Utopia: War on Mediocrity

Parts 1–4

Anil Pathak

Prologue

If you are a hare, avoid having a race with a turtle since you have only a faint chance of winning. The thick-skinned turtle with no sense of self-respect or dignity is more likely to win than the well-groomed hare with an aesthetic sense of pride.

But then, if you are a hare, why should you even worry about the narrower goal of winning? Do you want to just win or remain victorious? The latter seems to be a much nobler choice.

- Swanathan, the Hero

I , The Narrator

Last Sunday, when I got up from my bed with great difficulty and came down the landing, I immediately came to know that Swanathan had left. When someone you have been attached to for a long time, you don’t need any little note or any telltale sign to know that they have left. You also know that that someone has not just left for a morning walk or on a short errand, or for a trip overseas. I mean L E F T. Permanently. For good. I would not wait even for a second to admit that the realisation did weaken me in my knees. To be frank, I had to sit down on the first step of the landing to stop myself from falling. The empty teacup that Swanathan had left was still there — sitting like an orphan — like everyday, on the dining table. When I slowly got up and took it in my hand, I knew it would be wrong to pretend that his departure was a great shock. That’s what they always said about him- that he was sometimes “torturously predictable”. The descriptive phrase was originally coined by Shoma and then was unashamedly copied by everyone else who have been the victims of Swanathan’s predictability.

I don’t know about others, but Shoma had more than a perfect reason and right to use it. There was in fact no justification for the paths of Shoma and Swanathan to meet together, or even to go go parallel. She was a rookie copywriter and he was the owner of an advertising agency. Yet, Swanathan was sharp enough to notice her annoyance at having to double up as a receptionist at times, and called her in for a chat. When she entered his office, he was surrounded by, what she thought, a disgusting smell of cheap imported cigarettes he used to buy from a shady shop in Kachiguda. “I am proud of my little discovery.”- He used to proclaim with unnecessasay pomposity. She had to ignore the odour and had to get his attention when he stopped rotating his chair and opened his eyes wide.

What went on in the next hour or so can hardly be called ‘predictable’. I know from my personal knowledge that Shoma especially hates the fact that she began to not just softly sob but cry vivaciously in that little cabin in Swanathan’s presence. Even though this meeting took place so many years agon, Shoma vividly remembers that Swanathan hardly even looked at her in the entire conversation. She hates it even more that she somehow took his invitation as a matter of course, rather than of discretion, when he asked her to join him for a dinner that weekend. Curiously, the thought that immediately followed her after his dinner invitation was — What is he going to disclose to his wife about this meeting? Is he going to lie to her? It was very hard to imagine Swanathan fabricating a lie. Probably he would use his usual plainspeak and inform her in a matter-of-fact style that he was going to spend the evening with the sweet young thing in his office. Shoma was more intrigued with this question rather than pondering over what her response should be to his invitation. At least a “Let me get a raincheck.” Would have been more appropriate. Yet, her acceptance of the invitation seemed to be too urgent — as if she had been eagerly waiting for that invitation.

The Evening

Let us go then, you and I

When the evening is spread against the sky

Like a patient etherized upon the table.

“How have you been, Shoma?” He asked with great concern drooping from his voice. He had picked her up at from her residence at the designated time and they were already seated sipping their cocktails at Secunderbad Coffee House.

“Well, not bad really”, she responded with an earnestness that matched in quality and quantity with the concern in his voice. “In fact, I feel much better.” She continued. “I am so sorry I got a bit emotional in your office the other day.”

Shoma was particularly fond of the cosy and warm ambience of SCH and was pleased that Swanathan chose this place for their little meeting.

“That’s perfectly all right.” He said shrugging his shoulders. “In fact, you should have told me about all those nagging things earlier. I think you know I have some sort of –um- attachment for you, don’t you?”

The way he said the last part and the expression of ‘attachment’ would have made Shoma laugh in any other situation. She somehow controlled her laughter and observed that it was this matter-of-factness for which she called him predictable. Although his words and actions were often the most unexpected, they way he delivered them was the most plain and straightforward — and that way and manner were always so predictable.

“I agree. Probably I should have talked about that earlier. Anyway, now all of that seems so trivial and so silly. But at that time, I just felt so cornered in that situation; and can you believe I just had nobody to talk to?”

