The Train Window

At 3, it was this dark, frightening hole through which a red-eyed, long-toothed monster would come and gobble me up if I did not drink that glass of milk.

At 6, it was a useful diversion for my mom who was bored with my constant “Mummy, can I sleep in the upper berth?” queries. A moving screen of continuous entertainment for a wide eyed kid who was more afraid of the heavy glass screen falling and chopping off his finger than of the red-eyed, long-toothed monster.

At 9, it was this wonderful opening through which aromatic coffee (“kids should drink milk, it is healthier”), mouth watering medu wadas (“God knows what oil he used… you will get a stomach upset”) and delicious icecreams (“you will get a bad cold… ice creams are a strict no-no”) wafted by temptingly out-of-reach.

At 12, it was the object of a terrible fight between me and my younger brother, as to who will get to sit near it. A fight which ended with, “You are the elder brother. You have had your share of sitting beside it. Now, let your brother sit there”, and made me realize that elder brothers were supposed to be mature and that it was certainly not acceptable to kick your brother over a mere seat.

At 15, it was the sentimental space through which I looked longingly at my mom’s face as the train slowly snaked away from the station, leaving me behind to survive in this big bad city, feeling so lonely in that crowded platform.

At 18, it was the slot through which my dad passed a 500 rupee note “for expenses”, just as the train was leaving the station, in spite of my repeated “I don’t want money”. (yeah, yeah, there was a time when I used to say that!!!). I suddenly felt all grown up and responsible, handling so much cash.

At 21, it was the peephole through which I could ogle at the few good looking chicks on the platform, dreaming that one of them would come and sit in front of me, we would talk, and things would happen, and I will live happily ever after.

At 24, with a nice job and some spare cash to sit in a more expensive compartment, it is just a dark glass pane with a curtain which cuts you off from the stench and filth of life’s realities.

I HATE V-day...

Today they say is the day of St. Valentine
but all i can do is groan and whine...
b'coz i currently don't have a crush,
i sooo want to, but i've gotta rush
have to reach office by half past nine!

so, while ppl plan a mushy date
i sit in office very very late
no one to cosy up to and cuddle
but for an excel model which has me in a muddle
somehow, i still end up feeling great!

occasionally, i fantasize late into the night
of having a fiercely contested pillow fight
she'll aim, she'll swing and she'll miss
and when I win, she'll give me a kiss...
and say "darling, turn off the f***ing light!"

everyone builds castles in the air,
even i dream of being 'one of a pair'
sometimes i ask, "God, dear pal...
hope you haven't forgotten to create my dream gal!"
she has to be beautiful, not necessarily fair...

But God said "u write such bad rhyme"
and in My books, that's a crime...
so, I curse you, in this life,
not you, but your mom will find you a wife
and oh, "better luck next time!"
*************************************************************************
PS: For those who do have a Valentine, enjoy your day!

Anatomy of a Company Presentation

Fairly Longish... but then brevity was never my strong point...

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‘Tis Placements Season in b-schools, and I have been attending a lot of Company presentations. Now, there are good companies and bad companies, MNCs, Indian giants, small start-ups and what not… they may be banks, i-banks, consults… they may be bitter rivals or they may never have heard of each other… but their presentations are so similar that you can’t tell one from the other…

Let’s discuss the recipe for a typical company presentation:
Ingredients:
One HR chick (seductively dressed), who has come b’coz she has nothing else to do;
Two business heads (properly suited-booted), who have been forced to come in spite of their tight schedules;
One or two alumni from the same institute (preferably seniors who have just joined and hence recognizable to the current batch);
One Windows Power point presentation and One Windows Media File.

Process:
Call the students at 7.00 in the evening (most preferable time since most b-schoolers wake up at 2.00 pm and hence are at their most active phase), but arrive at 7.30. If you are on time, you are not good enough. The HR has to come in first (she is the ‘face’ of the company), while the business heads make a grand entry a few minutes later. There has to be an urgent meeting which got delayed and hence one of your business heads couldn’t make it on time. There has to be a meeting in an exotic foreign locale (Mauritius, Cayman Islands et al), and hence another senior person who was supposed to come had to rush to save the world. Make the perfunctory excuses about bad traffic which delayed the team. Quotes like “Even a Merc can’t reach you on time in this bloody traffic” subtly convey that the gullible students can dream on about owning Mercs once they join in.

After the customary introductions by the harried Placement Committee members (who sometimes manage to forget the names!!!), you are ready to go. The HR steps out to fiddle with the computer, and the projector decides to do a Murphy. Make a joke about how technology is more an irritant than any help. The already tense Placom member hurries to fetch the Computer expert, while you carry on a light conversation with the group of assembled students. This is an ideal opportunity for the senior business heads to scan the room and pick the most ‘attractive’ faces whom they would like to boss over.

Computer expert comes and points out that the projector is not plugged in. Pity the room full of ‘thought leaders’ couldn’t make that connection. Anyways, now the stage is set.

