Shunted But Not Shaken: Your Guide To Handle An Exile

 

A colleague called me out of the blue. I was buried under work, so I gave them the classic professional "rain check."

"Sure Sir. I will wait for your call," they said, with the kind of ominous politeness that suggests something is up.

When I finally called them back, they were at lunch with friends. "Sir, I’ve received my transfer orders. I need to talk. But right now, I’m drowning my sorrows in biryani. Will call you this evening."

The news was - as expected - unpleasant: they were being uprooted from the lush, craft-beer-filled comforts of Bengaluru and shunted to the back-of-beyond boondocks. Their pleas for reconsideration had been met with the bureaucratic equivalent of "Do I know you?" The powers-that-be told her they had been in the city too long. Their replacement had already arrived, bags packed and hovering, leaving them no choice but to pack their own.

"Sir, you were exiled to the Andamans for two years," they said, voice betraying the emotion. "I need tips on how to manage the wilderness. I’ve been almost in tears since the letter arrived."

As they spoke, I drifted back to my own "vacation" in Port Blair. My transfer hadn’t cared about my parents’ health or my own post-surgery recovery. The System, I realized, is a blind machine—unless you know which gears to grease with networking.

I shook off the memories and told them, "Buckle up. I have a few tips." Here is the survival guide for the Reluctantly Relocated:

1. Work up a “Brave Face”

First impressions are like superglue—they stick. Do not land at your new station looking like you’re entering a funeral procession. It sends the wrong signal to your new peers. You don’t have to pretend you’ve won the lottery, but you shouldn't look like you’ve lost a limb either.

When I landed in Port Blair, I told people: "Look, this wasn’t my first choice, but I’m here, I’m ready, and if it wasn't me, some other poor soul would be standing here. So, let’s get to work."

Day 1 in Andaman. Watching the sunset from the guesthouse window!

2. Friendly Networking 

When you’re a consultant in a new organization, you need allies. You cannot let your "Transfer Anger" spill over into your emails or work files. You need people to support you when chips are down or when you need to host the bosses from Delhi.

I have always been lucky in this department all through my career’s tough days. In Vizag, it was Laxman and Praveen. In Bengaluru, I had Sirish, and in Jammu, it was Manish and Shahbaz. Kolkata had the sanctuary of Choten and Jaidev. In Port Blair, Senthil and Dilip - the officers in Andaman then - welcomed me with open arms . Even Abhi, a friend from my 2012-14 Bengaluru days, had moved back to Port Blair and became my evening anchor. Even the Chief of Staff, Admiral Sandhu, ensured my office after a much-needed facelift in no time. When the Secretary came calling, she was impressed with how we welcomed her, and sanctioned more money to spruce up the workplace on the spot! 

Pro-tip: Make friends with the people who have the keys to the kingdom.

Saviours and I. 

3. Work Like You Mean It

Never let your displeasure reach your keyboard. Ensure those files leave the table before a phone call comes enquiring the status; take quick but judicious decisions. Weigh your words before you record your dissent. Make plans to improve. Write letters of progress. Pay attention to your team’s spirits. 

Vent to your pillow, your dog, or a trusted bartender but never into your files or PPTs. Show them you mean business, even if your heart is 2,000 miles away. 

Happily posing in my cabin!

4. Play The Explorer 

If you’re stuck in a remote location, you might as well see the sights. I turned the Andamans into my personal bucket list. I trekked to Saddle Peak (the highest point in the islands, and the northernmost too), stared at India’s only active volcano at Barren Island, and explored the seas until I was more fish than man.

Indira Point, Saddle Peak, Hut Bay, and Chidia Tapu (clockwise)

I can now casually drop into conversations that I’ve been to Indira Point, the southernmost tip of India, released baby leatherback turtles into the sea, and seen the Sentinel Islands from close distance.  Can your Bengaluru friends say that between their traffic jams? Probably not.

5. Hobbies: The Antidote to Insanity

Weekends in the "wilderness" can be hauntingly quiet. I learned the hard way in Jammu and Kashmir that if you don't have a hobby, the walls start talking to you.

I picked up swimming, kept running, and restarted my blog. I even began writing short stories. I also continued photography, though the Andaman humidity tried its best to turn my expensive lenses into expensive terrariums for mold.

6. Build a “Second Home”

Your family will miss you, and the guilt can be heavier than your luggage. You can’t fly home every month unless you’ve discovered a secret gold mine, so do the next best thing: make your new home so nice that they want to visit you.  

When I shared the news with friends and family of my transfer, I had some interesting questions thrown at me. “Do you need a passport and a visa to visit?” Well, Andaman Islands are a part of our country, and here these much literate people were playing ignorant! “Would you get to meet the cannibals there? I read a news that a Christian pastor was hunted and cooked over the skewers!” I could think of no comeback to that. 

