Yesterday was a holiday. Had I been thirty years younger, I would have perhaps slept till late. The body clock works differently now. By the time it was 8 o’clock, I was already into my second newspaper and second cup of tea.
It appeared to be a day of ‘seconds’! “Beep-beep”, “beep-beep”, and bang came two SMSs immediately one after the other. The first one was from a colleague. It read, “Nandana nama samvatsara nimagu nimma kutmbaku sakala samptu arogya sukha shanti kodlendu bhagavantnalli prartisutene. Ugadi habbada hardhika shubhashayag”. I cannot read Kannada, but have some knowledge of Sanskrit. I acknowledged the message, thanking the colleague and reciprocating the sentiments.
The second SMS was from another colleague. It read, “Mother passed away just now”. I kept looking at the screen for some time, as if the face of my colleague would appear from it. Of course, it did not.
I put the phone down and looked out of the bedroom window. So, she is finally dead. She was not keeping well for some days. Only the last week my colleague had travelled to Hubli to have a word with her, but all that he was able to see from across the ICU glass was a heavily bandaged body incapable of having any conversation. He broke down a number of times, the thought of losing his mother moving him to tears.
I was transported to 26 years back. There I stood at the foot of a hospital bed, attending to my mother, 52 years of age. How I loved her! My father had gone out moments ago. Mother said, “Your father asks me to develop the will to live life. But why should I? For whom?” I tried to divert her attention by referring to Daddy’s love for her, telling how agitated he had become in the morning when her endoscopy was not done in an efficient manner. Mummy listened to me, and said philosophically, “No one in his right mind should ever argue with a doctor”. Daddy came back with his friend, a surgeon. The surgeon talked to mummy, apparently satisfied. It was time for some light hearted gossip.
“So, what will you have when you get released from the hospital?”, asked the surgeon.
“Rasgulla!”As an afterthought, she added, “... and chicken!” The will to live was revealing itself hesitatingly.
They talked for some time, and then came a team of doctors, checking her reflexes. They, too, appeared to be satisfied. Another hour passed, another team of doctors came. Daddy left to allow the doctors perform their duty. The doctors asked me to hold her feet tightly while they performed some activity.
Perhaps my hold was too tight – mummy complained, “why are you holding my feet in an executioner-like grip?” Ashamed, I loosened my grip. The doctors inserted a pipe in her mouth. It went off well initially, but soon she was grasping for breath. Her mouth was full of blood. The more she tried to breathe, the more blood she inhaled. Her eyes turned upwards, and finally she lay motionless, choked in her own blood, the bed sheet soaked in it.
I had lost my mother in a matter of seconds. I wish I had told her that she should live for me, for I loved her more than any other child on earth. But it was too late.
For many years, on her death anniversary, I placed at the roof a bowl of rasgullas and a plate of chicken overnight. None was ever touched by even insects! It was too late to offer mummy anything, I finally realised.
I picked up the phone and started punching a message of condolence. Life must continue for those who live!
When The Autograph Seekers Desert You
Wealth and fame slip before one realises the loss. Still, it was a mighty surprise to witness it the way I did the Sunday before last.
Smriti, Rani and I visited Mantri Mall that Sunday. We thought that we would pick up a laptop immediately as the showroom opened, and leave the place early to have lunch at Smriti’s favourite, the Chung Wah, in RT Nagar.
As it usually happens, the showroom opened only at 1100. By the time the Reliance Digital guys were through with explaining the features and requesting for a re-visit the next day to handover the free air-ticket voucher, the clock had already struck 1230. The laptop and accessories came packed in more than a single carton. We were already armed with an umbrella. We had also brought a bag to carry the laptop, but the bag turned out to be inadequate in size to accommodate the cartons. So, here were the three of us, each carrying some sizeable burden.
Chung Wah is a friendly joint reached through a narrow staircase connecting the entrance on the pavement on the street to the restaurant on the first floor. No, visiting it would be out of question, we decided; our shoulders and arms already aching from carrying the oversized packets.
We went up another floor in Mantri Mall. The Madarin Trail betrayed an empty look. Obviously, it was too early for the lunch crowd to throng it. We went to three shops, ordering sea food, fried chicken and noodles. Visits to two of these three shops coincided with those of a middle-aged beauty, and so did the follow up visits made to check the execution status of our order. Half-an-hour later, we thankfully traced our way to the table in the dining area, balancing the food trays, avoiding collision with other people and furniture, and still keeping an eye towards our destination.
It was then when I noticed him. He had a vacant look in his eyes. He was staring at some nonexistent object on the horizon, lost in thought. A far cry from the swashbuckling hero who struck 27 in 29 balls, thus contributing to India winning its first cricket World Cup in 1983. These 27 included a sixer, one of the three that came India’s way in that run starved match.
Here he was, the same never-say-die guy who hit a spectacular 174 at Adelaide in the 80-81 series, after India had collapsed to 130 for 4. It was the highest innings till then by an Indian in Australia, coming after the first test when this batsman retired hurt, hit over the ear by a Len Pascoe delivery.
I crossed his table again, to pick up some more food. There he sat, engrossed in spreading mustard sauce over the fried fish, sitting beside the middle-aged beauty. And to think, he had played role in a movie with Poonam Dhillon. I do not know whether the crowd recognised him. As such, he is difficult to be confused with common folks. The typical salt and pepper French beard is almost a trademark.
No, you can’t miss Sandeep Patil even in a crowd. I looked back, only to find that he had already left. The crowd had given him a miss.
What they haven’t written so far
In less than thirty hours since India’s ICC World Cup 2011 win, English newsprint describing, dissecting and eulogising the victory is already larger than the carpet area of an average middle class Mumbai home. Consider all languages, and the area occupied would perhaps beat the size of a bungalow in Jharkhand!
What has not been written so far, or, more honestly, what I have failed to read so far, is the following:
1. Experts are entitled to their opinion. So are the street-smart blokes. Regardless of its origin, the opinion is contradictory, and so, by a simple arithmetical logic, partly erroneous. Wins are achieved when the opinion of the bystanders is not allowed to dictate the action of those entrusted with planning, strategy formulation and execution.
2. Products that serve both ends of the spectrum are difficult to be dislodged by the competition. Normally, the left handed Yuvraj Singh should have joined Gautam Gambhir at the fall of Sachin Tendulkar’s wicket, but that would have meant having two left handed batsmen at the crease. Dhoni, a right handed batsman, elevated himself in the batting order, resulting in the need for fresh field setting by Sri Lanka after every single run and and the end of each over.
3. The cash cow (Sachin Tendulkar – 18 runs) and the star product (Virendra Sehwag – no run) may fail to sell at the most crucial moment. The problem child (Dhoni – 150 runs in 7 innings before the final, 91 runs in the 8th and final innings) may bring about spectacular results with a change in product positioning strategy.
4. It is not enough to have a sympathetic or friendly market – urge customers to voice their sentiments in the market place. The entire stadium singing the national anthem with Team India at the beginning of the match, playing of songs motivating India throughout the match, and public expression of support were a damper for the Sri Lankans.
5. Just because something never happened in the past doesn’t mean that it can’t happen. Till India won the World Cup 2011, (i) no host nation had ever won the title, (ii) no team had won the finals if their opponent hit a century in the match, (iii) scores such as 274 were never successfully chased, and (iv) the success rate of the side batting second was only 33%.
6. The shrewdest marketer can miss an opportunity noticed by a field-salesman. The umpire negated the LBW appeal against Thilan Samaraweera. When the bowler Yuvraj Singh insisted, the review was taken and the dangerous batsman had to return to pavilion at 33.
7. Your competitor may write your success story. Had Pakistan not dropped Sachin Tendulkar (85 runs) four times in the semi final, the Cup, perhaps, would have been won by some other team.
