JOBS

It's raining jobs in Mizoram. One might say it's the election windfall. Anywhichway, this is when your political prowess and your knowledge comes in. Not your knowledge of your subject, but WHO you know.

Recently, the government took 66 contract doctors as Medical Officers through 3f. Now 3F was a new word for most of us. It is actually a regulation by which the govt, citing the people's welfare, can give jobs while bypassing the MPSC, so that nobody has to write boring exams or go through sweaty interviews. These 66 people's only reason for being given jobs was that they were contract doctors, no matter if you were not a contract doctor because you were slogging away preparing for a PG degree, or for an entrance exam, or working as a missionary in Timbuktu. They were simply picked up on the basis of how long they worked as contract doctors. These officers are then officially on the MPSC panel list and will be almost 100% guaranteed permanent jobs. When the list did come out, it was based on their seniority, but their place of posting, ofcourse depended again, on who they knew.

Now I know I bored everyone with my sad tale of how I hate exams and all, but since everybody who was not a contract doctor was denied the chance of EVER being on the 3F list, it kind of irked me. I craved to give exams, to be given atleast a chance. I remember how my friends from Sikkim, Meghalaya etc all rushed home from Delhi to give exams, interviews, whenever a handful of government jobs were being given in their states. I was kind of hoping for the same thing, that postgraduation degrees would count, etc. But here in Mizoram, when 66 jobs were being handed out, even people in Aizawl were exempted, forget the Mizo docs in other parts of India and the world.

Anyhow, after that, relatives ran helter skelter, trying to put a good word for me here and there. My dad, for one, is a staunch disapprover of favours, but I've come to finally realise that in this world, atleast in Mizoram, it's not what you know, but who you know. It's just sad that all of us have to conform to the unwritten rule in the end :( I'm just hoping the MPSC is made of members of Iron and steel etc, and that they'll demand exams, otherwise, it's goombye to a permanent job for me, and many others.

Aizawl

We've been in Izol since may and i cant say i miss Delhi. Except when i go to the markets, everythng is overpricd here, including veggies. If nt 4 the secondhand marts i 4 one wud have no new clothes. Anyhow i pasd that terible xam i lamentd abt n startd workin here. The medical world in Izol is one big biznes. But the public doesnt seem 2 mind,so why shud we? Besides dis little rants, i hav gaind a lot of weight,only aces the net by gprs,hence d short forms, & totaly enjoyin life n expectin better things!

Ho hum

Studying for exams makes me sick. On particularly bad days, I abhor and detest it, while on better days, it simply bores me. I could be allergic to it, I don't know if there are confirmatory tests, but I do know my mind breaks out in hives when I have to study for exams.

People sit in the library, their fertile minds probably absorbing information like a sponge, while I am dreaming of ways to copy-paste the same thing on my brain, or wondering why God did not make me with an usb port in my skull. I admit it, I am tired of studying. Cramming frivolous details like molecular basis of an obscure disease has done something to the circuits in my head. Like a cousin puts it, 'She's bonkers, almost 30, and she still studies...even in the daytime!'. If I pass this exam, the only exam I am ever going to appear for is Sunday School exam....which I can gloriously flunk, and nobody be the wiser. And there are no practicals and viva voce!

Studying is such a passive-active job. The body has to be passive and the mind active. But my body I fear, is wired in the opposite direction. Sitting still was never my strong point. As I child, I never earned the tenner I was promised to sit still for five minutes, why change now?

Anyway, not to paint a totally hopeless picture, I do drag my butt to the library everyday to study. It is the best place for people like me, who find scrubbing the floor, washing clean clothes, reading the classifieds, the business news, all utterly fascinating than to sit and study. So, I go there, pick a seat next to a harmless looking nerd, who eventually takes off his shoes and blasts me with a 2000 kilowatt of smelly feet. It makes me wonder if all that studying has totally fried his sense of smell while I try not to gag.

Then there are the 'chips crunchers'. Every once in a while, you get to sit next to a person who loudly opens a packet of chips and inundate your senses with spices. All you can do is wait while they loudly eat their chips. 'Crunch, crunch, krrunchhh'. It kills me. Go outside and crackle, okay? I once sat next to this sadistic senior. She opened a packet of Kurkure, ate every piece very slowly and when she finally finished them, she started picking up the masala with her fingers. But that's not all, she folded the packet into tiny little squares, all the while with this funny smile on her face. A b*#@h of the higher pedigree I guess. If I wasn't a typical docile Khiangte, she'd get it on the nose.

But the best ones are the snorers. They put aside their books for a break, put their heads down on the table, and before you know it, they snore! Loudly and gloriously, their nasal appertures and throat acting in perfect harmony to give you a nice preview of what they do in their beds. Everyone starts giggling till a brave soul goes and wakes them up. It provides a wonderful break I think, maybe we could all take turns snoring and cheering people up. I wish we'd get one who sleep-talks once in a while. But that's probably wishing for the moon. Also kudos to other break-givers, like the ones who forget to mute their cellphones, especially the ones with a particularly raucous ringtone.

H has given me the dubious honour of being 'The laziest person I have ever known in my 30+ years'. I accept the title with heartfelt thanks to my family, who did everything they could to make me study, including corporal punishment. I couldn't have done this without you.

(PS: Why isn't Blogger putting spaces between my paragraphs? Editting this blog for the upteenth time, I admit defeat and gladly will look like a paragraph-phobic blogger. I have increased the font size though, which doesn't help much. Anyone knows what to do about this problem?)

It's Christmas!

It's Christmas, and it seems almost sacrilegious to talk about anything else except Christmas. But this year, it's just me and H, in our tiny, albeit cosy hostel room. We have two Christmas cards between us, and the room is so far devoid of any decorations. H thinks it's folly to buy more stuff when we already have so much to take home next year. And I suppose he's right.

Everywhere you go in Delhi, it's Christmas big time. The newspapers are full of it, recipes for cakes and goodies, what gifts to buy, etcetera. In the markets, it's the same. Shops are decorated in red, white, greens; even petrol station attendants are wearing Santa suits. The non-Christians overwhelm us with their fervour for the Christmas season. I guess everyone is cashing in on Christmas.

So as it is every year, and as it will probably be every coming year, we have to yet again make a conscious effort to remember what Christmas is about. It's easy to get caught up in the lights and the Christmas sales, the cakes and the glitter and the songs, but all Christmas signifies is the birth of Jesus after all. I'm a fine one to talk, but here's a poem from Gerrard Kelly...

The gift
We were so glad to welcome him
On Christmas day;
It was like having a new member
Of the family.
He looked so small and helpless,
It made you want to pick him up
And cuddle him.
We made promises, ofcourse,
Said we'd make room for him in our house,
Said we'd alter our routines
To fit him in,
Said we'd take a walk with him
Each day.

But the novelty
Soon began to wear off.
By New Year,
We mentioned him less often.
Daily chores were less of a thrill,
More of a reluctant duty.
By February he was unwanted.
By March we had abandoned him.

We should have read the warnings,
We should have counted the cost.
A God is for life,
Not just for Christmas.

Oh well, Merry Christmas and Happy New Year, everyone!!

Christmas past

Christmas had flavour then, it had an aroma, a magical essence of festivity. It had something to do with the smell of baking cakes in mom's rusted oven. The ornaments were simple, ribbons of coloured paper strung along the ceiling, a few clusters of balloons at strategic corners. My mother's fir tree in an old tin pot stood in the corner, brightly done up with gold and silver strings, a big star ceremoniously stuck at the top of the tree. Christmas cards arrived daily, from relatives and friends and well-wishers. My brother and I would collect the ones bearing our names, a childish competition to see who receives more.

I was, as a child, even more gullible, lead hither thither by an elder brother. I believed fervently in Santa Claus, but my brother put an end to that. 'There is no Santa Claus, it's only mom and dad pretending' . And before I could recover, 'Let's look for the gifts while they are gone'. And so my innocence ended at the tender age of 5 years. I learnt to deceive too. 'Look, mother! Santa got me exactly what I wanted'.

I did not know those Christmases represented phases of my life. Because every year, there were changes. Some were subtle, some struck closer to home. You could tell from the decorations how progress was happening. Cards are passe, real trees replaced by bigger, greener plastics. You could see how dear ones slowly disappeared from Christmases, some died of diseases, some in accidents. I remember a new year's eve spent mourning an uncle. The elders cried, we children huddled together, uncertain what to do when New Year arrived.

Every year, a little more numb,a little more pain, a little more smarter, a little more cynical, a little more adult. I mourn the death of childhood, the glee of being alive. Our worries were so small then, and our joys were so simple. Everyday was an occasion, Christmas and New Year were only the icing on the cake.

(Lungleng thut, inspired by Caliopia's post).