It is patriotism season, but I am shamed by my nationality. It has happened far too often in the recent past for my comfort.

There was anger at first, then there was disgust. And now there is shame. Fueled by the sheer ignominy of watching our khadi-clad men resigning, then falling over each other to get to the chair and finally sulking over not getting the chair.

Then there are the wise men sitting further north, who have been out with their diplomatic begging bowls, looking for Big Brother America to tell us what to do next. Or what not to. They have also been issuing threats emptier than their collective craniums - stuff that, I am certain, is a source of many laughs for the bastards sitting safe across the fence.

And now there are the greenie-weenie humanitarians. Who want a lawyer to represent Kasab.

They are out in the mainstream media with their senseless suggestions and foolish ideas. The Chief Justice of India, no less, wants a lawyer to represent Kasab. HT Mint wants a debate on the topic. Both go on to suggest that 'a constitutional democracy such as ours ensures that every person standing trial in court even for the most heinous crime should be represented by a lawyer.'

I say WTF.

Why do we need a trial? And why do we need a lawyer? Why can't we just make full use of whatever Kasab has to give us, and then order a public execution. With the world's media in full attendance. Will that make us any less civil? Or any less democratic?

What constitutional right to a trial are these chaps talking about? Kasab is not an Indian. Why should he be given these 'constitutional rights'?

We are just using the cloak of a 'civilized, democratic society' to postpone doing what we should have done many, many years ago. We are handing out threats that have ceased to have any meaning at all, we are not doing anything to impose any punitive action against terrorists and camps not in our custody. Worse, we are letting someone who is in our custody have the right to a trial and a lawyer.

What are we, if not the biggest collective impotency ever?

Sure, we are a democracy, and every single person has a right to their opinion. But the way so many of us are exercising that right, the choices we are making compels me to believe that most of us don't deserve that right.

It convinces me that democracy's time is up.

Now that it's over and done with, it feels strange.

Once the dust has settled, there will be the big question. 'Now what?'. Oh and there's that credit card bill to pay.

A curious mix of feelings this is. There's the overwhelming sense of freedom, of being unrestrained, of having broken shackles. There's a sense of disgust at the way things turned out. There's some sadness about all the hope and faith that more or less came to naught, and about plans that stand radically altered. There is a fizzy, dizzy sense of excitement about the future. This way or that, these are going to be very interesting times. There's a feeling of gratitude, for the fact that I could actually afford to something as stupid as this, for great friends and a wonderfully brave family. There's a hint of discomfort, an uneasy apprehension, of the future. And of that credit card bill that has to be paid. But it will be fine in the end. Jugaad ho jaayega.

Then there's the pride. Fierce, overpowering. I feel good about myself.

And there's the sense of determination. To do well, to succeed. To prove, over everyone else, to that one skeptical part of my own brain, that it was the right thing to do. There's a sense of ownership that a job, however entrepreneurial it might claim to be, can't rival.

It feels strange that so much is just the same, and yet so much has changed. Overnight.

I don't know yet, how I am supposed to react when I'm being congratulated for quitting my job. Strange times these are.

But it feels good.

First, the very thought of a chocolate-scented deodorant is repelling. There are things that taste good, and there is stuff that smells good. And one surely doesn't imply the other. Or we'd be eating jasmine-flavoured ice-cream.

And then look at this. Ugh.


That thing is hideous, abominable, hateful, even cringe-worthy. What were they thinking? Can some soul from HUL please spray some light on this?

(Unlikely, because only chaps with exemplary taste read this blog, surely not people who are capable of coming up with that.)

Update

The hideousness of it all :)

I am not a big fan of cricket. (Any sport that can not be enjoyed without commentary is not worthy of time).

And I am an even lesser fan of Dada. Yes, we had the Bengali chaps on campus who once wrote a Bhajan for Dada and composed it as a rock song. But that's all.

And yet, my heart reaches out to him.

Because I know that sick feeling, that hollowness in the tummy that comes from getting out on the first ball. After waiting it out patiently, fielding in the deep, chatting with grasshoppers, far away from where the action is. Dropping the lone catch that comes around once in three innings, being accused of being talentless by 'friends'. Worse, being called lazy and lethargic. Worse still, being called an Azharuddin-who-can't-even-field ('Azhar' was a pretty potent expletive only a few years back).

After all that misery, sitting by the gutter, watching more talented chaps crack fours and sixes, willing my own team members to get out so I could bat and justify my very existence. Silently cheering every time a wicket fell, sitting around with a sullen expression, distraught at coming one wicket closer to defeat. But overjoyed at coming one wicket closer to bat.

After all that endless, bottomless misery, finally holding the bat in my hands. Feeling revitalized, strong, powerful, determined. Determined to pulverise every bowling attack to dust. Dreaming about hitting the winning runs (tail-enders in weak batting line-ups occasionally get that privilege), and being carried off the field by overjoyed 15-year olds. Wondering how does a reverie fit into a crucial moment like this, shaking myself out of it, realizing it is probably slightly late, swinging that bat nevertheless. And hearing something shatter a few inches behind me.

That disgusting, sinking feeling.

It is cruel enough, hard enough on someone to get out on the first ball. And it is miserable, deathly to get out on the first ball in your last innings in Test cricket.

I think everyone who gets out for less than 15 in their last test innings should be given 'double batting'.

"Sir, today is a dry day."

"What?? Why?"

"Some Kartik Ekadashi, Sir."

"Crap!"

(glances at watch)

"It's past 12. Kartik Ekadashi is over. Can't we work something out?"

I can't believe I had that conversation yesterday.

