16 times more than the average Japanese worker. In America, it is 319 times more. Fair?

So, whilst this pay reveal may have momentarily disrupted the cushy lives of these undoubtedly talented, but also undoubtedly lucky presenters, what it has unwittingly done is create a debate around the contentious issues of value, worth, disparity and discrimination. Let’s hope a redressal isn’t too far off.

 

 

 

 

Friend or Foe?

by

We have a strange relationship with time. As children, it seems to stretch out in front of us, endlessly. Days are long, oft monotonous, and the routine of school, homework, exams seems to be a never ending loop with no end in sight. We can’t wait to grow up, to govern time, to make it do our bidding.

In our youth, time is still on our side. With the careless optimism that fills our days, we match our step with time, outpacing it sometimes with our feckless, buoyant energy, ignoring it other times in our sleepy, enervated lassitude but always, always taking it for granted.

When jobs, marriages, partners and children jostle for space in our lives, time is in short supply. We race from one moment to the next, barely pausing for breath. Days, weeks, months, years fly past and we can scarcely keep count.

It is in our twilight years that time once again slows down. Our days are numbered but they are no longer filled with a hurried urgency. We don’t have the luxury of an entire lifetime. We don’t have the insouciance of youth. Our fruitful, fertile days are history, and all that lies ahead is the certainty of death.

What is time then? Is it a friend that helps us grow, change, develop and experience life? Or, is it a foe that eludes us when we need it most, and stabs us when we aren’t looking?

Time is both and neither.

Time is a silent companion that knows only to march forward relentlessly. It bows to no one. It turns back for nobody.

The sad truth is, that by the time we come to appreciate its worth, it is nearly always too late.

Would you rather be liked or respected?

by

Would you rather be liked or would you rather be respected?

Of course, they aren’t mutually exclusive. There are plenty of people who are both liked and respected, and more on them later. Yet for the general populace, the balance normally tips one way or the other. I’ll wager that most of you reading this will be opting for ‘respect’. After all, it seems to be the more respectable choice, pardon the pun. Who wants to be just liked? Respect has weight behind it, a certain gravitas. Puppies are liked, as are rom coms and cupcakes. World leaders, Chairmen of companies, United Nations envoys – now these are respected. But I digress.

We all think we want to be respected, while in reality, what we really really want is to be liked. Earning respect is a process that involves principles, scruples and sometimes swimming against the flow. It involves saying what you mean, and meaning what you say. It involves a moral compass that cannot be compromised. It is an unflinching stance and it is a lonely place.

Being liked, on the other hand, is so much easier. Agree with everyone. Don’t have too many opinions, and if you do, hide them well. Be prepared to walk away from confrontation and controversy. Bury your head in the sand, align yourself with stronger personalities and as much as possible, sit on the fence.

Harsh? Possibly.

Not all likeable people are cowards. Not all outwardly respectable people are morally upright. And why choose between one or the other?

Because, as one gets older, it’s important to have a belief system in place. It’s important to use one’s voice and one’s conscience to do the right thing, to champion the causes one believes in, and to do it without compunction or fear.

If the casualty to all this is being disliked, then so be it. Life cannot be lived by other people’s opinions of you. Therefore, if it is respect you aspire to, then be prepared for a little side dish of dislike too.

If all you wish for is to be liked, beware that it comes with its own set of pitfalls. In being universally liked (if such a thing is at all possible), you have no doubt bitten your tongue more times than you can think of, been walked over, been ignored and overlooked when it came to important decisions, and been put upon and/or taken for granted.

So, is there a way to straddle both? After all, as I mentioned before, some people manage both, to be liked and to be respected. How do they do it?

It’s quite simple really. They don’t care. They follow the path their heart and conscience leads them on. They crave neither popularity nor power. If they acquire these along the way, then it is an embellishment. It is by no means their raison d’être. These path breakers have their own share of people who dislike and disrespect them. The difference is that it doesn’t stop them. It barely affects them, and even if they register the negativity, they carry on regardless.

To these I doff my imaginary hat. For the rest of us, being respected and being liked is a sub conscious see saw. Approach with caution and handle with care.