Blooming Phools

Foreword: It is that time of the year again. Gifts, and more disturbingly flowers, are at the forefront of our collective consciousness. I'm all right with them being there as long as they stay out of mine but alas, this was not to be. A friend recently asked me to get flowers for her boyfriend's birthday. This got me thinking…

A long time ago, I wrote about the subtle art of gifting and it seems people have long since forgotten about it. The lack of attention to some of the finest pieces of knowledge fills me with despair, but I digress. Back to my travails. Tasked with finding the right kind of flowers, I focused my considerable mental faculties and gave up in about 39 seconds. I had no clue! Disbelief and consternation- how is this even possible? If the revered writer of this blog professes complete inability at something, who else can you turn to, besides Oprah? Ah! There it was, cocooned in the charming expression was the answer. So, I turned on the TV and watched The Hope Channel and felt instantly better. If they had a right to live AND feel smug, so did I. Besides, I am smarter and better looking (all comments relating to this sentence will be summarily deleted. -Author).

Filled with hope, no wait- that was gas from all the peas I’d been eating, I went back to the problem at hand and decided to look up a few florists on the Internet. I found 179 different bouquets completely appropriate for the occasion, sender and receiver and each of them cost a little over the combined TARP budget. This, of course, was a roadblock of sorts, since I didn’t expect the administration to bail out said friend any time soon. Though, given that all that required was printing a few more currency notes, I think it was decidedly unkind towards her.

Spurned by the stores in the clouds, I turned to good old brick and mortar- Kroger! Thanks to the holiday season, there were lots of flowers on sale. Unfortunately, they were attached to potted plants. Now, I will have you know that I know enough about social mores to realize that build-your-own bouquets are somewhat frowned upon by the friendly Kroger staff, especially when the constituents are sourced from plants on sale. I decided to change the game by buying a potted plant instead. Surely, they were acceptable substitutes for short-lived flowers? Closer examination revealed said potted plants to be a kind of cactus and that struck me as somewhat odd, though I couldn’t quite put my finger on it (almost literally). Recalling from my business education that communication was vitally important, I immediately called up a friend, who despite being admittedly unqualified to help, expressed confidence in my choice. So I bought the nearest bouquet because:
1. It had flowers
2. It had been made within the last 6 months
3. It looked like, umm, a bouquet
4. The pots were heavy

Realize that while my methods were, I am proud to say, “structured”, this isn’t necessarily the right overall strategy. Without repeating what I’ve already said, the fact remains that a digital Playboy subscription would have gone a lot farther. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go buy some radio controlled vehicles for my grandfather.

Ware, were we?

Foreword: Long time. So this is where I offer the usual excuses for being tardy and you nod sympathetically or roll your eyes, so lets take a few seconds and get that out of the way. Good. I've had a rule for myself while posting stuff to this blog- posts had to be absolute gold: literary delights, full of intellectual humour and socially sensitive and responsible. No wait, that's my online playboy subscription I'm thinking of. The rule for this one was a certain minimum length and I just threw it out. Thus empowered, now I can write whatever I want, however I want and go on for as long as I want. You do not comprehend the subtlety of the change, but you will (no, not you with a service animal for arithmetic).

Life is. I wonder why people feel the almost compulsive need to add another word after that. Like "beautiful", or "nice", or "shitty", or "a seven footer standing on your little toe while a trombonist feeds your auditory canal with 120 dB of sound". By definition, adding any of those narrows the range of meanings life can take and thus loses generality. So what you inevitably get is someone disagreeing with your definition and that leading to a long social interchange which could have been avoided. Unless you actually LIKE people and I can see why you would. And warts.

So, I've decided to not think about life too much, at least not in the sense that limits possibilities. So from today, I've decided to ignore gravity, especially in social situations. Just to show my level of comfort with, and commitment to writing short posts and not being averse to ending abruptly

Taking Stock

Foreword: Apologies for the painful pun. As you already know, it has never been my intention to hurt people, except my neighbours (who don’t qualify as people anyway) but there is something about the world these days that forces you to take notice. I mean, there’s so much going on out there: there’s the economy (all right, there’s not much going on there, I’ll give you that), politics- America just elected its first coloured president, life- there you just lost a second of your remaining life, etc. But let’s cut to the really important part: movies. I watched, with sadness, the latest Bond movie and I’ll be damned if I don’t tell you about it.

I know it became one of the biggest earners this year but, really, a Bond in love? A Bond that does not ask for newer, bigger, meaner gadgets, doesn’t bust his car twice, doesn’t even introduce himself- “Bond, James Bond.” And people LIKE it? WHAT is wrong with the world? Luckily, Tom Cruise wasn’t in it or I wouldn’t have known it from Jerry McGuire. No, that’s not true. I would have cried less in JM.

Between all this, the Mumbai attacks happened. Right in the glamour capital of India- where the biggest and the brightest stars reside. And that has raised interesting questions. Its one thing to write a facetious blog, it is quite another to credit an event involving more than 60 hours of pure terror with “interesting questions”. Allow me to explain. India, to the uninitiated (I have no idea who that is, since the entire world and its mother-in-law has strong feelings about it but in keeping with Holmes’ advice, we never discount the possibility of the improbable), is a country of more disparity than a Benetton ad. Maybachs run on streets that also serve as people’s homes. This time it was the not just the man on the street who bled, but also the man in the rear seat of the Maybach (possibly staining it irredeemably, but that’s another story). Terrorism suddenly shifted from being SEP (someone else’s problem- H2G2) into your own manicured front lawn and that pissed people off. How come these no-good politicians (who grace our page 3 dos, get our illegal farm houses legalized, straighten that pain-in-the-ass customs officer, and/or clear the mess involving that illegal immigrant domestic help- do you know how tough it is these days to get kitchen help?) cannot ensure our security? Off with their heads. I must admit, I loved Suhel Seth’s rant on a news channel. That guy sure can talk. The passion you feel for a situation when you nearly lose your life in it lends you poetic eloquence.

Well, it’s not quite funny. Or maybe it is. Depends on whether you have a dark sense of humour. So what does it mean for “the system”? Nothing, really. There were some candle light vigils by women toting Gucci bags, corporate India’s appeals for private security- which happened to be a “Central government issue”, a rather funny incident involving a chief minister and the father of a brave commando who lost his life in the attacks and oh- a very strong address by the Prime Minister who really should be lending his voice for Mickey Mouse in the next Disney movie. Nothing against the Prime Minister, really- just that he would me much more useful building a statistical model for the way out of this recession than leading a billion semi-literate people with more superstitions than food in their belly. But I digress. We are not here to talk about Economics professors caught in the crossfire of political ambitions. We are here to talk solutions; only, in this case, I don’t have them.

I am a cynic- and if you didn’t know that already, stop smoking that thing you still have from Woodstock. So let me tell you that there is no solution. I would love to be wrong, trust me, but that doesn’t look likely. As I see it, we will soon return to business as usual, salute the indomitable spirit of Mumbai (whatever that means), hold a few meetings chaired by different “political types” in the “honour of the brave men that laid down their lives to save ours” and return to devoting countless hours of parliament time to the newest statue in some godforsaken park. The thing that really saddened me about the attacks was that the MPs among the hostages came out alive. At least we could have had a silver lining to the whole episode. Bullet-proofed Maybachs will continue to run on streets lined with half-fed people, intellectuals will exhort the nation to take voting seriously (and choose between the devil and the deep sea), and the elite from south Bombay (no, that’s not Mumbai) will begin to invite politicians to their farmhouse parties again. All will be well with the world. Till the next attacks happen and we’ll go through the whole drama again. I just hope we reinvent some of the parts so it doesn’t get too boring.

I almost forgot to tell you that I am a romantic too. In fact, I’m as cynically romantic as I am romantically cynical. So I do have a solution. Captain Nemo (if you don’t know who that was, don’t bother) said, “Desperate situations need desperate measures” and I think what we need is a revolution to massively revamp our politics. Democracy, clearly the ideal form of government, presupposes an inherent ability, intellectual and otherwise, among citizens. Evolutionists will tell you, that is not a clever assumption. Hence the Big Brotherly approach of the political class to coach the masses into “democracy readiness” which really means vote for whoever can most sway your passions. By definition, passions are irrational; hence they can only engender irrational results. See exhibit (A), the governments of India- past and present.

Our task reduces, essentially, to education. In fact, that is the one silver bullet that can cure India. Now notice the irony here- education, securely in the government’s plate as a state function, when repaired can serve to dislodge the powers that be. Does it surprise you, then, that our education system continues to be abysmal? This is where we can come in and make a difference. Systemic change is more likely to come about from an effort to educate people and arm them with the ability to think rather than react to impassioned pleas, than lighting candles and holding protest marches. Unless you have pretty girls in short skirts leading them.

MBArking on an Atlant-ic Odyssey

Foreword: By now you were probably scouring the obituaries to see if I’ve finally had the decency to tie a stone round my neck and jump into the nearest overflowing manhole and I really hate to spoil it for you, but, like the French say, c’est la vie. No, I didn’t get abducted by aliens, did not travel in time to see if we’re really descendents of telephone linesmen and salesmen and certainly did not get arrested (really, believe me!). I’ve instead been through what some people call a life changing event. Of course, I refer to the fact that I have tried out a new brand of detergent and it removes the toughest stains (and the clothes are oh so soft!). Otherwise things are pretty much the same, except that I quit my job and moved to Atlanta to pursue an MBA.

After five years of being on a vacation, for no honest man would call a software job that, I decided to get serious about my life. After a dark, cold period of intense deliberation (53 seconds), I realized the world wasn’t ready for the motive force that lies trapped within my human form. And by definition, being serious isn’t much fun anyway; so I joined b-school instead. Here I am, back in school after what seems like a lifetime spent drinking free coffee (oh how I miss free coffee!) and mark my words, things can get tough in here! I have always been a believer in the theory that you always make time for what you want to do: over and above all other demands on your time. I’ve been told by many, including my faculty, that an MBA is different in that you rarely have sufficient time for all that you need to do! One week into the programme, I can tell you that it is true and believe me, we have just about begun ambling along.

If you’re an MBA aspirant and (yet) you’re reading this (don’t you know the number of GMAT takers has increased by over 40% since last year?), don’t get disheartened. No sir, panic! Rethink, is it worth it? You go through the incrementally challenging tasks of taking the GMAT, writing the applications and finally appearing for the interviews to do what? Lose your job and pay (and how!) for getting stressed? If that isn’t masochistic, I don’t know what is (listening to Britney Spears comes close, but we are talking grad school, remember?)

As always, you can rely on this blog to pose questions. But anyone can do that. We don’t run this thing to expand intellectual capacity, we run it for answers. Answers that even someone on the glamorous end of the intelligence number line can digest and assimilate. So here are a few reasons why you should still go for it:

1. Experience: Imagine being in a room with representatives from almost every cultural and professional background there exists. And then imagine them sharing their points of view with you on the most critical business problems of the world: the choice of topping to use with your bagel, for example. I can tell you the wealth of insight is simply phenomenal and you almost always end up more enriched than before.

1. Experience: Imagine being in a room with someone who shares a name with some famous expert in a field. And you think it ironical that they are in the same field as the biggie, till you realize that they are the same person. You don’t feel that smart for a few moments. (Notice any smart comments here, mister?)

1. Experience: Imagine depending on a few strangers for getting you through your courses in a highly competitive and stressful environment. Imagine your wife giving birth to your son half way across the world and the first people you can share the news with, in person, are these. And this really happened. Even cynics like yours truly feel overwhelmed. But only for a short while, there are always more pressing matters at hand. Like Economics homework. Or that babe in the see-through blouse.

