I’m in advertising Рwhich by default is a volatile business. Especially because the pace is hectic and the demands on your time, always on stretch mode. It’s a playing ground where tempers fray, decibel levels go up and you just might say or do something that you’re going to regret.

Something like that happened last year with a client, who is known to shoot four-letter exclamatories all the time. Harmless really, but can be disturbing when you’re wearing thin on patience. Over the years, his own employees had learnt to ignore his profanities – all of it just “bounced off their walls” as far as they were concerned.

So, on a particular job when he went ballistic without reason, I probably reacted with a little bit of aggression. It was just a teeny-weeny snap back, but the client lost face on his own turf.

And since the event was unprecedented in terms of an agency response, it didn’t go
down too well. The meeting was hurriedly terminated and within a fortnight Рyou’ve got to believe this – the account was moved to another agency.

It was not a large account, so the arithmetic in terms of a loss didn’t weigh us down; but I had lost a friend. Here was someone who took my advice on anything from dreams to diapers; someone who loaned me some of the best books I have ever read. A client turned friend, who planned meetings around one in the afternoon, so we could stay back for lunch.

It wasn’t just the shifting of the account Рthe face-off seemed to have long term withdrawal symptoms. If we met at movie theatres, one of us made sure we were not in the same air space. If we walked into the same lane at parking lots, one of us side-stepped to do a long and meaningless detour. (When you bump into someone at a blind corner, even a stranger comes up with a smile.)

As write this, I look at my desktop calendar and notice that it is the 27th of December, 2009. And I wince momentarily when I realize that we didn’t send each other cards for Christmas. We had even deleted each other’s names from our address books.

As reality dawns and wisdom makes a sneak appearance, I wonder if I should add an important task to my list of new year resolutions. I wonder if I should just call my friend and make peace – to rekindle a relationship that did mean something to both of us.

I know that it just takes one person to make that move Рand the other will invariably greet you with open arms and a warm smile. Quite simply, it was a question of one step forward, one move, one gesture… one person picking up the phone and saying “Happy New Year…now let’s just put this behind us in 2010.”

And that was the first thing on my list of resolutions.

As the clock struck 12 on New Year’s, I think I was one of the first to call my friend. He told me he was so happy, that he actually had tears in his eyes. We met the next day for lunch and opened a whole new chapter for 2010 and beyond.

Importantly, we decided to keep business out of it.

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Sharath Bhat is a freelance copywriter in from Bangalore, India. Interested in Creativity & Innovation, Content Management & Blogging,  Technology & Computers. Fascinated by the limitless expanse of the internet, where you can share ideas across time zones – in a world without boundaries. He blogs at www.indianink.in.

Before you wonder what this is all about, let me quickly explain that this is not a primer on killing your grandmother – the poor dear.

I have a recruiter friend in Canada who used to come down regularly to hire young engineers from India. At the end of each visit he looked distraught and at wits’ end, over the kind excuses young job aspirants came up with. Especially when they missed an interview date, or didn’t take up a firm offer they had accepted.

The excuse that topped the list was, “Sir, my grandmother died.”

Strangely, he said that grandmothers were the most dispensable in the family. Out of maybe 50 “grandparent died” excuses, one or two picked on their grandfathers. One of them actually said his dog died and the entire family was in mourning. Things can be low, when you lose a pet, but you can’t miss out on an important job interview because of that. Especially an opportunity that could take you to a new country, a whole new experience.

Another HR friend who shares the frustration had this to say: “Unfortunately, most young job aspirants take this casual escape route well into their jobs. The whole objective is to get out of a sticky situation and any excuse will do, as long as it sounds deathly serious.

Are there any lessons to learn from this?

I think a lot of the blame here – sorry about this, parents – lies with us. Our kids can’t give us a grandmother story, but they can easily come up with a hundred (questionable) excuses for low attendance at college, or doing poorly in exams.

It’s important to teach children early in life to accept difficult situations and face up to consequences or repercussions. A quick escape route is not the kind of behaviour pattern they should grow comfortable in.

I must add here that my cook is the most “in your face” when it comes to excuses for not turning up. And she’s got the most complex family tree you’ve never seen. She’s already finished 16 aunts, 22 uncles and yes … she’s killed her grandmother six times over the last five years. (Must check out the nine-lives theory on grandmothers.)

I was at this ice cream parlor with some friends the other day and saw a young, indulgent mother with two little kids – who were going berserk choosing some very exotic looking scoops and toppings. Just the excitement on their faces was an image framed for my photo gallery.

