Rumours flying thick and fast on the Internet say that Cerberus is looking to sue Daimler for misleading them into believing that Chrysler has a future. Strange indeed, if there's any semblance of credibility to these rumours.

Number one, Chrysler still has a future (bleak as it may be). If Cerberus can't turn it around with its deep pockets and 'commitment' to restoring profitability, something is not in place. Giving up so soon doesn't seem to make too much sense at all.

Number two, even if Chrysler has no future, it is unlikely Daimler will earn any raps. Caveat Emptor is what business law courses teach in the very first session. As a private equity firm, Cerberus has most probably undertaken a huge number of due diligences and valuations. In spite of their capability and resources, if they've screwed up, then their investors should be very worried.

On the other hand, if Daimler has indeed forged financial statements to add roses to Chrysler's sheets, things are going to get rough for them as well. On the back of recent corruption stories coming to light in Germany, that doesn't seem to be such an unlikely possibility then. (Successful journalists and irresponsible generalizations go hand in hand).

Google seems to have this uncanny ability to come up with something innovative just when:

1. You're mildly starting to get used to what they've already offered, and

2. You think, "There's no way they can add a new feature to that..."

I have been using Google Reader to track my RSS feeds for a few months now. And while broadly I've been an extremely satisfied user, interest sometimes wanes.

Rahul Gaitonde first came up with this post pointing out how I could share my Google Reader reading list and make it appear on my blog. I have gone ahead accepted his suggestion - so that 'Read List' you see in the right pane is a list of items that I've shared on my Google Reader.

Post this (promise, not intended) however, Google seems to have done something to rejuvenate the 'Share' functionality on Reader. Reams have been written about Google's masterstroke, in bringing Reader and social networking together so seamlessly.

I see posts that my friends (from my Gtalk list) have shared, and vice versa. It is akin to suddenly being exposed to a variety of very interesting pages/blogs on a host of interesting topics that I would otherwise have not stumbled upon. Stealth social networking or otherwise, as long as the feature's making me wiser, I'll live with it.

Now that that's out of the way, let's look at a few suggestions I (with my limited technology background) have:

1. I'd like an option to append a short comment with items that I am sharing with my friends.

I have started to realise that I am thinking about the stories that I am sharing - that's perhaps the reason I am sharing them in the first place. So when I am thinking, I'd like to express myself as well. What about a nice 'Append' window (not unlike the 'Reply' window on Gmail) that lets me add a limited number of characters (say 1024) to every story that I am sharing. Just a small take, maybe a quick opinion.

2. I'd like to see an option which lets me comment on items from within the Reader interface, without having to navigate to the site from which the item originates.

I'd like this for my reading list, as well as items that my friends are sharing - essentially, all items that are showing up on my Reader. The first impression is that sites that rely on impressions, hits or page visits will take a hit (!!) - wonder if there's a workaround though.

Lastly, let's see if we can integrate the two together - perhaps allow me to share my comment on a particular item along with the item itself.

Annnddd...

This is the new blog. Certain fundamental changes have been made. Certain fundamental changes will be made over a longer term horizon. Some are immediately apparent, some will become apparent when you spend more time loitering around here. Why you'd want to do that, though, stumps me.

Anyway, here's the heads up:

1. The layout is significantly cleaner than the previous cluttered page that you were welcomed to.

2. Gone are the incredibly colourful pages. The purity, innocence and professionalism of white (!) is in. Peace, and all that jazz. (Sheeba thinks that's a lot of marketing BS, but she stares at white reports all day, so I can see where her intense hatred for anything white - and professional - comes from).

3. On a broad level, the design, fonts and colours are representative of the changes that have occurred in me over the last three years. I will skip a detailed explanation as it will delve into pseudopsychological metaphysics, and will most definitely be painfully long...

4. ...posts here this point onward will be shorter, crisper and more frequent. We will talk about many things that don't matter too much to a lot of people. We'll also not go through 21 drafts and 32 version changes (after running it through 64 friends) before posting here. It's going to be singularly straight from the heart.

5. The links in the right panel have now been updated. There are a few IIMK related websites, as well as a whole host of bloggers from IIMK - it was wonderful discovering that in addition to the legendary Shrikanths and RGs who are mild celebrities in the Indian blogosphere, there's also a Hitesh Sharma who posts his inimitable stories for us lesser mortals.

6. There's also a new RSS subscription link that you can use to add the blog feed URL to an RSS reader (I recommend Google Reader, but more on that later). Considering that there's going to be a lot more activity here than this URL has seen for a while, it pays (me) to be up to speed at all times.

7. The biggest change is in the name, though. Jumbling Jaggernaut is now Jabbering Jaggernaut. I didn't have enough convincing reasons when I named it that way three years back. And I don't have enough convincing reasons now. So we'll let it rest. Though I think it comes from an intense desire to create an intelligent alliteration - and 'J' is severely constrained for appropriate adjectives.

Before we violate point 4 (if we haven't already, that is), zooga zooka.

PS - That's 'See you around!' (in some African language)

PPS - Suggestions on anything are welcome. New features, new bots, widgets, anything. I'm just spewing jargon - I don't know what these things mean. No, really.

PPPS - Not used to writing short posts, hence the flurry of Post Scripts.

This blog has been in an abject state of misery for so long that it's not funny. It must feel like an abandoned child. Well, if I were it, I'd feel like an abandoned child alright.

So very soon we're going to try and take it through a comprehensive makeover. We'll get some jazzy new templates, brighten up the colours a little bit, make the fonts nicer and more attractive, and most importantly, update those links in the right panel (look at that, one of the links is pointing to an event from last year - that's more outdated than my Internet Marketing professor).

Recent divorces and break-ups mean that the 'About Me' section will change a little bit too.

High on the agenda, high on motivation, low on time.

Can I just say that I find Vodafone despicable, detestful, abominable and thoroughly, thoroughly hateful. I wish it would just go away as swiftly as it has descended – almost stooped – into our lives.

Glad I could get that out so well.

I have been ruing the loss of Hutch. I should know a thing or two about brands. And how people get attached to them. Mostly for no explicable, scientific reason. But I don’t. I don’t understand why I lament Hutch being turned into Vodafone. Really, what does three pink stylized petals changing to one red quotation mark do to my life. Pink, for heaven’s sake. They almost made it fashionable again.

I’m trying to find explanations. The best I’ve been able to manage yet is ‘I just liked Hutch’. Come to think of it a little more, the brand had character. And that’s hard to find in a world obsessed with numbers, volumes, marketshares and bottom lines. Hutch had life, energy, vivacity, enthusiasm. It was mischievous and eccentric, youthful, cocky and yet so adorable. And it had balls. With that kind of pink, it sure had balls.

Hutch seemingly never bothered with the volumes. They just happened to get them. People just happened to buy Hutch. They never – and not just ‘never’, but ‘never’ – pestered me with twenty three messages a day, reminding me that if I referred a friend at the Mavoor Road Hutch Shop, I could win a Reebok bag. They just never bothered to stoop to these despicable antics. They were unconcerned in a cool, chill sort of manner. And I loved that about them. Leading the relaxed life. And letting things come to them instead of running furiously behind them.

Let me now take the liberty of painting Vodafone’s picture. Brand map, is that called? Screw the jargon.

If Hutch was the ultra-cool college icon dressed in jeans, t-shirt and with a stud in one ear, Vodafone is the investment banker dressed in a depressing grey suit and a lifeless blue tie – works twenty two hours a day. And thinks he likes it. Vodafone is a stuffed up, disgusting epitome of capitalistic nonchalance. Vodafone is a lifeless, characterless, colourless, money-minded, maniacal entity that will suffer a brain hemorrhage if it loses 0.001% of its marketshare in a month. Vodafone is the materialistic brand that will stoop to any level to rid you of a few hundred rupees more. Vodafone is the hound that will send you twenty three messages every hour to remind you that if you would be kind enough to get one of your friends trapped in their trap, they’d give you a holy chance in hell to win a Reebok bag that’ll be big enough to swallow your handkerchief without a burp.

Not only is Hutch now Vodafone, that pug is now a hound baying for the last penny in your wallet.

Change is good. Yeah right, I’d like to see some change again.

Dear Mr Honest Traffic Cop,

I am the one who broke a relatively obscure (I think) traffic light at 10 pm. I am the one in front of whose car you dangerously danced so that you could get me to stop. I am the one who stopped and rolled down the window as you walked up to my car.

You spoke very politely, with an almost queer cheer in your voice. You greeted me, and you smiled. It wasn’t the devious, devilish smile that I am used to receiving from your ilk. It was honest and sincere. And that is commendable. For that time of the night. You must have been standing there in the noise, smoke, dust and filth for many hours. And after all that, if you can conjure up that smile, you deserve some respect…

…or at the very least, you deserve to be treated (and spoken to) respectably. Unfortunately for me, I did neither. I was harsh and rude to you. I spoke to you with a generous dose of contempt. I looked down upon you. And insulted you with the tone and words that I used.