8. Brand equity matters a lot. It was perhaps the excitement of dismissing Sachin that led to Pakistan flooring four of his catches. In the old days, mere presence of Sunil Gavaskar at the slips made opponent batsmen over conscious of their technique.
9. Perseverance pays. Even when the dice appeared to be turned against, facing 48 overs and two balls paid rich dividends.
A Warning
I am very unhappy. Unhappy, and sad. Why me, almost everybody is unhappy and sad. Perhaps unhappy and sad more or less mean the same, but unless I use both repeatedly, you will not get a fair idea about my mental condition. In fact, apart from being unhappy and sad, I am angry. Very angry. And so is everybody else.
And why should I not be angry? What does this Dhoni fellow think of himself? I mean, is this his father’s rule (baap ka raaj) that he will include just anybody in the team and not include the ones I prefer? I mean, here the world was crying hoarse that a particular off spinner must be included in the India side, but Dhoni, the adamant fellow that he is, persisted with only a single off spinner. If you can have one off spinner, why not as well have two of them? Don’t one and one make eleven (ek aur ek gyarah)? In his simple high headedness Dhoni included a particular fast bowler. Why? Why could he not have opted for the other guy who not only bowls, but dances well, and picks up fights apart from wickets? And then Dhoni has the cheek to comment about poor fielding. What is the point in making a comment? You are the captain, not the commentator! You should have taught the fielders how to field, rather than complaining, Dhoniji. But what will he do? Money has gone to his mind - these advertisements shadvertisements and all.
Now see the result! India lost. Shameless fellows. Why do you play the game if you are going to lose? In my childhood, whenever I was on the brink of losing, I used to topple the carrom board, throw the chess pieces, and tear off the playing cards. I never lost a game. Never. My first condition before I agreed to participate in any game was that I could not be defeated. There are so many sports lovers like me who now sit on their sofa sets with broken hearts and shattered dreams. See, how happily we used to jump and raise hands whenever the camera zoomed on us in the stadium! You could not but admire the fighting spirit with which we jostled and occupied the entire frame, till the camera moved away.
All our happiness stands punctured now. I wish the guy could listen. But then, no one listens to me. Going to the office and coming back and sitting in front of the TV and having food. Had I desired, I would have become a really big sportsman. Even bigger than this Dhoni fellow. Or , I could have become a better singer than Sonu Nigam. Or a better actor than Shahrukh. But, proper studies were more important for me, not this nach gana and khelna kudna. So I studied, and got a job, and am working. But that does not mean that I cannot give these guys a run for their money. Ab bhi waqt hai Dhoni, sambhal ja! Baad mein mat kehna ki bataya nahin. (Get your act in order while there is still time, Dhoni. Don’t complain later that I did not warn you.)
Give and Take
Author Khushwant Singh in a recently published column recounted his birthday celebration. He had turned 96, but that was beside the point. He painstakingly described the gains from the birthday celebration – two bottles of scotch and something else that I have forgotten.
He reminded me of a relative, a lady, a wife of a brigadier on the verge of retirement. The lady attended some function and had to give some gifts. She was happy on her return, showing us the gifts she received at the function. She even calculated the price of the bouquets handed over to her, and was happy to explain that the receipts overweighed the expenditure.
A friend had a habit of scrutinising the rear cover of the greeting cards he received, to figure out their price. Another one has a habit of visiting stores looking for items identical to those received as gifts, to ascertain their price. She says, the exercise is to ensure that she is not found wanting when it is her turn to gift an item to the particular person!
This is just fantastic! A gift, a token of love and delicate sentiments, associating with crude commercial considerations. What should one expect next? Parents expecting children to pay for their stay when they grow and earn?
My thinking about the great Sahir exaggerating in the following lines stands changed:
Jawani Bhatakti Hai Bezaar Ban Kar
Jawan Jism Sajte Hain Bazaar Ban Kar
Jahan Pyar Hota Hai Vyapar Ban Kar
Yeh Duniya Agar Mil Bhi Jaye To Kya Hai!
Boisterous! I looked at them, and thought.
I was trying to enjoy my small meal of mushroom soup, salad, baked potato and fried chicken as they had entered the restaurant. The captain had showed them a table that was close to where I sat. Eager to occupy the closest chair, as only little girls can do, they had sat with a sense of victory and looked around. Only, they were no little girls. They were definitely on the wrong side of fifty. All four of them. If they had seen me, and they could not have missed me, they had taken no notice of me. They had slung their coats and bags over the chairs with urgency, cracked some joke, and laughed. Midway, someone among them had passed a comment, resulting in eruption of bigger laughter. And, before this fresh wave of laughter could die down, another storm of laugher had risen from the aged throats. Shaking all over, they were controlling themselves with difficulty, wiping tears from their cheeks and continuing to laugh like mad.
I munched. Looked at the wall in front. And then my eyes drifted towards them. I could not be accused of staring. After all, the world appeared to have ceased to exist for them. Only four of them existed. No one else mattered.
Their laughter subsided, and they looked at the menu in amusement. It appeared to be full of jokes. They read the entries aloud, and laughed. I looked at them carefully. Perhaps they were from the working class. Most probably, they were janitors. Their black skin was dull. Their hands were rough. They wore little, and cheap, jewellery. Their clothes were nothing extraordinary.
They passed the menu around. Only the best appeared to be acceptable to them. And they wanted to be doubly sure before ordering. The captain entered the scene again, explaining each entry in detail, while the ladies giggled and playfully slapped each-other.
The first course arrived. Colourful liquid in tall glasses, with straws of unique shapes. Each lady had offered a different drink. They looked at the drink in front of them, looked at other drinks on the table, looked around, and put their lips eagerly to the straw. Happiness oozed out of them as they drew their first, rather long, sip. Their eyes became brighter. Another sip, and some exclamation. A third sip, and the burst of laughter hit the ceiling. The talk became more animated. The decibel level rose further.
It was time to order the next course. They consulted the menu. This time, more on the right side, where the rates were printed. The tone assumed proportions of conspiratorial whisper. They agreed and disagreed. Bags were opened, wallets were retrieved, and cash was carefully counted. Some quick calculation followed, and there was agreement again. The next course was ordered.
My dinner was over. And what a fantastic dinner it had turned out to be! I had never seen a happier bunch of grown ups. I smiled, casting a last look at them. They did not bother to look at me. They were happy eating, talking, and joking. It did not matter to these women if they had a moustache, if their shoes were not shining, or if they reeked of poverty. It was their day, and they were relishing it to the full.
Boisterous? Who cares?
When you walk out of an airport after flying continuously for more than fifteen hours; you do not exactly look forward to a bus that does not arrive at the appointed hour and promised place. Or, to a phone that fails to resuscitate. Or, to rapidly falling daylight. Or, to find other passengers finding definite means to travel, leaving you to run to every other bus and realise that it does not go to your destination.
All these occurred together as I walked out of Terminal 5 at the Chicago airport. I had been travelling for more than 39 hours! I had started from Bangalore at 1:22 PM on Saturday, to catch the 12:30 AM American Airlines flight departing from Delhi on Sunday. The intended flight got cancelled, and I was accommodated on a later flight to Delhi. At Delhi, the midnight flight got delayed by over twelve hours, and departed only in the afternoon the next day.
A typical day it was proving to be. It was already my birthday in India. It was going to be my birthday in USA in another few hours. A birthday to remember, for sure!
I stood next to the Omega bus sign, holding on to two bags and shifting my weight from one foot to the other. Omega is the last letter in the Greek alphabet. The letter for the last bus which had already gone. The sign advised calling up a certain number. I had a cell phone. I punched the code, read with glee the message, “CODE ACCEPTED”, only to realise moments later that the phone failed to catch any signal. It could as well have been a toy. My watch read seven in the evening. The place was getting deserted. And, none of the buses went to Hyde Park, sorry!