A year back, I was the waiter, not the Sir.

It is wedding season once again, and I have a bold claim to make.

I think I have made my peace with 'Please consider this as a personal invitation'. And just as well. People just stopped writing it in their emotionless mass e-mails.

There's a new demon that has, meanwhile, raised its rather abominable head. It is called 'Please let us know of your travel plans in advance, so we can make suitable arrangements.'

This baffles me. Mostly because typically, this is the concluding line of a meaningless mass e-mail sent out to a thousand and twenty seven 'undisclosed recepients'.

I wish someone with a huge amount of time on his/her hands and a wicked brain would take up every single one of these people on their fake, thoughtless promise. I wish someone would begin replying to all these mails with a curt: 'Congratulations! I'll be there for your wedding. I'll inform you of my travel plans shortly, please make accommodation arrangements for my family and me. Thanks.'

'And you would be?'

'I am your seven years junior from IIM Kozhikode. Remember the invitation you sent on the Alumni group. Congratulations once again :)'

'Oh. ah, yes of course. (gulp) What's your name again?'

(I think I know someone with a huge amount of time and a slightly wicked bent of mind. Please post a comment in case you do too. And please do consider this as a personal request. Thanks!)

Lord Rama, hopefully watching things unfold from his perch somewhere in the Super-Cosmos, would most definitely be baffled by the way his return is being celebrated all over the country. He would be shocked by the 'Big Dick Mentality'. "My bomb is bigger than yours, my rocket zooms higher than yours, I am burning more money than you in two hours."

(There is a school of thought that believes in the 'Big Dick Paradox'. "The smaller the dick, the more a person is likely to indulge in the Big Dick Mentality." Intuitively, that makes sense. Deep-seated insecurities, perhaps. Or more fundamentally, the ones with the BDs have better things to do in life.)

What must baffle Lord Rama the most, though, is not the noise or the pollution, or even the most bizarre homecoming anniversary celebration that any deity, past or present, receives on an annual basis. It is the mass SMSes.

I vaguely remember having blogged about this a few years back. And encouragingly, my hate for them remains unchanged.

Imagine the predicament of the Lord, watching from his perch in the Super-Cosmos, looking at these emotionless, thoughtless beings sending three corny lines of faintly-veiled fake meaninglessness to their friends, colleagues, relatives and well-wishers. At one go.

"Darling, why are these people celebrating the anniversary of our homecoming in this manner?", the Lord asks his Wife. "Brother, Hanuman, can anyone tell me what (in the name of God) is going on here?", thunders he, fast losing patience with the wonders and conveniences of modern technology.

I always thought festivals were a good time to let the few special people in one's life know how special they were. Isn't it slightly ironic, that festivals are precisely the time when so many of us choose to bucket everyone in their life in one huge mailing list.

"My SMS list is bigger than yours."

Oh, and to the two of you reading this, Happy Diwali.

Somewhere along the way, I started believing that it was uncool to work hard, to study and to struggle. It was cool to take it easy, sit back and let things come to you. Working hard was for people who had more determination than brains. I thought I was so smart I didn't need to work hard at all.

I started believing so, because I kept getting away with it. Each time I got away with it, my belief strengthened, reinforced by my latest success.

The last time I struggled with anything that threatened with significantly dire consequences was in Engineering college. At Hexaware, I didn't work. At the magazines, it does not classify as work.

And the two years at IIMK were almost ludicrously laughable. I'd get away with the craziest things. I'd get away with not studying for tests and exams, and talking my way through them. I'd get away with going into presentations unprepared, and sleepwalking through them with some smooth talking and some common sense.

Coming from a decent management institute where students choose companies rather than the other way round, I had started to believe that I was the centre of the world, and that everything happening around me was happening for me.

Somewhere along the way, I began taking success for granted, and not welcoming it with any kind of respect when it actually did come around. "Could there be any other way?"

And somewhere along the way, I forgot how to handle failure. My sense of determination went for a hike. My ability to struggle went into eternal dormancy. My work ethic went to dust. And I turned into a lofty, complacent airhead with a thoroughly skewed idea about myself and the world around me.

It's good to be getting back on terrafirma. Slowly, but surely.

Most people have a list of their best, most memorable drives. I have no such list.

I have always hit it off with most drivers I have come across. More often than not, drivers are drivers because they like driving and they like cars. That gives us a common interest, a shared passion about most things that move. It is not a surprise then, that I like drivers.

(One must hand it to them for choosing their profession, and choosing to make money from what they enjoy most. Most of us ordinary people do not have such privileges. Or if we do, we don’t have the balls to exercise them. Drivers, then, are an entirely different breed.)

It is only fair then, that I compile a list of the most memorable drivers I have come across. What is not fair is ranking them this way. Telling them, “Hey, you’ve been memorable, but that chap there, he’s been more memorable”. Then again, life’s not fair either. So such it will be.

However, just to make it slightly less unfair, we won’t go 5-4-3-2-1. We’ll go in any random order, and end with So Mot (Number One).

Number 3

Bombay - Pune | April 2006 | Bhai from Mughal Sarai | Tata Indica

I was travelling from Bombay to Pune and I was in a spectacular rush. I had to make it to my destination in two hours. And that included a stop for some chores at Belapur. It was my rotten luck that I landed up in a taxi whose driver had just landed up in Bombay on a train from Mughal Sarai. He had since been taught driving in Bombay’s mean streets. For fifteen minutes. Then a set of keys had been thrown at him, he had been shown the taxi he was to drive, and asked to get a customer to be driven to Pune. We found each other.

