Datta, Dayadhvam, Damyata and
the Fourth ‘D’
Admission season is on.
Mad mad rush, frenzied filling of forms, marking distance between school and
the applicant’s residence as7.99kms to ensure that it does not cross the 8kms
cap, nervous waiting for the admission list, anxious roving eyes and heads jostling with heads to peer through
the list when it is pasted around 4 in the evening on the school gates and finally a hurrah from
the lucky parents whose names figure in the list and a boo from those whose
wards fail to make the list – these are the order of the day, an annual ritual
to get children into school. The tension all round is palpable, though
mercifully, the little kids of 3+ are untouched.
Every year, during this
season, my octogenarian neighbour gets a lot of visitors. While for the rest of
the year, hardly anyone visits her, the admission season is the one time I hear
the bell ringing frequently in her apartment.
She is a retired professor who in her heydays was the most feted and
honoured academic, reputed for her
academic credentials and for her suave
and cultured manners. But true to the
proverb “long absent, soon forgotten”, 15 years after her superannuation, she
has very few visitors. But I see every March, she is approached by parent(s),(
usually by mothers if the ward is a girl but
by both parents if it is a son), to help their child get into a good school. I wondered how she felt when people
approached only once a year seeking her favours. I went to her apartment late
in the evening after all the visitors
had left and asked her whether she was more
irritated or more embarrassed by the March visitors. I give below her long answer which she prefaced with an impish
smile that her long years of teaching has made her a prolix speaker, though not
hopefully garrulous and voluble and asked me to have the patience to listen to
her.
“ Having been a teacher, it is difficult for me
to get out of the insatiable itch for talking. It is almost fifteen years since I
superannuated. Not that I was a great shake while in service except for the
luxury of having the paraphernalia of a Personal Assistant and a peon in
attendance. The PA on my request would
connect me to the Principal of any school by giving my designation and I could him/her
for a child’s admission to the Nursery
class. The gusto of appreciation and praise from the child’s parents will be
gratifying, swelling me with pride as though I had all the power and influence
to speak to the school Principals who acted like demigods and remained invisible
to mortal eyes during this period. Though I never saw nor hear from the parents after the
admissions were done, I would come to
know that my recommendation had been
successful six months later during college admissions when I would get
a reciprocal recommendatory call from the school authority who had obliged me.
But today, though far
removed from the powers that matter, by virtue of the “once upon my time”
status, I do get parents visiting me for
my assistance in admission to schools. Of course they come to me as the last
resort after they had exhausted all other sources. “You can do it. We know, you
are very well known in all academic circles. If you can’t do it, who can we
turn to?”- Flattering words, though I know there is not a grain of truth. My family
members will snigger calling me , “the empty container of asafoetida”( a catch
phrase in Tamil that speaks about the lingering smell of asafoetida after the
container had been emptied and cleaned). After the snigger, there will be the bombardment as to why I can not tell the truth
that I have no power or influence. “Why do you say you will try when you know
you are a spent force? Why do you consider very request as sacrosanct?”
But I have continued
for the last 15 years and will continue as long as I am blessed to be alive to
never say “no” to any request from any quarter. My refrain has been “I
will try my best” and followed by a caveat quoting the oft quoted Bhagavad Gita
verse “Karmanye vadikharste ma phaleshu
kada chana… You have a right to perform your prescribed duty, but you are
not entitled to the fruits of your action”. All of us are aware no one seeks
help unless, s/he is in real distress. It is humiliating for anyone to go and
seek personal favour from someone who is a stranger and indirectly known through
his/her multifarious contacts. Many of the parents who come to see me are
fairly well to do people and they have their small sphere of influence in the
little space they occupy. But they have
no contact with schools; they are not
allowed anywhere near the precincts of the Principal’s room. It is easier to get a darshan of Balaji in
Tirupathi than to get a darshan of the school principal. The parents have to
give up their ego, swallow their pride and literally beg for admission. Though admissions are strictly by lottery
after all the admission criteria are met, still for the few seats that may
remain vacant, there will be a competitive demand. Hence like the dying man
holding to a straw, they latch onto whosoever can put in a word. “
The Octagenarian continued:
“ Again it is as humbling an experience to the seeker as it is to the giver whom s/he approaches with a request. We have
constantly to remind ourselves that once we are out of power, hardly anyone
comes to us. We are only what our chair bestows on us. Retirement peels off the
illusory mask of our greatness and brings home the truth that it is the chair that is respected and
not the user who sits. At our advanced age we are made to understand the
falsity and frailty of our power and glory that is inextricably tied to the chair. But those who come to us in our superannuated
years as the last resort exemplify the saying “desperate measures need
desperate remedies”
The third and last point
is it is indeed flattering to be recognized that someone thinks that I am still
worth my salt even at my advanced age. It is uplifting to feel one is useful and
not relegated to oblivion. Being approached means you are still considered worth
something. Maybe worth not of any great
power or influence, but worth of being
human. I have never shied away from requesting for help as I know that in the
process, I restore self esteem to my benefactor even when s/he is no longer in the
active circuit. Our Upanishads(Brihidaranyaka Upanishad)have taught us to follow
three ‘d’s- Datta, Dayadhvam, Dammyata,-to
give , sympathize and control. I
sympathize with the parents who are desperate to give their ward a good footing
for life. I control my anger and irritation that I am remembered only once a year(
and that too not even on my birthday). I give whatever I can within my limited
sphere of influence though I may not succeed all times. I have added for myself
a fourth ‘d’ - this is what Nike says-
just ‘DO’ it. This is what gives meaning to me in this last phase of my life. To
seek help and to give help bless both the seeker and the giver by teaching a
lesson in humility.”
I looked at her with
awe and admiration and understood what keeps this octogenarian ticking in her
ripe old age.
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