Where evolution stalled

Human beings. We have such a proud record to look back on. At some point way back we were able to figure out that sloshing around in the water had only so much utility and land was the way to go. Having done that, it didn't take us too much to realise that the real action as probably a little higher than a few inches off the ground. So we grew appendages to crawl around. Over time we were able to trot around on all fours and pick stuff bushes and catch the odd slower co-inhabitant. But to do any real foraging, we needed to be using more than our mouths, so we decided to "stand up". Opposable thumbs were the icing on the cake about the same time that we shed all that unnecessary hair to save on shampoo and conditioning costs. Fire, the wheel, language...all the good stuff followed.

Somewhere though, we got sloppy. How else do we explain those unnecessary, problematic hard bits called wisdom teeth? It took a lingering ache over several weeks to get me to get an x-ray and an outcome that made me wonder if it was a spoof of some sort to go to that place. There might be people who treat visits to dentists as nonchalantly as James Bond dodges bullets and beds the girl. I'm not one of them. I consider going to the dentist like purposefully placing my foot on a bar of soap in the bathroom. While it's not necessary that you will hit your head on the basin and lapse into a coma, the best you can hope for is a bruised posterior. Having your sibling (and butt of most of your jokes) of 26 years peering over you in a white coat and gloves with metallic instruments doesn't do much to calm your nerves.

Multiple pain-killing injections, lots of pulling, swearing and tugging on the part of the two assailants (dentists) and after the best part of two hours, the offending tooth was shown to me in pieces, much like shrapnel from a war wound. The tooth, aside from growing at a right angle to the others was also rotated apparently, hence all the tugging and swearing. The rest of the weekend was spent holding ice packs to the side of the face that kept ing to puff up by tennis ball proportions. The only upside was the prescribed diet (aside from painkillers); "any ice-cream without nuts".

Beat it!

It's inexplicable. Maybe it's the three hours I just spent winding through clogged streets of Mumbai trying (unsuccessfully) to find a way to office. Apparently, 30 minutes of rain is all it takes to stuff up the daily operations in this metro. But it's not that. If anything, it served to delay the realization. Michael Jackson died today. I'm surprised at myself to be thinking about it. Even more that it's caused me to blog here after a gap over three months.

As I stood in bumper to bumper traffic, I wondered why I felt a sense of loss. I hadn't looked for Michael Jackson song on my hard disk in over a decade. Yes, I did pause the fm channel surfing in the car when the familiar opening to 'Beat it' or 'Thriller' came on, but didn't everyone? But then it also made sense. He was one of those rare breed of freakishly talented superstars who didn't blend into pop culture, but defined it for quite a while. My first album was 'Dangerous', gifted by my parents on a birthday, along with a Sony Walkman. Way before itunes and napster, before Vh1, Channel V or MTV, I remember Michael Jackson songs. Before hair bands and rock became my preferred music, Michael Jackson was the original cool performer. It didn't matter that there were a million other 'artists' doing similar things. There was none more original than Michael.

One can't help but like a superlative performer in a field they make their own. Just like you don't have to be a basketball fan to know Michael Jordan, or old Hindi music to know Kishore Kumar, or golf (god forbid!) to know Tiger Woods, you didn't have to be a fan of pop to know, and love Michael Jackson's music.

S summed it up perfectly, when she called to say that it seemed like we've lost a bit of our childhood today. Suddenly it wasn't so inexplicable, I'm sad because the King of pop died today.

And to all...Great unrest!

Our minds love symmetry. That is evinced by how excited researchers and scientists get when they find something that no one knew was there in a place that few knew existed, that is remarkably similar to something everyone knew existed, in a place, everyone could find on google maps. Take for instance headlines like “Scientists discover a tree fungus remarkably similar to diesel…” or “NASA scientists discover methane gas on Mars…” I’m not quite sure if it applies to other discoveries like “Man finds previously unexplored region on the back of his hand”

Anyway, a team of researchers set out to draw yet another bunch of parallels and came away dumbfounded by the extent of their discovery. Like most dumbfounding discoveries however, it is the most obvious thing. Not to take away from their efforts though, a bunch of documents were recently acquired, all in very cloak and dagger fashion (which made the exercise all the more tedious, the cloak kept tripping them up and its amazing the amount of damage a free-swinging dagger on a belt can do).

The documents in question are the mission statements of some of the best-known organizations of our time. If you’re thinking Coca Cola, Google, Disney et al, you’ve obviously not been following the foremost information-disseminators of our time; namely India TV, AajTak and others of their kind.

I’m referring to the likes of Mongers of Nihilistic Schizophrenia (MNS) , Supporters of Ridiculous Schisms (SRS), reTArded Leaders In Buffoonery And Nincompoopery (TALIBAN).

Interestingly, this motley bunch of organizations has strikingly similar playbooks. Our experts have found the key tenets:

1 The more the merrier. A note to each of our CDRs (Congenitally Dimwitted Recruits). A rule of thumb while embarking on a project is to apply a ratio of 3:1. For the number of people in target area, make sure you have atleast 3 times the CDRs (table in appendix gives the multiplication table for easy reference).

2. Women and children first. Old men next. They’re usually smaller than us and bruise easy. Note that the thumb rule on resourcing still applies. The littler ones make excellent shields against glass fragments, but watch out for flailing limbs

3. Inanimate objects are our friends. They fight back even less than the ones above. On locating ones made of material that is typically breakable, go to town! Here the resourcing rule can relaxed to 2 CDRs to each object.

4 The issue is not the issue. What we mobilize for doesn’t matter. It could be about anything as long as you can apply tenets 1, 2 and 3. If religion, caste, sex cease to be issues, some suggestions: discrepancy in the number of sesame seeds on a McDonalds bun, refusal of six-sided dies to show numbers higher than 6, discrimination against all polygonal shapes in the manufacture of manhole covers. (refer best-seller by Boob Nubbin titled “2001 causes to burn cars over”

In summary, remember we advocate a return to simpler times. Preferably one where our ancestors were still swinging off trees. Any signs of having advanced from there need to be removed. Besides, windshields and educational institutions are excellent examples of 2 and 3. Great unrest to all!

