Been Called Out

A conversation that spanned across 20 hours told me a tale.

I've never made an effort to ask her about herself. The long phone calls and the many texts were just about me. The things told and untold, the Facebook posts to the Instagram videos to the friends and remarks, she read through them all. I was amazed to see her portrayal of me. It was the way I saw myself, and not many else understood.

While she put her inquisitive mind to know me, how did I forget to reciprocate?

Let's start with the self-portrayal. I've been full of myself for most of my life. I believed that my experiences are different and set me apart from traditional labels. So, the quest had been to go out and find more exciting life stories. The varied and the more vibrant the experience, the more I felt drawn to it. Probing was my role. I asked questions, I listened, and I discarded. Well, too high a mark I set.

But, this girl was different. She led the intense questioning. The process was thorough and structured. Rapid fires to in-depth discussions, she dispelled arguments and sought more clarifications. Cut through the thoughts like a hot knife through butter. She is brilliant at what she does.

Throughout the whole process, I did not reciprocate. I was high handed. I, who prided in asking after people, just failed to do that essential thing. And so let run free the assumptions and an undemocratic individual. Unasked advice with no apparent context is what followed. It goes only downhill after that.

Was I callous or carried away?

I probably could shield myself citing I was busy at work and hence did not put in as much effort. Or say, to start with, I might have been distracted. Or, I felt, for once, lovely basking in the sun, being the centre of attention. It was the first time someone took an interest in cutting through my bullshit and looking deep under it. Yet, all these excuses point to my self-centeredness.

Conversations are supposed to be inclusive, and I failed at it. The failure isn't just about being carried away or being callous. I hypothesized and made decisions. We live in our bubbles all too often and think that individual choices are our own with limited impact on others. I found it easy to quote several reasons to back my decisions and was oblivious to the fact that I disabled other voices. Monarchic decisions through censored conversations and false assumptions result in broken relationships and fake democracy. That was what happened.

Apathy, Hypocrisy, and Individualism - I have them all in me!

#recognizingbiases #conversations

What's my politics?

My political identity has been a curious question. I speak of leftist and socialist ideas while running a startup. Aren't businesses supposed to be Capitalist? Can a person promising investors a multi-fold return define himself as a Communist? What is my style of Communism?

Drawing a box and labelling thoughts had never worked for me. I've never been able to express views concisely. So, let me try to put more words to it.

Ideology is a culmination of people, environment, and experiences. My parents never identified themselves by a political party and taught only the principles of empathy. The ability to perceive and empathise with a wide range of people helps in drawing holistic viewpoints. As summarised in an earlier post (Biased), I grew up with lessons in the dignity of labour, equality, and sourcing of knowledge.

Gannavaram, the constituency I was born in, had once been represented by Comrade PS. The influences started creeping in through interactions with my barber, and the newspaper in the saloon, Praja Shakthi. R Narayana Murthy took it to another level with his influential movies. They resonated with my maternal grandmother talking of her cousin, Comrade KS, the founder of the People's War Group. Active party leader on the paternal side added a concurrent touch to it. Communism felt closer to heart. As a fifteen-year-old, I proudly identified myself as a Communist.

The story gets more complicated as knowledge creeps in. I got introduced to the nomenclature of Marxism, Leninism, Maoism, and plenty more thought structures within the Communist identity. The kid in me was confused. (I've not bothered to take a deeper dive into each of these thought processes; maybe it is time I do.)

I hinged on to my understanding of The Motorcycle Diaries. The systems and society prevalent around Marx, Lenin, Mao or Trotsky, inspired their political ideology. As in many cases, using the same yardstick doesn't bring equitable equality. The crux of the learning is to understand their thought process and draw inspiration to create doctrine more pertinent to our ecosystem. We should adopt parts of different ideologies or write ourselves anew.

I continue not to label myself, but use the word Communist to state my inclination broadly. At the very least, it helps in ensuring not to be befriended by the right-wing. My political ideology will continue to evolve with new experiences. I strive to calibrate my moral compass often, to stay relevant to the idea of developing a holistic viewpoint.

#perspectiveat30 #politics

Biased

It is time I put more words to a confession that started as a chat on Hinge. Inherent biases developed over our lifetime are subtle until they grow to a stage where you attribute a value to them. A bias now seemingly ingrained in me is that against the city born and bred.

I refer to myself as a 'Village lad' being born and brought up until class 10 in a large village or a small town. (Let us not get into the legal definition of a village or its growth over the three decades to be a town). Parents were government employees. So, not a typical villager. It took me years to realise how my paternal uncle influenced me through my childhood. I only spent my holidays at his house.

I remember the routine. Wake up with the sun, brush the teeth, drink up hot milk, and eat a little breakfast. The next task was to take the buffaloes out to graze with a bottle of water, a stick and a long walk. I wasn't alone. My cousin used to be around, and so did the neighbour kid who worked on the farm. Around noon, we return home, wash and feed ourselves. Irrigating the field was the next task, with the third phase of electricity starting at 3 pm. Equipped with a spade, we built 'dams' and regulated the water flow to the rows of plants. I remember pollinating the cotton flowers, harvesting and packing brinjal and other vegetables. My last memory with my paternal grandfather was cutting the paddy and injuring my toe with a sickle.

It didn't end there. We had a mud floored house. So, for the festivals, we plastered the floor with a mixture of clay and dung. As a kid, dirtying hands and feet was fun. Picking up the muck, haystacks and washing the cattle came naturally. Evenings started with the dropping off milk in the diary and ended up in eating street food. The process repeated itself daily.

On the farm, I shared smiles with labourers. That's how my uncle and dad taught me equality at work. As any kid who didn't demand but shared, I received a lot of love and affection from the labourers. Casteism was undeniably present. But, we got to play with other kids in the village as equals despite the economic inequality and education barriers.

Fast forward a decade. I fully exploited the privilege of educated and aspiring parents. I studied at the best institutions in the region, including a move to Chennai for Senior School and Europe for Masters. As early as high school, I was given access to my mother's debit card and taught to ensure I carried money in my wallet. I lived in a multicultural environment with flatmates from Brazil and the US. I did splurge on high-end gadgets, travel and food. Travelled to over ten countries before I turned 23, including solo travel.

But, those holidays in childhood have ingrained something into my lifestyle. Getting off the airbus and catching a red bus was very easy. Living in a remote village with a minimal salary and bland food felt normal. Walking barefoot is comfortable, especially in wet mud. Working with social enterprises brought happiness. I jumped to volunteer for mundane jobs as long as they were not repetitive.

The adaptability to both high-end urban lifestyle and peaceful village brought with it an inherent bias. I feel as if I am a part of two distinct societies, which sometimes don't meet with each other. Sustaining conversations with people who are on either side of the fence became harder. My bias reads through the lines separating the thought processes and enlarges them to make me feel that their arguments lacked a holistic approach.

While I try to listen to different viewpoints, my natural inclination is towards those expressed by people who have lived on both sides of the spectrum. I have immense respect to those who left their urban lifestyle to work in rural areas, or those from the rural background trying to bring in a change in the exclusionary thought process of the urban areas. When conversations lack participation from such people, I air over-confidence in the efficacy of my thought process. That is how my bias now creeps into every socio-political conversation I make.

#perspectiveat30 #recognizingbiases