I believe through my valiant efforts, I have dispelled several such fantasies from the visitors’ minds (may be to their disappointment). I had a record number of visitors in the Andamans. Parents, uncles, erstwhile colleagues, school friends, college buddies and even long-lost exes, all descended upon me. It turns out people are very happy to maintain a friendship if it includes a free guided tour of a tropical island.

Some of my visitors in the islands!

7. Leave a Legacy for Yourself

Don’t just serve time; leave a mark. When you look back, you should be able to proudly relate a tale or two to your folks, on a rainy day over some hot tea (or a nice drink). 

In the Andamans, my office was a cramped corner of someone else's building. I pushed, pulled, and liaised until we got a place of our own. I couldn’t  make the ribbon-cutting happen, but I know my erstwhile team is getting it done now. And, sure they all feel proud about what we collectively achieved. 

8. Don’t Kick the Dog 

Rule of life: Never pick a fight with someone who can’t fight back. If you’re feeling salty, take it up with someone your own size—or the boss. Never rant at the people doing the menial jobs. If the tea is cold, be gentle. People remember how you treated them long after they forget the dinner you hosted for them at the New Year’s.

9. Manage the "Moody Blues"

There’s a marketing rule: "If you like something, you tell four people; if you hate it, you tell twenty." Negativity is a parasite. In remote postings, you have too much "me time" to ruminate on perceived hurts.

If you don’t check your angst, it turns into depression. When you feel the spiral starting, take a walk by the sea/mountain/valley, sing a song, or cook a meal. And a word of advice from the trenches: Stay away from that bottle of when you’re seething. Angry drinking just leads to a headache and more anger.

The joy of surviving!

That’s my survival kit. It’s not a magic wand, but it’ll keep you sane until the next transfer cycle rolls around. To anyone else who has been "shunted" to the corners of the map: what helped you survive? I’m all ears!

The Dosae Deception

Just after the morning coffee, the daily ritual began. “What would you like for breakfast tomorrow, Amma?”

“Ask your Appa”, Amma responded nonchalantly, not lifting her head from the newspaper. 

“Whatever you want,” came the familiar, dismissive reply from Appa, when posed the same question. “It doesn’t matter to me.”

He suppressed a smile. To Appa, it mattered immensely. Since his last bout of illness, his father’s palate had become a fortress—finicky, fastidious, and guarded by a long list of grievances. Appa always had been finicky with food, but it had exacerbated with age and ailments. He recalled the nutritionist at the hospital, her face flushed with exasperation. “He’s given me a list of forbidden vegetables as long as my arm!” she had practically wailed. “No meat because of Navaratri, no this, no that... how am I supposed to feed a patient who won’t eat?” He had simply smiled and translated the complex code of Appa’s preferences.

Today’s reason for him asking about breakfast was the house help’s absence. She had taken a few days’ off to attend a wedding in her village. He called the office guesthouse and spoke to them to send in breakfast. By 8:00 AM, the doorbell chimed—the boys from the guesthouse had brought in the breakfast.

Appa looked up from the sofa, eyes narrowing. “What have they prepared today?”

“Avalakki,” he replied casually.

“Oh, Lord.” Appa let out a theatrical wail of agony, pulling a sofa pillow over his head as if to shield himself from the very idea of flattened rice. “How can any civilized human being be expected to eat avalakki?” 

Amma said, “It’s just for a day right? Why make a fuss?” It fell on deaf ears!

A while later, his morning puja finished and his forehead marked with fresh Vibhuti, Appa wandered reluctantly toward the kitchen, braced for the dreaded poha. Instead, he found his son standing over the cast-iron tava, the air thick with the nutty aroma of fermenting batter and ghee.

Appa’s face transformed. The grumpy patriarch vanished, replaced by a child with a broad, toothless grin. “But you said it was avalakki!” he exclaimed, his eyes dancing. “In that case, please—a masale dosae for the first, and a plain one to follow.”

Watching his father hover expectantly by the stove, he felt a quiet surge of warmth. He remembered a version of himself years ago that would have been triggered by this rigidity, seeing it only as stubbornness. But time had a way of polishing edges. He no longer saw a difficult man; he saw a man with the rare, enviable gift of knowing exactly what he wanted.

And as the first dosae sizzled on the pan, he realized that Appa’s clarity wasn't just about the food—it was his way of holding onto himself.

