October 2015 – My Blah

Moving On, Moving In

Life moves on, and when it does, you have to move too. By moving I don’t mean the physical act of moving – that’s always there for the muscles and body fluids (pardon the reference!) to handle. I’m talking about moving from one mental plane to another, of acclimatizing to new conditions and situations even when you’re not physically moving. I’m talking about moving from one phase of life to another.

In my case, I’m talking about moving from being a student to being a professional.

In itself, I’d made this move long ago. The day I began content writing, I was no longer just a student. I was someone peddling my skills for money in an international workplace. A bidder soliciting clients and hoping to earn enough money by the hour. Yes, the snooty middle class might not like this definition of work, but that’s what all self-employed professionals are.

Content writing provided me with a lot – still does. But at some point, I moved on again. To Rani Birla, where I began teaching as a Guest Lecturer. I remained a content writer, and for most, I remained a content writer only. I also remained a student and so, in a way, not much changed.

Yet I moved on again, again. Another college, another set of colleagues, another set of students. There were a number of differences with Rani Birla, but I negotiated these, moved in and settled in. Eventually though, I came across a certain situation where the meaning of moving in changed dramatically.

You see, I’d always gone to official dinners as a kid, someone who went there by virtue of being my father’ son. The son of a professional who was part of a fraternity of co-workers. I lived in the glow of my father’s identity. I was comfortable and happy with that. I was happy smiling at all, being complemented for my height and not so much for my girth (I’m fat!). I was used to calling everyone aunty/uncle, finding the right companions amongst kids my age and enjoying the good food.

The food was good in this case, but everything else had changed. You see, I’d been invited by a colleague of mine to her home as part of a social gathering. This colleague was my senior and in many ways, one of the most respected in the college. Along with me were a number of senior colleagues and some junior ones of my own age. All professionals who were employed by the college. It was a professional fraternity meeting in a non-professional setting.

I knew how to behave with my colleagues and I knew how to handle professional environments. This was not so different, but was strangely different. For one, there were children. Children of senior colleagues, children who seemed to approach my own age. I was suddenly taken back to the time when I myself was the oldest kid amongst many kids. Then I realized that I was no longer a kid who was there by virtue of my parent’s position. I was there by virtue of my own position – I was the professional. I controlled myself, exchanged obligatory smiles and settled down to talk with my colleagues.

We sat across a carpet, on the floor, on chairs and divans. It was different as it was not a staff room. The host’s daughter brought us cold drinks. Normally, this would be no big deal – I’d done as much when my father’s colleagues visited. But again, I wondered, should I offer to help? I wasn’t the only one having such thoughts – one of my colleagues wondered the same aloud. It was a strange setting, and we were just getting accustomed to it.

Talk flowed with drink (cold drinks, strictly) and I allowed my muscles to relax. Normally, such relaxation would not be becoming of a professional workplace. There I sat alert, ready to take on my responsibilities. Here, there were none. What there were seemed to be vague and new. Instead of documents and answer scripts, there were drinks and plates going around. What should I do? How much should I relax and participate in the discussion? My body was relaxing gradually but my mind was stiff.

Eventually, the time came for some rituals. Rituals that I had no inkling would be performed and which I had no idea were performed at all. Apparently it was a sort of blessing system for people who would be getting married in the near future. Remaining on the periphery, I saw how professionals took on traditional roles, fulfilling social rituals that had no space in the workplace. I was surreal to see such multiple avatars in individuals. I’d seen older ladies perform the shonk-blowing and other similar ritual requirements in my family, but these were professionals. Would I too be required to take on ritual roles as part of my professional duties? Or would I want to, given that all professionals are part of the society they live in? It is a strange question but one that becomes very pertinent as I move on from being a student to being an academic professional.