I walked to the taxi stand. It would be about $50 to the Ramada by cab, informed the burly attendant. There goes one third of my daily allowance, I sighed, and signalled the taxi. It was a well maintained vehicle, and I was happy within the security of the automobile.
“You speak like an Indian”, remarked the driver. I told him that I not only spoke like an Indian, I was actually an Indian.
“Where are you coming from?”, came the next question. I replied that I had disembarked from a Delhi flight Delhi, had failed to get the bus, and so was travelling in the taxi.
It was about an hour long drive. The conversation had to continue. The driver informed that he hailed from Islamabad. He came to USA several years ago, initially drove a taxi in Alabama, and for the last four years was settled with family in Chicago.
“A very good place. There is no discrimination. Most of the people you find on the streets of Chicago are immigrants”, he informed. America began as a country of the immigrants, I thought, but did not say anything.
We talked about the Mahatma Gandhi Road in Chicago, places where one could get good Indian food, law and order, blah blah blah. The driver pointed towards Hancock towers on the skyline, McCormick Place, etc., etc., till we finally reached the hotel. The fare was $45, the tip rounded it off to $50, and thus walked I into the hotel at 8 in the evening.
Another day I walked to the taxi stand next to the hotel. The driver was an African. Not the overweight sort, not even the lean and mean types, but a rather frail looking man.
“Will you take me to the Hilton on South Michigan Avenue?”, I asked.
“Yes, I will take you to the Hilton on South Michigan Avenue”, responded the driver.
A very detailed reply, almost like one from the suspense movies!
It was a fifteen minute drive to the Hilton. I paid the fare and gave the tip, and got off the taxi.
The taxi driver on the return trip was one Mr Patel from Mumbai. A postgraduate, he claimed to have faced rather rough weather in USA..
“America ki sarkar jhoothi hai. Sirf dikhawa karti hai. Isko sirf apna matlab nikalna aata hai (The Amercian government is not straight forward. It indulges in pretensions. It only knows how to drive its selfish motives)”, a rather disgruntled Mr Patel ejaculated.
Mr Patel claimed that he was cut for a much better job, but never got the opportunity. There was a lot of discrimination in USA, he said.
“Not only foreigners – this government forgets about its own people also”, informed Mr Patel.
He went off recounting an experience.
It was a lean day. A beggar signalled Mr Patel’s taxi. Obviously, there was no possibility of the beggar being able to pay for the trip. However, it was a lean day. Mr Patel stopped the taxi. The beggar claimed that he was a war veteran, who had to go to a certain office to collect his pension cheque. He assured Mr Patel that the cheque would be encashed within five minutes, and he would have about $1200 to burn. Mr Patel, took a chance, and found the claim to be true. The taxi fare came to $40, but the war veteran paid $100, $60 being the tip! The rest of the money would go on clothes, shoes, party and prostitutes, the war veteran informed. By the end of the month, he would again return to the state of being a beggar!
“Why can’t this government take care of people who fought for it?”, wondered Mr Patel.
Well, if one is bent upon ruining oneself, what can the government do, I thought and got down.
As I walked rather lost on State Street in Chicago one day, confident that bus number 6 would never arrive, I hunted for a taxi. Here he was, with a beard but no moustache, mumbling his prayers. I gave him address, and we started. He was from Pakistan. Karachi, to be precise.
“Zindagi tough hai, lekin Pakistan se to bahut behtar hai (life here is tough, but is much better than that in Pakistan)”, he claimed.
I talked about the repeated failure of Zamhuriyat (democracy). He agreed. I talked about the famous Mr 10% of Pakistan. He said Mr 10% had now become almost Mr 100%. We both agreed that Mia Musharraff was much better than the present rulers. He felt that India was much much better. I too felt the same.
Surprisingly, I never felt any hatred towards any of the Pakistani drivers. No feeling of discomfort, either. They were as human as I was. Two sides of the same coin. I actually felt more comfortable with them than I did with the African drivers!
Lovers of Doom
Our school, sometimes, held unusual assemblies. Such assemblies were called abruptly; usually during the mid of a period. Students used to throw their books in happiness and run to the assembly area to listen to the principal. For, such assemblies were held to announce the demise of some important person and to declare the closure of the school for the rest of the day after observance of silence for two minutes in the memory of the departed soul. The delight at the sudden revelation that one could go back home early and get rid of the boring lectures was too great to be suppressed. Students giggled with happiness while observing the silence; ending the ritual with a dash to the class room to fetch their bags and run towards home.
That happened when I was a child. Death those days bore hardly any significance other than being a harbinger of the welcome news of the sudden termination of the misery of being in the school, albeit only for part of a day.
Matured people are expected to react differently to death. Or, to any failure, for that matter. But we don’t. We rejoice at the failure of others. We take pride in predicting failures. “Take my word -- India will never win this tournament!”, is an oft heard declaration. When a rocket launched by India fails, the ‘Mr Know It Alls’ are fast to comment, “What else did you expect from India?” Near misses of aeroplanes over the Indian sky are reported with great enthusiasm, the agency never forgetting to add how many people would have died in case the collision had not been averted.
Today’s newspaper carries the picture of a young girl sentenced to life imprisonment. Just behind the girl walks a happy man, eager to have his face captured in the frame. We are happy when others fail or perish. We are very reluctant to acknowledge the success of others. For example, the same newspaper which never fails to report incidents of murder, rape, never reported the extraordinary achievement of Dr Tathagat Avatar Tulsi.
Tulsi did his high school at 9, BSc at 10, and MSc at 12. Jealously raised its ugly head, and Tulsi was accused on an international forum of memorising heavy sounding scientific terms and vomiting them out without understanding a single word. The boy went into a shell temporarily. In 2003, the prestigious Time magazine named him among the world's seven most gifted youngsters. Tulsi, when 21, completed his doctorate in Quantum Computing from the Indian Institute of Science. He turned down offers from Waterloo University in Canada and the Indian Institute of Science Education & Research (IISER), Bhopal, to become the youngest faculty member of the Indian Institute of Technology at Powai in Mumbai at the age of 22. He is set to join as an assistant professor in the Department of Physics from next week.
The story of Tulsi did not appear on the front page. Not on the back page. Nowhere. News of Tulsi does not sell. News of death and failure sells.
Are we the lovers of doom only?
Thank you, American Axle & Manufacturing, for bestowing the Supplier Recognition Award on BFW for outstanding support in equipment supply at the Suppliers’ Meet!
As I look from my bedroom, I see a Flame tree in full bloom. Called Gul Mohar in Hindi and Urdu, the tree assumes the botanical name of Delonix regia.
About two hundred persons perished in the rail sabotage yesterday at West Midnapore. Earlier this month, several innocents died in violence at Dantewada. Last month 75 CRPF men succumbed to an attack in the same region. The government admits its inability to do much because of the “mixed mandate”.
One wonders if one would ever have a stronger mandate to take effective action. The government comprises of representatives who win elections on the basis of votes supposedly cast by citizens under their free will. Several people don’t exercise their franchise. Those, who do, may not always act under the so called “free will”. Money power, muscle power, caste considerations, peer pressure, and several other factors influence the “will” of the voters. Candidates spend a fortune and toil hard before elections. If the purpose were only to serve people, it could be achieved more effectively and without bearing so many hardships. The purpose of getting elected is evidently entirely different. The rewards of the office are so attractive, that people try to get elected every time the elections are held.
Under such circumstances, how can elected representatives speak against their own electorate? And why should they allow anyone to take action against their electorate? Doing that would mean bidding a permanent goodbye to their goldmine. So, whether it is a ‘khap’ or a ‘dalit’ or a ‘marathi manus’ or a ‘maoist’ cause, the policy makers of our nation continue to wag their tails, bowing before selfish sectarian interests, and making lame excuses before the rest.
The common man is accused of inertness. It is said that one gets the government one deserves. The reality is different. Common man is so occupied to make both ends meet, arrange education for children, run around doctors, and stand in different queues, that he cannot even dream of contesting an election. All that he dreams of is about leading a peaceful life. Life, that includes happy reunions with relatives and friends. Life that involves getting down peacefully from a bus or a second class train compartment, and hugging the dear ones waiting to receive him.
Unfortunately, all that the dear ones receive today are severed body parts, coffins, and empty promises. But they should not complain. They should understand that the mandate before the government is mixed. And wait for their turn to die in a similar fashion.
How Can Ford Afford This?
The Ford, a very respectable name in the automobile segment worldwide, could never join the big league in India. The company launched one vehicle after the other, one scheme after the other, but had to ultimately be content with an unspectacular show. The main reason behind the lacklustre performance was Ford’s poor after sales support. You will find Maruti Suzuki and Hyundai service centres even at presumed low turnover locations, but Ford service centres are few and far between. Worse, while replacement parts for Maruti and Hyundai vehicles are readily available at reasonable price, the Ford experience is just the opposite.
Just to cite an example, my Ford Figo, delivered on April 24 through Metro Ford, Palace Road, still runs incomplete with something as basic as mud flaps! These flaps were ordered with the car on April 4. The rear view mirror for the left side, ordered at Metro Ford, Palace Road, on May 9, is yet to be supplied. Funnily, the dealer took Rs.500 as advance for the supply of the mirror – something unthinkable at Maruti or Hyundai, where the material would have been supplied instantaneously against payment.
One wonders, if Ford cannot supply even rubber items and accessories like mirrors in a fortnight, how will it supply crucial replacement parts? Will the hapless customer have to wait for years to put his car back on road? One expected Ford to have learnt from its mistakes, but the experience shows otherwise. When will Ford become serious about customer service? If it is serious about its ambitious expansion plan in India, how can Ford afford such shoddy after sales?
Amitabh Varma, 10, Soundarya Gardenia, 13, HMT Main Road, Bangalore 560013.
custmail@ford.com custmail@ford.com
gm@metroford.in gm@metroford.in
mytimesmyvoice@timesgroup.com
hksehgal@gmail.com
Before you kill me due to such a delayed response, let me clarify that I am already half dead with exhaustion, and as they say in Hindi, Mare Hue Ko Bhala Kya Marna?
The first excuse, the wedding of my son. I somehow was under the impression that it was the bride’s side which had to do all the hard work, and the job of the groom’s side was to just pass comments and criticize. Well, my opinion stands thoroughly changed now. Since you too happen to be the father of a son (who used to call kachhua chaap machhua jaap), my friendly advise to you is to be prepared to slog like an ox when the D-day arrives!
The wedding went off very well. My son, Anupam, is on the editorial team of Mint. My daughter-in-law, Nitasha, is on the editorial team of the electronic version of the Hindustan Times. So, in case you want some Blah! Blah! to be published, you know whom to contact!
The wedding kept me away from office for a good fortnight, and by the time I returned the fiscal year threatened to end! It was the time to scout for orders, summon the genie to obtain material, try sam daam dand bhed to get money from customers, and invoice invoice invoice! Looking back, I succeeded in exceeding the target, though by a slender margin. Phew!
Beginning of the year got me all charged up, and in my over enthusiasm I have called for a crucial two-day national level meet next week. So, yours truly at the moment is thinking of introducing radical changes to delight the customers.
How are things with you? With that Commonwealth-shommonwelath around, the cash register must be overflowing!
Sorry for writing so late!
Best regards,
Amitabh
We Don’t Care Two Hoots
A man joined a Mahatma Gandhi organisation. One day Mahatma Gandhi visited the organisation and the man found himself standing face to face with Bapu. Mahatma Gandhi was a world famous personality. This man was just an ordinary person. Nervous, he tried to introduce himself. Gandhi patted his shoulder and said with warmth, “Yes, I know you. You are such-and-such person’s son!”
The man stood stunned. It was true that he, along with his father, had met Mahatma Gandhi earlier; but that happened only once, and that too years ago. It was remarkable that Gandhi not only recognised the man even after the lapse of so many years, but also remembered his father’s name.
Gurudev Rabindranath Tagore once saw two children walking with their hands on each-other’s shoulder. He found it overwhelming, and tears started flowing from his eyes.
An interpreter sat beside Mrs Indira Gandhi during a long discussion. As the discussion was over and everybody started departing, Mrs Gandhi turned and said, “The interpreter did not have anything to eat. Please ensure that she is served well.”
Mohammed Rafi used to thank every accompanist after a recording, while most other singers just walked out in a hurry to catch their next recording.
A young lady employee stood alone at night in front of the Tata Centre in Mumbai. She was waiting for her husband. To her amazement, she found JRD Tata walk up to her. JRD gave her company till her husband arrived. He did not want the lady to stand alone in the night.
These people were perhaps more busy than we are. They perhaps had many more important issues to tackle than we have. Time was perhaps more in short supply for them than it is for us. Yet, they behaved far better than an average person does.
What makes us ignore the sentiments of others? Why is it a matter of pride for us to snub those who have less money, yield less power, or are physically less attractive? Why does a minister not think twice before ordering his bodyguards to open fire on citizens trying to air their grievance? Why does a boss fail to notice that his subordinate has wished him? Why does a man find nothing wrong to call his younger siblings or wife names?
The situation changes dramatically the moment the so-far-weakling acquires a position of power. Voice becomes laced with honey. Nothing but respect oozes out of the body language. An ear-to-ear smile is flashed at the slightest opportunity. People who were nasty lose count of your good qualities.
Man, how can you change so much? Neither your hatred, nor your love is true. You don’t care two hoots for anyone! I never forget these lines from a decades old Sahir nazm:
Har Ik Jism Ghayal, Har Ik Rooh Pyasi,
Nigahon Mein Uljhan, Dilon Mein Udasi,
Yeh Duniya Hai? Ya Alam-e-badhawasi?
Jahan Ik Khilona Hai Insan Ki Hasti,
Yeh Basti Hai Murdaparaston Ki Basti,
Yahan Par Ke Jeevan Se Hai Maut Sasti!
Jawani Bhatakti Hain Badkar Ban Kar,
Jawan Jism Sajte Hain Bazar Ban Kar,
Yahan Pyar Hota Hai Vyapar Ban Kar!
Yeh Duniya Jahan Admi Kuchh Nahin Hai,
Wafa Kuchh Nahin, Dosti Kuchh Nahin Hai,
Yahan Pyar Ki Kadra Hi Kuchh Nahin Hai!
We all love to dump on meetings, and understandably so. Sure, they suck, but let’s face it; it’s hard to do anything spectacular flying solo, and if you put a bunch of people in a room together, well, then you’ve got a meeting. The truth is that great things can happen in meetings, if the person running the show knows what he’s doing.
Unfortunately, most managers are so inept at conducting effective meetings you’d think it’s rocket science or a rare genetic trait. Well, I know a fair amount about the subject, having run hundreds of management and executive level meetings. And I’m here to tell you that you can become adept at running effective, productive meetings. No kidding.
But as we discussed in How to Lead Under Fire, it’s easy to lose control of the room. So here are some well-tested tips that will help you keep a group of highly intelligent and opinionated professionals on track when they’re all trying to fly off in different directions.
How to Control Highly Charged Meetings
1. The setup. Early on, explain in no uncertain terms what you expect from those in the room and, this is important, what you don’t expect from them. Be specific. For example, “we’re going to determine our product’s value proposition to customers,” but “we’re not going to sit here and wordsmith it to death; we’ll do that offline.”