His driving ability was suspect. Bombay traffic, merciless as it is, trampled all over him. Autorikshaws walked all over him, and motorcycles refused to acknowledge his presence on the road. On one occasion, a cycle overtook him. In a country where might is right, this was a mighty slap on his face. The most shameful performance any driver could subject himself to.

By Belapur I was fed up with the slow progress, and requested that I take over driving duties. He was shocked. The Seth-naukar relationship came into the picture. I told him I was younger than him, and hence not a Seth (I tried the age-platform of unsuperiority). I told him we were equals, because in a way, I was a driver too (I was working for the magazines then, and the statement wasn’t wayyy off the mark). He gave in, like a frightened hedgehog, unsure of what he was doing. I could have been a Bombay thug who’d drug him on the way, throw him on the highway and run away with his taxi. He took the risk…

…and I took the wheel. It was a battered Indica that had lived past its prime. On the expressway, it took some prodding before it got to 100. It wasn’t used to being driven that fast. Bhai (I don’t know his name, and Bhaiyya seems politically incorrect) told me that Seth had told him to not drive faster than 80; “Average kharaab hota hai..”

I took the liberty of explaining to him, how the faster we went, the less time the engine was on, and hence fuel efficiency actually improved. Soon we were doing 120.

After the ma-baap-bhai-behen bit, conversation steered on to serious topics. How much do you make, who do you work for, why do you work, why don’t you buy your own taxi, the likes. Some rapid calculation later, Bhai figured that Seth was making Rs 25,000 a month from one taxi. Bhai was being paid Rs 2,500. That was downright ridiculous, I told him.

We did some more calculation. One acre of land in the village could be used as collateral for a loan in the city. He could use it to buy a used taxi. Then he’d run the taxi on the Bombay-Pune highway, ferrying people this way and that. He’d recover the money, pay off the loan. Use the existing taxi as collateral, and get another loan. Buy another used taxi, hire a driver and do runs on the Bombay-Pune highway.

Soon he’d have a fleet of taxis. He’d be the Seth, someone else would be the Bhai.

We had reached. There was no time to think of the thorns. There would be, had I driven at 80.

The roses had been smelled, the thorns not tested yet.

Bhai left. He jumped the clutch, the car protested and shut itself off. He tried again, more gentle with the pedal, and this time he was on his way. I don't know what became of him.

Unsurprisingly, I never heard from him again.

A few weeks later, I joined business school. Smelling roses and not being stung was to become a way of life.

It is easy to enjoy Dilbert when one thinks one is Dilbert. Or Wally or Alice. Asok even.

It was, till a few months back.

I was reading Dilbert today, and I didn't enjoy it. Because I wasn't Dilbert anymore. I was trying to stifle a laugh at Pointy-Haired Boss's unimaginable stupidity when a little voice somewhere deep inside said, 'Dude, that's you!'.

It's scary. Someone, somewhere is reading Dilbert right now thinking of me as Pointy-Haired Boss. And having a good laugh.

And that's the problem with being a manager. One tends to (very rapidly) transform into someone one has always hated.

The bigger problem is that people all around the world are having a good laugh. At your expense.

There was a time not many long years back, when a boy and a girl could not be friends. They could be strangers. Or they had to be seeing each other and preparing for marital bliss. There was nothing in between.

You spoke to a girl, people around you would whisper. You went for a walk with her, eyebrows would start rising not-so-subtly. You went for coffee, you'd be starting a small forest fire of speculation.

"So, heard you went for coffee with her." (wink wink)

"Eh? There's nothing between us. We're just friends. Really."

"Of course, who said otherwise?" (wink wink)

The times, though, they're a changin'. The tables have turned.

A guy and a guy can not be friends any more. It is just not possible. They're either strangers, competitors or a gay couple making man-love 14 times a week. At least.

You go off for a roadtrip with a guy. And you're hard pressed (heh heh) to explain to the world and its cousin that "we're just friends". Go out for dinner together, and you're branded gay, your parents give up all hope and girls suddenly begin to feel comfortable around you (but not in that sort of way). All that inside a few hours. It must feel terrible.

Just ensuring that one does not come close to sparking of that kind of speculation is exhausting. One must always be wary, aware of what one is saying and doing, what one's body language is communicating, what clothes one is wearing and where. One false step, one must start preparing for a hard life ahead.

The times, they are a changin'.

For all their bravado on the field, these sissies are the first chaps to start shitting bricks in their trousers whenever a firecracker goes off 10,000 miles away.

A most predictable turn of events is likely to follow. Captain Sissy Ponting (is he still in the team?) will rear his ugly head and want to protect the rest of his 14 sissies by calling press conferences and telling all and sundry how scared they all are, looking at the current situation in India. A few days later, his Monkeyness, Andrew Sissymonds will call a press conference of his own and cry monkey tears about dropping out of an important tour because he fears for his life.

Perhaps the Ausissies should realise that their lives are in danger in India in any case; they don't look like the most loved creatures in India in any case.

Why should we even be inviting these impotent imbeciles for a tour in the first place. If only the BCCI itself had a spine rather than an incurable infatuation with rustling currency notes.

One wonders (and many have wondered in the past) if they're overcome by the same sense of overpowering fear of things that explode when they land up here to earn their millions of dollars of hard cash playing in the IPL for a month.

Merrill Lynch says that the National Australia Bank is a piece of trash because they're not revealing their sub-prime exposures. ("Never mind that we've lost many billion dollars giving out sub-prime loans, they're trash. Stay away from their stock.")