Swanathan nodded, took a large gulp of his cocktail and then started probing into her situation at work. He began with the skill of an accomplished conversationist and, whatever his intention was, Shoma felt a sense of belongingness; she also felt wanted, although her personal space was somewhat invaded with Swanathan’s questions and comments.

“By the way, I have noticed you don’t wear saree to work nowadays, am I right?” He said mischievously.

She was surprised to hear that question, yet her face hardly showed any surprise. That happened to her every time she consumed a couple of drinks — her face was unable to manage quck display of any emotion. Swanathan had just finished the next round of drinks and his mannerisms were so usual that anybody would think he was having glasses of sheer water.

Shoma was surprised that he had noticed such a minute change in her office attire. And he continued further.

“ You were wearing the yellow one when I first saw you, remember?- The one with the polka dots…”

“No, I don’t remember. She felt like saying. “And I don’t know what you are trying to achieve here. If you are trying to impress me or you are trying to tell me that you are attracted to me, you should have done that long ago.”

But instead of protesting, she found herself merely saying — “Oh yes, you mean on my first day at the job..”

Shama had to admit that whatever he was doing was working charms on her. How easy it was for men like Swanathan to flirt with women, Shoma thought. Some nice ambience, some cocktails, some soft music, and just a few crisp lines to say — and they are done. This thought vexed her a little, until she found him saying something about her finding a life partner.

“I suppose you would be aware of the fact that women have a major chance to transform their social and economic status. They just have to marry the right guy. I think men in general do not have access to such an opportunity — there are a few exceptions, of course. Yet, in general, men need to work hard, earn some nice stacks of money, groom themselves, and only then they have a tiny chance to transform their social and economic class.”

In one corner of her mind, she was so irritated with this arrogant speech of his. Forget about the fact, that he was so derogatory to women in general, the irony of it was that she was just a woman — any woman — and had to fit in his arrogant world of maxims and generalizations. Moreover, who gave him permission to talk about her getting married, any way?

And indeed there will be time

To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”

Time to turn back and descend the stair,

With a bald spot in the middle of my hair —

Yet, Shoma hated herself some more for giving in- for her readiness to succumb, to allow him to talk about her personal life. The only thing she did was to excuse herself to go to the washroom. She almost lost her balance when she tried to get up from her chair.

***

Shoma, The Other Woman

“But you never pointed out one thing, mother, it’s all very well working hard, showing commitment, taking responsibility and delivering results but what if someone points out there is a fourth requirement. Do you know what that fourth missing requirement is, mother — the one that you missed from the lesson over the cottage pie? It’s the need to grow a thick skin, to be insensitive — to be so bloody insensitive that you are immune to criticism even if the criticism comes from someone who would fail every one of your first three tests.” — Jim Smith in Terry Morgan’s ‘The Whistleblower’ (2014)

“I consider you one of our own”. Swnathan said sipping his vodka and pineapple. “And hence I am asking you this.”

We continued our conversation.

“Excuse me.” Vodka had now given me the courage for a modest interruption. “What do you mean by “one of US”? Why do you have to talk as if you are the head of a cult or something? And second- a minor point — who uses ‘hence’ in a casual conversation?”

Swanathan laughed. “ I will ignore the second point.” He was ruder than I had thought. “And I won’t answer the first one. “ “I hope you are not silly to take that as a compliment or as a pick-up line. I think you know what I mean when I say you are one of us.”

Did I know what he meant? May be, I did. I wasn’t really sure. I was sure of only one thing. The vodka and pineapple combination was working for me. Or perhaps the conversation had added a tinge to the cocktail.

“Now, if you can still focus, listen to me carefully. Do you sometimes feel that mediocre are doing better than you? Have you — more often than not — feel that you are being outsmarted, overshadowed, outbid by somebody who is outright mediocre or even dumb, has no talent whatsoever? Do you feel that you are being overtaken almost every day by people who are just extremely ordinary? If you do, then you are one of us.”

He stopped. I took a moment to make sure that he had really finished. I needed a break to gather some courage and thankfully the restaurant manager approached us at that moment to check if everything is going well. He knew Swanathan personally and they exchanged some pleasantries. I had already composed my thoughts when he left.