2. Be the alpha person. From the start, your manner, level of confidence, eye contact, and body language need to project and reinforce who’s in charge. I don’t care if the CEO’s in the room; it’s your meeting. You can be respectful and still be the alpha person. You can even tell them in the setup that your job is to accomplish xyz today and, come hell or high water, that’s what you’re going to do. Just don’t overplay it.
3. Channel useful debate. There will inevitably be heated debate where the meeting starts to get out of control. That’s fine, as long as you bring it back. First you have to get everyone’s attention with something like “Folks, I have to jump in here …,” and once all eyes are on you, then perhaps you summarize the two sides and start to bring everyone to consensus. Then you’re back in control.
4. Table useless debate. Same as above, except once you have everyone’s attention, tell them they’ll have to take it offline or table it for a separate meeting or however you want to do it, then just continue with the agenda … with authority. Be honest, “it’s time to move on and there’s a lot to cover …” Be tough. Remember, it’s your meeting; you get to override.
5. Improvise. Sometimes meetings get out of control because you screwed up and executives can sense loss of control like a shark with blood in the water. Well, before they take over the meeting, you have to improvise, and that can only come from experience. As I said in a prior post, thinking on your feet is equal parts knowledge, experience, preparation, self confidence, and maintaining a sense of humor.
That’s about all I can tell you. That, and learn from your mistakes and don’t make them twice. Learning to control meetings is definitely a trial and error process. Be patient, you’ll improve over time.
The Beast within Us
Mirza Ghalib wrote, “Dil Hi To Hai, Na Sangokhisht, Dard Se Bhar Na Aaye Kyon?” Ghalib felt that the human heart was full of pathos, unlike an insensitive stone brick structure.
I wonder whether Ghalib was right.
Two days ago Times Now repeatedly ran a news clip. A man was being beaten mercilessly at the Vadodara station. The man, a ticket checker, was bleeding profusely, crying for help and trying to protect himself with his bare arms. Cut to the shot of another man, who was very happily running towards the ticket checker for another assault. Cut to the shot of the ticket checker being hit on the head with a boulder, streams of blood turning his white shirt to a deep crimson. Cut to the shot of onlookers who appeared to be enjoying the agony of the hapless ticket checker.
Few years ago, I noticed a crowd of about fifty people curiously looking in a particular direction at the Kanpur railway junction. The centre of attraction was a lunatic walking on the roof of a railway bogie. The naked man was precariously close to the high tension wires that power the electric locomotives. After striding confidently for a few minutes, the man stopped and stretched his limbs. His hands touched the wire, there was a deep thud, and the man collapsed. If the man was not dead, he was surely unconscious with the near lethal dose of high voltage electric current. Worse, he had started sliding down from the curved roof. By this time some police jawans had arrived. They waited for the body to fall from a height of four metres. And it did fall eventually. The naked man soon lay sprawled between two railway tracks. The two jawans swung into action. Holding a hand each of the dying man, they made him stand, climbed over the platform, and made him walk, perhaps right up to the thana. The crowd found the spectacle of a naked man walking between two uniformed policemen funny, breaking into laughter, hooting and clapping.
I am still unable to forget the footage of an injured man being lifted through his broken arm during the Mandal agitation about twenty years ago. The man died within minutes.
Why does man treat man in such a despicable way? What makes us relish the discomfort of others? It it true that under the garb of civilisation hides a beast within us, waiting to be released at the slightest opportunity?
The ‘Interest’
It was the ‘haldi’ ceremony of Anupam. I wore a yellow dhoti and a kurta with a shawl draped over my left shoulder. Rani and I sat next to the priest. The priest was young. An MA in Sanskrit, he had resigned as lecturer in a college to don the role of a priest. His children did not like the small town where he lived during his stint as a lecturer. The low salary was another turn off, he said.
Talkative, the priest explained why certain things were performed during the puja, and also clarified the correct manner of doing them to gain desired results. A pleasant person, the priest cracked harmless jokes at appropriate moments.
An important ritual in the ceremony involved recalling dead relatives. The priest explained the process, and then said something funny. He said, “Man is more interested in his grandchildren, than in his own children. His own children are the principal amount, while the grandchildren are the interest accrued! The lender is always interested more in the interest than in the principal amount.”
The simile sounded absurd to me. I smiled, but rejected it almost instantaneously. My paternal grandfather met me only on two or three occasions, that too for very brief periods of time, and never displayed affection. He never took me around, played with me, or even talked to me beyond the one-liner, “Do you recognise me?”
My maternal grandfather saw me a little more, but he, too, was more interested in my younger cousins and my elder sister. Perhaps we never talked, though I remember touching his feet and he saying “thak, thak” every time we visited Nanaji’s place.
Daddy, that way, was better. I was aware of some correspondence between him and Anupam. Anupam met him last about eight years ago. Daddy enquired about Anupam whenever we spoke over the telephone. However, he forthrightly rejected the idea of attending Anupam’s wedding, citing his poor health! About 80 years of age, he suffers from arthritis. Walking on uneven ground causes pain to him. His knees hurt. He is content lying down on a sofa and watching television most of the time. When he stands, his back bends within seconds. He has partial vision in one eye. And, he appears to be hard of hearing. He lives thousands of kilometres away from all his children, in a house that my mother and he built together in a suburb of Patna. Mummy stayed in that house only on the ‘grihapravesha’ night. Her premature death (read Strange but True), Daddy’s premature retirement, and his movement to his own house were over in a matter of about two years. Daddy lives there away from his real children, running his mission of transforming the lives of the underprivileged. He appears to be content meeting their requirements, and has so far refused all invitations to live with us.
Rani’s father, Papa, is no more. I do not remember any exchange of affection between him and my son. Papa’s communication with Anupam revolved around securing the main gate at night, shutting down the water pump, operating the valve on the water pipe, and bringing something from the market. If the two of them ever laughed together, I missed that totally.
So, all that proclamation about grandchildren being more sought after than own children was nothing but humbug for me.
A day after the wedding we travelled to daddy’s place to seek his blessings. The train started late by about ten hours, and by the time it reached the destination it was about twelve hours behind schedule. Rather than arriving at dawn, we stood in front of the house in the evening! Daddy and the children had gathered together to welcome the new bride. A colourful ‘alpana’ greeted us at the main entrance. The children performed her ‘aarti’, gave her some sweet to eat, and entered the house behind her. The drawing room was decorated with shiny papers, flowers, and a small poster congratulating Nitasha and Anupam.
Refreshments were promptly served in brand new crockery under the supervision of Daddy. I ignored the gulab jamun, which had sugar stuck over it. The Dahiwada was better. So were four or five other delicacies. I was tired, and also a little uncomfortable wondering how the city-dwelling Nitasha would appreciate such rustic fare. Daddy kept on asking whether we liked the food, and I kept nodding my head in mock approval. Frankly, there was nothing extraordinary about it. I am a little apprehensive about food bought from shops, especially if they happen to be located in backward suburbs.
Finally, one of the children broke the news. Daddy had cooked the gulab jamun, the Dahiwada, and most of the other delicacies himself! Since he cannot stand for more than a few minutes, he had got the stove placed on the floor, and cooked the food for hours. It was he who had made the poster. Sheepishly, daddy added that he had also stitched new sofa covers for the occasion.
I was shocked! The entire scenario changed. The sofa cover, the decoration, the poster, the food – everything stood transformed! I saw Daddy in a new light. He did not betray any sign of suffering due to sitting for hours cooking, drawing the poster, or stitching the covers. He was happy, eager to know whether we were happy.
My eyes clouded with tears. I thought of the priest’s statement about the bond between grandparents and grandchildren, and took a gulab jamun. It was well made, so what if it had sugar stuck to it!