Yes, Ladies and Gentlemen, the presentation has to start with a ‘son et luminaire’ (audio visual for the idiots). The video has a husky voice explaining how the great company came into existence (“We have been in India since 1800, but we actually started serious operations last year”), how it has grown over the years (“Our profit has grown by 1500%, from 100 bucks to 1600 bucks"), what its businesses are (“we are a full service company and offer end-to-end solutions, to end all our clients’ businesses") and how it is one up on the competition (“we have the largest bank network in Chembur East”, and “we did the largest coffee company in Karnataka acquisition deal”, and “we led the largest cross-border debt syndication of a company in Ouagadougou”… you get the hint).

Thankfully, the lights are dimmed during this ego trip, and hence the poor b-schoolers catch up on lost sleep. But the Act-II of this video wakes them up and how!

Yes, Act-II has to have the recently joined Management Ass-ociates speak out on their wonderful experiences since joining this dream company. Forget the fact that those buggers joined this b’coz this was the only company that would even look at them. It is their chance to be ‘on camera’ and they will have their say. They talk about the wonderful training programs (“The best in the industry”), the foreign trips to interact with colleagues across the world (“they took us to Sri Lanka”), the responsibilities that they got on Day One of the job (“I got to draft an email for my boss”) and so on. When you put bad actors, and cheesy punch lines, the result is as appetizing as the beetroot-sambhar that yours truly once made…

Anyways, after this extended video, we come to the actual presentation. A small repetition of the company history, businesses and a bashing of the competition has to be there. Then, we come to the second most important slide – the skill sets. It has always amazed me that all companies want team players (“but look at the individual CGPA”), want ethically sound people, ambitious and self driven and competitive and customer-focused, with a service orientation… in short, superman and spiderman and he-man and all other X-men rolled into one.

Then, the business head steps forward. He goes on and on and on and on about his experiences with this wonderful company and what can we expect once we join his team. Thankfully, this guy happens to be the most sensible part of the entire presenting team, and hence is atleast bearable.

Then, the alumni of our own institute step forward, to resounding applause. They also deliver well-rehearsed lines about the great experience, the wonderful pay, the work culture and how the decision to join XYZ Company was the best they ever made. If the HR had asked them to bend over and pull down their pants, they would have gladly done that (and to think I might be doing the same thing next year, sob sob).

Then, slowly, the HR steps forward again. Ah, the beautiful HR lady… this is the company’s brahma-astra… after all this crap, if you were ever having any doubts as to whether to join this company or not, one look into her eyes and you are on your knees begging for a job.

But, then, she has not come up to let you ogle at her. Because there is a set of figures much more attractive behind her… yes, my friends, the all-important, the one part of the presentation which makes every TDH sit up and rub his eyes – the SALARY SLIDE. Now, Einstein might have wrote about Theory of Relativity, and Hawkins about black-holes, but even the greatest minds in the history of this universe cannot decipher the black-hole called CTC. It is the one number that can make an MBA stop dead in his tracks and shiver in nervous confusion. Anyways, after displaying the magic table for half a millisecond, the HR moves to the next slide – “ANY QUESTIONS???”

Now, for Act-III in this wonderful play… the Q&A round… this is a treat in itself…
“What is the career progression?” (i.e. “How long before I can hand out cards that say, “VP-Kurla East Branch?”)
“We have a flat structure, and so, u will cover the eighty levels to become head of business within the next thirty years.” (“you know and we know that you are gonna jump jobs in six months, so why bother with this crap?”)

“What is the mobility, i.e. to shift from one function to another?” (i.e. “I want to do exotic derivatives and you are giving me cheque clearance. How soon before I start gambling the banks’ money in the forex market?”)
“We encourage our employees to shift roles, but you must understand that you must have the necessary skills and a vacancy must arise in the specific department.” (i.e. “You know zilch about Black Scholes and do you think we are mad to trust you with a million dollar throw of dice? The vacancy will arise just 2 weeks after you have been assigned a project from which you cannot be shifted.”)

“What is the selection process?” (i.e. “How many crap GDs and interviews do I have to go through before I land up at your door?”)
“We have a fairly simple process. We invite CVs, ask you to apply online, take a psychometric test, fill up an application form and then we might have a few rounds of interviews.”
(i.e. CVs for our records to know who we are hiring, psycho test so that we can select a few through random number simulation and reply to the others saying, “You do not fit into the profile that we are looking for”, application form full of essays so that we might read and chuckle at your funny responses to strengths, weaknesses and career aspirations, and interviews so that it all looks authentic).

“Can you throw some more light on the job profile?” (i.e. “Er, all this is ok, but what the hell am I supposed to do once I come on board?”)
“The job will be challenging and motivating enough. You will be given a lot of responsibilities.” (i.e. “if we knew what your job is, don’t you think we would be doing it. Come and figure out for yourself.”)

