The Impact Model

Re-posted from an earlier blog. Written on 24 August 2012

Do you need to know you’re making a difference in order to make one?

We all want to make a difference in this world. At least, I hope some do.

Do our part.

Help others.

Give back.

Volunteer.

Charity.

Philanthropy.

Kindness.

In kind.

Something to make you feel better.

It makes you feel better about yourself, no doubt about that. But how do you really know whether you’re actually making a difference?

How do you know if that packet of biscuit you offered the beggar filled his hungry stomach?

How do you know if the lives of those children you volunteered with over the summer are better now?

How do you know if the money you donated helped improve the lives of the earthquake victims?

How do I know if these two years in Teach for India will make even a dent in the lives of my children?

Do you need to know you’re making a difference in order to make one?

At the basic level, I suppose not. You can still continue making a difference. By the end of my first year as a teacher, I couldn’t honestly say that I saw a lot of growth in my students.

Maybe it was difficult to act as a fly on the wall observer.

Maybe it was my lack in self-confidence.

Maybe it was true.

Either way, I didn’t feel like I was making a difference – at least, not at the magnitude that I was aiming for. Still, I pushed forward, mixing blind faith with determination and hope. There were enough moments of frustration.

Of depression.

Of doubt.

Still, I pushed forward, repeating the mantra in my head, “I’m making a difference, I’m making a difference” in an attempt to convince myself.

I was waiting expectantly, anxiously, for a sign: something to prove the above. I’m a person of logic – I need proof. Without that, it’s all just hypothetical.

Theoretical.

In my head.

I needed something.

Something to keep me going.

Something to show me that yes, my time and effort here were meaningful.

Like Maslow’s 2^nd level of esteem in his hierarchy of needs, I needed something more.

And now, a few months into my second year of teaching the same group of students, I’m starting to see it.

Their growing academics.

Their increasing confidence.

Their shortening pants.

And those occasional light bulbs turning on, which motivate me to push them harder.

Because the truth is, if I saw no progress in them (as is still the case with some students), I would continue to push them hard. But at some point, I fear I might give up.

On hope.

On belief.

On them.

On myself.

And when and if that happens, the possibility of making a difference will become moot.

*****

It’s not necessary to know you’re making a difference in order to make one.

But it’s definitely helpful.

A Case of Split Identities

You know you have issues when you relate more with He-who-must-not-be-named, Greek and Roman gods, and Frodo Baggins than with the people around you.

You also know you have issues when you get more excited by Nanook of the North than any other blockbuster running around you.

It’s funny. Throughout my time in Canada, I was always on the lookout of anything that reminded me of India. Of back home. In class, often being the only brown kid in tutorials, I was inadvertently made the expert on South Asia (because, clearly, I represent all the God-knows-how-many-billion people living here). But I think I rather enjoyed that; it felt like a validation of where I was from.

Today, sitting in Bangalore, I was supposed to be reading for sociology. I was browsing through the readings, looking for the one with the least number of pages to begin with, when the words “Nanook of the North” shot out at me. The next thing I knew, I was on page 5. But seriously, Nanook of the North?! (This is a short film – possibly the first one – made on an Innuit group in northern Canada – a movie I was shown during my first year in Canada) – a movie that I can barely recall. But despite my fuzzy memory, there was something so familiar about that phrase that I couldn’t stop myself from reading further – it was as though this one article was able to connect me back to my memories of Canada.

I don’t get it. When people say I randomly switch to a Canadian accent, I usually make a face, but inwardly I feel really pleased. And when I was in Canada, I would love talking about India and what it was like ‘back home’. I didn’t want to get a Canadian citizenship and give up my official status as Indian, but now I can’t stop saying “But in Canada we did…” Never realized I like Canada so much (although, to be fair, I never realized I liked India so much either until I went to Canada).

Confused much? I think so too.

Basically, when I lived in Canada, I loved being identified with India. And now, when I live in India, I love being identified with Canada.

Sometimes, I seriously feel like Voldemort, with my soul split into multiple pieces (I mean, we can’t leave out Kuwait and the multiple cities in India, right?). I’ve left a horcrux at each location.

At other times, I feel like those Greek and Roman gods, caught between two different identities, unable to decide between them (Percy Jackson fans will get this).

Or, for you Lord of the Rings fans, it’s like being Frodo – you can’t really go there and back again, because you’ve changed so much on the journey (Yes, I’m relating Canada to Mordor. No, it wasn’t a bad experience).