The Neighbourhood Restaurant
As I knocked at the door, I noticed a colourful pamphlet tuck under the door handle. The pamphlet was folded strategically to remain stuck under the handle until someone retrieved it deliberately. Well, it was the door to my house, and so I grabbed the pamphlet. Before I could start reading it, Rani opened the door. We both looked at the pamphlet with curiosity. The multi-page pamphlet on its cover bore the name and phone number of a restaurant. It promised ‘free home delivery’ of Thai, Chinese and Indian food.
Interested, we opened the pamphlet. This restaurant served over hundred variants of food! Usually some price is mentioned for each dish in such pamphlets, but this one was unique. It revealed no price!
We returned to the cover page. The restaurant appeared to be located nearby. I called up my colleague who has been staying in the area for donkey’s years. He very patiently advised me to get out of my house, turn left, and keep going straight for three kilometres to reach the place through Ramachandrapura.
Rani and I were excited. Why not visit this place during our evening walk? Determined, we came out of the house, and took left. Rani and I do not like that particular stretch of road. It does not have footpath, and the traffic is substantial. One cannot enjoy a leisurely walk on such roads.
We turned back, deciding to reach the end of the road through another route, lined with tall trees full of purple, white, and yellow flowers. Half our way through, we noticed a boulevard parallel to the road suggested by my colleague.
“Why not take this road? After all, the two roads are parallel and one can always take a cross road to reach the intended one”, said Rani. Reading the doubt in my eyes, she added, “Okay! I will ask someone to be sure”. She asked a person who appeared to be walking back home after a day at office. The person confirmed that the road indeed led to the locality intended.
“Dekkkha?”, Rani exclaimed with joy, and we started walking. Walking on that road was a pleasure. Palatial bungalows. Wide footpaths. Trees. Smell of clean air. We liked it for about twenty minutes, and then began a series of shops and residential buildings.
“Ah, look there, to your right!”, I pointed towards a decent government priced foreign liquor shop. We almost halted. “From the looks of it I can say that one can get genuine scotch and wine here”, I declared.
“Shall we walk up the stairs and check?”, asked Rani.
I was in two minds. Meanwhile, two persons started looking at us from the shop.
“Well, it would not be correct to enter the shop and enquire about a lot of things when we don’t have to buy anything now”, we agreed and resumed walking after making a mental note of the shop.
Another ten-minute stroll, and we were at a ‘T’ junction. By this time daylight had almost disappeared. We were nowhere near our destination, and didn’t even know where to find it. We had walked more than three kilometres. Luckily, most of it had been downhill.
I decided to abandon our quest and return home.
Rani checked up with another person. She was still hopeful of finding the place.
The person advised us to continue for another two kilometres and then take left to reach Ramachandrapura.
“Will you care for a samosa?”, I asked, exploiting her weakness for junk food.
“No, I am fine”.
So be it. We resumed walking.
Another ten minutes, and we saw a Maruti service station.
“We can buy the door knob here!”, we exclaimed in unison.
The broken knob lay in my pocket. It had come out in two pieces a few days ago. I had both the pieces with me. I entered the workshop, taking the broken pieces out. As I reached the door of the shop, one piece fell down and vanished somewhere. The remaining piece was sufficient for the shopkeeper to identify the desired knob and sell it to me for a princely sum of Rs.5.
We were happy. So what if we could not locate the restaurant? We had been successful in finding a decent wine shop which we would not have seen otherwise. And, we had also been able to buy the door knob, which was not available in other markets.
We walked with greater determination, and reached another ‘T’ junction. The signboards here proclaimed the name of the locality we had set out for.
“This is Block One. The restaurant is in Block Five.” Rani observed.
We took right, walking half a kilometre. Block One, like a faithful companion, continued.
“We will walk up to that red billboard and then return”, I declared.
The red billboard, too, happened to be in Block One. Perhaps Block Five was another two kilometres away.
We turned around, walking back uphill for forty five minutes, to reach home.
“I wonder how the restaurant delivers the food thus far”, I expressed my worry.
“The restaurant man does not come walking”, Rani said.
“Yes, he will not come walking”, I agreed. “And we will not walk to this place again”, I said, examining the door knob carefully.
Rani agreed. Our two-and-a-half hour long walk must have done us some good, we thought, and collapsed on the bed, exhausted.
We have not talked about that restaurant since then.
Blog: http://www.amitabhvarma.blogspot.com/; voice: http://www.voiceoveruniverse.com/profile/AmitabhVarma and http://voice123.com/amitabhvarma,
An Orchestra of Villains
With the departure of Smriti to Delhi, we decided to shift residence to a place nearer my office.
The duplex bungalow we resided at so far was now too big for our needs. When on tour, I remained worried about Rani’s safety. A thief could lurk anywhere. A robber could force entry through any of the four doors. The locality had lost its rustic charm with the appearance of residential apartments all around. I already hated the raddiwalla shop at the head of the lane, and the emergence of a meat shop on the approach road had turned the matter worse. The final nail was driven in the coffin with three tyre punctures within a span of forty five days or so.
The flat we moved into is part of an apartment. It has power back up, security, and other such small comforts. Smriti and Anupam liked it, and Rani, in spite of rejecting it initially, accepted it later. Some of the furniture – an almirah, a writing desk, a cabinet, etc., could not be accommodated and had to be sold off.
The commuting time has been shortened by one complete hour! The place is safer. We have a neighbour to whom Rani can talk. The market is nearby.
However, one cannot have everything good in life! The place has a major drawback. It is next to a traffic junction. There are speed breakers on two major sides of the junction. Vehicles coming near to the junction apply brake, speed up, realise that another side also has a speed breaker, apply brake again, accelerate and zoom ahead. In the dead of the night the sound is enough to rudely wake you up, and keep you awake.
It appears that jackals or some similar animals infiltrate into the area when it is dark. The dogs object, and a howling, barking and shrieking campaign starts. The cacophony continues till somebody warns the dogs with a “heh”!
A stray bull also appears to have liked the area for its nocturnal pursuits. While taking the round at about 2 PM, it makes a typical sound as only bulls can make.
The sum result is that I keep awake most of the nights listening to the orchestra of bull as the lead singer, the dogs as the chorus, and the sound of the vehicles as the accompanying music.
Day before yesterday I decided to sleep in the other room. Repeated the act yesterday. The room is definitely less noisy, but the bed is too small to accommodate two persons!
Let’s see what happens tonight!
As a child, I was fascinated by the radio. Our RCA set occupied the pride of place in the drawing room. When not in use, it was covered by a piece of cloth. When switched on, it used to take about half a minute to warm up to life. As one tuned into the station, the blue magic eye within a golden frame changed its shape. The back lit meter had a number of data printed over it. The radio was attached to an aerial, which had a habit of catching dust fast and served as a perching facility for flies. Reception on medium wave was wonderful, but catching a station on the shortwave was a struggle sometimes.
Daddy used to operate the radio, but seldom. However, whenever there was a festival, a wedding, or some other ceremony, we had a lot of loudspeakers blaring in our locality. If it was republic day or independence day, Apni Azaadi Ko Hum, Tu Hindu Banega Na Mussalman Banega, Ae Mere Watan Ke Logo, Watan Ki Raah, Aao Bachcho Tumhe Dikhayen, etc., were played. Rahi Manwa Dukh Ki Chinta, Choon Choon Karti Aayi Chidiya, Aao Bachcho Tumhe Dikhayen and similar songs were played during school functions. Weddings served the most interesting fare. I remember running with joy while shouting at the top of my voice to the tune of Dil Tera Diwana Hai Sanam, Aaja Aaja Main Hoon Pyaar Tera, Ai Ai Ya Karoon Main Kya, Le Gayi Dil Gudiya Japan Ki and numerous similar songs.