This message will self-destruct in...

If most books and articles written in this century on time-management are to be believed, email is to productive and meaningful lives, what GM and Ford are to shareholder wealth. Ok, so that was a schmuck-like analogy, but it gets the point across. The panacea to the digital evil, these experts say, is to check email only twice a day, at set times and to banish your email client to the nether regions of your computer’s RAM. Of course, they make this point while glancing at their blackberry to exclaim at the latest guaranteed method that will add several inches to their you-know-what.

Its not that I have anything against people who make their money from introducing people to the arcane concepts of calendars and wrist-watches but how has no-one asked the obvious question that if email is to be used only twice a day, what of the spikes in crime-rates by rampaging white-collar workers?

That if it’s not for the promisingly bulging envelope recognizable to MS Outlook users or similarly tantalizing taskbar icons for Lotus Notes and Thunderbird users, why would I and all of my ilk, hang around our laptops? Sure there are meetings to be consummated, numbers to be ‘crunched’ and spiffy ‘decks’ to be made but does anyone honestly think marginally sane individuals can or will do that for the duration of their working days? Who will deny the sweet twinge of anticipation that accompanies the momentary change in cursor to herald the arrival of an email?

It even applies to those emails meant for specialized mailing-lists that usually have two sub-lists in them along the lines of: 1. Accountants against IFRS 2. Everyone else. Sure, they’re not quite in the same league as the surge of adrenalin and other hormones that accompanied subject lines in the days of yore, that went “Pictures of Anna Kournikova” but “hilarious one-liners…”, “Mandatory use of access cards”, “UDF for domestic passengers” all have their place in a day’s work. Not content with all the targeted communication on company email servers, some even like to register on websites to receive minute-by-minute updates of peanut prices in Eritria or better-yet, alumni email groups.

Now, those of us afflicted with elevated levels of cynicism would be feeling just that, cynical, about the role of such emails in instilling work-life balance. But take a look at this exchange not more than a few hours ago with a client.

From I to recipient: Are we on for the meeting tomorrow? (Size 2KB)

Response: Yes, confirmed for 2pm. (Size 63KB)

Interest piqued at the 30-fold increase to email size with less than double the words communicated, I scrolled. Turns out, to the innocuous question I posed, the email system had added:

XYZ allows reasonable personal use of the e-mail system. Views and opinions expressed in these communications do not necessarily represent those of XYZ.

DISCLAIMER: The information in this e-mail is confidential and may be legally privileged. It is intended solely for the addressee. Access to this e-mail by anyone else is unauthorized. If you have received this communication in error, please address with the subject heading "Received in error," send to postmaster1@XYZ.com, then delete the e-mail and destroy any copies of it. If you are not the intended recipient, any disclosure, copying, distribution or any action taken or omitted to be taken in reliance on it, is prohibited and may be unlawful. Any opinions or advice contained in this e-mail are subject to the terms and conditions expressed in the governing XYZ client engagement letter. Opinions, conclusions and other information in this e-mail and any attachments that do not relate to the official business of the firm are neither given nor endorsed by it. XYZ cannot guarantee that e-mail communications are secure or error-free, as information could be intercepted, corrupted, amended, lost, destroyed, arrive late or incomplete, or contain viruses.

WTF?! So, let’s recap. They’re saying – we don’t know if you’re the one to have received this email. We don’t know if it’s what it’s supposed to be and if you’re not the one who was supposed to get this, our lawyers will wring all signs of life out of you. Also, let us know which idiot sent you this and we’ll lynch the sender. Not to be outdone, the recipient’s email system responded in kind with warble of its own kind.

It doesn’t take much of a stretch of the imagination to see a few exchanges to mutate into something like:

NEW (and improved) DISCLAIMER: You were not supposed to read this email. If you however have, please delete the email, destroy the computer on which it was accessed (the viruses on the email will probably render your machine as a big-ass paperweight anyway), set fire to the email-server that routed it and jump out of the nearest window. If not, you will be hunted down by crazed network administrators who will then ping you repeatedly while invalidating all your passwords and then dynamically reduce your mailbox limit to one byte less than every incoming email you receive while only letting disclaimers through. Thank you.

Prejudice and Stupidity

You arrive exactly two minutes to the time your reservation is for and announce yourself at the desk. “4 for Mr. Kapoor”. It is after all the most sought after restaurant in town. As you wait to be seated, you flip through the menu and start to imagine the succulent meal you’re about to have. Just as the hostess is about to lead you in, a person comes up and announces imperiously “Gill for 4”. The hostess doesn’t break stride as she leads Mr. Gill’s party of 4 to the table that was almost yours. So close… you think…but then what do you expect when your name has three of them damned vowels?

The crisp morning air rushing through the windows, the car surges forward on the empty stretch of highway. There is a reason you woke up at 5am, you think! You grin as you feel the horses under the hood begin to warm up to the task. You feel the urge for some good ol’ 70’s rock to complete the feeling. You rummage through your untidy collection for the perfect album. You don’t realize your car drifting to the left…not until you feel the dull thud. You snap out of your reverie in a rush and stop your car checking your rearview mirror fearfully. You go cold when you see the immobile person lying about 25 yards from your car. You hurry to check the damage and as you come up to him you realize he’s bald. You suck in a lungful of air in relief, turn around, and go back to your car and leave, this time, slower.

In my mind, these figments of bizarre logic are not dissimilar to Eddie Gilbert’s story. Imagine having a problem with including a bloke who, with his ability, can rattle the Don?!