Rituals over, drink was superseded by food. Here again, the dichotomy resurfaced. Eating is a gendered activity – the women serve, the men eat. Why? This is not discussed nor usually contemplated. But when your professors are giving out food (“serve” is something I cannot quite bring myself to write in this context), the hierarchies of the workplace become entangled in the traditional gendered roles and one is no longer so sure of what to do. Should I insist that I’ll take the food myself, or allow myself to be given the food by my host? Should I help in serving myself? I followed the lead of other men (and young women) who allowed themselves to be given food. I punctuated each act with a generous “thank you ma’m” – a strange incantation in a setting such as this. But what could I do? The boundaries of the personal and the professional were becoming vague and I chose to remain professional – it was safer, always.

Eventually, the young professionals and the children moved to the roof. What for ? Nothing apparently, just some late afternoon sight-seeing. I farted a couple of times on my way up so I didn’t have to fart before others. I found people engaging in the rather mundane act of selfie-clicking. I posed as per requirement, wondering how the hierarchies structured themselves now. Where was I ? Older brother to the children, younger colleague to the older (but still comparatively younger) colleagures ? Was this a formal space or an informal one? These were people around my age, but not people I’d have known had I not been a professional. How should I act?

We didn’t stay long after that. I left, the same woody and overtly polite person who had come with a packet of sweets a few hours before. If the event is remembered, it will not be for me. It will be remembered for the ceremonies, the good food, for the excellent décor. But I shall remember it as a lesson in the complexities of our social life. A social life that puts us into roles that conflict with each other, turning us into heterogeneous entities with limited ideas of our duties and the way we should behave.

A week from that moment, I was back in an informal setting – the engagement of my cousin. This time, there was no moving in involved. Again, I had no role to play. But here, I was there because I was a family member. This was different from the professional parties I’d attended as my father’s son. But not quite so different because, here again I was being treated as an elder child. I’d grown up, I was becoming fat, so on and so forth. I could talk to people in ways I’d learnt to over the past two decades. I was back in my familiar role as a child and student (and marginally, a professional – no one seemed particularly interested in that).

Looking back, I wonder what the past is and what the future would be. Perhaps the child is in the past, rapidly giving up his childish privileges to become a professional. The future is perhaps the semi-formal gathering at the professor’s house. I’ve moving on from a student to an employee and unlike content writing, there’s a social aspect to being an employee. What the exact nature of such social requirements would be, only time will elucidate. In the meantime, I must learn how to start moving in based on what I saw that day at the professor’s house.

Scrap Indiscriminate Non-NET Fellowship, and be done with it!

It’s generally not my intention to interfere in the lives and works of others. I say “others” because I don’t have the rare privilege of studying in a Central University. My own university does, but the rules are different and the ongoing #OccupyUGC movement means nothing for me. So in a way you could say that I feel discriminated against – a movement by protesters involves something that does not pertain to me. So should I demand extension of the fellowship to other universities? Nope, I want them all scrapped and replaced by something based on meritocracy.

Why? To answer why, let’s demolish the arguments put forth by those encroaching upon and defacing the UGC premises.

Research is a Right – Yeah right, and so perhaps, is MBA. Both are higher degrees, pursued by people for career goals. Both are not included in the minimum qualifications for the lowest tier of employment. Both are undertaken in so-called Grad Schools. But then MBA is not a right. Anyone who claims that the government should be paying people to do MBA instead of working their arses off in their job will be laughed out of the park. Then why research?

Research is not part of one’s fundamental education. Let’s face it, fundamental education ends in Class XII, higher education ends when one passes out of one’s MA/MTech. No job requires a higher qualification than this, ergo, these are the limit to which the definition of “required” education can be extended. The welfare state is expected to provide people with such required education, not every degree you could possibly hope to achieve in order to go from one rank to another. Sorry, the welfare state is not your cash-rich father. So if you must pursue research, it must be taken as a form of education that is limited to you and will benefit you and you alone. It is a privilege, and the welfare state has no need to finance privileges.At least, not privileges of all who want to enjoy that privilege.

2. Research enhances our knowledge – True, if it is fields and on topics which improve human life. Not every research topic deserves the same respect, simply because some are so esoteric that they would never be of any use whatsoever except to the handful who are interested in it for the sake of interest. For the vast remainder, such research will yield no dividends at all. The taxes they paid to finance such research will not produce anything they can use or even understand. In a way, it is the transfer of public money from the public arena to a privileged arena where journals are so priced as to be inaccessible, JSTOR access is limited to a few and seminars become fiefs of intellectuals who theorize everything to the point where nothing is relatable to reality.