“Please elaborate on the variable compensation package.” (i.e. “Is that CTC all that I get, or do I have a chance to pocket some more?”)
“Well, the variable pay will be entirely performance based. It ranges from a minimum of 10% to upwards of 50%. (i.e. “Our star performer got 50% ten years back. He has since left and we haven’t paid such bonuses for the last decade.”)

And so on and on it goes. And then, suddenly, some Placom member remembers that this company had promised pizzas and cold drinks for all those who attended. So, the presentation is declared closed and the crowd rushes to get its free pizzas. Only to find that a few smarter souls are already in line because they chose to miss the presentation.

How My Mom Created God

When I was a little kid, my mom decided that she would prefer an honest kid to a dishonest one. I don’t know the reasons why she decided so, and can only presume that her mom had decided for her and so on for generations too far back to remember. Now, like any normal kid, I was also curious and stubborn and wouldn’t obey instructions too easily. A normal conversation would go like this:
Mom: “Don’t copy during exams.”
Me: “Why not?”
Mom: “It is a bad thing to do. If the teacher finds out, you will be thrown out of the class and they will fail you.”
Me: “But, I can copy when the teacher is not looking.”
Mom: “Even if the teacher is not looking, God will be watching.” (Message: God is omnipresent. He can watch the actions of billions of people, not to mention other animals, birds, insects, bacteria etc.)
Me: “So what if God watches. He can’t throw me out of the class or fail me.”
Mom: “God is all-powerful. He will punish you if you do wrong.” (Message: God is not only omnipresent, but also omnipotent. Moreover He punishes people who copy during exams, apparently because He wants children to memorize stupid facts, and not rely on each other for the same).

So, I believed my mom, and vowed not to copy during exams. The next day, I saw a group of students freely exchanging papers among themselves while I struggled to remember when the Battle of Plassey had taken place. I went to the supervisor after the exam and complained. She rebuked me saying that I should concentrate on my paper and not teach her how to do her job. (Of course, I did not know at that time that the girl who I saw copying happened to be the daughter of one of the wealthiest persons in town, and the supervisor had no intentions of getting in the wrong books of such people).

I came back home, and told my mom, “I saw people copying today, and God did not do anything.” And, so the conversation continued:
Mom: “God doesn’t punish everybody immediately. He allows them a chance to ask for forgiveness. If they continue doing wrong, He sends them to Hell. They will be born as lowly reptiles in their next birth”. (Message: God deals in decades and centuries, not in days like you and me. Besides, God is tax-compliant in his accounting for sins, and hence follows the mercantile system of accounting, where sins are carried forward to be written off against future good deeds. If you continue sinning beyond the ‘carry forward’ period, God, like the taxman, will put you in a very hot jail, called Hell).
Me: “But, they will get good marks now, and God will punish them in their next birth?” (Message: Doesn’t God understand that justice delayed is justice denied)
Mom: “Marks are important, but being honest is more important. I would rather that you failed without copying, than getting the first rank by copying.”
Me: “But what do I get for not copying?” (Message: What’s in it for me?)
Mom: “God (or was it Chitragupta?) will keep an account of all your good and bad deeds. Accordingly, you will go to Heaven because you have not sinned.” (Message: Heaven is a nice place with sweets, chocolates, ice-creams, toys and no stupid teachers who hit you. The Headmaster of Heaven will admit you based on whether you have done good or bad, and not based on whether you can recite the English alphabet or say your Papa’s name like they asked you in your current school).

Thereafter, the message was reinforced whenever possible.
“Mom, I’m afraid to go into the dark room.”
“Don’t worry, God will protect you.”
“Mom, I have bad dreams when I sleep.”
“Say God’s name, and you will sleep peacefully.”
“Mom, the exam paper was very tough.”
“Pray for good results.”

And so on…
Thus, I grew up with a firm belief in God, and always turned to Him when I was in trouble. Then, I grew up some more. I saw students copying, policemen accepting bribes, politicians lying blatantly, underworld bhais living in comfort and said to myself “God will punish them one day”…

Then, I read about young boys in some madrassas being taught that to kill American infidels will lead you to heaven. (pls note, I have nothing against any religion – Hinduism, Christianity or Islam… since to my limited knowledge, all of them convey the same message).
I began to wonder, “If by some roll of dice, I had been born in Afghanistan… would I have been handed a gun, and told to shoot at some white man, to win a passport to Heaven?” “Or if I had been born in US, would I have been given a B-52 bomber, and told to drop some bombs in any oil rich country to get an admission to Heaven?”

How come the Headmaster of Heaven admits young kids who do not copy in exams, and also allows young kids who shoot at others. Is there some reservation system in the schools of Heaven too?

Shit Happens :(

This is going to be a post full of crap… literally!!! Now, you may be thinking that the entire blog is crap, so what’s new, but I promise you, the thing you are going to read is so full of shit that you will wish you did not read it at all.

