The diligent bee
Continues its working day
The diligent bee
Continues its working day
LIKE MANY OTHER YOUNG BOYS, the idea of being a train driver appealed to me. I am pretty certain that my parents would not have been ecstatic had I ended up in the driving cab of a railway train. Once my father told me that he did not mind what I studied or what profession I took up eventually, so long as it was not economics (he was a professor of economics). He had no need to be concerned about that, as what I could gather about economics made it sound unappealing to me. So, what did I consider after my urge to drive trains diminished?
From an early age, I used to spend much of my spare time drawing and painting, pursuits encouraged by my mother, who was an accomplished, but lesser known (and not self-promoting) painter and sculptress. In addition, in my early teens, I began to develop an interest in ‘modern’ architects including Le Corbusier, Mies Van der Rohe, and Frank Lloyd Wright. I read books about them and the idea of studying architecture, to become an architect, entered my head. My hope was to create structures as beautiful and innovative as those, which I had read about. After a year or so, I was walking back to school from our dining hall when I was struck by a depressing thought. If I studied architecture for the required seven or so years, there was a good chance that I would not be undertaking major, exciting projects like those which had made my architectural heroes famous. Instead, I might very well have ended up designing loft rooms, domestic garages, garden room extensions, and similar important but mundane structures. This thought dampened my enthusiasm to pursue architecture as a profession.
My next idea was to become a schoolteacher like those who taught me at my secondary school. I am incredibly pleased that this idea was short-lived because over the years the conditions that many schoolteachers have had to endure have deteriorated continuously.
My father, now long retired, was a university teacher (he became a senior professor at the London School of Economics). From my young vantage point, his lifestyle looked good. Despite working hard, which he did, he had lovely colleagues and many pleasant students as well as long holidays. His profession appealed to me and set me on the path of pursuing studies which I hoped would lead to an academic career. After completing my BSc, I worked on a research topic that led to me being awarded a PhD.
As I reached the completion of my doctoral work, two things began to worry me. One was that none the other British-based workers in the field that I was working (connective tissue physiology), whom I met at conferences and seminars, seemed like people with whom I would enjoy working. The prospects for obtaining post-doctoral work abroad were not good, and at that time I had no yearning to live outside the UK. Another thing that worried me, which I only realised after I left research, was that it was a lonely pursuit.
To cut a long story short, I began studying dentistry. I had an idea that with a clinical qualification, a wider range of research possibilities would become available to me. However, I discovered during the clinical dentistry course that I enjoyed working with people, members of the public, who were willing to risk their teeth in the hands of students. So, when I qualified as a dentist, instead of going back into research and academia, I began working as a practising dentist. I did this for 35 years with varying degrees of enjoyment and satisfaction. Overall, it was a valuable life experience for me, as I hope that it was for my patients.
I have been retired for over two years now and love it. Jokingly, I often tell friends that my main reason for going to work was to retire eventually. But there is an element of truth in this. Even now, so many decades since my childhood, I still enjoy railways and rail travel. I have not yet completely lost that juvenile desire to drive a train. Maybe someday, I might get to ‘have a go’ at the controls of a train. I have heard that these days drivers of London’s Underground trains make quite a good living. The money would be satisfactory but, more importantly, the thrill of controlling the train would be a fine reward.
Have you, dear readers, been satisfied with the tracks along which your working lives have travelled?
RETIREMENT OFFERS MANY PLEASURES. One of these is waking up in the morning at whatever time one wishes. I do not want to sound slothful but waking up early rarely appeals to me.
While I was undertaking research for my PhD in physiology at University College London (‘UCL’), there were no daily time constraints. I could turn up at the laboratory whenever I felt like it and leave whenever I wanted. My timings were entirely up to me. I used to arrive at UCL at about 10 in the morning. At 11 o’clock, I went upstairs for coffee and biscuits in the Starling Room (a departmental meeting place for post-graduates and academic staff; named in honour of the physiologist Ernest Starling). By noon, I had returned to the lab. However, there was not much time to do anything because I liked to have lunch at just before 1 pm. And, after lunch, I often sat in the Ladies Common Room, chatting with Margaret, my supervisor’s wife who also worked in the lab. You can be sure that we never discussed scientific matters over our cups of sub-standard institutional coffee.
By just after 2 pm, I began getting down to work, setting up an experiment. However, everything stopped at 4 pm, when one of us would put the kettle on to boil, the heat being supplied by a gas flame from a Bunsen burner. Tea and biscuits involved me spending another hour chatting, mainly with Margaret. The other PhD students and workers in our lab took tea but were not distracted from their work. At 5 pm Margaret and my PhD supervisor, Robert, set off homewards, followed soon after by the rest of the lab. Between 5 and about 8.30 pm (and on some weekend days) is when I managed to do some ‘solid’ work. Miraculously with this lackadaisical schedule, I managed to do sufficient experimental research to be awarded a doctorate. Then, my life changed dramatically.