But there was more. I didn’t stop at that. I offered you a bribe. Shamelessly, thoughtlessly, nonchalantly and remorselessly. You were visibly upset. I’ve offered bribes before, and I think I’ve learnt enough to pull them off with some degree of success. Most times, it just needs the right degrees of cheer, bonhomie, understanding, respect and surreptitiousness. This time, unfortunately, I bungled up. I just stuck a fifty-rupee note in your face. That must’ve felt really insulting.

You gave me some of the contempt back. And deservedly so. But in your own polite, civilized way. You just smiled a smile dripping with sarcasm and contempt. And asked me to leave. I thanked you and left in a huff. Perhaps because I knew I was in the wrong. And couldn’t get myself to face it.

You are an honest traffic cop. Unlike most others. You don’t even have a pot-belly. You were courteous and cultured. And you were not staring at my wallet. I hope I haven’t pushed you in the other direction through what I did today. I almost feel as if I have killed a good cop, but that’s pushing it too far really.

I respect you for the way you conducted yourself. And I hope that you set an example for your brethren. Unfortunately, the path ahead is rough. And people like me add a few more potholes.

I am usually not so uncultured an uncouth. Maybe it was the fact that I was clearly, doubtlessly in the wrong – one tends to get defensive. Maybe it was collective hate against your race manifesting itself upon you. I don’t know, really. Whatever it was, it does not count as an excuse.

I am sorry for the way I behaved, and for the way things panned out tonight. If you’re reading this (unlikely), or if we meet again (unlikelier still), I would like to buy you a beer. And that would not be as a bribe.

Hope someone up there makes more of you, and less of me.

Regards,

Signal-Breaker

I am characteristically irritable today. And I choose to vent it out. I ranted at a friend so much, she asked if I had PMS. It really doesn't get worse.

It's been a day since I've reached campus. And it feels strangely dead. Somehow devoid of energy. It's still pretty, all right. But in a dumb, Claudia Schiffer kind of way. Not the blisteringly intelligent turn-on beauty of a...umm, never mind. There's very little buzzing activity around. Everyone is just going through the routine. Attending lectures, eating, sleeping (mostly in class), listening to music.

And yet something important is very unlike itself.

IP Messenger was always (always) buzzing with activity. It was characteristic of the irrepressible energy on campus. It was always there, in that little corner of the screen, blinking away, demanding attention, seducing one to give up the project report due the next day and indulge in some mindless inanity.

IP had character. It had a culture. Written rules. And unwritten ones. IP could locate people, songs, movies and TV serial episodes. Rare songs, bizarre movies, and never-before-seen footage from various events were all there on IP. Waiting to be discovered, shared, and savoured.

IP had a sense of humour. It was witty. It could pun. Sarcastic, bitchy, nasty. Naughty, innocent and juvenile at times. Entertaining always.

There was competition on IP. The site of some famous spam wars, IP saw many a monumental battle fought between PGP08 and PGP09. All of it somewhat dwindled when PGP09 and PGP10 were together on campus, but we still had a historic battle in which PGP09 was RIP-ped apart mercilessly.

All of it seems to be falling apart rather quickly, though. I've been looking for a song, an album, a movie, and one episode (any one) of a famous TV series since morning today. I've found nothing.

We are the seniors now. I am feeling a little lost, to be honest. Somewhat rudderless. I don't know about the batch. Most people wouldn't accept it, really. But we're still finding our feet, coming to terms with the fact that a lot of people are soon going to be looking up to us for a lot of answers…

…and songs. And movies. And TV series. I'm not disappointed because I've not found what I was looking for. Just sad that I found nothing at all. No smart-alecy retorts. No sarcasm. Not a single snide remark. No character. No humour. No life. Just a stupid icon in the corner of my screen. That refuses to blink.

We're still just about finding our feet. We've not discovered our Deb Bhai yet, who'd bring out any Hindi song from any part of the universe - you just had to ask. Or our Arkaprabha Ray, who'd do the same with any English song. Or our Senti, who had the most bizarre collection of sports clips (talk of micro-segmentation). Or Brajesh, who was looking for his 'half-white, half-sleeved, full kurtha'. Or Bond, who'd have documentaries on every topic under the sun. And then some.

PGP09 had character. And they lent it to IP. We've not discovered character yet. Maybe we will. Maybe we won't. Maybe things will get better. Maybe they're meant to get worse batch after batch.

I'm sitting here trying hard to get IP to work. Pumping in what I can. I feel like a helpless doctor with shock pads (!) who is trying hard to revive a dead man. It's not working. At least not yet.