Then something else caught my eye – there were three children outside the large glass window – probably from the construction site next door. It’s so hard to describe the look on their faces, as the kids inside finished cone after cone after cone. Mouths wide open, eyes transfixed and envy that only a child on the other side of the window would know.

I suddenly noticed that the young mother had also seen them; she invited them inside – much to the discomfort of the parlor owner. The young mother then let them take their pick from the magical glass-topped freezer. The look on their totally befuddled faces is another image I’d treasure for life.

The lady saw my amused look and came by our table to chat with us. “I’m not sure if I have done the right thing,” she said. “These kids will probably expect other mothers who come to this parlor to buy them ice cream. I felt so guilty, each time I ordered something for my kids.”

Later in the day, I began to wonder. That lady’s gesture could actually be stretched to a wider canvas. If the children could help clean the interiors of the parlor, there could be little rewards first and then maybe more responsible work – something that could give them an opportunity to earn a little money. Perhaps, go to evening school as well.

I know this will infuriate those who could view this as a perfect case for child labour. I can see them running a yellow highlighter on the paragraph above, with some pretty strong comments.

But I choose to think differently on this.

As long as children are not exploited – not given work that is physically taxing – not abused – not made to work for long hours … it is perfectly okay by me. Especially if you can give them an opportunity to earn a little money and know that there’s something to do in return. And not expect every mother who walks into the parlor to buy ice cream for them – just because they feel bad or guilty.

Just my thoughts on a reward system that can actually open doors – for kids on the street and probably nowhere to go.

According to her, the generation gap is a convenient excuse to say “NO” to just about anything she wants, or wants to do. She also thinks 50-year-olds can be light years away from teenage crushes and fond glances that find their way into greeting cards.

So, even before I can recover from the recessionary spiral of January, we’re headlong into month two, running smack into Valentine’s. The girls are like goggle-eyed teenagers surrounded by fireflies, and the jabber-jabber on the phone threatens to spike my phone bills once again.

Each girl in their group is profiled with the most attention she’s likely to receive from suitable boys. And their probability assessments could teach analysts of the presidential elections, a thing or two. This is when the applied mathematics they learn is put to the ultimate test – much to the discomfort of their teachers.
 
But there has been one aspect to Valentine’s Day that gets me tuned in. Unfailingly, every year, there’s one close friend of Radhika’s who patiently answers all my questions, and nudges my understanding of teenagers to a new level of enlightenment.

This year, Ritu had a new story. She told me about a friend in her neighborhood whose grandparents were separated for years – at least thirty years from what she gathered. I presumed Trevor and Edith were around seventy and wondered how tortuous it must be to remain decidedly distant – for years on end. I then learnt that for the last ten years Trevor sent a huge mush of roses and the biggest cards money could buy, for Valentine’s. He did that year after year after year, only to draw a blank.

Ritu then let me into another secret; the girls were planning to bring Trevor and Edith together for Valentine’s. First, they would design ten return-cards meant for Trevor – for each year he had so fondly wished that the tide would turn. Next, they worked on at least 20 ways to coax and convince Edith to relent – just that teeny, weenie bit.

This was so touching, I found myself numbing to the growing lump in my throat.

Their plans included a cozy candle-lit dinner at a restaurant nearby and a specially decorated car – arranged by one of the girls – to take the couple to an ice cream parlor they liked to visit when they were first married.

While their game plan was praiseworthy in terms of good intentions, a negative response could be devastating for Trevor. I had to play my own little role to ensure that all of this wasn’t merely child’s play.

I secretly obtained Edith’s address and went over on a surprise visit. She was a good math teacher and my excuse to go over was to ask her if she could help my daughter improve her equation with the subject, if not her grades. Half way through a discussion on the lack of concentration among teenagers, I guided the conversation to what the girls had planned and how they were innocently treading on thin ice.

I told Edith that I was obviously trespassing private space and was risking her wrath and what the girls had in store for me, if they knew I had let the cat out of the bag. I also explained to her that this was one concerned adult who wanted to prevent a rebound of emotions, if something went wrong.

For all that I said, there was a deathly silence. Edith had a pained expression on her face that seemed to look far into the distance. When she regained composure, Edith took me aside, to open a large brown box with a crisply ironed wedding dress that had retained its vintage pride.

 “I knew something like this would happen this year and have my answer ready,” she said. “NO. I won’t be a stick-in-the-mud, this Valentine’s.”

(That evening, I announced a special party for the girls on the 13th of February that was on the house. And the boys were welcome.)

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Sharath Bhat is a freelance advertising writer from Bangalore. He blogs at www.indianink.in.