“Of course I do.” I told Swanathan. “ I do feel that I am being overtaken by mediocrity. But can I ask you one thing ? How do we- you and I- relate in this aspect with each other? You are at the top in the company. I am at the bottom. You own this big crazy company, in case you have forgotten. I work for you for a salary that is perhaps less than what you spend on shampooing your office carpet every month!” I could see that he was listening to me and was intrigued a little bit. “But let me answer your question. Yes, I feel overshadowed, outsmarted and outbid every day — How does that matter to you?”

“Well. Exactly. You have hit the nail on the head.” Swanathan said in his annoyingly victorious tone. Hit the nail on the head? I thought that only people in the eighteenth century used that phrase! “You admit that you feel being overshadowed. Yet, you attribute that feeling to your lowly position in the company. Trust me. Your position and salary have nothing to do with that feeling. Even if I promote you ten levels higher, you would probably have the same feeling, perhaps with a ten-fold intensity. The fact of the matter is that the mediocre overshadow and outbid the talented everyday in this industry — and perhaps elsewhere.”

I laughed, perhaps a little too loudly. The elderly gentleman sitting at a neighbouring table looked at us with a smirk and then turned his attention back to his pasta.

“You are calling me talented?” I said amidst the laughter. “Now that’s definitely a pick-up line, Swanathan.”

“No.” He says in a matter-of-fact tone. “I am not calling you talented because I want to pick you up. I am calling you talented because I know you are talented. And, by the way,” he says smiling mischievously. “if I wish to pick you up, I do not need a pick-up line. My shoulders are strong enough.”

What the heck! To my surprise, I blush. I feel blood rushing to my face and my cheeks must be showing some redness. Oh cummon, cummon Shoma, I tell myself — You are not going to have sex with him; at least not tonight! You are not going to give in that easily.

As luck would have it, a very polite waiter approaches us and saves me for further disgrace. The waiter bows courteously and asks us if we we would like to continue with our vodka- pineapple combination or would seek a variation.

“Repeat this for us and also get me some lime juice.” Swanathan orders seeking my consent mutely. I am in no mood to care about petty things such as cocktails. Moreover, I realise that I have started trusting him — at least for the choice of drinks and mixers.

“ So where was I?” He says that with the leer of a seasoned seminar speaker . “Oh, yes. The mediocre outsmart the talented every day. This can happen to all of us. This can happen to me if I don’t protect myself from the attack.”

“Cummon you pompous big hind side. Don’t you say that you feel as vulnerable as I do.”, I feel like saying. “You don’t even have a hint of what goes on every day in your office.”

Then I wonder if I might have said that aloud. Most hopefully I might not have because Swanathan was still with me observing a cashew nut held between his fingers.

“So to come back to the point,” he exclaimed after finishing his cashew nut observation. “We need to protect ourselves from mediocre. We know this, yet we do not get into action because the problem is that we have scant idea of how to fight with mediocrity. Worse, we try to use logic and reason as our weapons or shields. That makes the victory of mediocrity most certain.”

“What do you mean? I fail to understand. Does that mean mediocrity has tools and weapons that are superior to logic and reason?”

“No. Mediocrity is not superior. It still wins because in a war, it’s not always that superiority wins. To win a war, you need to be tenacious, not just superior.”

“Hmm.. Good Point.” I paused because he was really making me think. I also became a bit self-conscious because my eyelids flutter a lot when I am thinking.

“All right, I think I would agree to your proposition that to win a war one needs to be tenacious. Yet, that makes me wonder. Aren’t logic and reason tenacious? I mean, if I am really good in reasoning, and I am consistently logical, I can also be tenacious, right?”

For the first time in our meeting today, I could see Swanathan searching for right words. Then he gathers himself quickly. “I think you have a point there” He said. (Thank god, he sometimes acknowledges my point!) Logic and reason can be tenacious, if they wish to be. Yet, in a war with mediocrity they are not weapons good enough.”

Sujoy should listen to this, I thought. Sujoy is my supervisor. He is perhaps the dumbest guy in our Creativity department. Others in the department have stopped arguing with him because “there is no point”. I am the only one who breaks her head every morning trying to reason with him and trying to convince him with logic. I never win. Sujoy just does not see my logic, or anybody’s logic, really.

Swanathan is perhaps referring to such people when he says that reason and logic are the worst tools to fight with the mediocre. He has diagnosed the problem correctly but does he have any remedy to the problem? I decide to be patient.