Fitch, meanwhile, announces that Merrill Lynch shares are rapidly turning meaningless, after they handed out cheap loans to companies who'll never be able to pay them back.

Merrill Lynch, in an attempt to garner some support in these troubled times, upgrades Wachovia. ("Never mind how doomed we are, we've all punished Wachovia enough. All the punishment is now reflected in their share price. Let's all stop hammering them now. Here, Wachovia, let me upgrade your rating.")

Wachovia will respond, Merrill Lynch is hoping perhaps, with a detailed note to the media on how sturdy Merrill Lynch is, and how its responsible management and robust practices will see it ride over these difficult times.

Everyone's rating each other. It's a game of tit-for-tat. You screw my rating, I screw your rating. Together we screw the market. The market screws the investor. The analyst makes money talking on Bloomberg TV. The market goes berserk. The investor commits suicide. Everything's right with the world.

It's like high school. The stock market is the Head Master. These banks are all unruly schoolboys complaining against each other.

Merrill Lynch: NAB, he's not telling me his secrets. He's hiding something, Sir. I think he's a bad guy, you should dismiss him at once.

Fitch: Sir, I'm telling you, Merrill Lynch has already caused his parents a lot of harm. He went to the casino last night and blew up a few billion dollars of his dad's hard-earned money. I don't know what he's doing complaining about others. He's the bad apple, Sir. I say throw him out.

Merrill Lynch: Sir, I think Wachovia's been punished enough. Look at his knuckles, they're bleeding from the beating you've given him for losing money at the same casino (where I was last night). I think you should let him go now, Sir. I think he's learnt his lesson.

Goldman Sachs: (strides in confidently) Sir, I have something to say to you in private. I am the one who has lost the least amount of money at the casino. I've been responsible with my parents' money. I am the nice guy. (whispers) Sir, Merrill needs a little shock, he's getting too big for his boots. I saw him at the casino the other day; that was the devil himself, Sir, I tell you. (some more whispering) Sir, that bully Citicorp, just look at his performance. He doesn't know what he's doing. My recommendation is that you chuck him out at once for a week, send him to rehab, he can barely count the zeroes on the amount he lost at the casino last night. Me? Heh, Sir, I'm the nice guy.

Head Master: Ok, Merrill, I've been hearing things...

Wachovia: (hastily interjects) Sir, stop! Please don't do this to Merrill. He's sobered down after the losses, can't you see. He's being more responsible and mature than ever before; last night we went out for a drink and he had just one cocktail. I'm telling you, Sir, Merrill is now...

Merrill: I think this Wachovia chap is a gem, Sir...

NAB: Oh shut up you! (speaking to Head Master) Mate, this Merrill chap has been driving everyone insane here, get him outta the school, mate.

Head Master: Umm uh, yeah! So Merrill, I was saying...

Citicorp: Sir, before you continue, I want to tell you that I might have lost many billions. But I'm still focusing on my customers sir. I'm giving them everything they want. Last week, my private banking practice handed out three hundred and twenty thousand super platinum cards to people who I think will never default on their credit cards.

Head Master: What?

Merrill: I was telling you about Citicorp, Sir. There he's gone and handed out dollar bills again.

Head Master: Huh, yeah! Hey Citi, what do you think is...

Analyst 1: Sir, I've been poring over Citi's performance numbers and I must tell you he's looking pink and healthy. Don't bother with those little black blots on his performance. We'll just all think they're beauty spots, noone will know. Of course, there's the disclaimer that I might benefit from Citi staying back in school.

Analyst 2: Sir, I think that Merrill will see some resistance at last Wednesday's levels before it plunges into the abyss of nothingness. There is no doubt in my mind, that as the supreme power that controls all our fates, your decision will have an almost inexpressible impact on where Merrill goes from here. Sir might decide to chuck Merrill out, but I'd say that there is a certain likelihood that he might not. There are a variety of factors at play here, some of which we must analyze in some...

Head Master: (asking Analyst 1) What's he saying?

Analyst 3: (to Head Master) He's the one who speaks on Bloomberg TV. He can't be less ambiguous than that.

Head Master: He can't be more ambiguous than that.

Analyst 3: Oh trust me, I've seen him perform. He can be much more ambiguous than that.

Merrill: Goldman is a bar of Gold, man. Khara sona. I've known him for many...

Goldman: Merrill is a piece of trash, he gets drunk and then he has these fights in pubs, and...

NAB: Merrill, he's just a nosy prick. What's he got to do with how much money I lost at the casino, why doesn't he tell everyone just how much he blew up at last night's sub-prime orgy...

Merrill: NAB, I'm going to destroy your career. Wachovia (wink wink), dude let's meet up at Larry's at seven tonight, what? The beer's on me... (shouting out loud) Sir, you have to listen to me...

Citicorp: A single-minded dedication to my customers, a blinding obsession with their needs, and sharp focus on their demands...

Analysts: Sir, we might be benefiting from the advice we're giving you. Or we might not. Perhaps, somewhat, maybe, however, even then, if. We're not kicking any buts yet.

Head Master: I think I'll just go into a tailspin and see whether any of these buffoons can predict what I'm going to do next. (evil laughter that signals the dawn of dementia)

The silence is deafening.

The doors have to be kept shut. The wind is blowing outside, one can see the trees sway. But not hear the leaves rustle. Cars pass by, streaks of red and white. You just can't hear them.

The silence rings in the ears. Like a high-pitched squeal. And yet, you know there's nothing.

Eerie. And disconcerting. Music has to be played. Only to cut off that squeal in the ears.

