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Bobaa, that's the name he has earned for himself in the community, which means deaf and mute in Bengali. We don't know his name, caste, religion or even the place he comes from. He must be 55 years-old, but appears 10 years younger. He earns his living by maintaining our gardens. He can't hear, read and write, yet abides by all the rules of this society.
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He had been striving to decipher the somewhat obscure impression of a fossil fish on the stone slab in which it was preserved. Weary and perplexed, he put is work aside at last and tried to dismiss it from his mind. Shortly after, he waked one night persauded that while asleep he had seen his fish with all the missing features perfectly restored.
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Janine Williams, a partner in one of our businesses and a good friend, recently decided to supplement her studies further. As she stood in a queue at UNISA to register for this four-year degree, she looked around her and suddenly felt a little old. 'I wondered if perhaps it wasn't too late in life to study again and to change into a new area of academic focus. Four years is a long time and I would be in my late thirties, creeping up on the big forty, by the time I completed the degree,' she told us.
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Kay P. wanted to write, and as soon as she left college got herself a newspaper job. The only available position on that paper was assistant to the society editor. A year later the society editor resigned and Kay became the head of her department. She did her work so well that she won both praise and pay increases. But she hated her job.
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I worked with Harold, who was forty-seven years old, for several months. He was worried about being laid-off and not being able to support his family. He was a compulsive worrier. He beagan losing weight, was unable to sleep and was getting sick frequently. In counseling, we talked about the futility of worry and how he could choose to be content.
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Gottfried, another one of the men interviewed by our University of Chicago team, provides a similar example. As a child Gottfried was very close to his mother, and his memories of those early years are sunny and warm. But before he turned ten, his mother developed cancer, and died in great pain. The young boy could have felt sorry for himself and become depressed, or he could have adopted hardened cynicism as a defense.
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One day I decided to go to the beautiful woods near my hermitage, the place where I live. I took a sandwich and a blanket with me, intending to spend a quiet day by myself in the woods.
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I look back sometimes at the person I was before I rediscoverd my old professor. I want to talk to that person. I want to tell him what to look out for, what mistakes to avoid. I want to tell him to be more open, to ignore the lure of advertised values, to pay attention when your loved ones are speaking, as if it were the last time you might hear them.
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"This is a marvellous life, Meena," Dev Anand said to me on our last meeting a few months ago. Adding, "Yes my life is still going; it will keep on going as long as my mind does. I think an individual's mind is a marvellous thing. I truly believe that if your mind is strong, your body tries hard to keep pace with it. If you are a creative person, then your mind gets sharper with age. My mind is very sharp and I am happy for that."
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I want to introduce the idea of who a professional is through a man whose life is dealing with dead bodies. Unclaimed dead bodies. This is not someone who is conventionally associated with the term 'professional'.
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