Tongue-in-check

The Argentina Travel Cheat Sheet

noreply@blogger.com (Atticus) — Mon, 02 Mar 2015 21:07:00 +0000

So I'm just back from the glorious country of Argentina. Yes Argentina, the home of tango, Malbec, football and steak, but also a land that is at it's heart so much more- a nation with a fierce identity and a tragic political history that reveals itself as a bittersweet triumph of the human virtues of greed, exploration and freedom.

As immortalized in his The Motorcycle Diaries, Che', Argentina's biggest gift to its neighbours, famously found his raison d'etre of helping others during his travel through the country. So here follows my little inspired attempt to help future travellers get the best out of this incredibly beautiful country. For if there's one destination that rewards travellers for rigorous pre-planning and having comprehensive updated knowledge, then this is it. So here are some tips, based on our experience, that are not readily available in guidebooks or online forums, but those that will greatly enhance your trip.

Plan ahead. Seriously I cannot emphasise this enough. A few reasons why: a lot of experiences are only available on certain days of the week (such as Domingo markets); the most reliable tour operators get booked out quickly; and its imp to book domestic flights for the right times so as not to waste days, especially in Patagonia.
Argentina is expensive. Very expensive in fact, especially if you do not follow the money tips below. Years of very high inflation have led to businesses increasing prices rapidly even in dollar terms, so take the guidebook prices with a heavy dose of chimichurri and do your own research directly via websites or your hotel. This will help avoid nasty surprises and you can choose the best places to eat accordingly.
Carry lots of USD cash. Argentina is one country where the traditional money wisdom needs to be thrown out of the door. So leave the credit cards at home and carry USD enough for ALL your expenses, including hotel bills. This is because Argentina has two exchange rates, one the official rate (1 US$ = 8.75 AR$ (pesos)) and the other the unofficial rate, called the blue rate which can range anything from (1 US$ = 10 to 14 pesos). Businesses usually quote 3 rates: a) credit card rate, which is the amount in pesos you will pay if you elect credit card- this is the least economical as you will effectively be converting at the official rate. b) dollar efectivo: the rate you pay if you have USD cash, which will be a discount of 10-25% on the quoted price, and c) the cash rate in pesos, which will be the USD cash rate but converted into pesos at mostly the official rate, but sometimes even at the blue rate! So if you have dollars and convert it to pesos from time to time, when shopping you can choose to pay either in dollars or pesos depending on the rate offered and get a lot of bargain savings. The country is generally safe, and every hotel has a safe box, so this is the best strategy. If you are too paranoid to do so, or have forgotten to get dollars, despair not. Use Azimo, a brilliant service that allows you to pay pounds/dollars from your UK bank account, and collect an equivalent amount of pesos (at a very good rate of 11.5) from an Argenper branch in town. I have used them and fully recommend their reliability, but with some warnings: a) its only in their fine print that they say that they don't work on weekends b) the Argenper branch near Recoleta is a bit out of the way; c) the branches are only open 11 am-1pm in some cases, d) there is no branch in Palermo, the most popular barrio for tourists and e) you need a passport with you, so don't combine that with a visit to risky La Boca! Hence I advise doing big sums at a time.
Convert your USD cash into pesos NOT at unofficial cambio shops but at restaurants. This was a tip we learnt from experience. Some restaurants quote a rate of 14, so if your bill is AR14 they will ask you to pay AR14 or 1 USD. You can then give them a big, lets say 100USD, note and ask them for the change in pesos, which means they will effectively convert the balance into pesos at the high rate. And given they are reliable, you dont expose yourself to getting fake money, which is a problem at the unofficial shops.
Master a bit of Spanish. As with any country, it will enhance your experience, but especially in Patagonia it will be a life skill! Will also help to know the numbers when exchanging money- once (11), doce (12), trece (13), catorse (14).
But wait, Argentines have their own confusing version of Spanish. Hell, they even call it different, Castellano, which is the old formal name the Spanish used for Espanyol. So if you know a bit of the language, be prepared to not understand a word on your first day! It is simple to get around that though- they pronounce the ll as j and not as y (so a street, calle, is pronounced caje) and use vos instead of tu. And they say aqa instead of aqui to mean "here".
Do not leave your shopping to the Ezeiza duty free shops. Like their money, Argentines have parallel official and unofficial economies. So whether it be limited edition Malbecs or their much beloved sweet treats, Dulce de leche or Alfajores, they are best bought locally based on street recommendations. The airport shops are super expensive. For wines find a local chino: shops so called because they are run by Chinese immigrants.
You can carry as much wine in your hand luggage as you want. Argentina does not have any liquid restrictions when leaving the country! Remember to check your country's allowance though- for the UK it is 4 litres per person (so that's about 5 bottles).
It's a tipping culture. As every waiter will undoubtedly remind you! Standard is 10% so factor that into your budget.
You can redeem the 21% VAT at the airport. When shopping locally, if there is a Global Blue sign and VAT is charged, ask for a receipt. Then arrive early at the airport and get the refund. Worth it only for big purchases.
You can order half portions at restaurants, and you can share. Both are very common practices with locals (as is watering your wine to make it last longer!) so don't feel ashamed to do so- portions are generally generous.
Argentines don't believe in breakfasts. The country likes to eat breakfast like a pauper and dinner like a king, so it is not common for hotels to provide hot substantial breakfasts. If your hotel doesn't provide one, the options outside will be very limited, as cafes open only at 11 am. So choose your hotel carefully if this is important to you!
Don't assume the worst when it comes to food. Argentines are going through a massive vegan revolution, and not only in BsAs (Buenos Aires Verde is probably the best vegan restaurant we have been to in the world) but also in the other tourist regions, there are veg restaurants available.
Keep yourself updated! This info is valid as of 3 March 2015, and things can change quite quickly, so please check that all of the above is still valid during your trip.