I suddenly realise that he is asking me whether we should order dinner first and then both of us begin to rummage through the obscenely large-sized multi-page menu that almost looks like a coffee-table book.

***

I never understood why people enjoy eating crabmeat although it is so difficult to unravel a crab. I struggle while Swanathan is handling the crab on his plate efficiently.

“So, your suggestion is ..” I try to distract him.

“About what?” He asks pushing some more crab meat in his mouth.

“Well, if you say that reason and logic are not effective weapons against mediocrity, how do we fight against the mediocre?”

“Well, let me put it to you this way. Why do the mediocre always win?

“Because they are mediocre.”

“Smart answer. Yet, in a way, you are right. Although we hate mediocrity and we worship excellence, in an organisation, we always see the mediocre moving ahead and having their way.. We are unable to stop the mediocre and sometimes just give up in frustration. This means that there must be some sticky outlasting substance in mediocrity that makes it tenacious. Does that make sense?”

“Yes. Go on.”

“So my suggestion is that we need to borrow that sticky outlasting substance from the mediocrity, at least a little amount of that.”

“Cummon. Doesn’t that sound ridiculous? The talented goes to the mediocre to borrow? You must be joking!”

“I agree that it sounds a little contradictory; but remember we are at war and we need to win. There is no place for small-time ego bruises.”

“Ok. I admit that I see your larger point — the mediocre must have something in them that makes them win. We the talented need to find what that substance is. Then, if possible, we can grow some of that substance in ourselves..”

“Without sacrificing any of our excellence and talent.” He interjects and completes my sentence.

“That’s right. So we borrow that winning substance from the mediocre people, we don’t compromise on our excellence, and only then we have some chance of winning the war on mediocrity.”

“Yes, and if we continue doing this in every small group, every organisation, slowly and gradually; mediocrity will be surely on its back foot. Then, in a very very very long run, some excellent people will be running some excellent organisations. What do you think?”

Being a cynic that I am, I couldn’t help a burst of laughter at the naivety of his suggestion. Then I apologised. “I am sorry. I hope it really happens that way. Ok, let’s change the tracks for a while. Let’s take a real-life example.”

I really wanted to talk to him about Sujoy, my supervisor and the hatred I had in my mind for Sujoy’s dumbness. Yet, I decided not to name anybody.

“Let me see.. Well, there is this nasty creativity supervisor of mine — I am sure you know who I am talking about — he always gives me a frustrating feeling that ultimately he is the one who is going to have the final word about anything and everything. You know that actually he is kind of average, if not mediocre and more often than not he gets the wrong end of the stick, but all that does not matter. He will still have the final word, even if his ideas are crazy, downright dumb, and insanely impractical. So how do we deal with this kind of situation. How do I make my supervisor see some logic and reason?”

I knew he was not going to respond to that question. After all, he was the boss conversing with a junior colleague of his.

“Well, I hear what you are saying.” He said. “Let’s not focus on individuals. Petty minds discuss individuals; and none of us is petty.” He was smiling when he said the last part.

“Ok, I understand now.” I said sarcastically. “So this is just a theory course with one of those brilliant professors in an expensive world-class university, right? And probably I am just a freshman exempted from taking an exam, correct?”

Both of us laughed.

“No, it’s not that.” He struggled to say that. “Would you care for a coffee or shall we take the cheque?”

I prefer the cheque since I am tired of sitting. He settles the bill in cash, as always. I observe him as he takes out a bundle of notes neatly arranged in denominations tied with a rubber band. I should gift him a money clip on his birthday or on some other occasion. I make a note of that to myself.

We walk next door to take a stroll on the lawns of Shangrila. A couple passes by and the woman says “Hello” to me. I take Swanathan’s hand and softly say that I am sorry if I offended him by calling his ideas theoretical. “I take no offense.” He says, pressing my hand in his hand. It is dark, but we try to look into each other’s eyes. My body is yearning to be closer to him. The combination of vodka, pineapple and some intelligent conversation has finally taken its toll.

***

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Picture credits: Dusan ‘Cafe People’; Picasso ‘Portrait de Jaime Sabartes’; Olha Darchuk ‘Walk in the Park’; Picasso ‘The Woman’

Poetry credit: T S Eliott. ‘The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock’