Saturday, January 15, 2022

Gardener

 He is punctual. He comes once a week. Any change in his schedule - these are frequent - is notified in advance. In the old but stylish T-shirts of one of his bosses, he cuts a smart figure. He used to come on a motorbike. It has now been claimed by a son. He uses a ladies bicycle. As soon as his work in our house is done, he goes to the common toilet on the ground floor. He usually has his earphones on then. They are attached to his mobile phone. Many a time, they are in place while he is at work in our tiny balcony garden. While leaving our premises, he cheerfully waves out to the watchman. If the maid is in, he invariably talks to her. Proper gupshup. Unfortunately, their timings do not coincide. Once out of the yellow arch, he turns to the right and stops. The wine shop beckons. He quickly picks up a small bottle. It is wrapped in black plastic. He puts it inside his trouser pocket and is off.

The work rarely lasts beyond 15 minutes. He likes to prune the foliage and water the plants. Once in 3 weeks, he digs up the soil at the bottom. Anything more must be explained to him carefully. He hates it when we suggest rather drastic pruning. It sometimes involves chopping off branches which bear buds and then he is distraught but has now learnt to curb himself. On his own, this is all that he does. In the past, he used to take out the soil from the large cement pots and rearrange it. That is now stopped. He does not buy new saplings because he does not go to nurseries. He used to but not anymore. He follows our instructions and on his own, he applies manure once in a year, sprays pesticides about 4 or 6 times in a year and colours the pots in a dark shade of maroon brown before the rains come.

"I should have retired long ago. My children keep asking me to stop the work." He has told us more than once. His manner is that of a long suffering fellow who is doing us a great favour. I once asked him to plant the saplings I had bought in the society garden. He made a face and said, it was not his work. "Society finds it difficult to get a gardener. You only have to plant the saplings and the society will pay you." I told him and then he reluctantly did the job.

He is fond of stretching the achievements of his children and their possessions. I don't need anything now, his manner suggests and then quickly he asks my mother for an advance against his wage for his visit to his village.

I once picked up a nice orange dahlia bush in an exhibition. At home it did not grow properly. It bore just flowers and then it wilted away. After the plant died, the gardener showed me a small plastic cup that had been put under it in the pot. That cup had prevented any growth or root formation.

"This is what big nurseries do nowadays."

"I did not know. It was an expensive plant. Why did you not tell me before?" I was angry.

He became evasive.

"It is your job to attend to these matters. Why did you not take it out from its pot and plant it in one of ours? Or at least, you could have taken out the small cup from its pot." I elaborated in anger.

No reply, no reaction. He was completely unruffled. 

Monday, January 3, 2022

Addendum

 I should only add that the project involved writing letters to Dr. Pocock on the part of the respondents. That meant a lot of trouble that was put up with cheerfully!

Sunday, January 2, 2022

Mass Observation Project

 The Economist Christmas issue of 18 December 2021 contains a delightful article on the above.

The project in question is a research project started by Prof. David Pocock, an anthropologist (specialization: Gujarati community)of University of Sussex, UK and it has continued after his retirement and even his death in 2007.

The objective of the project is to preserve for posterity the lives and views of common people. It also aims at tracking in microcosm the effects of political, economic and social changes in society. Prof. Pocock announced in New Society in 1981 that he was seeking correspondents from all walks of life, the more humdrum, the better. "The more ordinary people think they are, the more interesting their experience to us...All that is required is a willingness to write to us both about personal experience and things seen and heard in daily life."

Other professors raised questions about the lack of a sampling frame, questionnaires and context. Not rigorous research, they felt. Dr. Pocock ignored them. He was convinced that the material he would collect would help future historians to fill the gaps left by other studies and surveys and draw a full picture of our society and our times. He got very enthusiastic response from people.

Dr. Pocock would issue directives or topics for writing. He began with inflation and expanded the scope of subjects. He did not touch sex or intimate relations, however. An inmate of a prison - he had committed white collar crime - wrote regularly and he eventually became a prisons correspondent of The Guardian!

The university library has created special place for the archives of this project and other faculty members regularly bring their students to go through the letters. University of Sussex is known for its innovative and proactive approach to academic life.

Dorothy Sheridan who was Dr. Pocock's library assistant has continued the project and has expanded the scope of subjects or directives. About two-thirds of the writers are now women who write freely on topics considered taboo. During Covid 19 lockouts, the response went up considerably. 

MOP has been continued after the retirement of Ms. Sheridan. Respondent's interest has not abated. The idea that they are making or contributing to history tickles them and the archives keep growing.

Is this not better than the dry-as-dust sample surveys and number crunching in them that goes by the name of research in our universities? Nobody looks up the theses save an occasional PhD. student. They have no worth beyond the degrees they helped confer.

Sthal, a Marathi movie

  I saw this movie yesterday by actually going to a movie theatre. It is located in a big mall and the entire ambience of the place makes yo...