Buen suerte & un abrazo!

Is Gravity based on Homer's Odyssey?

noreply@blogger.com (Atticus) — Wed, 18 Dec 2013 10:27:00 +0000

I have a feeling the plot of the film Gravity is loosely based on Homer's Odyssey Chapters 5-8. (Warning: SPOILERS AHEAD)

See here for a quick summary & analysis of The Odyssey.

Like the protagonist of the Greek poem, Sandra Bullock's character Dr. Ryan Stone is weak, full of self-doubts and wrought from past suffering, but is carried by the prowess of her mind, her intellect. George Clooney's character is very obviously God-like and resembles Athene, the goddess that helps Odyssey along the way (genders reversed!). Most of Odyssey's troubles happen on the dark sea, and the visual imagery of space in Gravity is as dark. Then there are the minor details- Odyssey's raft also broke down and to survive he had to first reach Skheria (cue: Chinese station) from where he took a bigger ship above.

But above all, the end scene is very symbolically similar to Odyssey's salvation as he finally swims ashore and collapses.

Ofcourse I could be totally wrong! In any case, beautiful movie.

Shilpa Saket Jain (14 Sep’78 to 28 Jul’11): A Tribute

noreply@blogger.com (Atticus) — Thu, 04 Aug 2011 08:20:00 +0000

“I’m veryyyy fine. How are you doing, Doctor?”

A week after my beloved sister Shilpa passed away, her strong words uttered haltingly but defiantly still proudly echo in our thoughts.

It was only two weeks ago, though it now seems ages. She was bed-ridden, and was in extreme pain and deep discomfort. But the final blow had been dealt to her only a few days back- she had lost her vision completely. The development had crushed my cowardly spirit - I couldn’t even imagine what it had done to her. A world without colour seems no world at all. So when asked the routine inquiry of how-you-doing by her doctor, we expected a sigh, a loss for words, or at best an “Ok” to save us the pain. We also braced ourselves for her tears, just in case. But yet another time in these last few months, she proved us wrong, reaching into her inner well of spirit and pulling out bucketfuls, just when we thought it had finally run dry.

It was a side of Shilpa didi that we had never really fully grasped. A post-mature entry into the world, she was a physically weak baby who took her own time to start growing. Her heels were to always remain her Achilles heels - her legs ached frequently. She also suffered often from medically unfathomable migraines. Her soft temperament reinforced the picture - she never raised her voice, never said much and always sacrificed her ego for peace. In a superficial age of visual impressions, she hardly seemed an icon of strength.

But beneath that exterior was a steely nerve determined to fight her frailties and rise above them. She was the glue that bound the family together with her understanding and her humour. She possessed an innate ability to handle everyone and to diffuse stress with her characteristic spare-none wit. I still fondly remember her first payslip - she gave the entire amount home, save a nice sum for me as pocket money. It was the same after marriage and into motherhood - she coolly picked up the added responsibilities and fulfilled them stoically.

When she was diagnosed with breast cancer, we as a family wondered: how would Shilpa didi deal with it? With immense courage, she answered in her own silent way, as she flew from Singapore to India on her own for treatment, despite her weakness. It was a difficult, long surgery the next day but she sailed through it without an emotional scar; Mummy and Maasi described her as amazingly peaceful and smiling afterwards. We were relieved - the worst was seemingly behind us and Shilpa didi had navigated it with the best of her resolve on display.

But God (does he exist? I’m not sure anymore) had other plans; worse was to follow. The aggressive cancer would continue to run amok, and despite ongoing treatment, within weeks it had evaded its persecutors and found refuge in the spinal fluid, its safe haven. Her death warrant had effectively been issued.

The terminal nature of her illness didn’t unfaze didi however, and over the next four months, as her condition stabilized and her mobility improved, she fought hard to resume normal life. We had been dreading about how to break the news of the terminal nature of her illness to her, but she found out on her own, and in a few days had picked herself up from the shock. She wanted to live, and she wanted to be that miracle that would be talked about for years later. Despite weakness, backbreaking injections and toxic drugs, she went alone to evaluate schools for her 2-year old son Ruhaan, prepared yummy food from cookbooks for her family and made plans for moving back to Singapore. Even during such a time of personal agony, she cared deeply for us and asked us all not to stress.