Even in the pin-droppest of silences, we're used to the whirring of the fan. It's only when there's no whirring around does one realise what a source of comfort and familiarity it had become. Isn't that how it is with a lot of things...

I am beginning to detest air-conditioned rooms.

Because they're silent. And the silence is deafening.

Those days of meaningless, inane, pointless spamming seem like yesterday. And yet seem like they happened an eternity back.

Here I am, in a strange land where no one understands what I’m saying, much less even a shard of the obscure humour I tend to unleash on companions. Of all the things I miss about IIMK, I miss IP Msg the most.

(It’s not entirely unexpected, I must add, and I’d been doing my bit to wane myself off the addiction before leaving campus. Mostly by staying up into the wee hours, spamming my brains off. Saying anything that anyone would care to listen to. “Spam, spam; you’ve only got 14 days left here.”)

Looking back, everything about IP Msg and the phenomenon that spamming was, seems bizarre, inexplicable, almost from another universe.

That little blinking icon in the taskbar (I swear I willed it to blink so many times, mostly when I was stuck with a large textbook studying for an exam (rare)), the meaningless case-taking (five minutes later, in a magnanimous free for all, everyone had lost track of whose case was being taken; no ganging up, no groupism, it was every man for himself (mostly) in the merciless IP universe), smartass retorts to serious questions (“What’s for dinner tonight?”, “C-R-A-P!” (in graphic detail (thanks RG))), serious retorts to meaningless questions (“Looking for Chettaman..”, “Last seen struggling to get through a Classic Milds near Commercial Plaza.”).

It seems slightly bizarre now; 25-year old, hale and hearty young men and women of a steady constitution investing so much time into something as inane as spamming. It’s so difficult to get answers to all the (cold) logical questions that corporate life teaches one to ask.

It was an incredibly effective vent. I used it often to rid myself of my frustration by letting myself go on IP. Safe in the belief that whatever I said could be (and would be) used against me at some point of time in the future. But it didn’t seem to matter. There were 200 people with no option (mostly) but to read what you were dishing out. That kind of willing audience is difficult to get, and even more difficult to resist.

Back then, I never asked myself why I (we) spammed. It seemed like a natural, involuntary part of life. Does anyone ask why we breathe?

It is only now that I ask myself why. Corporate life is polluting me (calling knights in shining armour to undertake rescue operations), and making me ask (cold) logical questions that have no clear bullet-point answers. I don’t want to ask these questions (even beginning to answer them is akin to insulting them, their beauty, their complexity), and I need the answers even less so.

But the mind charts its own course, running along and looking for answers even when you don’t want it to.

So why did we spam?

Who wakes up early on a Sunday morning to cook breakfast? I did!

Till last weekend, my culinary expeditions were limited to (distant) inputs of a strategic (and speculative) nature. Cooking was simple then. It’s always easy to sit in the control room and bark out orders.
Sunday I decided to get into the field and show them that I could fight the battle as well as I could shout instructions.

Scrambled eggs, toast and sausages it was to be.

The eggs (four, no less) were broken into a pan with hot oil (rationed; just a little, because of global oil prices). Breaking eggs is slightly more tricky than it looks. What seems like an innocuous tap is actually a carefully judged and precisely executed gracious maneuver that is mastered over time. This lesson was learnt after bits of shell landed up in the pan. And egg landed up on the face.

By the time the fourth egg was broken (shattered) and its contents emptied into the pan, the first two had promptly turned into glorious sunny-side-ups. There seemed no option other than planting the spatula straight into them and splattering them around in an attempt to scramble them (splatter, spatula; is that why it’s called so?). Usually I hate to disturb a nicely formed SSU (perhaps that’s why I have a huge problem beginning to eat them), but this is battle. Action must be swift and merciless.

The slices of bread were forgotten. Unfortunately, they were forgotten inside the toaster. They came out as charred remains.

Meanwhile, salt was forgotten. It was added at a stage much later than it should have. The eggs had scrambled themselves by then. And the salt and pepper that were added seemed to have some issues mixing themselves uniformly.

In other parts of the pantry, the sausages were forgotten. In the freezer. So they were hard round bricks when they were remembered. Many hours of defrosting in a microwave just about seemed to infuse some juicy life in them.

By the time this struggle was beginning to end. The eggs had burned themselves.

The toast had charred itself.

And the sausages resolutely refused to thaw.

The kitchen was in a mess. A little SSU had made itself in the place where some egg white had spilt onto the hot plate. There were breadcrumbs all around. And bits of chopped onion.
This was a disaster.

By the time the sausages were done getting thawed and cooked, the eggs had gone cold, the toast had gone charred-coaled and the orange juice had gone warm.

But it was the best breakfast I have had in recent memory. The effort put in, the filth spread around, the shattered eggs, the bruised ego. All made a wonderful meal.

It’s that feeling of satisfaction that comes from earning something. I had to earn my breakfast, I didn’t get it on a china platter. It felt good.

I might have stumbled upon a remedy without knowing it.

For those chaps sitting on benches in various organizations around the universe, cook your own meals. Twice a week. It’ll make up for the misery that comes from getting a salary every month without earning it.

Bloomberg TV airs a show called Bloomberg NOW in the mornings. I like watching it over breakfast.

I don’t understand share prices, commodity prices, inflation percentages, inflation percentages, interest rates, currency exchange rates. I don’t understand any of it.

To me, they’re dull and boring. Disgusting numbers with no character, just a cold message to be given out to the punters who try and outguess the rest.

One man on Bloomberg NOW makes them come alive, though. He makes the numbers less dead, the participants on the show less boring and a business channel more palatable than anyone else I have seen yet.

The name is Bernard Lo.

Lo goes beyond shedding tears on record crude prices, nodding seriously to what guests are saying and shaking his head grimly at the latest gloomy outlook expressed on his show.

He takes the bulls and bears by their horns and makes them do a little jig so everyone can have a good time. He comes up with the most miserable puns and the most shameful analogies. He says weird bizarre things that make you wonder if he’s really hosting a business show on a premier business channel. Just when you think he can’t get away with speaking that bit of trash on international television, he’s already walked out of the situation, smugness on mug.

Lo does the “Aww, come on, don’t take all this so seriously!” and “Shit, we’re so screwed, let’s laugh about it!” cocktail to perfection. And in the process leaves viewers (some of them) smiling over their morning coffee and guests baffled about what hit them (most of them take it well, though).

It adds colour to proceedings. It makes Lo stand out. It adds perspective, that beyond the sinking fortunes and roof-crashing crude prices, there are things slightly more important. In a world obsessed with mediocrity, Lo is like a breeze, pleasant or not is your take. (You’d think he’s a disgusting, smart-assed prick if you had no sense of humour.)

But he’s still there. Which perhaps means that humour is not dead after all.

If I were to ever host a show on TV/radio (!!), I’d like to do it like Bernard Lo does.

(I’d like to believe that’s the ultimate compliment to the guy! :P)

So when do you know you've made it in your organization? Left the also rans behind?

When they give you a BlackBerry? Or a big car? Chauffeur? Big house? Servants?

Annual paid vacation to the Solomon Islands? Private Jet?

Big increment? Big cabin? Big job title? Big responsibilities?

No Sir.

You've really arrived when they give you your personal loo in the office. Your exclusive slice of crappy real estate.

Till then, you're one of the also rans...

Rediff reports "Antony faints during NDA ceremony".

Then in the opening paragraph, goes on to explain:

Defence Minister A K Antony fainted during the passing out parade ceremony at the National Defence Academy in Kharag Vasla, Pune on Saturday morning.

So it was the passing out ceremony after all. What's to fret over...

...I always have, in fact. Bombay, now that used to be a different story.

Can I just say that I hate Bombay. I had hoped it'd feel better after getting that out straight. Unfortunately, it doesn't.

This is why.

(I would've loved to compose heartfelt - and perhaps entertaining - prose on the reasons, but dang, these bullet points will work just as well)

1. I hate the fact that everything, everywhere is dug up. Every time. I can't believe that arterial roads have their guts ripped out, with traffic moving through one lane instead of three.
2. I don't mind suffering the pain of traveling by road, if I am convinced that things are going to get better. They don't get better. Because of the sheer number of agencies staking their claim on prime real estate under the tarmac.
3. I hate it when men are made to pour hot tar on a perfectly smooth road and surface it with their hands. Wearing miserable gloves. Using a sad excuse for a wooden plank.
4. I hate the fact that we don't think about the environment when we build our roads and our buildings and our malls.
   
5. I hate it when we litter shamelessly, spit around endlessly and generally spread filth as if that was the only thing we were born to do.
6. I hate it that our road dividers change every few meters. Because every Corporator and every MLA wants to make money putting them up, ripping them up, putting them up again, adding a few plants here and there, ripping them apart...
   
7. I hate the frustration that hangs in the air. That weird mix of helplessness and callousness that turns the city into a simmering pot of rage that is waiting to explode. I hate it when we can't be courteous to people around us. I hate it that pushing, shoving, shouting and abusing have become innate parts of our existence.
   
8. I hate the noise. And I hate it when I have to honk incessantly to get my vehicle home without any major damage.
9. I hate the fact that a measly 500 sq foot apartment in the filthiest, noisiest and shittiest part of the city will cost me upwards of Rs 50 lac. And that the parking slot will cost me more than the car itself.
   
10. I hate the fact that when I want to eat out, I can't think of a single decent place that will serve good, affordable food cheerfully.
    
11. I hate the fact that all that money will still not buy me a standard of living that will let me live a safe, healthy and peaceful life. I will still be traveling 4 hours a day, battling other road users every minute for every inch of the road, breathing smoke every living minute and wondering if there's a bomb under my seat in the train.
    
12. I hate it that our infrastructure is so overloaded that even if we want to, we cannot devise any way of combating a potential terrorist threat and making this place safe.
13. I hate it when I feel like going out for a drive at 12 in the night. And I can't.
14. I hate it when (some) people say that the city has got character. And energy. And a never-say-die spirit. I think that's a lot of ball talk. There's no electricity, no water, no sense of courtesy; the character, energy and spirit can take a hike.

Most of those things are petty. Things that can be put in place. There are some things that go deeper than that, things that can't be fixed easily, if at all.

The way I feel about Bombay is like the way one would feel about an estranged relative, or a broken relationship. Agitating and hurtful.

For all my attachment and blind fanaticism for Bombay, I feel cheated.

And with nowhere to belong to, I feel a little lost. And a little homeless.

This is the real world. That was an insulated microcosm of reality.

These are real people. Not members of some inconsequential committee on campus.

These are real lives they're living. Not artificial lives, cushioned by a two-year stay in an insulated environment; not more, not less.

This is real business, that makes real money and gives real people real livelihood. Not some 12-page, 7-exhibit Harvard Business School case that can be fooled around with using models, frameworks and strategies.

And these are real decisions that impact real people. Not arbitrary decisions chosen from a hundred scenarios.

This is a movie with real actors, real heroes and real villains. And there is only one take. That was a rehearsal with people pretending to be actors, those wanting to be heroes, and others who couldn't be anything but villains.