1. Experience: Imagine having gone through the week on a total of less than 10 hours of sleep. And then on Friday evening, you consume enough beer to knockout an army of sumo wrestlers. In one aha moment, you see the way to world peace.

1. Experience: … it.

Note: All the above reasons are numbered one and labelled ‘Experience’ on purpose. When you are me, you do not make tyops.

What are you doing here?

Foreword: I mean, this blog has not been updated in ages! Why would you even want to check? For all you know, I could be dead in my 312 square feet apartment with maggots feasting on my body and remarking that they really hate the taste of software engineers. Or, I could be involved in a major planet saving enterprise which, sadly, is so critical that it must not be talked about. Like playing Ludo against myself. But now that you are here, I might as well make it worth your while (yeah right!) .

I’m on a constant quest to improve myself. Hahahahahahahahahaha… Hell that’s funny. Everybody knows I’m perfect. I just thought that would be a neat way to catch those of you who aren’t paying attention. Anyway, I recently read an article that talked about the 13 Ps of purpose. Yeah it was one of those quizzes that, if you know the answers to, you don’t need and if you don’t, you can’t use anyway. Broadly meant as a compass to chart your life (damn, I can sound lofty!), it asks two sets of questions: where are you? And where are you going? If you can answer those, I have a third one: what are you doing here? I’m going to attempt to answer these here. (Notice how I use the phrase “attempt to answer”, instead of “going to answer”? No, this is not the result of new found humility, it is for those not paying attention. Gotcha!)

Where am I?
I am (or, at least was at the time of writing this) in front of my computer wondering whether having Maggi for dinner for the 217th consecutive weekday would impact the local cereal farmers and my digestion adversely.

Having dispensed with the disgustingly petty, let me now tell you where I am, philosophically. I am NOT at the crossroads in my life. In fact I have never been at any crossroad, as it were, in my entire life. The to-be-done has been done and continues to be done without fuss, thanks largely to a high fibre intake. In the not so alimentary department, I have become an existentialist, meaning, I can conduct an entire conversation in halting, disconnected sentences while looking over my company’s shoulder. Also, I have found out that trust is what you are at the receiving end of when your one-year-old niece puts her head on your shoulder when you pick her up. Or that could be goo on your shirt. Depends on whether you are a romantic.

Where am I going?
We have already established that I am not at or near any crossroads and as far as I can see (three feet, without my glasses) I’m probably going straight ahead. Which, in a macro sense, is not true, what with the earth’s rotation, revolution and the curved space-time. Why do you want to know anyway? Is this query purely a manifestation of your underlying insecurities? Heck, I’ll tell you nevertheless: I am going on an ego trip. In fact, I’ve been on one for as long as I can remember (umm, what was I going to say here?) and the journey has been fun, including the bathroom breaks. I don’t quite know about the future, even Einstein didn’t, but I am certain it cannot be more obnoxious than I am. Meaning, I will survive it, but will it survive me? But, this is not about me. (Like hell it is! Got you again, you moron! You have the attention span of a teenager thinking about sex in class.) Oh, and since you must have the insignificant details, you will survive it too.

What am I doing here?
Now this is the one that, I must confess, has me completely stumped. Why have I not been handpicked by Bill Gates, Larry Ellison and Warren Buffet to take over their sorry business empires, yet? Have these guys completely lost it? Frankly, I thought they had the vision to spot talent. Or is it that the sheer magnitude of my abilities has paralyzed their once enviable mental faculties?
But that is quite all right, for there is important work to be done. Like waltzing with my one year old niece. Pum pum pum.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to get my counters out of the base. Ludo beats the crap out of chess.

Writing Wrongs

Foreword: A lot is wrong with the world. Of course, you cannot be expected to do anything about it, but I must and I will. I may not be able to correct every little problem, for I’ve been a little tied up these days (what with the Australian open, the cricket series down under, Academy and Grammy awards and the like), but rest assured, I will fix the howlers. Starting with the fact that I actually have to work these days. Like they say, charity begins at home.