The end came peacefully and painlessly (Him at play?), albeit too fast for our liking. But we mercifully got enough time to spend by our didi’s side, engaging with her in merry conversation. She usually took care of the “merry” bit. When her friends visited, she ribbed them with jokes from college days and demanded a head massage from each of them. She interrogated the nurses about their love lives. And she spun stories out of thin air for Ruhaan.

Dear didi, you left us very early, but with tons of love, respect, admiration and inspiration. You blessed our lives with your caring, selflessness, loving and humour. Your indomitable spirit will always shine brightly in our hearts. Above all, you have taught us life’s two most important lessons - how to live, and how to die. We will always love you. And we promise that we will make Ruhaan a great man, just as you asked.

noreply@blogger.com (Atticus) — Mon, 29 Dec 2008 17:29:00 +0000

Our world is dictated by a symmetry of dichotomies- the good versus the bad, white vs black, right pitted against the wrong. For every winner, there has to be a loser, for every pro a con- isn't this how we make sense of our being?- and, for every head a tail, for every long a short. Yes, coming to think of it, nowhere is this searing dichotomy more evident than in financial markets, driving their behaviour, their popularity and their fortunes.

My personal experience of working in financial markets has embued in me this very black-and-white perspective- it has taught me to choose, to take sides. But with the additional dimension of odds- to make money, it doesn't just matter whether you get it right or wrong, but also, what was the market consensus at that time. And thus, it has made me glorify the underdog, respect the counter-view and has turned me into a devil's advocate, constantly waging tiny battles against the powerful forces of numbers, and perenially trying to sniff out opportunities to go against the herd.

And to cut a long story short, it is this nonconformist attitude that drives me to write an article on this esteemed online council of DIY-professionals. After all, I have no place to be here- I'm one who followed the rat race (nonconformist? you ask, I am a man of contradictions!). Unlike others, neither am I going to whine about the corporate life- I chose it for specific reasons and they've ensured that I'm very happy with what I do ( actually I don't do anything!). Nor do I feel wasted, unrewarded or trapped in my claustrophobic cubicle (hell, I don't even have that privelege, I just have a small desk!) In short, I've got nothing to say which will rationalize your brave decision to go solo, nothing which will uplift your spirits. (I can hear your mouse sprinting to the Close Window button.)

But what I can offer is a honest straight-from-the-heart counter-view to what is usually written and said about entrepreneurship, not with a view to provocate, discourage or insult, but simply to share my unique perspectives to it: I happen to be the son of an entrepreneur; I hence was part of a family that weathered the vicissitudes of business cycles; and I'm bearer of a childhood often marred by reflections of luck, what-if and the virtue of money.

Starting a company had always been the dream of my energetic father- a bright chemical engineering graduate from BITS, restless but penniless, passionate but obstinate. A few years of imprisonment in the corporate world was enough to frustate his free spirit, and soon ready to take the leap of faith, he bought a plot of land with money borrowed from the government and started his venture.

As kids, the factory was a sort of picnic spot for us, a (very ugly) getaway home. Our visits were mainly fuelled by intrigue at my father's dedication to it, matched in its enormity only by the hugeness of the Venturi scrubbers that adorned its vast space. It was also only in the factory that he personified life, scurrying around shouting orders to his workers, answering loud phone calls- he cringed with stress every moment, but there was no taking away that sense of pride and ownership from his demeanour. This was his baby, and nothing could ever take that away from him.

But it also meant that his business was synonymous with his life, and soon had encompassed ours. We could never be sure about any evening plans because he wouldn't know when he'd leave for home until he actually did, and his mood always depended on the daily events in his business- sometimes the loss of key workers, some days the frustations of un-progress, but always the constancy of stress. And not to mention family holidays- the concept was peculiar to us, Dad never being quite secure to leave his company unmanned for a long period of time.

But where it affected us most was the volatility of our fortunes. The highs were exhilarating, but the lows were excruciating. Worse, the business always seemed like an abyss- we seemed to forever pump money in it. Some days he'd have secured a big order and we celebrated with an evening out, making grand plans for the coming Diwali, only for a major theft on the factory a week before the festive season to steal away our hopes. There was always a faint regret in us, when we compared his life to neighbours fathers' or batchmates, and wondered what if he had gone the corporate route.

Almost all articles touting entrepreneuship as the "only way to live" are a hackneyed song, the lyrics of which often always include "break the shackles of corporate fiefdom and work for yourself", "unparalleled sense of achievement", "don't let your talent be wasted", etc, crooned by seemingly successful young entrepreneurs to the bestselling tune of wealth.