3. Research is a productive social activity – NOT! BY virtue of producing some pieces of text that no one will read or find useful, research cannot claim to provide itself justification as a productive social activity. For instance, if you wrote a piece of text and published it in some journal. Less than 10% of the readership of the journal will read it. On the other hand, if you are a teacher, you would be disseminating basic facts to at least 50 students per year. At that rate, your contribution is far higher than anything a researcher can achieve.

Problems are exacerbated by the fact that may who are engaged in research are fundamentally unemployable in the education sector or are disinclined to take up productive employment. You can teach 3 days a week as a Guest Lecturer and get the money paid by the non-NET fellowship to MPhil students. I myself have done just that and am so much the better for it because of the experience and the sense of self-respect it generates. People cooped up in libraries will never gain the experience and the widening of their mindsets that comes from teaching. Hence, in every seminar on teaching history (my subject), you find these researchers saying that we need to make the syllabus more “sophisticated” and provide a more theoretical basis for students to understand topics. Try doing these in a college where the majority of students have little access to your costly publications and still less to the seminars where your high-flying opinions are voiced. Try getting them to pass their exams – the basic graduation exams – based on your Foucault and Derrida. Let’s see where your arrogance resides then.

4. What teachers “teach” is based on research – Absolutely! If no research takes place, the discipline will fossilize and die out. In fact, what we need is more research in more diverse streams to keep the subject relevant. The problem is that a lot of research seems to handle subjects that do not fall into this criteria – they rehash the same arguments again and again and/or work on topics so theoretical that even someone with a MA degree (me!) has trouble understanding them.

So while Sumit Sarkar’s work on Swadeshi is a great piece of research, some of the post-modern works coming out today are utter trash. In fact, as I understand Sumit Sarkar thinks them to be trash too. There’s just no point funding everyone who says he/she is doing research because, let’s face it, all research is not equal and not relevant.

5. Fellowships help underprivileged communities and women – Uh yeah, but so does employment. If you can employ yourself, you can be financially independent and at the same time, enjoy the privilege of research in your spare time. This applies to all – men, women, underprivileged, overprivileged, etc. So why must you pursue fellowships? Because you don’t want to work. And if you don’t want to work, you are not a productive member of society. Pressure will increase on you to do something productive – get a different job, get married, etc. That’s only logical isn’t it? Ending these fellowships, seen from this perspective, will help rationalize our workforce by pruning those who wish to get money without working.

So my solution ?

Expand the number of NET fellowships so larger number of people can avail these. If needed, create two tiers of fellowships, one for those clearing JRF and another for those getting LS only. NET is a national exam and it pits all – regardless of whether you’re working on history of caterpillar procreation or the Partition – against others to test their mettle. It is deeply flawed, that cannot be denied. But fixing the exam is better than doing away with meritocracy altogether.

Beyond NET, there could be situations where those who clear various state SET are given a certain fellowship as well by the UGC. This would substantially broaden the scope of fellowships but keep them linked to a verifiable criterion. Of course, those clearing both NET and SET would be allowed to get only one.

Finally, there could be a limited number of fellowships for those who don’t have any of these. A merit panel would decide who gets these. In fact, I believe the UGC is going in for just such a move. In itself though, it may not be enough and would need to be coupled with the points mentioned above.

Final Thoughts

Research is a privilege, not a right. The extent of its social productivity is a direct function of its applicability to society and its ability to broaden society’s understanding of various topics relevant to it. There should be secular criteria to decide which fits these and which does not. NET/ SET is one criterion, expert panel is another. Those deemed unworthy by both these criteria can pursue their privilege, but at their own cost. Alternatively, they can take up employment and pay their way through research the way many MBA students do. In the light of these, UGC’s moves are to be welcomed by civil society at large, even if they are unpalatable to some who wish to hide behind piles of books instead of doing something productive in society.

