“The project is over but Raichand’s one upmanship on it isn’t, it keeps going on and on,” Swami complained the other day while sipping his coffee. “And his favourite, blue-eyed boy keeps complaining that he didn’t get his due for the project.”
Swami had just returned from his company’s offsite where he had spent two days with his colleagues at some resort outside the city. Jigneshbhai and I had thought he should have returned happier after all the luxuries that he might have experienced.
But his sullen face indicated otherwise. Our company and that of the humble coffee and muffin seemed to him preferable to that of his boss and colleagues at the five-star resort.
“What happened?” Jigneshbhai asked. “I thought you spent a couple of days on a paid vacation,” he taunted.
Swami finished sipping his coffee and looked at us.
“Well, nothing to complain, if I was all alone or with you guys. But with Raichand and his gang constantly around, it was a torture,” he explained, taking a bite into his muffin.
“Why so?” Jigneshbhai teased Swami, with a wink in his eye.
Swami then went into a long story-telling session about Raichand’s endless penchant for taking credit for work done and dusted, and about his uncanny ability to bring it up on unexpected occasions. He then told us about Raichand’s blue-eyed boy who had worked on such projects with Raichand. It turned out that despite making all the right moves, walking the walk, and talking the talk so to speak, Raichand hadn’t granted his blue-eyed boy the promotion that he had promised.
After hearing out all of Swami’s groaning, Jigneshbhai went silent for a few minutes. Swami and I stared at him knowing that something was cooking. We waited for him to speak.
“Imagine if a batsman doesn’t leave the crease and says I want to score more runs after the batting side has won the match,” Jigneshbhai said. Swami could identify with such a batsman.
“Raichand is that type of batsman,” Swami replied. “The one that wants to bat even after winning the match.”
Jigneshbhai and I stared at each other. Jigneshbhai continued.
“Imagine if a bowler who keeps taking his runup and says I want to bowl and get the batsman out after the fielding side has lost the match,” Jigneshbhai said. Swami’s eyes lit up as he could identify with such a bowler too.
“Raichand’s blue-eyed boy is like that bowler,” Swami continued. “The one who wants to bowl and keeps pleading to bowl again and again, even after losing the match.”
“Hmm,” Jigneshbhai remarked, scratching his chin. “But that’s insane,” he said. “Doesn’t anyone tell them that the match is over? That it is time to pack up and go home?” he asked after brief lull.
Swami stared at his coffee cup in silence and pondered over it.
“Who will tell them?” Swami replied. “Especially with players like me, who are more like spectators when they are playing. Plus all this is beyond their understanding.”
Jigneshbhai and I shrugged our shoulders and let Swami be. All of us got engrossed in thought over our coffee and muffins.
In real life, in a number of matches, we continue to play even after the match is over and we have won or lost, I reckoned.
If we have won, we still want to score more. If we have lost, we still want to take more wickets.
Many of us don’t realise that the match is over and has been won or lost, I felt. Hence we want to continue playing.
Raichand and his blue-eyed boy were players of that kind. But they were not the only ones, I thought, figuratively speaking.
While Swami and I pondered over these and other matches, I noticed that the wealthy old man had walked towards us from the adjoining table. As usual, he had been listening.
He left us with more food for thought, when he tapped Swami on his shoulder and said, “When the match is over, don’t continue playing. Realise that it’s over. Figure out if you won or lost. Find a new match. Or another game. Or Retire.”
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