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A few treasured conversations with men

My 7-year-old son calls me at my office when he wants permission to watch TV. Not his daddy. He knows daddy does not talk freely at work, and he may not get a chance to explain why he deserves TV.

Outside the home, my son is different man too. He does not let me write a note to the teacher when he is not well. When boys tease him during badminton, he hides the hurt or fights back, but never shows the tears he shows me on the way back.

I don’t blame him. In most professional settings, we’re not snugly ourselves. We spend energy polishing every interaction, rounding out our edges, and marking our words. I feel men have it harder when it comes to wholesome expression. They fear being downgraded, sidelined, or labelled as less professional, less perfect.

I want to raise a man who is not afraid to be himself outside the home. At least I want him to know his mom tried.

So I took some time to jot down a few stories of men I’ve met who were more themselves than others in similar situations.

They stood out like rudrakshas, in a string of perfectly round prayer beads. Unapologetic for their roughness, their uneven spaces, and their cracks.

We were planning a second child. I was tired of doctors who gave me complex answers with uncertainties. One day I met a senior male gynaecologist who gave me short binary answers.

In my first meeting he said, “Lose 5 kilos of weight and go to the gym thrice a week.” My BMI was 20, so I resisted. His reply was blunt — “I know you look thin, but that’s not the point. Losing weight reduces the risk factors you have.”

My scan reports (from top doctors) mentioned a medicine I should take. Despite my tears, he scolded me for doing an extra scan, and refused to let me take the medicine, “I don’t play with Nature. No medicines, no extra scans for you. Stress is worse that anything on that report.”

This guy is 60 years old. I have this email from him — “Chill out. You’re attributing symptoms because you’re reading too much. Read what Mr. Modi (India’s Prime Minister) is doing. That will make you laugh.”

Finally, when my daughter popped out early morning at 4 a.m., weighing 2.5 kilos, he said one sentence, “If you had listened more, and forgotten the horrors of your first pregnancy, she would have weighed 200 grams more.”

Five hours later, he came to my room during rounds.

“Why are you still in hospital clothes? Don’t behave like a patient. Take a bath, and walk around the floor.”

I find it admirable for a man to be so outspoken, when 95% of his competitors, and 100% of his customers are women. Some women run away when they hear him scolding someone, but he is undeterred. He does not put on a face for his patients. That’s probably why he has more energy than doctors half his age.

At the coffee counter of a media conference, I found myself alone for a few minutes when a tall gentleman came by. He gave me a warm smile, as he poured himself some filter coffee. As is customary at conferences, I said,

“What do you do?”

“Well, I mostly take care of my daughter. She’s almost two now, and my life revolves around her needs.”

Seeing the half-confused, half-stunned expression, he thought it’s best to elaborate.

“Actually my wife’s job is not flexible, so after our daughter was born, our life became stressful so I decided to take up home front.”

“Ohh that’s great”, I said as I felt my heart relax in his honesty.

I shared with him that I’ve been at home for many months too, taking care of my first born, and have stepped out after a while to attend this conference. He laughed like a child, saying, “Me too! It so refreshing to be in a room full of adults!”

In a place where most people were busy exchanging business cards, and discussing matters of keeping score, we both were completely at ease discussing matters of the heart.

He went on to share how kids can be so adorable yet so exhausting. I confessed that one of my reasons to go back to work was because it was less tiring. Over our final sips of coffee, we laughed over the tiny details we had planned at home before stepping out for the day.

It’s been six years since that conversation. Yet I remember it vividly. There was no defensiveness, nor the need to establish territory. He could have said he is a freelancer or on a sabbatical or used another tag, but he chose to share what he is really doing with his time — bringing up a daughter.

A friend of mine is an outlier when it comes to opening his heart, both in his personal life and his professional life. When his wife was diagnosed with cancer, and his twin daughters were three years old, he came up with the most inclusive response I have witnessed in my life.

Years later, the NY Times wrote a piece on him because that’s not how most people respond.

It’s best I quote the article here — “Within days, (he) and three friends designed a Web site for people to sign up to help them. It’s hard to ask people things like — who’s comfortable sitting through chemo, or who likes to cook?Ten team captains signed up to organise researching oncologists and health-insurance options, making home-cooked meals, shopping for groceries, going on doctor visits, taking the girls to school, picking up the girls after school and tidying up the apartment each day. More than 150 friends signed on. Three are honorary grandmas too. They read books to the girls, they bring the girls their favorite foods…”

I would not be surprised if his bosses signed up to do some of these tasks.

The article covers only one aspect of his overall response to the situation. As his friend, through his wife’s illness, and years later, as a single father, I witnessed many examples of his unbounded responses.

He wears his heart on his sleeve, and shows you why it belongs there.

From my interactions with the younger generation, two conversations have stayed with me.

First — a 28-year-old colleague revealed that his sick leave was not a fever, but a case of depression. He had been taking pills to sleep, and despite my being his manager, he had the courage to share the details with me.

The second instance was when an introverted workaholic teammate asked his salary raise be postponed to a later month, when he thought he would deserve it. Only after a long time, did he reveal that his ethic of meeting a personal bar came from his grandfather, a lawyer who moved to India after partition, and lived life on his own metrics. The stories of his grandfather are worthy of a Bollywood script, and yet these were hidden away until the old man fell sick, and my colleague requested me for a longer vacation. He wanted the privilege of being the old man’s nurse.

Some say it is hard to “manage” people once you hear their stories. But ultimately, projects and deadlines are driven by people, and people are driven by their stories.

While jotting down these stories, I was reminded of Will Smith’s character (in the movie The Pursuit of Happyness) where he bottles his personal struggles inside to be the perfect banker outside. That’s an extreme but not uncommon. The other extreme is Dustin Hoffman in the movie Kramer vs. Kramer. There’s that scene when he interrupts an important meeting with his boss to instruct his son not to watch TV.

It’s not easy to be that rudraksha, when the world is comparing you to perfect spheres.

These mindsets have been built over centuries. Even parents worry more about their son’s professional standing — they may forgive him for not loving his wife enough, but won’t forgive him for not working enough.

In life’s juggle of moh-maya, we forget that moh precedes maya. So we end up raising our men to keep their eyes on winning at maya, losing out on the little drops of moh that women make way to collect.

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