Soon after becoming ‘Dr Yamey’, I enrolled in the Dental School of UCL to train to become a dental surgeon (‘dentist’). Compared to my BSc and the PhD studies, this course leading to a Batchelor of Dental Surgery degree was far more demanding of my time. Five days a week, my presence was required at the Dental School at 9 am sharp. The day, which included a lunch break and two brief coffee breaks (if you were lucky), ended at about 5 pm. This seemed to me as bad as being sent back to junior school.
At first, I found this rigorous routine difficult after the relatively laxer times I had enjoyed during my BSc and PhD courses. I remember waking up at 7.00 am on dark autumn mornings and looking out of my bedroom window to see if there were lights on in any of my neighbours’ windows. Often, there were none. To arrive at the hospital by nine in the morning, I had to board the Underground at the peak of the morning rush hour. The tube trains were always crowded, standing room only, at that time. However, in those days in the late 1970s each train had two carriages in which smoking was allowed. Because many people were going off smoking or did not smoke, these carriages always had plenty of empty seats when they pulled into my station, Golders Green. Ignorant of secondary smoking, as I was then, I always travelled comfortably in the smelly, smoke filled carriages. However, by the time I had travelled the thirty minutes to Warren Street, I was always in great need of a quick coffee in the Dental Hospital’s basement canteen before classes began. After qualifying, the early morning routine continued. It lasted for thirty-five years until, at last, I retired.
Waking early in the morning was not confined to dental studies and practice. It is a feature of life that I have got used to in India. Many people in India wake early to take advantage of the cooler early hours of the day. I learned this very soon after arriving in Bangalore during my first visit to India in 1994. For the first few weeks, my wife and I stayed in my in-law’s home. On the second or third morning of our stay, I woke up in darkness. I could hear people rushing about in the house. I woke up my wife and said that I thought that the house was being burgled or attacked. She reassured me that all was okay and told me that the family liked to rise early. It was not quite 5 am. Day after day, my father-in-law tried to encourage me to join him on his early morning walk, to see the sun rise. Eventually, I gave in and we walked around a nearby open space in semi-darkness. It was only when we had returned to the house that we noticed the sun was beginning to rise.
Since those early days in India, I have just about got used to getting up incredibly early if there is a good reason to do so. Driving out of a city as large as Bangalore is one of these reasons. Before 7 am, there is hardly any traffic on the roads, which are usually choc-a-bloc during working hours. Flights to London are another good reason. They often leave India at early hours of the morning so that they can land in Western Europe at an hour that will not disturb those asleep in the UK, where late night/early morning passenger flights are forbidden. Although I can see the benefits of doing things early in the morning in India, I still miss being permitted to sleep until my built-in biological clock gives me its wake-up call. And for those of you who are by now thinking that sleep is all important to me, let me tell you that of late, despite not having any work or travel obligations, that clock of mine is waking me up much earlier than it used to years ago.
Like London, Bombay is heavily dependent on workers who were not born in the city. This is the case for most of Bombay’s multitude of taxi drivers. Many of them came to the city from Bihar and Uttar Pradesh (UP).
During a long journey from Colaba in South Bombay to Bandra, we spoke to our cab driver, ‘P’, from UP. A well educated man, he has been driving his black and yellow taxi in Bombay for well over 20 years. For most of the year, he drives for 14 hours per day, 7 days a week. His wife and children live in his village in UP. Much of the money he earns pays for his children’s education.
P owns his taxi and has a small house in Bombay. Occasionally, his family come to visit him in Bombay. Thrice a year, P visits his village in UP. There, his family have land where they grow a wide range of vegetables such as carrots, cabbage,potatoes, aubergines, rice, wheat, and more. While he is away from Bombay, he hires a driver to work his cab.
P feels that the present Prime Minister, Narendra Modi, is good for India because he seems to be reducing corrupt practices amongst the country’s civil servants. Another good thing that Modi has done, P told us, was to ensure that everyone including humble village people have bank accounts. In the past, state benefit payments were given to the panchayats (local village councils) to be distributed amongst the intended recipients. The panchayats usually deducted an amount from the beneficiaries’ payments and kept it for themselves. Now that everybody has a bank account, the state pays the people without intermediaries and be sure that the recipients receive the whole of the amount intended for them.
In P’s words, the Congress Party leader Rahul Gandhi is “… lacking in talent”
P said that people in UP spend too much time worrying about what their neighbours have achieved and criticising them jealously instead of getting on with life. As he put it: “They don’t care about what they eat in their own homes, but instead what their neighbours are consuming .” People in UP are lazy, P said, they do not want to work; they just want to drag you down. In contrast, he said, people in Bombay are too busy working, trying to make a living, to care about what their neighbours are up to.
Although P has prejudices, which he barely concealed, he is intelligent and knowledgeable. At one point in our journey my wife mentioned two brothers, whom she had once known, and said that they were named after twins in the Hindu myths collected in the Mahabharata. “Madame,” the taxi driver said politely, “They appear in the Ramayana.”
Later, when my wife told P her name is Lopa, which is short for ‘Lopamudra’, our driver immediately recounted the mythological origins of that name.
P, like many other drivers of black and yellow taxis in Bombay, is keen on conversing with is passengers. In contrast, most of the drivers of Uber cabs in Bombay, whom we have encountered, tend to be sullen and reluctant to chat.