It all started when I got a bout of loose motions one day in office. Now, I have attended classes and gone to work with 102 degree fever, severe cold, asthmatic bouts which left me wheezing like a auto rickshaw with kerosene in its engines, but I must tell you, suffering from loose motions is the most ‘gut wrenching’ situation of the lot. I spent more time in the washroom than nervous girls on their first dates with a rich guy do touching up their faces. Only, I was touching down my faeces. (If you find the last line distasteful, I’d advise you to stop reading right here, right now)

After three dreadful trips to the washroom in the office, I finally felt confident enough to undertake the 1 hr journey back to hostel by local train. By God’s grace, there was no pressure, internal or external, and I reached the hostel without incident.

The evening went off uneventfully, and I even gathered enough courage to eat a proper dinner at the mess. No after dinner pangs and I went to bed thinking it was just a temporary problem and I’ll be fine by morning. Well, as they say, Man proposes, and shit happens.

I wake up in the middle of the night (which in a b-school means 5.00 am, since people sleep at 2.00 or 3.00) and dutifully return my entire dinner to Mother Earth for recycling. I am already feeling a little tired, and slump back to sleep.

I still nurture hopes of going to office, but when I wake up at 7.00 am, I feel like a dead man. So, goodbye work and some bed rest. Mandatory calls to office to inform them that I am not coming. So far, so good.

The stomach seems to be more upset than a wife who finds lipstick on her husband’s collar (and that too, a more expensive brand). More and more visits to answer Nature’s mighty call. Till, true to Murphy, the tap in the toilet decides to sing a la Revathi in Thevar Magan - kaathu thanga varudhu!!! Unlike Napolean, I do hope to find my Water-loo. Unfortunately, there is more liquid flowing outta my @$$ than from the f***ing tap. (A sincere request again, people who find this nauseating, please stop reading, and don’t blame me for being gross. I am venting out my frustration, and this is the language apt to capture it).

I decide to visit the doctor, like all sensible people. The doctor seems a very friendly man, asks me what I ate, drank etc., Now, this is the biggest puzzle. When I was gorging on chicken and fish a few weeks back, nothing happened. Now, here I am, eating the vegetarian mess food, and drinking only Aquaguard water and I get the damn motions.

Anyways, the doctor says, “Tension nahi leneka. Main dawaai de raha hoon. Khaane mein sirf dal chaawal, aur khoob paani peete rehna”. Well, I think, sirji, easy for you to say tension nahi leneka. After all, you don’t have to run to water less loos every ½ hour. And, as for the dal-chaawal part, well, after the bland mess food, nuthin could get worse. Anyways, he gives me some multi colored pills, and asks me to report back in a day. So, I come back to my room and slump down. I am feeling as exhausted as if I just climbed Mt. Everest and then swam across the English Channel.

I put on my comp as I have nothing else to do. The whole hostel is as deserted as a ghost town. One of my dear friends is online and on learning my plight, proceeds to take great pleasure out of my ‘situation’ by making puns about it. With friends like these, who needs enemies? All I can say is that every dog has its shitty day.

I try to work on my project, but I am too tired to even lift my finger. One never understands the meaning of the phrase ‘being in deep shit’ unless one is truly, deeply in it.

At the end of the day, I am feeling totally ‘drained’, but still have enough enthu left to put up this crappy blog. All in all, a shitty day in the life of a shitty banker.

PS: For those who read this far – man, you have absolute no sense of decency, spending your time reading about other people’s shit.

'First Class' Travel in Mumbai !!!

Statutory Warning: Contains explicit language. (Or is it expletive language???)


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When I first came to Mumbai eight years ago, I travelled by second class local train even though I was eligible for student concession and could have managed a first class season ticket. The experience was enough to make me swear that I would never travel by public transport, if I had a choice. Somehow, at that time, the first class compartments seemed a ‘class’ apart… lesser crowds, cushioned seats, better dressed people (???)…

Nowadays, even though I am not taking any ‘student concession’, I bought a first class pass when I had to travel. Suddenly, the ‘first class’ thing doesn’t seem as glamorous after all. Maybe, because they let me travel in it, but then…

A few days back, I witnessed a first class fight…

Place: Andheri Station
Time: 8.28 am (That is the starting time of the Andheri local… People outside Mumbai, pls note that Mumbaikars are used to be ‘that’ specific when it comes to train timings!!!)
Setting: First Class Gents’ compartment
Cast:
One well dressed ‘gentleman’ wanting to get out of the train, as it slows down at the station.
Another equally well dressed ‘gentleman’ wanting to get into the train, at precisely the same time.
Yours truly (not as well dressed as above).
About 30-40 other gentlemen who were also spectators.

Story:
As expected, the gentleman getting down and the gentleman getting in forgot one elementary fact – that only one person can occupy a given space at a time. So, it lead to another elementary situation - both collided as they tried to push each other out of the way. Since I was new to first class etiquette, I half expected each to apologize and move on (happens half the time in second class actually, since people know that colliding into each other in Mumbai locals is as common as the air we breathe).