I enjoyed Rafi songs the most in my childhood – the fellow appeared to be dancing while singing. While some sermonised, some were detached, some appeared to be too old, this singer appeared to be a young one with no care in the world. He sang with gay abandon.
I had to leave the shadow of my parents for a hostel to study engineering. I realised how difficult it was for a senior but honest government officer to support three children and fight with cancer. Zindagi Dene Walley Sun, Shaame Gham Ki Kasam, Chal Diya Karvaan, Koi Sagar Dil Ko Behlata Nahin, Aapney Yaad Dilaya, Yeh Mehlon Yeh Takhton Yeh Tajon Ki Duniya, Tootey Hue Khwabon Ney, Dukhi Man Merey, Koi Humdum Na Raha, etc., became my favourites.
Talat Mehmood’s silky voice and Kishore Kumar’s earthly rendition knocked straight at the heart. But, they were typed. Rafi could bring variety even in sorrow. Babul Ki Duayen was so different from Ek Dil Ke Tukde Hazaar Hue!
I passed engineering, got a job with a multinational, and life was rosy – I just had to have a life partner. Tum Bin Jaoon Kahan, Ek Main Aur Ek Tu, Hai Apna Dil To Awara, Tum Pukar Lo Tumhara Intezar Hai, Jo Baat Tujhme Hai, Nazar Bacha Kar Chale Gaye Woh, Kisi Ki Muskurahaton Pey Ho Nisaar …. Oh! Hindi film music is full of romantic songs.
There was a force, somewhat brutal, in the songs of Kishore Kumar. Mukesh appeared too hesitant. Again, Mohd. Rafi had a song for you regardless of the mood you were in. If we had Chup Chup Chup Kyon Baithi Ho and Mai Jat Yamla pagla Diwana on one end, we also had Na Jhatko Zulf Sey Pani!
I did not realise that I was a Rafi fan. But then, Rafi Saheb did not leave any option for me!
Public speaking can reduce grown men to quivering wrecks. Public speakers can also reduce their listeners to quivering wrecks of tedium and despair. There is little worse than listening to some self-important panjandrum droning on about how wonderful they are. Here are seven ways in which speakers can reduce the pain for everyone.
1. Energy, enthusiasm and excitement. If you are not excited about your idea, don’t expect anyone else to be. You will be judged more on how you say things than on what you say.
2. Throw away your crutches. Crutches are for walkers who can’t walk and PowerPoint are crutches for talkers who can’t talk. There are few good ways to die: death by PowerPoint is not one of them. Throw it away and you will sound better and look better.
3. Think into you listener’s head: Focus on the one or two people in the audience who really matter and figure out what they need to hear and why they should listen to you. Tailor your message and style to those people. Presenting is not about you: it is about the one or two people you most want to influence.
4. Tell a story. People do not remember spreadsheets and paragraphs. They remember pictures and stories. Construct your talk as a story with a start, middle and end. You can tell little stories within the big story to keep people engaged.
5. Use words well. Keep it active and positive, not passive, negative or conditional. Two nice word tricks include:
• The rule of three (”I have nothing to offer but blood, sweat and tears….”)
• The contrast (”In this election we will not make the most promises….. we will keep the most promises!”)
• These can be combined into a rule of three which leads to a contrast: “Never in the field of human history has so much been owed by so many to so few…”
6. Mind your (body) language. Again, a few simple tips:
• Stand on the ball of your foot, not the heel: keep the energy up and the body straight.
• Engage the audience with your eyes: deliver each sentence to one person instead of gazing out blankly at a sea of faces. This keeps them and you alert.
• The bigger the audience, the bigger the hand movements.
7. Rehearse, rehearse, rehearse. And then rehearse some more. Script the start, so you avoid a nervous start. Script the end: avoid the very weak “any questions?” finish.
I have a colleague/rival who knows I’m up for a promotion in a few months and has been doing all he can to find fault with my work. Should I just ignore the nit-picking and go with the flow, or do I push back every time and challenge it? Because frankly I am getting really upset and frustrated.
First and foremost, you have to realize this is a mindset issue. Your colleague’s constant fault-finding is a game he’s playing with you in an attempt to get you off your game and lose your cool. Once you understand it’s a game, however, you can figure out how to act pro-actively from a position of strength, rather than simply reacting and getting upset that he’s picking on you. The goal is to adopt a mindset of being in control of this cat-and-mouse game, and not simply a victim.
So number one, you have to play things mistake-free and leave no room for criticism. And two, in seeing this as a psychological game, you need to out-think this person and anticipate what he’s likely to focus on. Every time he comes up with something, you want to be able to respond by saying “I’m glad you asked that” and having a quick and ready answer — ideally, in front of your boss. Eventually, your co-worker will come to realize his strategy isn’t effective at either exposing your weaknesses or provoking an emotional response from you.
I recently had a client who was a senior manager at a telecommunications company and having similar issues with a nit-picking colleague. She did as I advised, making sure to dot every ‘i’ and cross every ‘t’ and anticipate all of her peer’s questions, and secured a big coup for her group when she got a high-profile CEO to make a special appearance in front of her group when they desperately needed a speaker. After that, her peer was pretty much blown out of the water, with his criticisms becoming almost irrelevant.
The question for you is, do you have the smarts, determination, and emotional strength to win here? It’s not going to be easy to produce such immaculate work, but no one ever said getting ahead in your career was going to be a cake walk. Now’s the time to rise to the challenge.
20 Ways to Screw Up Your Management Career
1. Stop asking questions. Think or act like you know it all. Think you can stop learning.
2. Take it personally. Business is about business. Conflict over business, products, and services is healthy and good. It’s not about you.
3. Micromanage. The converse - being too hands off - can be just as bad.
4. Distance yourself from employees. Think you’re above “management by walking around.”
5. Distance yourself from customers. Take your eye off the ball … the ball that matters most.
6. Play it safe. Success means growth, growth means taking risks - analytical, not frivolous, though.
7. Test moral, ethical, or legal limits. Slippery slope.
8. Hire yes-men (or women) you can control. Even worse, be a yes-man thinking it’ll get you places.
9. Overpromise and under-deliver. Success is all about results.
10. Engage your mouth before your brain. More people screw up by talking than any other way.
11. Stick to your guns. Commitment and focus are critical, but inflexibility in the face of internal or external change makes you a dinosaur.
12. Work beneath your capability. Your reach should always exceed your grasp.
13. Ignore what the market is telling you. Think you know better than what customers tell you. Then there’s the reverse problem:
14. Ignore your gut instincts.
15. Fight too many battles on too many fronts.
16. Coast. Driven people don’t coast well.
17. Focus solely on your own little world. Silo mentality is dysfunctional, bigtime.
18. Become big and bloated. Grow your domain for its own sake.
19. Lose your sense of humor and humility.
20. Let your inner child reign.
21. Forget to thank the people who support you every day. The ones who work for you and the ones who don't -- inside and outside your department.
22. Bring your personal problems to work. Your ex-wife called you on the way to work? Make sure you take it out on everyone in the office for the rest of the morning.
23.
The Mysterious Smile
Airports have a unique personality. Artificially warm voices, zombies as security personnel, rows of chairs receiving multiple bums within a matter of minutes, highly priced insipid food, and passengers lost in themselves.
My flight was getting delayed. I sat in the chair, looked around for friendly faces, tried to read a novel, stared at banners, played with the handle of my bag, and got bored.
I decided to have a glass of water. After a little walk and a trip to the urinal, I found that a woman had occupied the chair next to the one on which I had been sitting. I felt a little awkward, but that was the only vacant chair available. I occupied the chair, careful not to cause a brush with the lady.
Settled finally, I looked around, avoiding the lady. My gaze stopped at a man who looked at me with a glint of mischief. His lips betrayed a smile. He nodded at me.
