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.