On a balmy afternoon in New York, Adams and I were walking down 5th street after gobbling up our respective burgers. He had a quarter-pound lazed with some veggies and a dash of cheese. Mine was a half-pound with the usual dash of everything and beyond that stores in NY offers as extras. A workout maniac, Adams was forced to keep pace with me as I luxuriously enjoyed my after-lunch dose of nicotine.
“I usually take a medium-to-brisk walk to work down by burger,” he had said when we first embarked on this routine two weeks ago. Now, he was forced to walk a couple of steps ahead of me – ostensibly to avoid the second-hand smoke billowing from my mouth and wafting behind. But, secretly I knew that it was more out of a sense of compassion for his immediate supervisor, whose burger would take much more than a brisk walk to digest. You know we come from a land of shortages so why go short on the extras that the good man at the counter offered? This meant that there was no way I could keep pace with my fitter colleague. I waddled along, not even attempting to walk, leave alone a brisk one.
But, walk we did and chatted continuously. At one point, Adams turned suddenly on to Rockefeller Center. Maybe he noticed that I had reached the filter of my smoking stick. A few days back, he had warned me of the perils of smoking the filter once the tobacco was over.
Adams neither smokes nor drinks, but knew enough about tobacco and filters. He told me that filter tips on cigarettes were made of cellulose acetate. My blank look persuaded him to dig deeper. “It is made by esterification of cotton or wood pulp with acetic acid,” Adams proffered by way of explanation. My eyes glazed further as chemistry classes at school were meant for my afternoon siestas.
Adams did not let up. “Esterification is used in industries, especially in manufacturing. The chemical reaction combines an acid with alcohol to make an ester that is used in everything from pharmaceuticals to adhesives and paint,” he said. My eyelids started getting heavy. But Adams didn’t give up. That an Indian citizen, considered smart enough to take American jobs, didn’t get esterification did not just seem right to his orderly Jewish brain. “Inhaling or touching an ester isn’t kosher. It could cause anything from headaches to nausea, and vomiting to diarrhoea. One could even die,” he said. Aha! That’s why they put the statutory warning on the Cigarette packs, I preferred. Adams had enough and decided to STFU.
We continued to loaf around the Rockefeller Center. I observed the tourists, ever present and in abundance. Some eager, some tired and the others simply bored. Some groups were helmed by guides who appeared excited while pointing out stuff around and explaining. I watched these people with interest, I saw Adams out of the corner of my eyes. He was busy reading something on his handheld. His Jewish passion for work was at loggerheads with my procrastination.
“Hey, did you see those groups? I asked him.”
Adams seemed to come out of a reverie, looked up and asked me, “which ones?”
I made a sweeping gesture towards the general direction of the tourists and said, “Just, any of them.”
Adams looked around, looked back at me and said, “What do you want me to see?”
“Well, tell me what do you see?” I replied a shade testily though Adams didn’t seem to notice the subtle shift in my tone.
“Once again he looked around, turned back to me and said “I see folks walking around and the guides explaining stuff to them,” he said assuming that he got the right answer. Why do these bosses always think that they have the right to explain something that the subordinate then needs to add context to?
I took the direct path and asked him, “Tell me, what do you think the guide is feeling right now? He seems to be speaking whole-heartedly but those around appear least interested. He points up, they look down. He points left, they look right. And I can even see a few who might have dozed off, had there been a friendly park bench nearby.”
“But Raj, I was doing the same when I first landed here,” said Adams. Now it was his turn to feel testy, possibly wondering if the New York noon sun was getting to me. “I would use my weekends to see the sights of New York and often join these groups. Most of what the guide says is bunkum. He adds his stories to history. Anyways, I didn’t care about guides as for the places. So, why are you surprised?”
I was confused. How was a simple observation creating such dissonance between the two of us? We are usually are in sync even with the most mundane of stuff.
Adams probably realised my predicament. “You know what Raj? You care too much about things happening around you. Do not for a moment think the guide cares whether anyone is listening or not. He gets paid to do a job and once done, he walks away to the better things in his life. As for the tourists, you think they want a lecture at lunch time?”
It was my moment of epiphany!
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