Generational break

Brexit has sent shockwaves around the world! In this vote to embrace change, the outpouring of angst is from the young people. After four decades of same old, same old, one might have expected them to welcome change. But no, the older age groups dream of new reality outside of the EU!

Millennials have taken to the streets in protest. Bucketfuls of ketchup underscore the verdict as a "bloody joke"! This generation thrives in Diversity, and on foreign soil. Now they face uncertainties. They perceive the country turning inwards culturally. The outrage is at its becoming isolationist. They fear their world shrinking down to one small island. 

Baby Boomers spearheaded the concept of globalization some decades ago. Then they advocated open borders - but for business purposes. The migration of other nationalities into their world was perhaps never considered. Now they fear cultural invasions, and Brexit presents opportunity to reclaim their distinct national identity.

The two generations, once close because of globalization, now plant in opposing camps. The bonhomie is lost. Bitter political rhetoric stokes differing views of the concept to ignite the fears for the future.

In a tv discussion after the referendum, the hostility was apparent. While a young millennial guest spoke her piece, an older fellow guest repeatedly interrupted her flow to question her stand. Clearly incensed, she vented that, as the privileged white male whose generation had already taken away their future, he now wanted to also take away her airtime! 

From across the world, it appears as if the advocates of the change did not themselves believe in Brexit actually coming to pass. Now that they have it, there is backpedaling on claims. Most importantly, they seem at a loss for plans to consolidate and take forward the change.

Consequences to the verdict, however, were immediate. Many that had voted swayed by emotions, regret the outcome.The markets fell. The currency value reached its lowest in three decades. Investors grew jittery. Some trading had to be suspended. Scotland wants independence. EU leaders adopt a hard line. And then at Euro 2016, England falls to shock defeat against tiny Iceland...

My internal seahorse

My idea of direction is like zero! Most embarrassingly, I have got lost getting home! My mother is similar, maybe even worse, so for years I blamed it on the genetic inheritance from her side.  

 

 

Now, research may be saying that the “problem” is in the development of the hippocampus. This organ, buried inside the brain, is responsible for memory, learning and emotion.

The hippocampus also houses our internal GPS. Inputs from the intelligence areas in the front side of the brain, helps to create the destination point, the “future goal”. Other areas then chime in to enable us to visualize it and to work out our route from point A to point B.

I realize that I fail in chartering course. I probably adapt poorly to space. I have the end points, but memory of the routes in between soon evaporate. I end up going around in circles until suddenly something clicks!

Because of its shape, the hippocampus, meaning “seahorse”, is named after a tiny oceanic animal. The male seahorse is the homemaker, a truly empathetic parent. He has a little pouch, like a kangaroo, where baby seahorses take refuge until they grow up.  

Well, I was always daddy’s girl. Through my formative years, my father would assume responsibility of getting me from point A to point B. That must have led to the underdevelopment. My baby GPS never needed to venture beyond daddy’s pouch! So, do I now blame my dysfunction on his nurturing?

Ice-creamwala

The ice-creamwala parks his cart at the entrance to the building, positioning strategically between cars. He wipes his brow, unloads belongings and perches on the step, like a scrawny little doorman. Day after day, morning to night, he is thus open for business.

The bright red cart is a fixture at the busy crossing. He doesn’t need to hawk his wares; customers naturally gravitate towards the colourful display. Brokers and salespersons pump him for information about the flats and the people living there. Postal peons and couriers sometimes leave with him correspondence for the building’s residents, saving further trips. He can be relied on to conscientiously deliver to the addressees when they return. He helps the local drivers occupy regular parking spots, and holds open car-doors to enable the elderly alight. He calls these his “neighbourly” duties.

He gets his ice-cream supplies from the company factory at least 5 Km away and turns in his cart there at night.  His abode is as far in the opposite direction. He walks a half marathon each day, summer or winter, just to be there. I tell him he should upgrade to a bicycle-cart. He is a little man, his vehicle has no lights, and late at night, it could be dangerous. He shrugs and points to the sky. His will, he says philosophically, whatever happens.

The street vendors have built their own social network at the crossing. The police appear sometimes, to chase them all away. They pack up and leave – and are back in business soon enough at the very same place! They look out for one another, sharing food and work responsibilities. If another vendor has his hands full, the ice-creamwala may well stand over the small coal furnace to dry roast corn on the cob for a customer.

I often see him with a book, a newspaper or fiddling with a smartphone. I once ask him to read the name printed on a letter. English, he first identifies. Try the alphabets, I encourage. He stares at it for a moment, and then to my surprise, reads it out correctly. I ask how far he went in school. He shakes his head. Never even went through the gates, he says, turning up his hands to demonstrate lack of funds. His is social learning; achieved with the help of the people he meets.

Nobody knows or asks for his real name; he responds just as well to “Oye!”, "Ice-creamwala!" or beckoning fingers. His cheery Jai Shri Ram greeting to the world announces him each day - the enterprising outsider, arriving to claim his niche. On the days he fails to be there to keep an eye on things, he is actually missed.