A bit of a chat

‘What we’ve got here is failure to communicate.’ Cool Hand Luke.

(This story is being narrated by a retired government servant).

I am experiencing a few issues conversing with people below the age of 40 these days. Which is a dead giveaway that I am above 40 years old. As to how many years above 40 is for me to know and for you to preferably not find out. Don’t get me wrong. The sub-40 age groupers do speak English perfectly well, no problems there. I cannot vouch for their Tamil or Bengali. Even the words and phrases they use are ones that I am quite familiar with. So where is the hitch? Or glitch, if you prefer. I am not fussy, either way. It is the context that stumps me. The thing of it is, the way in which they employ their vocabulary drives me up the wall. I hear the words, I know the words, yet their import escapes me. You see what I just did there? I am already lapsing into a we / they binary, and that is not desirable while conversing in the same language with fellow humans. Sometimes I think I am losing it, then I tell myself if I cannot figure out what they are saying, then surely, they must be struggling to follow my conversational methods. That puts us on an even keel, and I must brace myself and be up for the challenge.

It is with such conflicting thoughts swirling around my head that I had the somewhat dubious pleasure of meeting a young gentleman, a chit of a lad really, while waiting at our friendly neighbourhood bank for the teller, or whatever they are called these days (cash dispenser?), to call me up for transacting my business. This young man, it was impossible for me to guess what his age might have been, sat next to me immersed in his mobile. Other than the inescapable fact that he was younger than me. Most people are. He was prematurely bald, which is the way with many of the younger generation nowadays, what with all the multi-tasking across time zones, shattered love lives and multiple woes besetting them.

 In which respect I had a head start over him, being blessed as I was with a full head of hair. Distinguished silver grey is my preferred description of my thatch, if that does not sound too vain. He was wearing a pair of faded denims with holes at the knees and his canary yellow tee-shirt had this bold legend, GO F*** YOURSELF! The three asterisks after the F were not typed by me to hide my queasiness, that is exactly how the tee-shirt announced itself and, by implication, announced the young wearer. Of course, he was completely absorbed in his iPhone. What did you expect? However, he turned towards me, smiled broadly and introduced himself.

‘Good morning, Sir,’ said he, ‘you can go before me, if you like. Like, I am just chilling.’ I was chuffed at the respect he was showing, but I declined. The air-conditioning at the bank was effective and I was not averse to a bit of chilling myself.

Ever so pleased he did not address me as Uncle. ‘No, no, you were here before me. Let us adhere to the time-honoured queueing tradition.’ I hoped the word ‘adhere’ did not confuse him.

‘Are you sure Sir? I am in no hurry. It is my off day from work.’

‘Day off, off day, that makes two of us. It is my day-off-day too. Every day is my off day. I am retired from service. I just need to be back home for lunch, which is still three hours away.’

The young man was not quite sure whether he should be happy for me or console me. I mean, in India many people feel it is the end of the world when they retire. ‘Well Sir, I guess you are enjoying your retired life. Must be cool, being able to watch all the cricket matches all day long.’

What’s with this affinity towards arctic climes? – cool, chill and so on. ‘There are more things in life than cricket matches,’ said I tartly. ‘Tennis, for a start. Anyway, what line of work are you in?’

‘I work for a software company here.’

‘But of course, why did I even bother to ask? You cannot throw a stone in Bangalore without striking some software chap or the other. But what is it that you do exactly in this software company? If that is not betraying confidences.’

He looked dubiously at me and proceeded to clear his throat, as if to say, you asked for it. ‘I write code, design apps for a variety of digital platforms, monitor their effectiveness on a continuous basis, and make course corrections, as and when. All this on behalf of various clients, our inputs uniquely tailor-made and applied for specific purposes. We charge them a bomb. By the hour.’ He then turned back to his mobile as if he had just told me what the time was.

‘Is that all?’ I asked, ‘or are you keeping things from me? Anyhow, if you will pardon a personal question, what are you paid for doing all that stuff that you just rattled off? Sounded most impressive, though I might need an English translation.’

‘It is a personal question, but no sweat. It varies from company to company but on average, perks and everything included, I would say I clean up around Rs.35 lakhs per annum. By the way, that is just my salary. The company charges the client in numbers you don’t want to know.’

‘How old are you? 21? And why are you bald? And why do you wear torn clothes? Can’t you afford something better? At that salary?’

‘So many questions. Let us just say I am older than 21 and leave it at that. We are all suffering from hair loss and IBS, that is irritable bowel syndrome, given the hours we keep and the tension involved. We work crazy hours, aligned to American timelines. As for the torn clothes, you won’t understand. Why are they taking so long? There are just two people in front of us.’

‘What is the hurry, young man? Plane to catch? Relax. You seem all frazzled. If you like, I will stand you a café au lait at the coffee shop next door, after this. You could use one. Cup, I mean. Or mug.’

‘Sorry, just a bit knackered. Yeah, coffee. That’s a thought.’

‘Fine, by the way what is your name?’

‘Rabindranath. You can call me Robbie.’

‘Bengali?’

‘Everybody asks me that. No, Kannadiga. It’s just that my parents hero-worshipped the bearded Bengali bard.’

‘Ah, where the mind is without fear etc. Bengali bearded bard, eh? Nice alliteration! By the by, I am Narasimhan. Call me Nari. Hooray, just one left in the queue. Last question Robbie, and I don’t mean to embarrass you. What is that printed on your tee-shirt?’

‘I am not embarrassed, Sir. You might be. What do you think that is, printed on my tee-shirt? Which part of it do you not understand?’

‘I couldn’t bring myself to utter that word.’

‘What word?’

‘That one starting with F and then blank, blank, blank. I mean, GO F*** YOURSELF! I am all for freedom of expression, but surely there are limits, young man. This is a bank. You can’t go around flaunting stuff like that on a tee-shirt.’

‘What? GO FREE YOURSELF!? What is your problem with that? Seriously.’

‘Is that what it is? Then why bother with the riddle, Robbie? Why not just spell it out?’

‘Where is the fun in that? It is called a teaser. You certainly got teased, didn’t you? Now I know how your mind works, begging your pardon.’

‘Thanks for nothing. Your number is flashing. And the coffee date is cancelled.’

Note: This retired person and the young software geek at the bank were all set for what at first seemed a love feast. The more they tried to talk to each other, the more things started breaking down. They spoke the same language, but they spoke in different tongues. The generation gap is a cliché, but it has a ring of truth to it. I am reminded of that great line from jazz singer and guitarist George Benson’s song The Masquerade, ‘We tried to talk it over, but the words got in the way.’