How do we explain a broad set of individuals being ok with the idea of discrimination? Sure we label the ones who practice the most traditional forms of it as bigots. There are laws in most developed countries deeming most forms of it as illegal. My fascination is on two counts;
One, with the fact that we even need laws to enforce these ideas that are so blatantly counterproductive (here I’m not referring to the kind that is done to economically benefit one section, those make sense in a convoluted zero-sum school of thought) and two, I can’t even begin to pretend to take a ‘holier than thou’ approach to this subject. Who knows how many of these are so deeply ingrained in my psyche that they don’t even pop up as examples of discriminatory thinking. As a British businessman in colonial India, would I bat an eyelid on reading a sign that said “Dogs and Indians not allowed”? Or as a Middle-class, educated Caucasian in the early 60’s, would I think twice about the idea of racial segregation? Who knows?

It’s like our brains look for reasons to build prejudices, and is supremely creative in coming up with the relevant hooks. Race, religion, economic status, sexual orientation, gender, physical disability, physical ability, geography, language, diction (accent), profession, age, weight, marital status (single/married/separated), the list is long enough to suggest there is something very inherent in our thought processes that manifests in making cursory judgments of other individuals without even considering an individual assessment. Why?

On never losing teammates

Passion. It’s a lot rarer than we might think. Most often its mistaken for Drive, of that there is plenty. The professional who puts in 90 hour weeks, the sportsman who trains for the better part of each day, they’re all driven. Passion is so much purer. The pursuit of an activity or an endeavour, not because of what it leads to, but for the sake of the pursuit itself. The means is the end, in fact, there is no end. We come across it all too fleetingly in our daily lives. At the time I write this, I’m having a hard time thinking of any everyday examples from my personal encounters that can be categorized as passion. And it was one such clear example that got me started on this post.

L Rama Krishna (RK to us) had it. He one of those I made acquaintance with at ISB. I first met him during one of the dinky little indoor cricket matches played with a tennis ball and a couple of bats that had seen better days and also during ’07 application-review sessions. A rake thin structure, a bushy moustache, any guesses on his age would fall in the 40 – 50 bracket. It was his enthusiasm that you noticed, be it when he batted, bowled or even more when he fielded.

It was later, on seeing his email addressed to the student group id, inviting those interested in playing for the ISB cricket team, I realized, his interest in the sport was combined with significant talent and experience at the club level. As is my wont, I set aside brightly burning assignment submission deadlines, trooped off to tear around a mostly grassy field, lobbing a 165 gm leather sphere, waving a block of wood and called it therapy. My cricketing endeavours are all well-documented on this blog, a little too well-documented for some. We played half a dozen games against teams from various companies, lost all except one. But, dang, did we have fun. The game we won was our last at ISB.

Placements rolled by, term 8 parties did too, the next ISB batch moved in. Over 8 months after graduation, RK sent an email talking about his new role on the office of admissions and financial aid. I congratulated him and asked him how the cricket was going, for good measure adding in brackets “(was part of the 06 cricket team)”. His response was a good 1-page long, talking about how good the current team was and how they’d won 3 out of 4 games that season.

What will always stay with me is his chiding opening to his response “How can you think that I’ll forget you? A cricketer doesn’t forget his teammates.” As if to prove his point, he went on to recount, in commentator-detail, a couple of shots I’d played in one of our games.

RK passed away on August 13th 2008. Rest in peace buddy. Here’s to always being teammates.

The Fellowship of the aargh

It is a myth perpetrated by american sitcoms that the end of singledom coincides with the suspension of all acts upholding democracy and the imposition of military rule. If anything the opposite is true in the latitude that it presents towards personal grooming (imagine being single and taking someone out to a weekend lunch in a crumpled t-shirt and and a 4'oclock shadow?), delegation of shopping responsibilities (this is a big one!) or a bunch of others that stem from the 'no return' policy that the whole deal is to begin with. I know there is a concept that fosters separation and considerable reduction of your net worth. Look at it this way, being single is like when you buy an ipod from the mall, the slightest suspicion of a scratch and you make a beeline for the 'Returns' department for a replacement while being hitched, is like buying a vacation home in a rustic retreat, you like the location so what if the garage floods in the monsoon, it would take serious termite damage for you to demand a refund on your down payment.

However (there just had to be one of those, didnt there), every once in a while, there are these activities that you do that are 'good to deepen the relationship'. Roughly translated, this means things that one of you like doing and wants to minimize the guilt of being self-centered by inflicting them on the other. This is of course not applicable when I feel the need for both of us to watch a session of test cricket even though S thinks of a root canal as a more agreeable way to pass the time. I mean, how can one not agree that our bond would strengthen if she developed an appreciation for studied leave outside off-stump? Oh wait, this post is about me as the victim.

It all began innocently enough when a store with a loud red and blue front and an affiliation to a large indian business house opened in the neighbourhood. Apparently, they let you rent dvds. With no limit on the number, pick-up and delivery facility it was not much a decision to make. Our taste in movies would be depicted as two very large circles with significant overlap, illustrated by the unanimous decision to wrangle tickets to the premiere of Spiderman 3 while on honeymoon in Sydney. So, it was a safe bet (or so I thought) that there wouldn't be too many fallouts of exploring the non-overlapping areas on the movie-preference circles. I relied on historic data to suggest that if I could survive 'Sense and Sensibility' with the "fetching young ladies" and the "gentlemen who did not have a vocation" (read unemployed), then it could not be too bad.