That was a circus that was forgiving and accommodating; one that offered the reassurance of a safety net.

This is a circus that is merciless, heartless and unforgiving. No nets, no safety margins. This, fortunately or otherwise, is the real deal.

This is the real world, then. And I don't like it one bit...

Caught bang in the middle of a self-scripted soppy saga of last goodbyes is the Big Mama of them all.

Last night was the last drive with 2262. And by last, I really mean last, because I am not seeing her again.

2262 will continue life with someone else.

We've had her for 18 years now, and yet, almost strangely, we never named her. Choosing instead, to call her just 2262 (it's got a poetic rhyme to it).

Irrational emotional attachment with inanimate objects does not have a better example. Then again, anyone who has called her an inanimate object has suffered her wrath in the form of smoke from the engine bay, or exploding tyres in the middle of the night (in the middle of nowhere).

I have her to blame for my obsession with cars; I learnt to drive (and enjoy driving) with her. In steps. It began with dad sitting on the driver's seat, me standing outside and turning the key. It gave me an incredible high, feeling the engine come to life. It ended (somewhat) with me requesting my folks to let me drive her on the main road. On my twelfth birthday. Let's face it, it had been four years since I'd been driving her within the compound walls, that can get frustrating.

It's been a strange love-hate relationship. I've loved her so much that I've hated myself for being silly. And at times I've hated her so much that it's made me realise how much I love her (!).

The years are full of incredible memories.

Of drives back from Goa (non-stop), of ramming into a Mahindra Armada from behind (and leaving that despicable giant with no more than a scratch on the footstep), and of countless other memorable outings.

Of the 1200 km drive from Bombay to Kozhikode. A scarcely believable two-night, three-day saga of exploding tyres, busted oil caps, overheating engines ("Look Ma, smoke!"), leaking petrol and malfunctioning wipers. Of thunderstorms, sunshine, poor roads, spectacular roads. Of the Arabian Sea and the Western Ghats. Of every single futile attempt at overtaking 15 tonne trailors on winding mountain roads. Of every single autorickshaw that passed me by, waving a sarcastic goodbye.

It's been a long time. And we've come a long, long way from the time when I'd get to her ten minutes before the rest of my family so that I could use the windscreen washers and clean the glass (to the time when I have depended on the rain Gods to give her a wash in the past year).

It's been a long time indeed. And it refuses to sink in...

...that 2262 is the unlikely hero of this soppy saga of last goodbyes.

PS - For car owners, please change your vehicles every three years to avoid this sort of attachment.

PPS - For you, you've been the best, and it's a pity I've had to give you away. Thank you, and keep walking!

Most of us came here for the stamp (and the job).

Some of us got more than what we bargained for.

People, places, memories and lessons. Every single day that defines who I am, how I think, what I do and where I go.

I am not stamped. And I am not etched.

I have these two years firmly chiseled all over my existence. This defines my identity like nothing else can...

This time last year, Sheeba and Suma wrote what they felt.

I could see it coming then, and yet, now that it's upon me, I scarcely know how to deal with it.

The story is the same, as is the plot. Only the actors have changed...

Was watching the unveiling live on television. Murphy was watching too, apparently. Because when the cars had been driven on to stage. And Mr Tata had told M/s Pachauri and Narain what he thought of their concerns. And when talk gently veered towards the most important bit - whether the car would live up to its name...

...the power went off. I don't recollect feeling so listless in the recent past.

Then Murphy went to sleep. And the television roared back to life again.

"A promise is a promise..." he was saying. And that, for some bizarre reason, gave me goosebumps.

A first year, half-wit finance major will tell you that Rs 1-lac five years ago are worth much more today. Time value of money and all that jazz. Inflation has its impact, as does risk. In this case, surging raw material prices have had their share of the fun.

But, well, a promise is a promise. Rs 1-lac dealer price, plus VAT and transportation.

For everyone who said it wasn't possible, balls to you.

(And go start figuring out how to make your $3,000 cars now - it's never too late!)

It was his day yesterday. Global biggies moved their launches around so they could keep out of the way of the Nano juggernaut. For one day on the tenth of January, Ratan Tata and the Nano were to the automobile industry what Shah Rukh Khan in Diwali is to Bollywood.

Ratan Tata had transformed himself. I can not claim to be exceptionally well-read on the man. All I knew was that he is dignified, soft-spoken and somewhat shy.

All that had changed yesterday. He seemed visibly propelled by the scale of his achievement. And that seemed to have changed a little something within him. He was still sophisticated and dignified, yes, but he was also sharp and aggressive.

Sitting on this side of the TV screen, that barb at Osama Suzuki felt good; it must've felt really good from that side of the camera. No one was spared. Pachauri was mocked, and Sunita Narain was asked to take a hike in her woods.

Honestly, I could've kissed his hand for slapping the skeptics across their faces.

You, Sir, have made me proud.

While reams have been churned out about the Tata Nano across the Indian and electronic media, I have been lost for words for most part of yesterday.

Spell-bound, tongue-tied, fascinated and proud to the point of feeling goosebumps when I first saw it.

Will try and articulate myself better over the next couple of posts - don't know if I'll have anything new to say, but nevertheless.

It is a victory.

Have been thinking about the One-lakh rupee car for a while now. For starters, let's just call it 'Tata One'. There's a huge amount of buzz around the launch at the Auto Expo, but I'm saying nothing new. Yet.

Back at the magazines, there was talk about a new distribution paradigm that Tata Motors was trying to achieve with the One. I wasn't an MBA then, and my knowledge about these things was extremely limited. Right, now that I almost am one, let me spew some jargon.