I partially disagree with this misleading representation. Not everyone is successful, and though we all know that, our vision is clouded by all the media emphasis on the successful ones, a familiar adverse selection. The ones that don't make it big struggle for years and years on end, and not always by choice, because after a certain age you become too old to do anything else. The ownership has its own pitfalls, not only for you but also your loved ones- unlike a corporate career, you bleed when your firm bleeds and die when it dies, and not a single moment goes by when you aren't worrying or stressed. Finally, I wonder if it is really the panacea for a wasted talent- you could be incredibly bright but easily end up in a vicious circle of struggle and miss out on the incredible opportunities offered by MNCs in today's globalized world. I speak all of the above from personal experience.

As I grew older and started thinking what to do with my life- the only thing that was beginning to matter to me was a secure job and income. I went to MBA school and was surprised to see everyone declaring entrepreneurial ambitions in their CVs! - it surely seemed like the "in" thing- but somehow I didn't relate to the fuss about challenge and initative. My drivers were simple, disgusting though they may seem- I didn't want to get my hands dirty, and I wanted a comforting, luxurious lifestyle. And I've got all that and more. I don't rule out starting something in the future, but I'll do it only with a healthy bank balance in tow. I've heard many pundits say that you should start out young or you never get down to it- I'll take that risk, because I want to ensure that my kids dont suffer because of my search for initiative.

Last year, my father celebrated his 60th birthday by staying up all night at his factory to supervise over a order deadline. When I heard that, I was overcome with a strange concoction of frustated anger and deep pride- "Is he out of his mind??!! Oh yeah, he is, when it comes to his work!" And then I remembered how excited his youthful eyes seemed when he last explained to me his 5-year plan for the international expansion of his firm. At 25, a full 35 years behind, I can't match up to that :)

Idiosyncrazy Me

noreply@blogger.com (Atticus) — Mon, 29 Dec 2008 17:15:00 +0000

In response to Ariel's its-your-turn-now nudge, here is a compilation of my quirkiest bits:

Words: A Medley Of My Choiciest Ones

noreply@blogger.com (Atticus) — Mon, 29 Dec 2008 17:10:00 +0000

Seasons' Greetings to Ye All!

noreply@blogger.com (Atticus) — Fri, 26 Dec 2008 11:15:00 +0000

So, here's wishing you all discerning readers a Merry Xmas and a very happy, prosperous 2009!

For everyone, the new year brings with it memories and milestones, regrets and resolutions, and criticisms and change. The same for my blog too, so I thought I'd spruce it up a bit. So here are a few new features, the Labels Cloud on the top right, a new link list on The Popular blogs that I follow, and I've also added links to some great financial blogs/ sites that I regularly visit to get a handle on this crazy world! Do check them out and let me know your feedback...and of course, if you visit any great interesting, novel blogs, DO DO let me know! After all, isn't the festive season all about sharing?

And I've finally embraced the blogging-tech-geek-culture and familiarized myself with RSS feeds and the likes- high time I guess. I actually sat up last night and pored through reams of online research on effective blogging, and decided that, come 2009, I'm going to be more techy! So now you can, with 1 click of your mouse, subscribe to my blog FOR FREE! (Find it hilarious? Read somewhere that the "subscribe" word has monetary connotations to laymen and hence scares them away, so smart bloggers actually specify that!) . But if you are as bad as me and had to be explained how to know whether your internet connection is wireless or not, then worry not, you can subscribe to my blog via email and I'll send to your inbox my blogs!

Take care and see you soon :)

A SOP Story

noreply@blogger.com (Atticus) — Tue, 23 Dec 2008 21:33:00 +0000

The mention of those three letters still give me nightmares. Together, they represent the one nemesis common to every aspirant of higher education or employment- whatever it may be it that the young hopeful may be pursuing, an MBA, MS or a PhD, his/ her journey isn't complete without the final literary hurdle- the S.O.P aka Statement of Purpose.

It appears in different innocuous forms, some universities nonchalantly mentioning the 3 letters and thereby killing the faint-hearted, while others opt for the more subtle, creative approach, "Describe your life in sixty words", "How will doing a [insert degree] help you in your chosen career?" or worse, "Where do you see yourself in five years?" Face it, there's no escaping it, you've been SOPed!

And you cringe, because, nothing makes makes you feel more purposeless in life than being asked pointedly about it. Its almost like an allegation of a crime, an unbearable burden of proof, "What do you mean, what's my purpose??? Are you out of your head? OF COURSE I HAVE A PURPOSE!! And I'm not going to @$%%" tell you about it!!!" Selling oneself already is a hard task for the young ego, but nothing hurts as much as when your individuality is threatened. Because a SOP does just that, with its unsaid pressure on you to show yourself as different- you know that you are, but just can't put it on paper.

My first encounter with a SOP was in my MS applications. Perhaps a bit carried away by someone committing the folly of asking ME to talk about MYSELF on an open canvas, I gave the right hand a free hand, waxed eloquent on everything imaginable about my life and even peppered the script with a liberal handful of my favourite grandiose words such as "quintessential" and "instrumental" (pity they didn't like my autobiography). And then I ran into it during applications for MBA school, wherein I hastily concocted a story around my favourite characters of Soft Skills, Business Acumen, Networking and Perspective (It turned out to be a suspense tale about a missing Point).