Word flies around that the new batch is all black and white and grey. Wonder if we're going from bad to worse. And whether darker, gloomier times lie up ahead. Time will tell, of course. The days in between are painful, meanwhile. And some times depressing. Enough to drive a perfectly normal guy to PMS :)

My collaborator on this effort is Prof Lionel Aranha. Prof Aranha taught us Business Law in the third term at IIMK. He also teaches at TAPMI and IIMI. In his words, he is an 'Academic Nomad'. Enough said! :)

I awoke with a start. The damn electricity department was at it again - unscheduled power cut at a godforsaken hour. It was dark around me and it was humid. Sweat puddles were forming on my stomach waiting to trickle down on to the bed. Flashes of lightning at a distance seemed to play with the shadows in the room. I reached for the torch by my bedside. The beam of the torch fell on the still ceiling fan before I directed it to the alarm clock on the bedside table. It was five minutes past two. I reached for the bottle of water. It was empty. I cursed the electricity department as I heaved myself off the bed, and on bare feet wandered into the kitchen for a drink of water.

The distant roll of thunder accompanied by a sudden waft of cool breeze assured me that the long awaited monsoon was arriving. It was the 6th of June or was it the 7th... who cared? The rain was overdue. I opened the door of the refrigerator and groped for the bottle of water. It was then that the phone rang. It startled me. It was quite an eerie sound at such a very early part of what would be a wet dawn.

Clutching the water bottle I stumbled into the living room. The flashes of lighting were becoming brighter as they guided me to the phone, which was sitting on the desk by the window. I stumbled to the phone and picked it up in the midst of the fourth ring. "Hello". My voice seemed stuck. I cleared my throat. The voice on the other end was muffled. It was that familiar voice that I hated. “Did you do my work you bastard?” he said. Just then there was a discharge of lightning and the phone went dead. I must have muttered something as I dropped the phone on the cradle. The clap of thunder that followed startled me.

I was annoyed; he has the gall to call me at two in the morning and call me a bastard. I wasn’t upset with the name; I have been called worse names in the past. I wondered if he was drunk. The voice was menacing, as it usually was. Not that I was scared, but it annoyed me. Why at two in the morning? He could have called me at a convenient time.

I opened the door of the balcony and stepped out. A mixture of warm air followed by a waft of cool breeze hit me. The first drops of rain fell to the ground. The earth welcomed the first rain with a warm scent of mud. I paused and took a deep breath. Another discharge of lightning streaked in the sky. For an instant it lit up the earth beneath. The clap of thunder that followed was loud and long. I pondered a while longer then stepped in and closed the door of the balcony. The rain was coming at a steady pace bringing a coolness that was much needed.

I took a long swig from the bottle of water and sat down on the bed. I felt a chill or was it my imagination. Lying on the bed I tried to sleep but I couldn’t. The combined effect of the dream and the phone call prevented me from falling into deep slumber. It must have taken a while for me to fall a sleep. The reassuring rhythm of the rain and the coolness that it had imported must have helped. I slept like a log. No dreams, nothing.

The whirr of the ceiling fan woke me up. I shivered in the cool breeze. My eyes fell on the clock. It was ten minutes past seven. I heaved myself from the bed and switched off the fan. The bed looked inviting but the toilet beckoned my swollen bladder…

There were only two calls that had to be heeded at all times. This was one of them. The other was one was the one that had rudely shaken me up last night. That word still rung in my ear. And stung me hard. What business did the rascal have talking to me like that at that unearthly hour.

Someone up there, meanwhile, seemed to have a swollen bladder too. It was really pouring now - strange for this time of the year. Just as well, though. Yesterday's job hadn't gone off as easily as I had imagined.

My thoughts went back to yesterday's day at work. I had always thought that the fat pig would be nothing more than a cake-walk. It had turned very messy rather too soon. Some fight the pig had put up. The cool breeze brought me back. Bombay being Bombay - nothing had changed from 2005 to 2015 - the almost-instantaneous flooding at Bandra would only help matters. The rain would wash it all away. It would wash away the blood and the fingerprints. Fear would wash away the eyewitnesses. Time would wash away the memory. What would wash away the sin, though…

It was a lazy Sunday morning, and I was sitting in the balcony. My thoughts were drifting, just like those black clouds in the distance…

It had been three years in this profession now. The depression of 2011 still brought back painful memories. It was possibly the most inappropriate time to be doing an MBA. I was, and I couldn't help it. The fact that I was studying at India's best business school didn't help. Multi-crore salaries - the norm only a few years before - had all but evaporated into nothingness. The jobs had dried up, and desperation had set in. Everyone, after all, was doing an MBA only for the money.