Then the trilogy happened, the extended version. Tolkein's book is part of legend and there are many who swear by the adventures set in middle earth. Hobbits, elves, dwarfs, heroic quests, wars between good and evil, undying love, reincarnating wizards...its all there in the 3 stories. A screen capture of any randomly picked scene would make a fitting wallpaper for the artistically inclined. I, however could not stand it! The slow camera pan over the New Zealand vista gets old about midway through the first movie but continues through the length of the three. Thats hardly my grouse with the series though. It is be the surfeit of scenes with closeups of emotion-laden faces with a lilting background score, the plethora of characters, each with their own unique set of psychological disorders, the unending deliberation between any two parties involved, be it about going to war, or to the loo. Most of all it was the excruciatingly annoying Frodo Baggins, who spends most of the three movies widening his eyes in fear, flinching from pain or fainting from weakness while his slightly more bearable companion, Samwise feeds him, protects him and even carries him to Mount Doom (which was Frodo's only job to begin with!). With several hours lost, I'm watching hopefully as the ring bearer seems set to make the final ascent towards the mouth of the volcano that will complete his mission when his path is blocked by a giant spider. What is this? a goddamn video game?! On the other side of the landscape, a war, where a bunch addresses each other as "Aragorn, son of Arathon, ranger from the north" while a seriously large troll charges, club swinging madly. Made me want to charge into the battle to atleast end it sooner.

Am currently trying to find the movie versions of "Sunny Days", "Out of my comfort zone" or anything that documents the life of a cricketer in painstaking detail. Revenge will be mine!

The Ring-Ring

It starts innocently enough. A deferential query from a remote acquaintance, in continuation with an interaction you initiated. One that you have known long enough to converse with at ease. The polite tone, suitably apologetic, when its queries are answered in the negative. Your eyebrows, only slightly raised, when, in a few days, an acquaintance of the acquaintance apparently, poses similar but different queries on your mobile device. This time, the negative response questioned. You reckon the cause to be confusion caused by your inability to have made your response clear, and move on. After all, through the history of civilization haven't miscommunications been the cause of a great deal of strife.

But then, soon after, you hear the same query, this time, from someone you know for sure you don't know. You think maybe they erred in the initiation of making contact, that maybe they were seeking one of their own. But then you hear the sound of your name. And even you, in your naivete, can not think this to be a mis-placed digit connecting to your mobile device. But it gets worse. Even before you've dusted yourself off, you hear the same chimes. You take no action, except to turn down the chimes, so the connection is never made, and things can go back to normal. But then it repeats itself. Over and over. Till you recognize the misshapen set of digits,  as they flash, with an urgency that seems to tell you that the sooner you deal with it the better. That, while they are seeking to make contact, others, you need to communicate with are being turned away disappointed. They are natural predators. Hunting in packs. When one set of digits gets familiar, another one joins the hunt. Constantly keeping you guessing, off balance.

You now constantly live in fear, in the middle of work, during lunch, in meetings, everytime your hear it. Is it them? But man is nothing if not resilient. It takes time, but it happens. You prepare yourself, you dig deep, you deal with each of them, matching them, for patience, for tenacity, for sheer gall. Noting the set of digits, making copious notes. You realise you can't slay the beast, but at least you can cage it.

But you under-estimated them, their abilities, nay, their powers. As you instinctively react to the completely different harmless chimes of your desk apparatus. Expecting input on the document you're working on, prepared for anything but..."Sir, I'm XXXXX from XXXX bank. We want to offer you a credit card....". You freeze. You can run....but you can not hide....from telemarketers.

Technorati Tags: blah, life, rant

The 10,000 club

It has been a remarkable study in concentration and hardwork in hostile conditions. Continuing from the overnight score, the landmark was reached early in the day with a quick dash past a green light and it was done. Quick raising of the beam, two short blasts of the horn and my ride joined the 10,000 kms club.

Excerpts from an interview later in the day:

About the achievement itself..."Its a good feeling, especially since it came on an important trip (while going to work). A few gridlocks and the broken mirror from a disagreement with a pepsi truck made me wonder about whether it was worth it but I hung in there and I'm glad. I'm thankful for the support I got, especially from the service center"

What about pressure?..."The challenge was to concentrate amidst the honking and the annoying beeping of 2-wheelers cutting across making assumptions about my brakes. But I was able to focus and I'm really happy with the result."

Significance of the milestone?..."I never rode for records, they happen when they happen. The important thing is to keep contributing with as much distance as you can"

Any thoughts on future milestones?..."I'll just keep doing what I have so far and hopefully I can resist the urge to rear-end put-putting autos that decide to use the fast lane doing all of 30kph on the highway."

Breaking News...

If you're a red-blooded inhabitant of a capitalist-with-the-odd-but-inconvenient-attempt- at-being-a-socialist state, the television or the idiot box as it is popularly mis-referred to holds pride of place in your life (i mean, a match-box is not called that because all the matches are on the outside staring at it, is it?). Whether it is an oversized cube of glass and plastic with one of those guns that fire beams of electrons at blinding speed or one of those thin slivers of liquefied gases barely thicker than a...you guessed it...matchbox, this gets your attention most of your waking hours at home.

You thrust the helpful end of the electric toothbrush and push the button to get ever closer to being classified as a vegetable, while padding over to the living room couch to reach for that the other brilliant piece of technology, the remote control to comfortingly drown out the...if you're lucky...sounds of the chirps of birds with the odd muffled airhorn of a truck...if you're not...the noises of your neighbour yelling down at the watchman asking why the water in her bathroom taps is brown while another two are engaged in a yell-athon to resolve a dispute over a contentious parking space.

Your window to the world lights up with the flashing 'LIVE' at the top left corner. The screen vertically split to show a sequence of rivetting interest on the left and a suitably sombre-faced official on the right. The bottom fourth of the screen shows two ticker tapes, the bigger, slower moving strip shows 'LIVE'..just in case you have an affliction that prevents you from looking at the top-left of your screen..the smaller, faster-moving strip shows the all the gripping happenings of the world while you were snuggled up in bed, dribbling over your pillow. Considering, the screen looked suspiciously similar when you flicked it off the night before, except with a completely different list of gripping happenings, haven't you ever wondered how do they do it?