But if I thought I had seen the last of them, I was heavily mistaken, because a few months after joining, there was I, besaddled with yet another goddamn application form for summer internship, with the $$$$$ question staring at me, "Explain the reasons for your decisions in life". *!:@:{:!- I could see through the wolf's clothing- here was another SOP virus.

The stakes were a bit higher this time around, so I sat down seriously to mull over my life. The gaze was turned inwards and the mind was subjected to a 3rd-degree interrogation, but all to no avail. I grew cynical, for my genuine answer was that I had no clue, and that I wasn't sorry for it. What the heck, I was all of 21. Skill sets? I was aware of my strengths and weaknesses but honestly didn't know what my "skills" were. Maybe I was yet to build them? Decisions? I didn't have any career counselling priveleges and took up engineering simply because the brightest in my times took it up. Sad but true for 90% of people in my time. Future plans? I genuinely didn't believe in a 5-year plan for my career (and still don't) , and I liked my cluelessness about what I'd be in 5 years time- it displayed something called flexibility. Why should everyone conform to rationale? And why is there no place for chaos?

But I guess, when firms ask these questions, what they dig at is deeper than mere clarity of mind. Everyone knew these questions are always a fair bit of spin-doctoring, and yet they are the rules- so they are followed, irrespective of whether they agree with your morals or not. And so what actually is tested is your practicality and your EQ- are you level-headed enough to do what's asked of you, without getting cynical about it? In some ways, I find that synonymous with professionalism or corporate discipline- it's like politely leaving only after your boss does- he knows you are idle but can't leave because its only 6, and you know that he can see that too- but you both still duly play your parts. (Some of us are lucky to break that mould though!)

And thus the sense was imbibed into my revolting head, and I resolved to ridden myself of the vexing question, polling friends and seniors on "What is a cool purpose to have nowadays?" "Entrepreneurship!!", roaring came the answers back, from all quarters, and so I mixed the flavour of the season with a few toppings of fact (my dad is one), cut back on the flowery prose and explained to the firm, with a deep sense of pride, how honoured was I to be born into a Marwari business family, how my parents imbibed in me a strong sense of initiative, and how ambitiously I planned to grow my father's chemical engineering business after gaining a management skillset from my MBA followed by a few years of hands-on experience. Unfortunately, so did everyone else :)

Yet Another Write-down

noreply@blogger.com (Atticus) — Sat, 06 Dec 2008 19:13:00 +0000

Conference room, HR, letter, handshakes, relief. Years of dedication and moments of trepidation, starry dreams and insomniac nights, CAT* calls and rat races, Finance 101s and HR one-on-ones later I'd finally been anointed as an Investment Banker, a member of that elusive coterie that resides in the highest percentile of human achievement!** This moment would change me- the stride became triumphant, the swagger precocious and the head skywards. The suit now resided familiarly on my frame as if it had always been there, the cab was nonchalantly hailed and the eyes assumed the permanence of an intellectual look.

But no no, I wasn't just a mere investment banker, the icing on the cake was the appellation against my name- Interest Rates Exotics Trader. I revelled in it, mulled over it and doted on it- it sounded so interesting, so.....exotic! Rarely does this happen, but the job title had taken precedence over the name: my business card could well have read Interest Rates Exotics Trader, Sumit Mehta.

Which I would have dismissed as an unthinkable, 6-sigma event 18 years ago, when I had fallen in love with my name, etching its preponderance into the house walls, school desks, sister's certificates and- Freud, summoned! - my history textbooks. Or in the summers of adoloscence when I romanced over how different girls pronounced my name differently and broke the suspense by announcing my support for the eeeee version. The name has always been for me, more than mere identity- it represented my identity.

But for now, it was resigned to the support cast as the Exotics thingybob took centrestage, at alumnous rivalries and banker parties, and even at family functions and pick-up lines! You might say I was towing a dangerous line, but cmon! I wasn't a Convertible Equity Sales ("What's the hottest car model you are selling nowadays?"), Commodities Trader ("So basically you peddle oil? Why do you need to wear a suit for that?") or a Vanilla Options guy ("Naah, defo not my flavour"), so I was unfairly confident of being greeted with an agape mouth (the figurative entry point), followed by a whimper of a "Wow". Get in!

Credit here must be given to the esoteric image of banking, its magical money-making ways unknown to the populace, its entry-barrier jargon too overpowering in this information-crazy age. But don't blame us, we were only inspired by lawyers (atleast some good came out of their exorbitant fees!), those Masters of Jargon, who added several letters to every word so that the reader ran out of patience, who, when Legalese was deciphered, sprinkled tons of Latin into it! @"£*&! You see, we only followed the law.

But the law of winlose was soon to follow us. For Credit and Crunch were to tag-team us into recessionary submission, and it is testimony to the virulent success of their publicity-seeking, that we stand where we stand, which is in a precarious position, our magic revealed, our prestige spotted, our benefit-of-doubt in serious doubt.

For we are now part and parcel of mother-,father- and grandfather-tongue, of worried "Hope your son is ok with all this subprime nonsense" exchanged between mothers, of Breaking "More writedowns to come!" News and stage comedian scripts. We have entered the dictionary and spread through it like wild fire.

And hence nowadays the business card is hidden away carefully, the name is back in vogue, and when asked "What do you do?", it is inferred as a pleasant inquiry of your hobbies....and Exotic, Structured and Derivatives while being freely available on everyone's lips are confidently absent from mine. :)

*Common Admission Test- the entrance exam that is the gateway to get into India's top postgrad institutes the IIMs.
**Meant to be very sarcastic- don't get your daggers out!

Time and again...

noreply@blogger.com (Atticus) — Sat, 29 Nov 2008 20:29:00 +0000

I seem to be intoxicated, not so much by the Dom Perignon 1953 bubbling in the flute in my hand, but by the three hawt beauties that adorn me. A blonde, a brunette and an Asian- mind you, I have the world's best diversity wrapped around my arms. They are engrossed in conversation, enrapt by my charming description of my latest novella, so much so that they ignore Daniel Craig's lascivious eyes that corner them as he passes by, waving me an envious Hi.

"What's the blonde's name, again?", I ask my memory, slurring, as I survey the pool in which nubile wannabe stars are already flirting with water and the Hollywood whos-who. But I don't really care, because I've found all the answers, I'm in heaven, honobbing with the A-list at this ultra-glamourous Oscars bash at the Sunset Tower Hotel, Hollywood.

I excuse myself from the beauties and stroll to the bar, and as I impatiently wait for my Grand Mojito Martini, I feel a pleasant tap on my shoulder and sense overwhelming beauty in my vicinity. I turn around, and lo and behold!

I'm still beholding, awed, speechless, overwhelmed at God's sexiest creation which currently is within touching distance, frantically trying to capture every bit of her with my two small eyes, which seem to roll over and over, fidgeting between her flowing hair, her expressive eyes and other things. How much can they ogle after all!! But, finally, Scarlet Johansson decides to break the ice, and, we go into slow motion here, I follow her inviting pout transform into luscious lips that create beautiful speech, and soon its my ears who are in for a treat as she voices a sweet......

"Tring Tring"

Jolt, shudder, even more frantic roll of the eyes. The intoxication is gone, but this is a bad hangover. Did I hear that right? and as if to answer,

"Tring Tring" again.

The body's natural reaction to such mishaps is to reach out to press a Green button somewhere. I promptly do that.

"Suuuuuuuuumiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit beta (kid)!!", says a gruff, ruthless voice which has an unmistakeable sense of mischief. Its my Dad. The ears revolt. The eyes frown. The decrepitation of the reverie is now complete.

I push the pillow up and prop my spine against it, mumble a "Hello" and look at my watch. 3:30 am. @%*^&@!

My dad never had a sense of timing. When he dabbled in the stock markets, he bought high and sold low and contributed in his own little way to the Indian stock market's bull run. He disowned me just before I got into IIM, and then promptly had to reown me. He watched cricket games right till the end when India lost and shut the TV prematurely when India pulled off last-gasp wins.

But an international sense of timing is a totally different level. Since I moved to London, I gave the folks a crash course in timing. -4:30 usually, and -5:30 in winter, due to daylight saving. I chose the wrong words. The daylight saving had them very curious, and caused immense confusion. "But, whyyyyy?", crooned my Mom, and the Dad's creativity abolished its boundaries and devoted itself to the creation of hypothetical scenarios, "What if you are catching a flight at 2 am on the 2nd weekend of Nov, if you were 1 hr late would you be on time?" Arrgggh. Give up.

My lifestyle hours have only compounded matters. Even when I was in India, we were time zones apart, they operating 5 am to 9 pm and me doing 9 am to 5 am. The tradeoff of accompanying them for a family function was thus complicated by the jet lag involved. And here, it has only worsened, now that I'm no longer under their strict eye, and so I've often got up at 4 pm on Sundays and called home, only to have had a tough time explaining why I haven't had breakfast when they have just finished dinner!

Anyways, so back to the call, because Mehta Sr. is waiting. We exchange pleasantries. And then comes the time bomb, "Mummy's asking, did you have lunch???!!!" I don't understand my Mom's obsession with my appetite, but of course I find it very sweet. However, a part of me thinks its only her way of finding out the time. Like, "did you have lunch?", "Arre, I had lunch 5 hrs back, its dinner time now", "Aah! thought as much."Clever.

But thankfully, she has better sense than my Dad, because I hear her voice in the background, shouting "He must be sleeping now! How many times have I told you not to get confused between London and Singapore!" If only confusion was a matter of will, but I hope my Dad has a better response. But you see, thats an additional confusion, because my sister lives in S'pore, and having 1 kid at +2:30 hrs and another at -4:30 hrs has had the Mehta Sr. swimming in a pool of confusion 8 hours wide. I don't blame him, honestly.