But, no, here were two ‘gentlemen’ who were presumably used to getting their way in life all the time. So, an interesting dialogue started… (reproduced verbatim… pls excuse the language, it is theirs)
(We’ll call them GM1 (getting out guy) and GM2 (getting in guy))
GM1: You bastard! Get out my way. Don’t you know that people have to first get OUT before you get IN.
GM2: Who are you calling bastard, bastard?? You are a bastard. What were doing all this while? Waiting for the red carpet to be rolled out for you?
GM1: (grabbing the other person’s tie… I told you they were well dressed) Hey bastard, fucker, who do you think you are?
GM2: Hellooo, don’t keep using foul language? You are a bastard. Your whole family are bastards.
GM1: (finally realizing that he has to go out after all, and staying in the train is not achieving his purpose) Go to hell, bastard! I don’t know how they allow such people in first class?
GM2: Yeah, the same way they allowed you, you cheap bastard. In fact, they should throw you out of second class too.

Exit GM1 into the all consuming crowds, while GM2 settles down… the fight has ensured that he has not got any seat, leave alone the coveted ‘window seat’ for which he was rushing in (which was the reason for the fight, btw).

He looks around to see all the other first class gentlemen staring at him in disgust, as if he were some disgusting creep who should have been eliminated like bacteria in their toilets. I was sure he was feeling bad, maybe about the fight, but definitely about the stares being thrown in his directions like daggers.

Suddenly, his eyes met mine; and I gave him a smile – a genuine “I-can-understand-what-you-are-feeling” smile… and he turned away… and we went our separate ways (in the same train though)…

And my mind went into flashback mode…

I was reminded of the innumerable ‘fights’ that I was fortunate enough to witness all those years when I travelled by ‘Second class’…

Situation is similar, only more crowded… and the ‘gentlemen’ in the story are not very well dressed…

GM1: Aye hero, hat na… raste mein kaiko khada hai? Aadmi utherega tab tu chadega na… (I always wondered why people addressed each other as ‘Hero’… I mean u would call someone a ‘villain’ if you wanted to abuse him)
GM2: oye… awaaz kaiko kar rahele… itna der kya taare gin raha tha? Saala, darwaaze pe khade khade item ka sapna dekh rahela…
GM1: (grabbing the other person’s shirt) aye gaaaandu… gaali nahi deneka kya… apun ko bhi gaali aati hai…
GM2: abe madarchod… haath lagata tu… taang thodke haath mein pakda doonga… saale chutiye… aukad mein rehneka kya…
GM1: abe shaane… kisko madarchod bola re? tu madarchod… tera baap madarchod… tera poora khandaan madarchod… tu mil mereko kal… tapka daaloonga saala… (and out he goes… into the maddening crowd…)

GM2 gets in… and as expected cannot get a seat… the only difference is that the fellow spectators are not giving him dirty disgusting looks… in fact, a few of them joke around saying they have got their daily dose of entertainment (“aaj ka timepass ho gaya boss…”)

GM2 looks around… am not sure whether he is feeling bad or not… his face is expressionless… Our eyes meet… I give him a genuine “jaane-de-yaar-pagal-aadmi-tha-woh” kinda smile… the only difference is that he doesn’t turn his face away – he smiles back…

Somehow, I feel that second class travelers are more human… they don’t put on fake accents and try to curse each other in the Queen’s language (which I have found is as useful for cursing as a comb is to a bald guy). And in spite of their fights, they still treat each other as human beings, not as ‘toilet bacteria’.

PS:
You are traveling in a second class compartment. Someone actually stands on your toes. You try to make some room for yourself. There isn’t any. You politely ask the guy stomping your feet to move a millimeter. And that is when he utters the worst insult a second class traveler can throw at someone… he says, “aye chikne, dhakka nahi khaneka toh first class mein jaana!!!”

Vadhyars - Tamil priests

If you are not a TamBrahm, you might not appreciate the following post. For it is about the unique species, the Tamil priest, popularly called ‘Vadhyar’. Some senior ones call themselves ‘Dikshitars’, and I have always wondered when do you graduate from a mere ‘vadhyar’ to a ‘Dikshitar’?

It is very easy to identify a vadhyar, even from afar. He wears a veshti to work. He generally has a generous ‘kudumi’, not to be mistaken for the latest hair style though. His belly has to be protruding by several inches, and the size of his belly is one sure indicator of how many years he has been in business. All that ‘saddhi sappadu’ after every poojai has to show up someplace, right? He generally has two to three junior vadhyars clinging to him, doing their internships to learn the ropes of this tricky business of making sensible people pay through their nose for an activity best described as ‘lighting a small fire at home and pouring 100% good quality ghee into it’. Of course, he chants some mumbo-jumbo in Sanskrit while doing this, and unless there are some real old people around who have an ear for these things, he can get away with chanting the latest Rahman number in a typical ‘swaha-ha’ tone. Some vadhyars actually do, but then who cares?