Contrary to popular belief, the average news-channel manager (ncm) does not get by with 4 hours of sleep every night. He or she (here's a time when not being sexist pays off) is usually selected before birth (by despot Media Moghuls) when their pregnant mothers' wombs are injected with a potent mix consisting in 1:16 parts caffeine. This means they only take a break once every fortnight, for 15 minutes, to get rid of red film before their eyes. A typical day-in-the-life of an ncm then goes something like:

6.00am: final news byte of previous day done, checks calendar for pre-announced happenings for today. grunts with satisfaction as he sees 3 promising entries; filmstar to be released from jail for the 89th time, the new guy on indian cricket team will be calling a retired cricketer for a 7 min conversation for valuable advice, the finance minister will be announcing the new fiscal policy. its a no-brainer. calls his camera teams to cover the first two. people can read about the deficit in the newspapers. calls his sports reporter to discuss list of ex-cricketers and current club rejects to call for expert opinions on the nature of conversation. Decides to add the channel's technology segment anchor to discuss the cricketer's choice of cell phone.

7.15am: checks email for updates from various political party media representatives. Two emails. One party will be asking for a ban on the internet citing its culpability in corrupting the youth of the nation and also leading to closure of two local video-stores specializing in porn. As a peaceful mark of protest, they would be burning a dozen routers, ethernet cables and destroying keyboards. The second email is about another party protesting against the protest. They would do the usual bus-burning, windshield-smashing and pelting of stones. ncm grins...this was going to be an easy one. commissions a team for live coverage, reminds them to take a few crates of bottled water lest the protestors flag in the heat.

12.00pm: Calls his newspaper readers (not newsreaders) for an update. They've read every daily newspaper and tabloid from cover and cover and identified 52 potential inflammatory statements made by public figures ranging from the ex-ambassador from newfoundland to the child actor from the latest movie. He decides on the foreign author who makes a reference to brown bread as being a part of his diet in his interview to 'Culinary Delights'. Calls his most vocal reporter and packs off a team to camp outside his hotel to ask him why he called for the economic ruin of all white-bread makers in the nation.

3.15pm: the protest stories are losing steam. calls his bank to arrange a wire-transfer to a remote village in a far corner where the recipient walks to the playground to surreptitiously nudge a 7 year old girl (to be named princess) down a drain-hole. The nearby elite army troops swing into action in the 'Save the Princess' campaign. ncm's camera team is already there.

5.10pm: on being questioned the author retorted that "white bread is unhealthy". hallelujah! mob goes on a rampage, trashing the lobby of the hotel. emails flood in from several political parties that they will demand a retraction of the statement or the city will burn to protest the exploitation of white bread-makers. Another party rep email states the concept of bread is against our culture and plans protests to protect the interests of roti-makers. ncm sighs with relief...

6.05pm: princess starts climbing out of the drain. the camera man quietly nudges her back in. Still 2 hours to go for primetime...

Technorati Tags: blah, news, television channels

In search of excellence

It could be considered a waste of nine days of letting my systems power down for about four hours a day. It could even be considered that it was a bad deal if I had to resort to injecting myself with copious amounts of caffeine to fight the temptation to catch some shuteye in meeting rooms and to up the volume on the car stereo to avoid testing a driverless car without the self-drive capabilities. To watch the inevitable unfold, just as it has so many times on overseas tours and to wonder if there is any point to it as a loud ad irritates your senses for the 140th time as you hear the sound of the newspaper landing at your door.

Who would enjoy watching the team they support being trampled over and at the same time invite the ire of family for looking like a zombie through that period? For over a decade I have had my reasons. None of them were to do with watching the Indian cricket team perform. What was it about then?

It was about watching cricket in its natural habitat. Technically, the home of the sport lies in a bunch of old, at times rickety stadiums built around tradition-steeped grounds in Western Europe where one finds geriatric 'members' drooling onto their ties as they sleep in the middle of enthralling sessions of cricket. But for me its soul resides in the set of grounds that have bred pitches that have always been decisive in their nature - hard and bouncy or crumbling and turning, rarely indifferent and slow. Surfaces that support batsmen with decisive footwork and bowlers who can bend their backs.

It was about sporting crowds. Capacity crowds for test matches. The facilities such that spectators come to relax and take in good cricket. Raucous support for the home team, but genuine appreciation for the opposition. Even some cheers when the visiting team shows some spirit to stage a comeback. Standing ovations for truly great performances, irrespective of team. These are the hallmarks of the crowds in a country where sports are very much a part of daily life and not just a means to a borrowed sense of achievement.

It was about the DNA of playing the sport. It is a human trait to withdraw into yourself at the appearance of a threat. While most line-ups 'consolidated' after the fall of quick wickets, these blokes attacked. While most fielding sides looked rudderless when faced with high-quality batsmen on song, they regrouped and set attacking fields.

And it was about the rare individual performance. The odd hour or even session maybe where the Indian team would match the Aussies, punch for punch. Be it a Tendulkar rearguard (of that there are many) or a fine spell of quick bowling from an Indian new ball bowler. The genuine applause reminding you that sport is as much about temperament as much about skill. The 03-04 series does not count as much because, and I've said this in a previous post, it was more an extended farewell party for Steve Waugh.

Not any more. In the last five days at the SCG, the Indians matched the Aussies in every way possible. Instead of frittering away advantages by playing circumspect and diffident cricket, they wrested initiatives and made things happen when none looked like happening. In spite of obvious shortcomings on bowling and fielding, they went toe to toe with Ponting's team and scrapped. The men around the bat even when the batsmen were well past their fifties, the radical fields (all off-side for Hayden) that stifled the flow of runs for a significant period. India's game-plans all but thwarted the Aussie plan to pile on the runs and declare with time to bowl India out. With some luck with umpiring, there would have been a much larger first innings lead and a much smaller 4th innings chase. Luck can not detract from a lion-hearted effort by the entire team. Now that's a performance.

Now, it is also about watching the Indian team perform...