So he realizes his error, mumbles a few things like, "Oh what time is it?", Me: "3:32 am", Him: "Oh you must be sleeping then?", Me: "YEAH!", Him: "Ah, its not a Saturday, no wonder I got confused, last week you were wide awake this time, even though slurring your words!" @£$&&. One can never win, I shrug, say Goodbye, promise to call back at a more convenient time, hang up and re-engage myself in invoking the divine spirit of Ms. Johansson.

I LIKEEEEEEEEEEE........

noreply@blogger.com (Atticus) — Sat, 22 Nov 2008 19:47:00 +0000

For every writer/ blogger worth his salt and pepper, a restaurant review is an absolute must. A, its easy to write a sweet paragraph on your dinner (provided you ate well, of course), B, there is a inherent moral hazard hiding in your gut- no one can question your judgement. If they like the food, you say, "Toldyouso!", if they don't, you let your jaw assume a philosophical stance, adjust your eye-contact to the ceiling, and lament, "How quickly restaurants degrade! You make a place popular by raving about it, and the moment the bourgeois have frequented it, that's the end of it!" Works usually, unless that someone has instantly followed the aroma of your review, and proceeds to ask innocently, "But I went 2 days after you! That can't be true??!", to which your only getaway is to resort to, "Were you escorted to your table by a ugly short abusive waitress? NO?? Oh, they must have changed the service after my review!". C, everyone wants to read restaurant reviews rather than indigestible stories about your preferred method of dying. In short, to survive as a writer, I must eat my words and word my eats.

So, here's presenting to you, my definitive list of London's top 10 unmissable restaurants:

Busaba Eathai

Homeward Bound

noreply@blogger.com (Atticus) — Mon, 03 Nov 2008 22:55:00 +0000

The day is etched firmly in my mind. London had victoriously wooed me away from Bombay, and as I tearlessly packed my bags, and bade my parents an abrupt good bye, I was aware of the lack of emotion in me. In one moment, it impressed me, in another it scared me. How had I become so stone-hearted for ambition?

But, as I realized a return trip later, there was no emotion simply because there was no loss. Or, more accurately, no acceptance of a loss. Because somewhere in my heart I knew myself well- I am a romanticiser of places. Unlike others who miss people, my memories are linked to places. Which suits me fine, as people can sometimes go away or, worse, they can change, but places stay where they are, weathered by the forces of nature and progress, forever losing their exteriors but keeping their interiors.

And so I knew that wherever I went, I'd never lose the Bombay that was mine. Deep ensconced in a cobwebby corner of my vital organ, it would live on, adding juxtaposial layers to itself with my every frequent visit back. And so, on that gloomy Sunday of the twenty fifth of September 2005, I ventured out of my house, my city and my country, with a sprightly and adventurous step into life as a Londoner.

If anyone doubted my resolve to revisit and renourish my India roots as frequently as possible, they were proved wrong after barely 90 days. Just as family had begin to convert my room into a much-needed storage area, and friends had started to resign my phone numbers to the Etcetera list, there was I, punctually standing at Bbay airport, excitedly calling everyone to announce that "Yeah, you heard it right, I'm BACK!". My mom, disgusted at being deprived of a proper nostalgia, gruntled, "Khota sikka" (false coin, literally, basically meaning someone who doesn't live true to his word". I grinned.

And it has thus continued over the years- friends' weddings, house-hunting and renunion Goa trips all providing the necessary excuse- and the surprise turned gradually into annoyance. Quippy friends asked whether I'd procured a lifetime all-seasons ticket, and gradually even the familial luxury was stopped. On my 1st visit, I'd found the family driver proudly waiting to pick me up in the dusty Maruti and excitedly enquiring about London on the way back, but the next few times that seemed to be replaced by a frustating nonchalance...and last year I'd been politely informed, "Sorry beta (child), the driver's got some urgent work, so could you please take a cab instead?".

So by now, the India routine has been well-polished and tried-and-tested. As I finish dealing with betel-nut-chewing customs officers whose purpose in life is harassment, and venture out into the polluted Bbay air, unheralded and unnoticed except by opportunistic cabbies, I feel I have arrived. Of course I have, silly, but I mean, my instant ability to relate to my suddenly-different surroundings sends congratulatory blood to my head. The unconfused dual life, the balancing act- it all gives me a kick. I'm as home here as I was in London 8 hours and 7200 km ago. With these thoughts I hail an autorickshaw, for-the-heck-of-it'ly haggle the cost of a trip to Mankhurd and settle down comfortably into a very uncomfortable, shifting seat, looking forward to watching grime, odours, noises and the Bombay evening engulf me through the rickshaw's open windows. For a Bombay lover, its undiscriminating discomfort is itself its most comforting aspect.

(Not-so) soon, I reach home. Everything looks familiar and I even know the people on the streets- the baais (maids) still huddle around, kids still play cricket on the streets and cars still run into each other. But as the heart leaps in comforting joy, exclaiming, "I still haven't lost you, Bombay!", the futility of it all suddenly reveals itself to me on the subsequent landing.