The Gifted

 

The significant other and I had an invite for dinner from another couple. It was the first time we were visiting their home, and thought we should carry something with us to gift them. After much dilly-dallying and scratching our heads we found something we agreed on, ordered and got it in the nick of time. Now, the gift needed wrapping too. I set about doing it, and surprisingly did a decent job of it - a first of sorts! It reminded me of my umpteen failures with gift wrapping - and one particular incident that happened in the presence of a close friend that has stayed fresh in the mind.  

********

It was a gift I’d bought for my niece, and I was wrestling with the paper, struggling to pack it decently. It was already the second sheet, the first having crumpled and torn. My friend, who was watching my efforts with a smile, asked me to move aside and took over the task.

In no time, the gift was transformed. It was a crisp, clean cube, looking like a professional boutique job. He was always relentlessly meticulous. Even when he'd drop into my office, he'd set my disarrayed desk in order—straightening stacks, aligning pencils. He would even go to the extent of cleaning my spectacles, which were invariably greasy, smudged, and utterly dirty.

I laughed as he finished packing, and said, "If I were living in ancient times, I would have struggled to survive and perished soon."

"Why do you think so?"

"Look at me! I have zero survival skills. I’d not have hunted because I can’t see blood. I’d have killed an entire field of plants trying to grow them. No artistic or carpentry skills. How would I have ever eked out a living?"

"Well, if you were in ancient society, you’d have been a shaman of the tribe," he smiled. “You know you have a way with your words”.  

My face lit up. “Oh yeah, I can totally see it. Trying to cure people of their blind beliefs, or their mental troubles!" I said excitedly.

"Or giving them some new ones," my friend added, totally deflating me.

Elitist Eligibility: Matrimonials!

I am generally a fan of the Sunday edition of the Economic Times, specifically for its weekend mix of non-economic news. Today, however, was exceptional. Amid the flurry of election-season stories—insightful pieces on loyal party voters and interviews with ministers—a familiar undercurrent of bias in the larger Times group publications remains.

But as I scanned the pages, what truly arrested my attention was the matrimonial section. Under the banner of ‘Elite Grooms/Brides,’ I found seven advertisements each for prospective brides and grooms, offering a stark glimpse into the social contract of modern India.

Invariably, every single ad was a ledger of social and economic standing—which is to say, a clear declaration of caste and net worth (in crores), alongside the usual vital statistics. While the ads were predominantly from North India, a pattern emerged that speaks volumes.

Almost every groom exclusively sought a bride from his own community. The sole exception was one South Indian groom who was open to any community. In sharp contrast, not one single bride sought a partner exclusively from her own caste. The only geographical preference was one girl who specified South Indian men, again, without a caste restriction.

The Conclusions I Draw

The contrast is undeniable, leading to these conclusions about the drivers of Indian society:

 * The Ties that Bind Men: Men remain firmly tethered to the apron strings of their mothers and the purse strings of their fathers. This preference for endogamy suggests a refusal to risk losing either the comfort of the maternal nest or the inheritance of the paternal wealth.

 * Women as the Vanguard of Change: It is women who are the catalysts for genuine social progress. Every significant, positive change we witness—be it challenging dowry or dismantling the caste system—is championed by them. Their lack of caste restriction in these ads underscores their push toward a post-caste future.

 * The Elite Status Quo: Men appear more concerned with preserving their elite status, not just economically, but also socially. By underscoring the importance of caste in alliances, they actively maintain the societal hierarchy.

 * Divergent Aspirations: Women seem to prioritize happiness and pursue goals that fundamentally clash with those of the typical, status-driven Indian man. The profound strife and friction we observe in society today are rooted in these conflicting, unequal aspirations.

A cursory look at social media also indicates how the general public conducts itself on issues of gender and freedom. With such a deeply entrenched love for caste and hierarchy, it is little wonder that the political pulse of the country leans so heavily to the far right, and that money flows so naturally into their coffers and election war-chests. The country, perhaps, gets the rulers it deserves. Education be damned. Ditto social change and equality.

The Accidental Influencer

It was early morning. Not my preferred time to fly, and I was pacing the airport hall, waiting aimlessly for the boarding call for my flight back to Namma Bengaluru. As I approached the gate, looking for any sign of activity, I felt a tap on my shoulder.

A man, perhaps in his mid-to-late 30s, was grinning broadly. "You look familiar to me," he said. "Like I know you so well."

I searched my memory. Nothing. "I'm sorry," I replied, scratching my head. "I don't seem to recall."

"It's fine," he insisted. "Aren't you [xxxx]? I follow you on Instagram!"

The name and handle he used at first didn't register. "Would you mind repeating that?"

"It's okay," he conceded. "Maybe I confused you with someone—[xxxx]—who I follow on Instagram”, and went on to repeat the name and handle of the person he follows. 