It was an embarrassing moment. Perhaps the lady next to me was a celebrity and I had violated her personal space by sitting so close to her. But if the lady was offended, she did not express so. Reassured, I leafed through the novel, stared at banners, played with the handle of my bag, and got bored again.
I looked around, and the gentleman again caught my eyes. He nodded, with a hint of a smile. I nodded back, trying to place him in my memory. I was sure that I had not met him earlier, but then I could be wrong as well.
At the announcement of a departure call, the gentleman got up, and stood in the queue. He was behind a large man.
Not talking to anyone, he was still nodding.
A Trip To Gokarna
We had a short trip to Gokarna last week. Travelling in the sleeper bus with all limbs intact was quite a challenge. We were told that it would be a Volvo air-conditioned bus, but it turned out to be a non-Volvo non-air-conditioned bus from Bangalore to Gokarna, an eleven hour journey. As the bus sped, blood rushed to the head. We tried sleeping in the opposite direction, and blood appeared to drain out. Funnily, it was a double bed kind of arrangement, and we had to sleep together. As the bus started negotiating bends, we used to roll towards either the window or the aisle. As the bus made an immediate correction, we rolled back.
We took an autorickshaw for Rs.100 for a six kilometre journey to the top of the Kudle beach. Steps were cut into the rock to reach the beach. We walked down. It was easy to find the hotel, Gokarna International Beach Resort. A glass of tea later, we walked up again and went to the Om beach. Rather than looking like an 'Om', the beach resembles the backside of a human being engaged in the act of defecation in the traditional Indian style. We walked on the almost barren beach, and then found our way to a shack for a bottle of beer and Israeli Salad. As we admired the thick black gecko lodged at top of the wooden ceiling; Joshua, his sister and mother strolled in. They were our immediate neighbours two years ago. We never exchanged pleasantries earlier, and we did not exchange pleasantries here as well.
We took an autorickshaw to go to Gokarna village, famous for its temples. Mummy visited the temples. I strolled around. A South Indian meal later, we returned to the hotel through the auto-step route. It was 2 PM. We slept till 5.30 PM and then went out to the beach, but not before stumbling upon Joshua's mother. The dinner of soup (chicken momo soup for Rani, chicken noodle soup for me) and sizzler (chicken sizzler for Rani and prawn sizzler for me) was the best we have eaten so far. We decided to have our lunch at the same joint, Munchies, the next day.
The next morning we walked to the other end of Kudle beach, and then climbed up. We found our way to the top of the hill, and saw a temple a few kilometres away. The temple is in urgent need of repairs and is closed. Steps go down to a natural spring. The water here is supposed to have medicinal properties. We sprinkled some water on ourselves, and walked further to arrive at the Gokarna beach. We walked further to enter the town, and found ourselves at the same temple which mummy visited yesterday.
We walked back, reached the hotel, had shower, and were back at Munchies. Today it was chicken momo soup for both of us, with grilled chicken for Rani and grilled prawn for me.
We did not engage an auto on our return. We just climbed up the hill and came down towards the Gokarna beach side. The bus started from near the temple. We were close to my office at 6 in the morning. We walked three kilometers to reach home.
I mixed some poor cousin of Pina Colada (Rum in place of Vodka) yesterday evening, and we discussed the least painful way of breaking the news about the engagement. We realised that even if you inform certain people three or four times the previous day about your intention to visit the market at 10, they appear to be shocked if you do not inform them before stepping out.
Under the circumstances, how would you like the facts to be presented as below:
Rani and I attended a wedding on December 6. It was a lavish wedding, attended by some minister and some wealthy persons. However, there were hardly any North Indians around. There were queues for everything - whether for greeting the couple or for being served the dinner.
Anna Karinina
“Have you read Anna Karinina?”
“No”, came the reply in barely audible voice. The dusky beauty was too shy to look at me.
“Oh!” I did not know what to say next.
I was meeting her for the first time. My parents had met her once before.
Her parents were a little apologetic on the first meeting.
“Hamari ladki thodi kaali hai” (our daughter is a little dark), they are supposed to have said.
My parents, in response, assured that the colour of skin did not matter to them.
The final decision, however, lay in my hands.
So, this was a very important meeting. If I agreed, I would have to marry the girl and live with her forever. If I decided otherwise, I would have to forget her forever. This, of course, was assuming that she and her family would approve of me.
Mummy, Daddy, Didi and her two young children sat next to me. Her parents, two sisters and two brothers were with her. Most of the time everybody sat in the room, looking at each other, trying to make small conversation. Stealing a glance at her was very difficult. I adopted the trick of talking to persons sitting diagonally across. This way I could enjoy a fleeting glance of her every time I shifted my attention from one person to the other. There were times I could see her looking at me. Whenever our eyes met, I could feel her talking to me in a silent language.
Finally, I was coaxed to talk to her. However, her plain “no” blocked chances of further conversation. Mummy, Didi and Daddy tried speaking to her, and she replied in mono-syllables. Whenever she spoke something, I became super attentive to catch her every word.
She had a good voice.
And she was beautiful.
We were invited for snacks. For a brief moment I managed to stand next to her. There was no clumsiness in the way she ate.
Back home, my parents asked my views about her. I was too shy to say anything for sometime, but later announced my decision.
She became my wife. That was twenty five years ago.
She has turned out to be a stronger person than I am. And a better person. More forgiving. More loving. More caring. Happier. Loving the good things in life.
I liked her twenty five years ago. I started loving her soon after. Today, I cannot think of life without her.
I love you, Rani!
The First Board
What is a board?
I expect you to be over nine years of age, and still wondering what a board could mean. Do I mean a piece of timber? Food or meals (room and board), perhaps? A vertical surface on which information can be displayed for public view? A table? An electric switchboard? A platform for playing certain kinds of games? After all, what could a board mean?
If you, in spite of all your wisdom, cannot decide what a board is, how can a nine year old child imagine its correct meaning.
I am talking about myself. We lived in Kolkata. I went to a government school. This was my fourth school. Arriving from Varanasi in September, I had joined Class Four almost at the end of the January – December session. The syllabus was quite different, but being a good student I was somehow managing.
One day, as the class was on, an important looking man came and announced something. I did not understand a word, but perhaps the other students did, and an “Aaaah” went up in the air.
I asked my friends what the Aah was all about. They explained that we would have our board from the next week or so.
Okay, so be it, I thought and went home. By the time I walked the one kilometre or so to home, I had forgotten all about it. It was only in the night at dinner that I remembered the important announcement.
“Mummy, we have the board from the next week”, I said, chewing between words.
Mummy reacted as if she had touched a live wire. “Board?” “Next week?” “Are you sure?”
I felt sorry about putting her to so much of discomfort. Without knowing what the word meant, just to comfort her, I said, “Don’t worry! Waisa board nahin hai.”
“What do you mean waisa board nahin hai? What kind of board is that? Today is Thursday night. You are saying next week. Oh my God!”
By now I was sure that Board was something very bad, and it would perhaps have been better had I not disclosed the news to her. However, there was little I could do now.
I looked at her, and slowly went to bed. Later in the night I heard voices. Daddy had returned from office and was having dinner. Mummy was telling him, “Agle haftey se Happu ka board ka exam hai. Usko kuchh bhi nahin pata. Date-sheet kya hai, admit card kahan hai, kuchh bhi nahin janta.”
Oh, so I was going to have my exams in another few days, I thought. The next day, from the classroom, I saw Mummy enter the school office. She waited for the school to be over and then we walked back together. She was carrying my admit card and the examination schedule. I looked at her from the corner of my eyes. She was not angry. She was not unhappy, either. Whatever the “Board” was, it was not due to any misdemeanour from my side, I decided. I grasped her hand lovingly, and started walking happily.
संदेश