Technorati Tags: cricket, India, Australia, SCG

Veisalgia

I don't know what it is about a hangover that makes me want to blog. Must be the sadomasochistic side of me that makes me screw my eyes to eliminate the double-vision, peer into the thin screen of liquid crystal and drum up crap to post. Of course, sense prevails and I give up the endeavour in about 45 seconds and go back to groaning and clutching my head in periodic intervals. So, the festive season aka 'alcohol poisoning season' is just about past us. Combine that with the odd late night at work and 4.30 am risings to watch our cricket team being given lessons in, you guessed it, cricket, and you have the world's longest hangover.

Before: Driving while drunk is not something I figure deserves a merit badge and so my solution usually has been to forsake my ride for a black-and-yellow. But that means travelling in a creaking tin cupboard on wheels whose drivers maneuver with the fervent belief that they are immune to every law of physics. But given the lack of options, we’d just hang on and hunch our shoulders so the top of our heads didn’t break through the top of the rattletrap at the next backbreaker ..errr..speedbreaker.

Enter, the Mumbai Traffic Police and their edict to make it ‘uneconomical’ to drive while under the influence.
Now: Enter – Party Hard Drivers. While the name might mistakenly invoke images of piss drunk party-goers arriving at your door to offer rides, the idea is simple. You call a number to arrange for a driver at your doorstep for the specific purpose of driving your sloshed ass back home. For a flat rate between 10pm and 3am with Rs 50 per additional hour, you have the convenience of your own car driven by, as I found out, a reasonably professional driver who did not casually add a 100% premium to his fee grunting “night-time charge”. You have to wonder why the 'spirit barons' didn't think of this on their own. Free limo-rides to and from all the watering holes in the city!

sheesh...all this talk of booze...quite ashamed of myself...so now to chalk out my resolutions to get into mountaineering shape, earn my first million and attain nirvana..in that order

p.s: the title means "uneasiness after debauchery" or in common parlance...a hangover

Technorati Tags: blah, life, veisalgia

Terima Kasih

In the days of yore (never knew when or what yore was), hunters and trackers could tell their exact location based on the lay of the land, colour of the soil and vegetation. I figured I'd perfected my own method (besides of course knowing where the hell I was going in the first place).

The theory (Before): Its based on my first interaction with a local official. A combination of the accent and politeness quotient. The former would indicate which side of the equator and continent you're on, the latter, how developed the country you're in. Given my only excursions before last week were to the US and Australia (for current purposes, stopovers in Zurich, Frankfurt and London should count). Its only logical that the difference across nations in per capita income and the associated disparity, population density, financial stability will manifest itself noticably.

That had to explain the condescendingly bored tone of the official at the Chatrapati Shivaji International Airport (Mumbai) that made clear his absolute control over every individual leaving the country's shores or the salivating expressions on the faces of those stationed at baggage carousels to 'help' passengers, who sidle up going "psst...need help with getting through customs?" Also the contrasting smiley "Good Morning Sir" at the local SSN office in small-city, USA.

That theory however died quietly in a nation not unlike ours in two key aspects; population density and disparity in economic development. Every interaction -polite and respectful. The traffic, as dense as Mumbai in peak hour, and yet, orderly and minus the honking. The excellent infrastructure makes you wonder why Mumbai's arterial roads are still 2-laned dribbles clogged worse than Elvis's must've been when he croaked. That said, judging by NCR, four lanes are not an automatic cure for boorishness.

The theory (After): It has now been whittled to saying that if the official is polite and shows a smidgeon of pride in his work, you can't tell where you are, but one place you're definitely not is India.

p.s: Completely unrelated note, the food in that part of the world is amazingly diverse. My list of meals experiences include padang (indonesian), sushi & teppanyakki (japanese), kimchi (korean), mexican, indo-indonesian-chinese (at a restaurant called Queens!) interspersed with Krispy Kremes and Starbucks. My abs hurt from the crunches. Guilt can be an amazing motivator.

Oh, and the title means Thank You in bahasa indonesia, not the swear word you were thinking

Technorati Tags: blah, life, vacation, indonesia

deltoids: deploy

Set piece: A somber room, in twilight glow, save for the center, which is brightly lit with a battery of powerful lights focusing directly beneath them. And there, you lie, anesthetized by the sleep-inducing chemicals entering your blood stream. Blissfully unaware of the millions of nerve endings screaming to those parts of your brain that can decipher the well-being of the body it resides in, that all's not well. The individuals grouped around you have to make the decision as to whether the mass of sinew, bone and blood vessels that form your left arm (A) should be salvaged or (B) has to be amputated. The last thing you did before going under was to pick the team that huddles around you...

Team #1: A handpicked team comprising of a couple of orthopaedic specialists, vascular surgeon, a neurosurgeon, a seasoned anesthetist, with the requisite support staff

Team #2 : A team put together by making random sweeps of different areas of the city, taking care to represent all sections of society, professions, races, religions and so on and so forth

Now, what if you didn't have that choice? That the decision was based on the following reasoning:

• You are a successful white-collar professional who makes several multiples of your country's per capita, hell, maybe even more than that of the most developed countries in the world
• Yours is not a physical profession (e.g construction labor) plus you're right-handed, so its not your dominant arm anyway
• (A) (refer above) means you recover in 10 weeks and go back to your life, possibly rejuvenated and be more successful than ever
• (B)  would mean you would require a prosthetic which means a chance for the company that manufactures those to stay afloat, also for the farmers who supply the raw materials to avoid penury

Fiction, all of it, macabre albeit.

But then how is it, that when it comes to making decisions that sculpt laws, policies that govern intakes into institutions of learning, zoning regulations that determine setting up of commercial hubs, financial policy that oversees utilization of gargantuan amounts of money are based on the overarching principle of "Majority Wins!"? that saffron-painted thugs can go burning vehicles and demolishing property in the name of the 'common good'? Is the democratic way really about doing what's best or is it the blunt instrument of the teeming worthless hordes? Maybe its time for a rethink?