Traditionally, in the Indian automotive industry, the role of the channel has been fairly limited. Two primary functions: one, geographical reach; and two, inventory holding. Essentially, what dealerships do is allow the manufacturer to 'reach' a bigger geographic region cost effectively; and buy, store and sell cars bought from the manufacturer to share risk. There are secondary functions, but well, they're secondary.

There are two very obvious pitfalls. One, the manufacturer is now at least one level away from its customers. That impacts customer experience - positively or otherwise, distorts customer feedback, and shaves off manufacturer margins. Two, the very real problem of a channel conflict. In the automotive industry, channel conflicts seem to be fairly straightforward in nature - two or more dealers vying for the same set of customers. Sorting out channel conflicts, however, is anything but straightforward.

So the benefit(s) are in one paragraph, and the cost(s) are in the next. Clearly, the objective is to maximize benefits while reducing costs to an absolute minimum.

Here's what I think about how distribution strategies can be played around with.

1. The manufacturer enters into a strategic alliance with a limited number of channel partners. Say 12 on an all-India basis.

2. These 12 channel partners invest a significant amount of resources (land, labour, capital) into the venture. What comes out of the investment is a sophisticated mini manufacturing facility - 12 in total, across the country.

3. The manufacturer has a main manufacturing facility (say Singur for the Tata One) from where it ships standardized, 'base version' vehicles to each of the 12 'satellite' manufacturing locations.

4. Each of the 12 locations has the capability (at its 'mini manufacturing facility') to build on the standardized version shipped to it, and create part-customized models as per its own business strategy and objectives.

5. Effectively, what we have done is that we've split the monolithic manufacturer into one main manufacturer and 12 satellite companies, each with its own capabilities. Each of those 12 are now proper 'companies' - they have business objectives, strategies to meet those objectives, a marketing department to study the market and make recommendations on how to serve the most lucrative segment profitably and an operations department to implement those recommendations efficiently.

The advantages I see:

1. Channel conflict is minimized. Each of the 12 'companies' is free to segment the market as per its capabilities, evaluate segments and single out group(s) of customers that it is going to 'target'. The company that does this in the most innovative manner is likely to avoid channel conflict by carving out its place in the market. From the manufacturer's perspective, the 12 companies constantly strive to push the innovation frontier; irrespective of who amongst those wins, the manufacturer wins.

2. Risk sharing is now significantly deeper. In a way, the manufacturer has got quite a few things off its back. One, it does not have to study the entire market in great detail (or understand varying nuances in varied parts of the country) - someone else does it for the manufacturer. Two, in terms of manufacturing, the manufacturer is now churning out a standardized version of the car from its facility, the channel partners share a part of the manufacturing workload. Three, the understanding of local sub-markets is richer and deeper, and the capability of serving the variations profitably is significantly enhanced. Four, the distribution strategy seems inherently conducive to mass customizations.

The biggest disadvantage I can see is that all this is a huge investment. For a car like the Tata One, where volumes are more or less assured, the investment might be justified. But for a more risky model, where success probabilities are lower, I'm not sure one can justify the hassle. The knee-jerk workaround is that one scale this up for multiple models from the same manufacturer, and hence share risks across models. But that's easier said than done.

Secondly, I am not sure manufacturers want to let go of the control - especially on the marketing and distribution front. It's a toss-up between looking at these aspects as 'overheads' or as 'crucial cogs of the business'. The workaround I can see is that the manufacturer picks up an equity stake in each of the 12 channel partners. That way, the manufacturer retains control - perhaps indirectly - and yet ensures that its own overheads are pared. Again, easier said than done.

Rediff says this in a story on the Tata One.

...it [Tata One] will be produced differently, using dealers as a part of a distributive manufacturing network.

All this is a little like a father adopting 12 young sons, teaching them the business, setting up 12 factories, and then letting them compete with each other fair and square. Irrespective of whether number 1 wins or number 12, the father wins in any case.

Miserable analogies are known to destroy a fat lot. Nevertheless.

Can I just say I hate mass-manufactured communication.

I detest SMSes that I know have been sent to fifty seven other people. I refuse to reply to them.

I can not stand Orkut scraps that wish me a prosperous new year as if I am just another number in the 'friend' list. I refuse to reply to them either. And when it's some smart-ass two-bit program that adds a 'Hi Jayesh' in the beginning to mask the fact that it is a faceless, thoughtless mass-manufactured scrap that was sent to a xrillion other people, I feel no mercy in deleting the crap at once. That's not a spelling mistake.

I fail to comprehend marriage invitations sent by e-mail to a thousand other recipients. I especially hate the obnoxiously added sign-off line - "Please consider this as a personal invitation." I usually don't go to such marriages. Unless the food is likely to be really, really (really) good.

Mass-manufactured communication, like mass-manufactured anything else has no feeling, no emotion, and most certainly, no character. It is heartless, thoughtless and meaningless. It is created with a singularly disgusting intent - one of keeping in touch for the sake of it. It reeks of "I'm so busy, I don't have time to communicate with each one of you individually. But hey, I know you exist somewhere. So here, take this, be happy." It is symbolic of the shameful, miserable, time-bound lives we live. Where friendships are as deep as the breadth of one's LinkedIn network. And where we have no time for cherishing beautiful relationships.

Proponents of the art will talk about convenience. And will balk at the importance I am according to emotion and feelings. Gah to all of you. If you think your convenience comes before what I mean to you, I think I'll take a roll of toilet paper for a friend instead.