I received a lot of flak about the previous post (wrong!). People said I was being crude and insensitive (no contest), especially about babies. That’s another thing that needs correction. So, I promise to coach them on my unique perspective on human values. They learn, fine, otherwise they get berated in the next post (sweet!).

There seems to be an epidemic of weddings (dead wrong!). Everyone I know seems to be in a rush to marry as if bridal makeup is about to disappear from the face of the earth. However, this brings to light the pre-wedding jitters that plague them. Many a bride or groom to be experiences them and spends countless hours shopping or watching football or both (my condolences). Hell, righting this wrong is not only important it also needs to be done quickly. I think I’ll devote the rest of this post to fix this.

Right, before we jump right in, there is a blatant right I must acknowledge. It is so obviously, meticulously, unblemishedly, accurately correct that I can only state it, without qualification: there is a racehorse, a participant in the Hyderabad Derby, called Spinoza.

Back to the point. Lets understand the psychology of individuals about to marry. Obviously, now that they are sober, they cannot, for the life of them, understand why they decided to get married in the first place. It seems like one of those jokes you started that come round to bite you on the butt. Suddenly, you can’t see the humour in them anymore. But wait, let me not add insult to injury. I’m here to give solutions or at least solace.

So now you’re having second thoughts. You think you’re not ready for a commitment of this magnitude, and you have no idea how it will pan out. You begin to remember all those differences of opinion you’ve had (including the black eye last Valentine’s day), and you think, “what if this person isn’t right for me?” Or “will it work?” Or “will JK Rowling write another Hogwarts adventure?” The answer is obvious. The black eye proves the female has her heart in the right place. Or if you are female and your boyfriend gave you one, he believes in gender equality. In either case, they are wonderful people and probably don’t deserve to marry you, but its not a fair world anyway. So go right ahead.

Fact is, you don’t know what is right for you. Like all that broccoli. That hasn’t turned out too bad, has it? I mean I have been feeding tons of it to my dog: all that my mother ever served in those generous portions, and look how much his coat shines. Apparently it IS good for you. Which proves, without a shadow of doubt, that dog is a man’s best friend. Especially when faced with broccoli or other trying situations, perhaps even an impending wedding. The point I’m trying to make here is: don’t bother your miniscule intelligences with all that thinking and re-thinking. You won’t get it right. If you were suitably armed in that department, you wouldn’t be in this situation now. So lie back and enjoy. Or at least act like you are enjoying it. It will give hope to the others almost in your shoes.

Now lets concentrate on getting you prepared for the big event. I am a big believer in books and I know just the texts for this occasion:

• “Getting Married” - George Bernard Shaw. The fact that Shaw himself never married shows how much of an authority he was on the topic. Also, it’s a very thought provoking read, especially around the chapters when he advocates polygamy.
• “Superman” - DC comics. If you are a man, you already worship the man of steel. Continue to do so. That is the closest you can get to adventure now. If you are a woman, thats the closest you will to a man in shape now.
  
• “The Critique of Pure Reason” - Immanuel Kant. If, ever, you get cocky and think you are beginning to understand what this is all about, read the first 5 pages (that’s all you’ll ever get to anyway). You’ll know what I mean.

There isn’t enough time to read the first and the third and you’ve already read most of the second. How prepared do you feel? Hmm.. I can understand. You need to talk to someone. I’ll send my dog over. Please feed him some broccoli.

Hope that helps.

Flights of Fancy

Foreword: What happens when a rather sedentary smart alec travels around 10000 km in a space of 30 days? You get his unique (and gifted) point of view on matters concerning travel and life. Rejoice, brethren, for you are going to partake of my phenomenal insights. Whether you like it or not. Between a family emergency and my annual vacation, I logged some ten thousand of the frequent flier kilometres and faced with insomnia, cramped economy class seats and an unfriendly digestive system, had the opportunity to observe the world passing by. Here’s a collection of some memorable episodes.