Bhai had recruited from campus for the first time that year. When 'Bombay Supari' approached the Career Advancement Cell with the intention of participating in Final Placements, there was shock all around. The desperation drowned out every other feeling pretty soon, however. Bhai picked up seven 'Assignment Officers' that year. I was one of them. It was always going to be a tough life, a dangerous existence - Bhai had warned us. But then, those were desperate times. And desperate times call for desperate measures.

Three of my batchmates were killed in a police encounter within months of joining the 'Company'. With them, one part of me had also died. I stopped fearing death that day.

Bhai's behaviour had stunned me. Everyone could be replaced here, I realised that day. At most times, within minutes. Bhai didn't care about lives. Bhai didn't bother his conscience with the potential that these young men held - the potential that was being clinically destroyed. We were just soldiers in Bhai's pointless war. Nameless, faceless soldiers. Bricks in the wall.

From then on, my relationship with Bhai went downhill. Things had finally come to a stand the day before - just before the last bit of 'work' that Bhai had wanted me to execute in Bandra. Bhai remained obstinate - perhaps it was old age catching up with him. I had no option, but to go with his plan of action. Few people ever had an option when Bhai spoke. Some fight the pig had put up. Wouldn't have, had Bhai heard me out for a few minutes.

Bhai would have to be taken care of, were the Company to flourish. Survive, even.

It was still raining. And pretty heavily too now. The rain would have washed away last night's killing. And it would wash away tonight's too. I checked the holster. The Smith & Wesson 0.44 was there all right. It always was. One-two-three-four-five-six. Wouldn't need all of them - but in the three years in the profession, if there was one thing that I had learnt, it was that one can never be too sure.

Bhai was alone in his room, as I had expected. He turned around at the sound of my footsteps. I pulled out the 0.44, took aim, and…

…awoke with a start. The electricity department was at it again - unscheduled power cut at a Godforsaken hour. It was dark around me and it was humid. Sweat puddles were forming on my stomach waiting to trickle down on to the bed.

Tip tip tip tip…

"I had told him to get the tap repaired a week back. Bloody good for nothing lump of fat and bones."

Tick tick tick tick…

"I had told her to remove the clock from that wall a week back. She's just sitting in one place and accumulating fat by the day."

Tip tip tip tip…

"Aargh! Bombay has turned into such a trash can now. So different from the Bombay Rustom and I landed in, thirty years ago…after they blew up our house in Afghanistan with a deadly time bomb."

Tick tick tick tick…

"This ticking reminds me of impending death, of the sheer ruthlessness with which time marches on, ticking off my life, one second at a time…with the cold brutality of a gang of contract murderers. Much like those men who blew up our house in Kabul…"

Tip tip tip tip…

"'It's just water', I keep telling myself. As I did on that fateful night. It was only when Ma happened to scald her fingers did we realise that it was acid. Each drop taking our home a step closer to doom…"

Tick tick tick tick…

"It was only when Ma shrieked after scalding her fingers did we realise that something was not in place. Pa happened to notice an eerie sound from behind the almirah. 'Tick tick tick', it went…"

Tip tip tip tip…

"It didn't take us long to figure that there had been a security lapse at the Prime Minister's residence - the most fiercely guarded building in the country. Or the fact that we had only a few minutes…"

Tick tick tick tick…

"Ma and Pa made us run out into the lawn outside. 'Keep running as hard as you can', was the last I heard before…"

Tip tip tip tip…

"The sound was deafening. 'So this is how the death knell sounded', I had thought to myself then…"

Tick tick tick tick…

"Bombay is still the way it was so many years back when we landed. Still waiting with open arms for anyone with half a dream and a big heart."

Tip tip tip tip…

"Bombay is still the ruthless bitch it was so many years back when we landed. Still ready to snuff out anyone who wants to lead a clean life of honour. Where else are citizens more afraid of the Police, than they are of the Underworld?!"

Tick tick tick tick…

"Bombay has allowed me to build this multi-billion dollar empire single-handedly. I wonder if it would have been possible anywhere else in the world…"

Tip tip tip tip…

"Yes, Bombay has allowed Rustom to build a multi-billion dollar empire single-handedly. But at what cost. One can not live a clean existence here. To be fair to him, Rustom has tried his best. In the process though, he has made more enemies than he thinks he has…"

Tick tick tick tick…

"It has been a good life, I'd say. I've made a lot of money, earned a lot of fame, and generally been on good terms with most people. Most except two. Roshan thinks they're out to kill us. But you know how paranoid women can get for no rea…"

Tip tip tip tip…

Tick tick tick tick…

Tip tip tip tip…

Tick tick tick tick…