The Workspace

I have no workspace – and I still have one. What do I mean? In my formal job, as a teacher, I sit along with all others along a table. The space in front of my chair, in front of me, is my space. But it is shared space, created and broken almost with the monotony of duties and classes (when I have to leave the table for whatever reason and my space is taken over, only to be reclaimed when I return).

This isn’t a workspace because for me, a workspace is a personal space. Not a private space, because people are constantly coming in, checking out the space and its contents, communicating with me and leaving. But a personal space nonetheless. One where I can set up things as I like them to be and know that unless I let someone do something in there, it will remain set up in that specific manner.

The space I get in college isn’t a workspace. My workspace lies elsewhere – at home, on the desk, in front and around my computer. The workspace of a content writer.

Until recently it was composed of a laptop that never moved from its place on the table, a set of wireless keyboard and mouse and the peripherals. Now it consists of a desktop PC, the same set of wireless keyboard and mouse and a lot more peripherals and wires.

But a set of machines does not equate to a workspace – a workspace has to be lived in, the gadgets have to be used and assimilated through human touch until they become part of the imagination and the usage of the workspace. Again, this is where my content writing comes in.

You see, I’m a nocturnal creature as far as my content writing is concerned. The sound of the CPU fan running or the clickety-clack of the keyboard is not something you’ll find during the day. But come nightfall, the workspace comes to life, becoming a domain unto itself, spanning the entire space between the outside world and the bed that sits just beside it. I must go through it if I am to supplement the pathetic excuse of a salary I receive as a teacher. I must go through it if I am to validate myself as a contributor in the vast space that is the internet. I must go through it to prove to myself that I am socially useful beyond the sphere of dry academics. I must go through it, I just must.

Once I settle down to work, it is a race between my fingers, my mind, the workload and the time. It always is and is supposed to be so. In fact, I am supposed to work with the clockwork precision of an office-goer, sans the faux social life of the workplace. Because if you work in the dead of the night, you have – and cannot have – a social life to speak of. I’m fine with that – this is a world of my own after all!

But that doesn’t make me a machine, even when I’m supposed to be one. If the real machine – the computer – could speak, he or she would tell you that I am extremely erratic, typing in quick short bursts followed by moments of inertia. Inertia during which I take a break, browse meaningless sites and generally “waste time”. The use and wastage of time, however, tells more about me than my work efficiency – it reflects my character and my feelings.

As I settle down before the computer, I know what I must type and what I must do. I’ve done it a thousand times – literally – before I start hammering away at an article. There’s a tired grace to the way I hit the words “inb” and see my mail URL turn up. The “enter” key is pressed with a sort of vehemence – disgust at having to work again, yet pride, often concealed, that I know exactly what I must do. It is like a veteran nightwatchman hitting his stick on the ground – again and again – and knowing just what the result would be.

I scan my email, going through the day’s correspondence with clients. Sometimes I get sidetracked to other mails. Eventually, I get the mail I wish to work on, and open it. The link appears. The Amazon page appears. I start reading.

Then I reach for the bottle of water. Sometimes it is in front of my printer; at other times, it is on the table across the room. I must lift myself and get it. When I have had water, I survey the page on the screen from across the room. That is where I must go, but must I return so soon ?

Yes! The clock is nearing 1AM and I have hardly started work! I return and finish reading. Maybe I need to read something more – something else. While doing so, I take another pointless break, stretching myself, rotating my head to beat off the tiredness in a body that has been running around, taking classes, handling the rigmarole of academics since the morning. Then I resume work.

Finally it is 1:30 and I must start typing. There is an Office 2013 (now 2016) shortcut in the taskbar. I open I and wait as Word loads. Once it has, I open a blank document.

Blank documents are beautiful. They represent a new opportunity – and also a new challenge. Sometimes, I know just what I need to write, and I begin writing within moments. At other times, I must pause, think and read again, and wonder how I must shape my work. Sometimes I write and delete, write and delete like the proverbial poet (of the modern age) until I’m satisfied. Sometimes I begin writing only to realize I’ve already written this for something else. I must be different – or I must plagiarize myself. Plagiarism, even self-plagiarism, is never an option. I must be original.