If there was one symbol to denote the confluence of modernity and tradition in India, especially South India, it is the Vadhyar.

He tots around the latest Nokia camera phone, but has ‘Suprabhatam’ as the ring tone. If he has an iPod, rest assured that it will be playing the latest bhajan. He can deliver Vedic verses with perfect pronunciation (and a Himesh type nasal twang), but secretly listens to Indi Pop as well. Some of the younger ones even listen to Metallica. He wears a simple white veshti while coming to do pooja, but can buy an Armani if he wishes to. He is still not contaminated by the ‘love’ of money, and even today, accepts dakshinai only on a plate (with vethalai pakku, pazham etc., as accompaniments), and not by hand. Of course, he has a family to support, so his ‘fees’ (dakshinai) has gone up by a rate far higher than inflation. He sends his children to the most modern, hi-fi convent school in town, but also packs them off to the Veda patshaala in the nearby temple. He travels by a TVS moped, even though he has enough dough to buy four Mercs. As he gets older, he travels by rickshaw, and ask the ‘clients’ to pay for it.

There are a lot of perks attached. You get free lip smacking food as part of your job, and you get it first, even before the ‘clients’ have it. You get good money, all in cash, and thus virtually tax free (for all their vedic virtues, very few vadhyars are spiritual enough to actually declare income and pay tax). Beautiful girls fall at your feet to seek your blessings, and you can get away with a snide comment too, if said in the right tone. Some families are so attached to their family vadhyars, that when they migrate abroad, their vadhyar also gets an all expenses paid, on-site posting to USA, UK and exotic places.

Truly, the vadhyar is an inseparable part of a TamBrahm’s life. He is there when you are born. He is there when you have your first ‘meal’, other than mother’s milk. He is there for your ‘kadhu-kutthal’, thereby indicating what he is going to do to you for the rest of your life. He is there when for your first ‘mottai’, again an indication of what lies ahead. He is there when you have your upanayanam, and gives you what is called ‘Brahmaupadesham’. He is of course an integral part of your wedding, and hogs more limelight than the bride and the groom combined. Damn it, he even decides when you get to first ‘do it’ with your wife. (No, your ‘mood’ or your wife’s ‘mood’ doesn’t count; what counts is the alignment of some obscure stars in some planetary orbit!!!). He is there when you buy a new house, start a new business or even get a new job. When your child is born, the cycle repeats itself. He is there on your sixtieth and eightieth birthday, if you mange to survive that long.

And at last, when your Maker calls you for an appointment, he is there to guide your way with the auspicious Vedic chants. But, if you think you are done with him after you are gone, you are mistaken. He is there to perform the rites for your first and every subsequent ‘devasam’.

In short, he rules your life long before you are conceived, and long after you are deceived, oops deceased.

Why I don’t go to movie theatres!!!

The last time I visited a movie theatre was in March 2006 (to watch Syriana). And before that, it was May 1998 (Jeans, I luvvved Ash in tht). Yes, you read it right, I visited a theatre after 8 long years of freedom, and that too because I was forced into it by two of my worst enemies masquerading as dear friends.

I have never understood the popularity of movies and multiplexes. And I try to stay away from them as far as possible. It is not like I don’t watch movies. I do watch them on TV, and now on my lappie. But, the very idea of going to a movie theatre turns me off.

I tried to put on my thinking cap (or is it a colored hat?), and yet for the life of me, I have not been able to fathom why would people spend good money to go to a dark place, where you can’t even see whether the popcorn you are munching on contains a friendly cockroach.

I mean, a movie hall is not the best place to socialize or hang out. You can’t speak to your friends, without the uncle in the backseat going “Shhhh!!!” You can’t move around freely without stepping on other people’s toes (which btw, I luv to do), and are confined to a seat (however plush and comfortable it may be) for the 2 odd hours.

You can’t go back to a scene which you particularly liked and would like to watch again. You can’t chat on your phone, unless you are so pig headed that you don’t mind irritating people big time. You can’t crack funny PJs during senti scenes for fear that your own friend might accuse of ‘not getting it’.

Hell, you can’t even ogle properly at the skimpily clad vamp on screen without the feminist auntie sitting next to you giving you a dirty stare. You can’t take your kids to a theatre since they might get restless and start fidgeting around, (like when the most crucial scene is going on, there is a squeak – “papa, mujhe su su karna hai”). You can’t take your wife too, since she might catch you ogling at the above mentioned vamp, and give you something more than just a dirty stare.