I feel more connected with characters from fantasy novels and movies than the people around me.

I think I have issues.

Skygazing

It happened by chance

I went to the terrace

A cup of coffee in my hand

Met some friends there

Started to talk

And then stopped short

Staring

Gazing

At what lay beyond

The first thing I noticed were the drops

Falling softly

But determinedly

From the darkening clouds above

Landing on eyelashes

Cheeks

Lips

The coolness refreshing

Adding to the calm

From the wind blowing through my hair

Healing

What, I don’t know

But healing

For sure

Next came the sun

Emerging from behind the clouds

Breaking free of the barrier

Unleashing its power in the west

Glowing orange

With steaks of red

And maybe yellow

Forming a colour I can’t describe

But soothing

Radiating energy

Mixing with the drops

And so we turned our heads

Looking for the streaks that should have appeared

And there they were

Streaks of colours

Strengthening over time

Until one end to the other

Became clear

As though someone had used a compass

To draw the perfect arcs

And just looking at it

Smiles broke out

As they always do

No matter how old or young

And as I stood there

Caught between the sunset and the rainbow

Feeling the wind and the raindrops

I felt it

The calm

The beauty

The wonder

Where purpose didn’t matter

Where frustrations evaporated

Even if it was

Just for a moment

A few fleeting seconds

Because time didn’t matter then

Nothing mattered then

Except being there

In that moment

And feeling everything

That feeling of being alive

My City

Bombay. Mumbai. Whatever you want to call it. For the last two years, I called it my city. The monsoons, Worli Sea Face, Dadar station – it was all part of my city.

So when I got a chance to re-visit the place after a six-month gap, I jumped on it. Bangalore had been great the last few months, but it just couldn’t compare to Bombay. The excitement I felt in the days building up to the trip was quite palpable. The whole ride in the plane I was thinking – I’m returning to my city.

Then the plane landed.

And in the words of Russell Peters, it turned into your city so fast…!

For starters, it took me a while to get cell phone reception, which left me quite flustered. Then the humidity hit. Next, the cab ride to Powai (chosen specifically because of its proximity to the airport) took over an hour because a pipe burst on a road causing a major flood and an even bigger traffic jam in the middle of all this heat.

Basically, by the time I reached my friend’s house, the first words out of my mouth were “What is wrong with your city?!?!”

I should admit upfront – I had a great time in Bombay. I met several friends, and spent most evenings in a less-than-sober state. But while one of the major reasons for visiting Bombay was to meet old friends, a big chunk was also because of the city itself. Mumbai had charmed me. It was the place where I had known genuine freedom, the place where I could sit for hours by the sea and feel the wind, where I actually found the weather pleasant. So unlike Toronto, which I visited over the summer, this trip was not just about the people. I wanted to feel that wind again, hear the waves, sit by the sea, and feel at home.

All I felt was sweat.

It was hot. And humid. And would rain randomly like crazy. And continue to be hot and humid when it stopped raining. To make matters worse, Worli Sea Face had no wind. The tide was low. The waves minute. The air stifling.

Basically, I think the city was showing me its worst side, and it made me realize something. As a kid, I had visited Bombay several times. Each time, I hated the city. Then I lived there, and I fell in love with it. Now that I came back, it was as a visitor. And so, the tradition had to continue.

I am just a visitor to Bombay now – and it’s no longer my city. That’s a rough pill to swallow for me.

Anyone who knows me well would know that I strongly resist change. I try to hold on to what was until the last possible moment (that’s probably also the reason why I haven’t switched to a smart phone yet). These last few months, I’ve spent so much time missing Bombay and comparing it to Bangalore that I think I might have missed out a lot of moments in the present. The fact is, I don’t live in Bombay anymore. I’m just a visitor. And I need to let go.

And since life likes to whack you in the head just to make sure you’ve got the message, my farewell from Bombay was as warm as my reception. I had collected a few posters over the last several years that I absolutely adore, and was desperate to get them from Bombay for the last six months (I like keeping old stuff, remember?). I went to Bombay. I picked them up. I held them in my arms. And then I forgot them at another friend’s house just before leaving for the airport. If I wasn’t standing at the check-in counter at the airport when I realised this wonderful fact, I might have actually punched myself.

But with the urge to smash my head also came the realization that…I guess I really do have to move on. Focus on life here. Accept that Bombay is no longer my city. And possibly go buy some new posters. (That doesn’t mean I’m switching to a smart phone).