Finally, one way or the other, I start typing. The clickety-clack begins, and my thoughts begin to flow out. With spelling errors. One some days, I’m on top of my game, hitting the keys without error and without losing my flow. On other days, I know I’m not hitting the keys correctly. Errors crop up and I must hit the backspace constantly to maintain a decent typing speed. On other days still, I don’t realize that I’m actively typing – the content absorbs me and I realize that I’m typing only when I make a mistake. The latter type of days are rare indeed.

But whatever I type, no matter how I type, there is a beautiful familiarity about the keyboard. I have a Logitech MK270R – a birthday gift I gave myself on my 23^rd. It has been a year since and the main keyboard alphabet keys shine with the oil and the toil of a thousand million keystrokes. Some made in vain to be sure, some made while playing one or the other game, but a good amount made to make money. Yes, my keystrokes make money for me. The more I type, the more money I make. It’s as simple as that.

But what about the different ways I hit keys? Am I feeling the same when I’m hitting keys with force, or when I’m missing keys and making mistakes. Am I feeling the same when I am sure of my key-spacing, or when I’m hitting the keys at their edges and must make errors sooner than later ?

The answer is surely no. Typing, like playing the guitar or engaging in a katha in Karate (both of which I’ve done at different points of my life) is an art. An art that requires the combination of skill, experience and presence of mind. And yes, confidence. Unlike beginners who pause with every keystroke, people who have been typing for years develop a rhythm. This rhythm expresses your personality and the state of your mind.

If you feel confident, you will type confidently, regardless of the meaning of the content you’re typing. If you are not feeling confident or something is gnawing at the back of your mind, you will type more erratically. The funny thing is, such confidence or lack thereof may have nothing to do with the matter you’re typing. You may be totally sure of what you wish to type but the keystrokes come out chaotically. Or you may be confused but whatever you type, you type without mistakes.

Many a times, I only realize what the state of my mind is when I begin typing. Fears that have been lurking at the back of my mind may come forth as the foremind is busy processing all manner of information for me to type. Yet the back of the mind decides how the rhythm should be – how I would express myself. This is because while the presence of mind and skill are in the foremind, the experience and emotions are in the back of the mind.

To break away from a bad typing session, I sometimes take a break. Sometimes survey my surroundings – the workspace – and sometimes simply type more slowly (or quickly!) All the while, the sound of my CPU fan, the gentle whirring of the overhead fan and the tears streaming down my eyes from exhaustion punctuate and define my existence. These are somewhat constant – they root me to my existence as a content writer working in the dead of the night, pulling my tired body and fresh computer to do the tasks that give me money.

It is now 2:40AM and I have finished my first article of the night. I must do another before I sleep, and do this fast so I can get at least 5 hours of sleep in the night. The laziness is cast aside, the tears are wiped off and my mind becomes keenly aware of the time deadlines I must set for my body to get adequate rest. The workspace eggs me on, tells me of the achievements of the past that decorate my bank balance. It also tells me of my needs, the bills I have piling up, the aspirations I have and the balance I must maintain. All of this drags me on, and so I must focus to a far greater degree than I have heretofore.

3:40AM – the work is finally done and I am free for the night. I finish off the remaining work, send off the emails and shut down the computer. There is something rapid about this – the closing of windows, the saving of files, the shutting down. It is as if I want to prove that I’ve finished in the shortest possible time. Often, I do want to. Why? To justify the money I’m being paid against the hours I’m working? To justify that I’m not wrecking my health by working after work? There is no simple answer, but I still shut everything down with a vengeance.

Then I raise myself from the dark workspace – no whirring CPU fan, no lights, no clickety-clack. The day’s work is done. The computer has gone off to sleep. I must sleep too, until 22 hours pass and I am back before the computer with another batch of work. Work which only my computer is witness to and perhaps, in a small way, sympathises with. Work that is the lot of the nocturnal content writer.

Bonne Nuit!