What is with airlines? No, seriously, what is with them? How do they manage to maintain a density of 2.78 goo-dribbling, sonic boom generating and otherwise being a thorough pain in the you-know-where infants per ridiculous row of economy class seats? What about me forces them to seat me next to an indulgent mom travelling with shipping containers full of redolent diapers, baby food, teething rings, baby snaps and as if that were not enough, a complete human mini specimen including a larynx? (The part that REALLY irritates the hell out of me is how they manage to get all of that in one piece of cabin baggage!) And why on earth does that little guy have to be the inter-galactic champion of vocal strength? So, you’re an evolutionist? Tell me this, how is it that evolution has still not managed to provide a mute button for infants? Oh! You’re a creationist, are you? Why did God, in his infinite wisdom, not equip the little angels with volume control? Don’t get me wrong. Like every other nice guy, I like a diapered, rubber-sheeted, well powdered and perfumed baby lying on his abdomen and cooing at less than 80 decibels at no less than 100 feet. It is just that I’m particular about how I like them.

If you thought babies are the only things that airlines choose to accost me with, you’re dead wrong! The other thing that gets my goat is the airline accent. Even if I am lucky enough to be seated farthest from the lone infant on board, I can never manage to shut out the weird airline accent, which is like nothing I have heard in India. Every carrier manages to recruit air-hostesses and even pilots who sound like they were born in Peru, abducted by wandering Eskimos and forced to spend their formative years in Scandinavia, then sold off into slavery of the oil Sheikhs of the middle least and finally given a course in phonetics by the Chinese. Nothing even remotely connected to India, unless you consider the silk-route. Why do they do that? Is that their idea of a cosmopolitan appeal? Or are those stewardesses and pilots simply sneaking out all the airline candy and eating them ALL the time? Honestly, somebody get them to talk like normal people!

Which reminds me, my heart went out to a poor girl who was sporting this ugly welt on her cheek. My blood boiled at the thought of the brute that would do that to her. Then in walked another stewardess with the same welt. Then another. Obviously, the brute was on a roll here. That sounded outlandish, even to yours truly, so I checked again. Sure enough, the welt was their idea of rouge or whatever it is that you apply on your cheek bones to make them appear as if you’ve been at the receiving end of some stiff domestic abuse. OK, so you’re a low-cost airline and cannot afford expensive make-up tips for your employees. Do everyone a favour: save on the rouge (or whatever, see above).

Do I sound cynical and caustic? I’m sorry. Let me tell you about this incident that can almost be called romantic. On one flight, I was lucky enough to be the only one on a row of seats. Just before the doors closed, a very pretty girl walked in, looked right at me and smiled. I smiled back. Then she started coming towards me, looking on either side, apparently trying to locate her seat. I looked at the two vacant seats next to me wondered: will she? Won’t she? As it turned out, she did. She walked right up to me and said, “Sir, please fasten your seatbelt. We’re ready for takeoff.”

Oh wait! I forgot to tell you about the train journey. Kolkata (Calcutta, earlier) happens to be the end of my flight and the beginning of my train journey on my way home. What makes Kolkata Kolkata is its people. I have already gone on record with my opinion about them: I wish the men were half the men that the women are. Sure enough, I saw evidence, yet again, on the station. I saw this guy: seven-footer, built like a truck, the kind you’d apologize to thrice if you happen to brush past, with his head bowed and listening to some really unpleasant words from his four-foot something wife. As if that was not enough, the lady made it a point to underscore her words with rapid jabs to the man’s ribs, which were a trifle higher than her head. Can’t blame the woman too. After explaining how to check your name on the reservation charts about 6 times, and reaching the cerebral equivalent of mishti-doi, you’d get irritated too.

The point being, if you aren’t an expert at reading reservation charts, it’s not advisable to marry in Kolkata. And yes, whatever you do, when you have your little bundle of joy, don’t board that plane I’m on. I mean it.