******

Learnings from the trip:

·         Do not visit Bombay in October. Or April. Or May. Or the monsoons if you don’t like rain.

·         Always carry an umbrella. Because you never know when the monsoon will decide to revisit. Just for the heck of it.

·         Have a shower often. Or don’t. You’ll be sweating within five minutes regardless.

·         Prioritize your day. Happy hours go on the top.

·         Be thankful for the meter – and for drivers that actually use them.

·         Hanging your tongue out like a dog does not actually help you cool down. Nor does it look very attractive.

·         Put your posters in your bag, not next to it.

Killing your Babies

Contrary to what this might sound like, this post is not actually about killing babies. It’s a metaphor. (For those of you who have an obsession with dead babies, I apologize).

This is a phrase that one of my professors in my final year of undergrad told us in class. It was a class on feature writing, and he said that as journalists – or even just writers – sometimes the hardest thing we have to do is learn to kill our babies.

[Stop picturing dead babies. Just stop]

What he meant by that is during the research process, we often stumble across these mindblowing quotes or amazing statistics and bits of information that we feel just needs to be part of our article. Even while writing the initial drafts, we will write certain paragraphs that sound almost perfect. And then there’ll be a knock on our door, and we open it to find a rather annoying visitor: the word limit.

Now, for us carefree writers who write just for the sake of writing, this means nothing. But when you’re writing for a newspaper or magazine, there are major constraints on your space and word count. And so, when you realize that your wonderful article has gone way beyond the given word limit, you’re left with only one choice: start killing your babies.

Pick up that quote that’s so mindblowing, and ask yourself whether it is really adding anything to the story. Look carefully at those amazing statistics and see whether they are really relevant to the overall point you are trying to make. And go back to that almost perfect paragraph and see whether it is really needed to convey the larger point of your article.

And if the answer to any of those questions is negative or even a little doubtful – kill them. Kill your babies.

[Again, I feel the need to reiterate that I am not actually advocating killing real babies…Just in case you were planning to send me hate mail with the subject ‘baby killer’]

And if you think about it, this advice applies not just to writing, but to almost all aspects of our lives (except perhaps parenting). When you need to make a tough choice, check your priorities first. Figure out what’s most important to you, and let everything else slide past. If what you really want is to go for a vacation in order to relax, then perhaps stressing out over small details is not a helpful approach. If being healthy has top priority for you, then just throw the cake aside. If you really just want to spend time with your friends, then pause the TV show that you’re watching and actually step out of your house.

I know, it’s all easier said than done. Nobody said it would be easy. You’re giving up stuff that you really care about – and that’s precisely why it’s called killing your babies.

Try it sometime. It’s good advice.

And now that I’ve enlightened all of you with this ultra-bright piece of wisdom, I’m going to get back to my assignment and continue trying to kill some babies there. 

Gagged

Don’t tell anyone

He said

As his hands dipped lower

I struggled to escape

But the hold got firmer

This will be our little secret

He said

As his lips moved closer

I tried to scream

But his eyes got steelier

I trembled

But I kept the secret

I saw him again

But I kept the secret

I saw him laughing with friends

But I kept the secret

I saw him with a young girl

And I could no longer keep the secret

He did this to me

I whispered

But you didn’t hear me

He did this to me

I said

And you looked at me with confusion

He did this to me

I yelled

And you looked up in horror

And I sighed in relief

I had said it out loud

The silence could end

Life could go on

I looked at you

Expectantly

Waiting

For your response

And you said

Don’t tell anyone

Don’t speak about it

Nobody should know

What will they say

No one will believe you

No one will marry you

Don’t tell anyone

He gagged me then

You gag me now

Wait

Wait

They said

There’s no need to rush

The future’s not going anywhere

There’s no hurry

Don’t do something you’ll regret

You’ll have enough time later

Focus on what’s important now

Wait

I did

Even at times I shouldn’t have

I held back

There’s time

I told myself

I’m not going anywhere

They’re not going anywhere

Wait

Someone forgot to say

That day

As the headlights blinded me

As my breathing slowed

As the faces blurred

Hold on

They said

But I couldn’t

The wait was gone

Time had run out

Leaving behind

The words I had never whispered

The love I had never declared

The kiss I had never shared

The joke I had never made

The apology I had never accepted

The kindness I had never understood

The laughter I had never allowed

The life I had never lived

Wait

They said

Wait

I did

Until I couldn’t anymore