To top it all, the movie is sooo predictable that you could have written the storyline (???) in your sleep. When I find that the movie has a script the size of the lead heroine’s bikini, I have the option of turning off the damn movie on my lappie. (Of course, I also have the option of ‘pausing’ the movie to get a better view of the heroine’s bikini, but then that is another matter). Whereas, in a movie hall, after paying the equivalent of an average Indian’s weekly wages, I don’t have the guts to walk out, even if the movie is bull shit. So, it is a double whammy. It is akin to going to a five star hotel, and even if they serve you cat’s urine in a champagne glass, you daren’t risk throwing the drink down the sink considering that you are paying five grand for a sip.

And yet, perfectly logical adults willingly pay good money to endure this two hour torture chamber, all in the name of entertainment. I see my friends, bright and not-so-bright MBAs, (the so called future thought leaders of this country) willingly getting themselves duped of their parents’ hard earned money, week after week after week.

In fact, to me, the only reason why one would want to go to a movie hall would be to make out with one’s girlfriend. Air conditioned comfort, plush seats, darkness, popcorn, a lesson on how to do ‘it’ running on the screen (thanks to the Emraan Kiss-mes of the world)… aah, now that is one justifiable reason to go to a movie hall.

But since, I have decided to be a bachelor till I get married, and have entrusted the responsibility of finding a suitable ‘bakri’ to my mom, I see no reason why I should enter a movie hall for the next 5-6 years.

So, all my friends and non-friends, if you are reading this, please note:
Invite me for a dinner, a walk on the beach, a game, a trek… but, never, ever make the mistake of asking me out for a movie!!!

Student Species

As a student, I have spent endless hours giving nicknames to Profs and classifying them into the good, the bad and the truly ugly. I have always wondered whether the Profs do the same on their students.

Well, since I did teach at a coaching class for 4 years, and have some idea on how to lull 40 people to sleep at a time, I think I shall share some of the species that I identified from the other side of the table, so to say…

So, here are some of the interesting species of vidhyarthis… in random order

The Geek:
He is the pride of every parent and the nightmare of every under-prepared teacher. The guy wears glasses 4 inches thick and carries books 40 inches thick. He is always seen poring over the notes and doing his thirty-second revision. He reads ahead, and bombards you with questions all the time. He has never come second in the class in his entire life. He loves calculus and other obscure mathematical fundas. I have found that the best way to tackle the mind boggling questions that he asks is to turn the tables and say – “this is your home assignment for the day.” Rest assured that he will search every book in the Library and manage to come up with the answer the next day… but, he brings along a new set of doubts [for the day after tomorrow’s homework…] and the cycle continues!

The Dumb Babe:
She is the pride of every potential boyfriend and the envy of the other gals. She is always perfectly made up and you just wonder whether she is coming for a class or for a movie shooting. She wears color coordinated lenses, matching the dress and shoes and watch and lipstick and eye shadow and whatever other piece of crap that women apply on their face, hands and er… She wears the tiniest of dresses and you can’t help but ogle at her. But, since you have a class to teach, and you can’t show your complete emotions, you reserve it for later. But, it still happens that sometimes, she catches your eye by leaning forward oh-so-slightly, and so, you take a dramatic pause, pretend to think deeply about the obscure accounting concept that you are about to teach, and somehow manage to look away till you can recover from the ‘killer look’. She is always called for special sessions after the class is done. Of course, it helps that she is not as well endowed in the brains department, and will never understand anything till you repeat it 25 times. This also means that you give her a fail mark in exams, and watch her go down on her knees… to beg for a pass mark, of course… what did ya think? ;)

The Bull - Dozer:
He is the quintessential Jughead [much fatter though] of every class. If you find him awake for 20 seconds at a stretch, you can pat yourself on the back [since you obviously can’t the back of the species above, much as you may wish to] for the interesting discourse that you are giving. He waits for that perfect moment when you are looking at him [out of 40 people in the class] to let out that hippo-like yawn. And, since yawns are more contagious than bird flu, you can’t help but yawn yourself. But, the strategy, I’ve learned, is to always to turn towards the board so that the class doesn’t realize what you are upto.

The Ms. Perfect:
Now, this one is a rare combination of beauty and brains. She will come second in class [after the Geek, of course], write poetry, sing, dance, win sports competitions, become class monitor and basically achieve all that you wanted to, but could not. She will play the veena and practise karate with equal élan. You start thinking that she will make prefect ‘wife’ material, till you realize that her idol is some Greene feminist who has vowed to remain single till no man desires them. She is too busy planning her corporate climb 20 years hence and so you leave her to her alpha world and look elsewhere.

The Note-taker:
This species is unique in the sense that they firmly believe that what is left unwritten is forgotten. They will want to take down your every word, and ca be relied upon to produce a verbatim report at the end of the class. Destined to be the ‘Secretaries’ of future corporate meetings, their only aim in class is to fill pages and pages of useless data that you spew to confuse them. They are helpful in the sense that once the year is over, you can ask for their notes and use them for perpetually [or atleast till the Education Board decides to revamp the syllabus].