We both exchanged polite reassurances. Then he volunteered more information: "These days, everyone is flaunting their grey hair and beard proudly. I was influenced by him to stop coloring my hair."

"That's nice," I responded.

He continued, observing me critically. "It's uncanny how much you look like him. Maybe it's just that every middle-aged man is growing one now."

I gave a knowing, perhaps 'sage,' nod. I bit back the urge to tell him three things:

 * My grey hair hasn't seen dye in over fifteen years.

 * My grey beard is equally venerable.

 * I was indeed the 'xxxx' he followed on Instagram.

Despite the exhilarating, albeit confusing, compliment of being recognized and credited as an influencer (even by just one person), I immediately felt a profound discomfort. I was not up to being fawned over.

We are all creatures who crave attention and the spotlight, yet it's only when we are near that light that we realize how difficult it is to live under its continuous glare. In that moment, a wave of genuine empathy washed over me for everyone in public life—especially film and sports personalities—who are incessantly mobbed, yet panned and dragged through the mud the moment they seek privacy.

*****

I proceeded to board my flight, and soon forgot about this, as I landed and continued with my office chores. Several days later, I was  cleaning up my messages on Instagram, and one caught my attention. 

“I know it was you who I ran into at the airport. You didn’t have to display so much of airs and deny.  I am unfollowing you”. 

For A Few Hundreds….

A relative passed away while I was in Thailand; my parents attended the last rites. I offered to attend the 11th-day ceremony, hoping to save my parents another trip to Kolar. Since my regular driver was unavailable, I used the Namma Yatri app to book a ride.

The cab driver called: "Sir, would you be booking the return journey too?" I answered in the affirmative. "You'll have to wait a couple of hours, and then I'll return to the same starting point." The app didn't allow booking round trips for outstation travel, but that's what I needed.

"Sir, pay me ₹XXX." The quoted price was about ₹500 more than the estimated cost for two separate one-way trips. I tried to haggle. "Why the extra ₹500? I’ll only pay the cost of two trips." The driver relented. "Okay, Sir. But at least pay me the toll charges additionally." I agreed. The cab soon arrived, and my journey began.

As I sat in the cab, I was immediately racked by guilt. Why did I haggle over a few hundred rupees? I would have paid extra for the driver's meal anyway. I drew him into conversation and told him I would pay the amount he had originally asked for. Relieved, I then settled down with my newspapers.

We reached Kolar, and I quickly completed the formalities—attending the ceremony and speaking with relatives. I also visited my grandmother. At over 100, my mom's mom is still alive and kicking. She has become frail but can still walk with support. She's become a little "cookie," constantly asking which place she is currently living in.

It was time to return. With no books or papers to read, I decided to converse with the driver instead of sleeping.

"Where are you from, C...u?"

"I’m from Hassan, Sir."

"Oh, I thought you were from nearby, going by your name."

"No, Sir. My village is near Shravanabelagola."

"Okay! Where do you live here in Bengaluru?"

"I stay in my car only, Sir."

I was taken aback. The car was clean, with no tell-tale signs of it being a living space. "Don’t you find it difficult?"

"Cannot afford the rentals, Sir. I have a cousin in Kengeri; I visit his house every couple of days to shower and clean myself up."

"You could also live at your cousin’s place?"

"Small place, Sir”. He can’t afford to have me also over”. 

As I drifted into silence, he continued. “We invested all our savings and bought a couple of cars just before COVID. The pandemic played havoc. No rentals, and the EMIs were ₹20,000 a month for each car. I couldn't pay them, and I finally had to sell one of the cars. Now, I’m in Bengaluru, trying to ensure I pay off all the loans."

I felt even more miserable that I had tried to bargain earlier. As I got off near home, I paid some more than his asking price and wished him the best in overcoming his hurdles. I also offered some unsolicited advice about staying away from quick fixes for health and happiness (like astrologers, special poojas, and quacks).

*******

This is one of the many stories of those eking out a living in the big city. People like us—the privileged, unburdened, and comfortable—possibly make up only about 5% of the population. The rest are struggling to make ends meet.

Yet, we bristle when freebies are offered by the government. We want the same struggling people to vote for governmental change while they feel indebted to those who offered them cash and inducements during elections (even as we, the privileged, often stay away from the ballot box).

Next time you haggle with a vegetable vendor, a cabbie, or your house help, remember that you are trying to undermine the earnings of the lowest economic strata. Those few rupees may not make a difference to you, but to then, they do! You want to contribute to the nation’s progress? Then offer a little more. You may not solve everyone’s poverty, but you’ll possibly help one person get out of the drudgery.