Technorati Tags: blah, life, opinion, rant

gamesmanship and happy returns

"I drive a porsche...what car do you drive?" <drumrolls...thunderclaps...sharp intakes of breath even!> How could he?! The horror of it all!!! ummm....what? Apparently this l'il line picked up by the stump microphone during he 2nd test at trent bridge is the subject of much teeth gnashing. The reason? It was said in a clipped brit accent to one of India's batsmen. As per Simon Barnes from The Times, this indicated the nadir of sportsmanship on the cricket field. He reckons "the combination of vulgarity and insensitivity is mind numbing"  because "is it a suitable remark to make to a man from a Third World nation who is a guest in your country?" He even goes on to call that hallmark of german engineering a "penis substitute"! 

In the process of getting his knickers in a twist, he seems to've forgotten that put together the match fees, board contract and the endorsement deals, the batsman in question would be making roughly about 5-10 times his english counterpart. More importantly, this insult would rank so low in the context of the typical sporting encounter, I think its entirely probable that the bloke was actually considering buying a Tata Indica and hence was comparing notes on mileage and maintenance. I guess when you make your living as a writer, you have to keep you 'molehill locator' on high alert all the time.

Broadcasters have taken to recording snippets of players introducing themselves rather than showing a graphic on screen. So, you have "Ian Bell...age 25...right hand bat" The 1st and 3rd bits of information, I have no problem with...I mean...wouldn't look good to announce someone else's name or to mislead ppl into thinking you're a left-arm chinaman bowler when you're not. Its that middle bit...I'd spent most of my cricket-watching 'career' seeing young 'uns my age play the sport...not any more seemingly...l'il squirts...all born y'day...or the day before...who the hell allowed them onto the ground...oh ok..i'll admit..am a year older...grrr...

Technorati Tags: life, blah, rant, sports

whoosh...

It was a little over 3 years ago I think, that I got my first and only taste of live formula 1 racing. As the 4 cars in the contest pointlessly screamed around the track, I remember trying to capture a few shots on my camera. Graduating from black rubber-streaked tarmac as the fruit of my labour (in the initial laps) to a blur of red/white toward the end, not a single picture could do justice to the hunks of metal blowing past. And its been that way everytime (which is not many) I've managed to think of this blog in these past nearly 4 months, what post could begin to cover your life being unrecognizably different in the course of a couple of months?

Let's see...since I last blogged...the sequence has been something like (since the word hectic in my book doesn't necessarily mean anything with a deadline but mainly unpleasant activity..read shopping...):
Phase I
hectic activity (shopping, planning, packing)...mumbai-jodhpur...being greeted by a row of vehicles announcing it...repeated collapsing from the waist up (that which denotes respect)...dressing up...being fed...papparazzi'esque flashbulbs popping...more dressing up...song-and-dance (think movies with their own 4-letter abbreviations)...sis and friends own rendition of 'the big fat malayali wedding' (they called it that!)...dancing (gasp..yes!)...being fed...more collapsing...dressing up (wearing things i could barely pronounce!)...20 back-breaking (for the horse) minutes...seeing my staid mallu relatives tearing up the dance-floor...camera-gazing...sit...later...much later...more stand-walk-sit...no more single!...the taj umed bhavan palace...bloody brilliant!...more dressing up...posing...being fed...hectic activity...goodbyes...jodhpur-mumbai

Phase II
hectic activity (shopping, planning, packing)...more planning...mumbai-trivandrum...being fed...dressing up...repeat from above (deduct dancing and horse)...more pictures...hectic activity...goodbyes...trivandrum-mumbai

Phase III
hectic activity (can you believe it!)...mumbai-s'pore-sydney...baggage-handler "rt here maaite"...I'm home!...4 points sheraton...view of darling harbour...brilliant weather...camera goes kaput...grrr...being fed err..no...eating...greyhound sydney-canberra-melbourne...the rydges...chinatown...university of melbourne...bubble tea (ok s..wipe that grin off your face..i liked it)...adult bookstores...deli..kangaroo on the menu..err..i'll stick with the other meat thank you...regular bookstores...tram ride (ticketless!)...bronze sculpture of lillee in delivery stride...the MCG! that thing welling up inside wasn't my breakfast...NOW i'm home!...rent-a-car...the great ocean road...2-lane winding highway just for the views...drive back through Yarra valley...back to sydney...last-minute tickets for Spiderman 3...eating...sydney-s'pore-mumbai

Phase IV
married life...thats another post...but.... in thick musclebound austrian accent.."i'm back"...

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placements 2007

The 3rd week of february has got to be without doubt that time of the year when the ISB is at its worst. Stress, insecurity and self-doubt hit record highs and there is a nervous tension in the air that would need nothing less than a chainsaw to cut through. Slight deficiencies in EQ all but completely overwhelm way-above-average IQs into having otherwise level-headed individuals fervently hunting for shortlists, even for jobs that they couldn't care less about. Sanity takes a sabbatical as the evil twins (not the ones in the Coors commercials)...brand and CTC wreak havoc on peoples equilibriums as the desperation to find that role that can be appropriately flaunted (to ex-colleagues and friends) for fear of being asked the question...about why the expected quantum leap on both fronts ended up seemingly as a stuttering step?

Was there for placements and needless to say, being on the other side of the panel was a revelation...to see one after the other individual...sporting impressive CVs...but for those few minutes, concerned about making an impression and trying just that bit too hard. Been there, done all of that, got the t-shirt and yesterday, got the helicopter view as well. Finally made 5 offers, which is substantial for a firm this size. More importantly, hoped to have atleast conveyed that none of those designation/company combinations were the 'be and end-all' and that things were only getting started for each individual of the batch of 2007

And even with the high level of stress and the higher pulse-rates of all the impeccably dressed individuals out there, the ISB environment, even at its theoretical worst... what an environment to be in!

slipstream

Engine taken apart...overhauled..put back together..finely tuned (ok..tuned)...brake lights and other electronics tested...the muffled thud on the side of the tank indicates its brimming...seat set just right...squeal of tires as you keep the clutch depressed longer than it has to be...and you're off on that long drive that you just know is gonna be the most exciting of your life. The almost mirror-like finish of the tarmac contrasting the stark white lane markings as they hurry past you on either side.