The ‘mera pass baap hai’ guy:
This guy is filthy rich – yes filthy and rich. He knows that he can buy the Education Board and University if he so wishes. But, he is the most cherished student of every coaching class in the town. Who else will pay 18 grand, and not attend classes, while the tuition centre auctions the seat to another willing rich bugger… The day he attends classes, his mobile HAS to ring the latest polyphonic ringtone, and he just HAS to flash the latest im-poh-ted mobile that his dad bought for him from some exotic country. The other guys in the class envy him for his designer clothes, Nike shoes, bike, car and all such knick-knacks. Of course, the biggest knick-knack is the dumb babe [mentioned above], who is always seen ‘hanging’ around with Mr. Rich. You can rely on him to ‘buy’ the question paper a week before the exam, and to ‘buy’ the examiner a week after.

The giggly wiggly queen:
This species should have been admitted to a mental institution long back. All they know is to giggle. You start teaching the intricacies of Accounting Standard 6, and they giggle. You give a problem to solve, and they giggle. You ask them a question, they giggle. You shout at them, they giggle. You send them out of the class, and they still giggle. By the time you are through with them, you wonder whether you are in a class or already in a mental asylum. [giggle giggle].

Of course, there are endless varieties out there [after all, every individual is unique in his/her own right], but since I don’t want to bore you further, I’ll stop here…

As for my students, I love every one of them, especially the dumb babes ;)

Sensitized!!!

Every year, the participants of SPJIMR undertake a project in a social context during summers called Development of Corporate Citizenship (DOCC). It is intended to
1) Enable the participants to apply management concepts to social problems
2) Sensitize the participants to the hardships faced by the poor and the disadvantaged.

Well, I don’t know about the first, since my ‘feedback’ is pending. But, as for the second, I can definitely say that I was desensitized.

I grew up in Mettupalayam, a town famous for its potatoes [yes, potatoes; even vendors in Mumbai sell ‘Mettupalayam potatoes’!!]. Well, its other claim to fame is that the train to Ooty starts from here, the same one atop which a certain Mr. SRK had danced with the oh-so-gorgeous Malaika Arora, to the superb tunes of ARR’s ‘Chaiyyan Chaiyyan’. Well, the other Mr. SRK is not famous, and probably never will be. But, then this story is not about me. Or maybe, it is!!

So, coming back to the story...

I grew in Mettupalayam, and went to school like any other kid. Life was normal, there was no TV, no computer, and no video games; therefore, I was never bored. We studied; did our homework; played cricket with friends… a typical childhood. We did have our little difficulties. The water supply was erratic, and we had to do our bit of running around to get it from the public tap sometimes. The power cut happened for 4 hours a day [they called it ‘load-shedding', a term made fashionable by slimming centres these days!!]. The roads were not too bad [the very fact that there were roads was good enough]. So, we did have our bijli, sadak aur paani... occasionally.

I saw poor orphaned kids running around every day. I was not sensitized. Maybe, I was too young. I saw one of my friends bring an empty lunch box to school, as his father had no income. Well, we did share our food, but I can’t say that I was sensitized.

I saw another friend drop out of school after standard VIII. He went to work in a mechanic shop. God had rolled his dice again. We did play cricket together whenever we had time, but I was definitely not sensitized.

Then, God got addicted to this dice game and rolled it once more. One of my friends passed away after a short battle with ‘blood cancer’ [which btw is Bollywood’s fav disease]. I was shocked, saddenned but definitely not sensitized.

Another friend landed in bad company, and started cutting classes. One day, his parents found out, and he committed suicide rather than face his parents. I vividly remember his limp body hanging from the ceiling fan. Well, I was not yet ready for the ‘sensitization’ bug.

I came to Mumbai. Big, bad city. Lots of slums around. No luck yet. No sensitization for me.

I started teaching. Poor guys. Went to a place in Dharavi. 40 students crammed into a 10 ft x 10 ft room, with a single fan. I was still not sensitized. Maybe because the fan was set facing me. Maybe they decided that students can get 'hot under the collar', but the teacher needs to keep his cool.

I saw a friend struggle with a job, education and two unmarried sisters. He was the sole earning member in his family. No sensitization yet. Maybe, I was stone hearted. Idiyum thangum idhayam, they say ;)

Well, after so many failed attempts to get sensitized, I landed up at SPJIMR. I spent one year in complete luxury, with air conditioned classrooms and laptops. Then they sent us to a village in Hosur for our DOCC. I saw rich farmers struggling for good prices. I saw retail officers squeeze every penny [or should it be paisa?] out of the same rich farmers. I saw the many development efforts taking place.

I’m supposed to say that I have been sensitized [three damn credits depend on that one statement!!!]. Well, yes respected ladies and gentlemen, this DOCC project has really sensitized me. I cried at the plight of the farmers [If the rich ones faced so many problems, what did the poor guys do?].

I have played my part. Your turn to roll the dice, God.