You shift up into 3rd as you round that first shallow bend...and woah..glowing brake lights all over the place...you downshift..waiting for the temporary impediment to be moved...as you stutter along with the traffic...this is taking longer than you thought...The early winter months and those of fall are kinda like that. You peer into the distance trying to identify landmarks well in advance so that you don't depend on seeing the bright green and white signs. Just because sharp turns of the wheel are only taken as advise and not commands by the hulk of metal glass and rubber you're in, considering the wind-swept fall of almost liquid-but-not-quite slurries are forming a rather non-adhesive coating of slush on the ground. You try and maintain course and treat the gas pedal like this chick you're initiating epidermal contact with and hence do not know how she'll react rather than the bedspring shattering acts you'd do on a near-empty stretch of asphalt on a bone-dry summer morning.

Just not good enough. A break in the brush on your side of the tarmac..a path leading off in a direction and disappearing into the brush...dusty..rocky...no idea where its going. You look around at the adjoining lanes and fellow commuters...as they try hard to stay awake as the cavalcade lumbers on..that does it...you wrench the wheel...gun it...go bouncing down onto the dust-track..good thing you finished with that coffee a while ago else it'd be all over the upholstery by now...you wonder if the tyres are up for it...you wonder if you're up for it...other dusty roads leading off this one...no maps here...you grip the wheel tighter and turn up the volume a couple of notches...you grin...

Quite the ridiculous way of summarizing my 7 professional months post-B School but then thats exactly why free-speech is such a wonderful thing. One would think getting into a different line of work with 6-day work weeks and bucket-loads of travel would be a handful and one wouldn't be wrong. However, those haven't precluded initiating merger-discussions (or is it a takeover) with a company (more accurately its marketing arm) known more for its refineries than Code-Division Multiple Access coverage. Add to that, getting approval from the top managements of both firms, going on promotional tours to gain buy-in from senior managers , engineering bilateral talks and drawing up the implementation plan for the merger have been on the 'to-do' list and are now on the 'phew-done' list. Lots more remain.

You brace as you gun it to launch yourself over a fallen tree-trunk...its all happening...you grin broader...

p.s: all references to M&A activity (however inaccurate in its terminology) are in no way related to anything in the corporate world...just a clarification

script revisions

Script ver 1: school (grades supposedly important...but really, play more so) --> junior college (grades all important!...play? sorry...best science college in the city, we dont do that sorta thing here..grrr) --> engineering (grades yes, play YES! - slinging leather spheres that veer in the air!) --> what next?...master of science (telecom/microprocessors?)...???

Script ver 2: no...infosys - software engineer (work - good! first meeting with boss...asks to play cricket over the weekend :-) --> 1 year..time for that master of science degree?..give GRE...2270...damn..dare i think of a top 10 school?...boss says onsite assignment..cud be fun...analyst (work - umm..mostly good, play - only 9 months of winter in a year...but otherwise...coloured clothing...gray nicholls...kookaburra...genuine outswing? me?! bloody brilliant!) --> three years --> next? -->project manager (3-4 years)? --> program manager(4-5 years)? --> account manager?..???

Script ver 3: ...that MS in telecom making lesser and lesser sense...B-school?...two years is way too long...the Indian School of Business...GMAT...4 weekends prep can't be good...780 on practice...700 on the real thing..pfft!...apply anyway...get in! --> holy crap! quit?! move back?!..spring around the corner...road-trips being planned...damn did i screw up?!... --> Gachibowli...awesome environment...ditto for the people...work (not grades) excruciating!, play..11pm games...woohoo!...11 months like shutter speed at high-velocity sports event --> placements...take that IT role that sounded promising --> sucks!...quit...QUIT?! --> next? --> analyst/manager/BD/sales or assorted designation in other IT firm?...really?...f*** it! life's too short...management consulting...l'il firm...tiny office...wtf?!...

Script ver 4: ...?

"It takes a lot of courage to release the familiar and seemingly secure, to embrace the new. But there is no real security in what is no longer meaningful. There is more security in the adventurous and exciting, for in movement there is life, and in change there is power." - Alan Cohen

heart says that what the heart says

"You will inherit a large sum of money"...says orkut, raised my arms in joy only to become aware of how its not a good idea to burden the skinnies with unreasonable amounts of load to lift after long periods of time. Am currently celebrating the first-ever client meeting i've had on this engagement that wrapped up in less than 2 hours. Suddenly I don't know what to do with myself. Some suitable pics and alone time would've been a good idea but the glass-walled cabin kinda precludes that. or then again maybe I can just tell any curious onlookers that this is how we consultants think. then again maybe not. so settled for typing out a post in the middle of the day.

Had a 'kool kafe' to substitute for lunch. you haven't heard of it you say? those ads about "dil bole jo bole..." where people hold their thumb and forefinger about 2 inches apart and grin. dunno how the censors missed that. i mean come'on...there's this wedding scene where the soon-to-be deflowered bride turns away from her husband and does that same gesture. as the poor guy tries to deal with his embarassment, an aunty-type leans in close and does the same gesture with a sly grin. talk about hitting a guy where it'd hurt most.

Checked the tour match score and sure enough, a formerly obscure fast bowler has now taken 4 indian wickets (sehwag, sachin, laxman, dhoni). forget sports pshycologists, you need to boost a quick bowler's morale - feed him our team! the likes of Franklin Rose, Dion Nash, Simon Doull, Lance Klusener to name a few would attest to how thoroughly ordinary bowlers are given marshall-esque reputations by our stars. but australia raises the bar on impossible test match come-backs and so all's well with the cricket. damn! those guys can sure play sport!

and now...back to the next deliverable...