Isn't all the frequent visiting an unending race to play catch up? With India growing and transforming itself in leaps and bounds, isn't what I really fear is losing touch with the beloved city, of having a generation gap with one's own childhood friend? And then I realize it, at the base of it all is my endeavour to keep unshaken my delicate faith in the constancy of places.

But I needn't worry, I relaxedly tell myself, as "Sumeeeeeettt, dinner is ready!", my mom's voice sails through the cool December air, like it always used to, rising above the latest item number blared by the neighbour's proud imported amplifiers, as they always did, and the shrill shrieks of the newest contingent of building (Indian slang for an apartment complex) kids. But I'm busy reading the girl's emails from London, and at the same time making clubbing plans for the night, waiting to explore the side of Bbay that I previously couldn't afford to- Oh boy, isn't it great to be home!

Toxic Waist

noreply@blogger.com (Atticus) — Sun, 05 Oct 2008 16:35:00 +0000

It alarmed me when it first appeared on the scene, seemingly out of nowhere. I'd always felt that my thin frame was a natural immunization to it- a combination of the two would be such an ugly sight that God would take offence at such a product of his own device. But there it had surreptitiously arrived, always right in front of my eyes, taunting me amoebically every moment I looked down or at the mirror. I was doomed.

But that's a lie, actually. That was my second reaction to it. My initial reaction to it was actually a feeling of snug accomplishment. After all, as a kid, I'd always envied those who proudly flaunted it- the gilt-covered Punjabi businessman (and his wife!) who lived across the street, the perenially-juice drinking Gujarati stockbroker/estate agent/jeweller and closer to home, my father- they all seemed so comfortable with it, displaying that elusive, fine balance of ease and care as they proudly carried it everywhere they went. I ventured to ask my mother as to how I could get one, and she laughed it off- apparently it was correlated with happiness and wealth, and hence I should work hard at school so that I could be rich later and get one. Mothers should be held accountable for the responses that they sometimes provide to their kids.

So, all these years later, I'd finally got one. It meant I was happy and contented, so I happily stomached all the abuse. "You aren't even married!" announced one friend, "When is the delivery?" wisecracked another. "Call up your courier firm!" I desperately riposted, but even I wasn't finding it funny after a while, what with the evidence showing up in every frontal (sorry) photograph of mine, every holiday at the beach and every sight of me in a tight tee. It became an issue of national importance for Mehtasia. Her borders had to be reined in.

Worry soon had grown into paranoia. I shunned beer altogether, and dived headlong into whisky. I banned the basmati and gave exclusive curry accompaniment rights to the naan. I was caught attempting to fry onions with no oil on the frying pan. But no avail. Whatever I did, it was always ahead of me (yeah!).

Then the girl mentioned exercise. I balked and gulped, but soon caved in, especially after she threatened to get one herself (physical promixity was already being annoyingly impeded by one, imagine two!). And thus, the drunken evenings discussing the rumour mills were converted into gym sessions on the treadmill. And Saturday a.m hangovers were replaced by basketball court stopovers. And voila! I was soon tending back to shape.

But every cure has its own side-effect, and in this case it was my overall weight which turned out to be the unfortunate victim. And then I realized the sinister workings of my body's capitalist economy. When I gain weight, it all runs straight to the flab sink called the stomach- when I lose weight however, it is my cheeks that suffer a liquidity crisis!

But what the hell, I haven't given up running- the punchy paunch will be conquered. :)

P.s: Hello all you esteemed readers, could I please request you to comment on my blog, if you manage to wade through the proceedings? A comment is for the blogger what applause means to the stage performer- you might not necessarily like the performance, and you don't HAVE to clap, but it is that moment of deafening that she lives for, so you do it out of respect. And it's nice to know who's been here, because sitemeters don't give any useful information. You don't need to say anything, mabe just a frank rating on 10 would do? Gracias!

The Sibling Sex Test and other Mathematical Stories

noreply@blogger.com (Atticus) — Thu, 25 Sep 2008 15:04:00 +0000

I'll cut to the chase just this one time- and only because I'm so excited to write about this!

A friend asked me this puzzle today:

"I have two children.. one is a boy. what is the probability of the other being a boy as well?"

My immediate reaction was: "They are independent! So 1/2!"

This seems a bit counterintuitive. Imagine you tossed a coin 20 times, and got H 19 times. If someone asked you, "So, are you going to get 20 heads?", you'd shake yours and say "Nah, 19 is enough of a fluke, 20 would be awe-fking-some but impossible." Thus we are implying that the probability of the 20th toss is dependent on the results of the earlier 19 tosses. But that's human psychology. In reality they are just independent.

Or so I was mulling until the friend came back saying, "No! you are wrong, its 1/3." And my attention was dragged towards a Wikipedia-take on the issue.

Now, ladies and gentlemen, I must diverge from the topic and address this crazy rise of Wikipedia-reliance. Just to be clear, I love Wikipedia-surfing. The sheer joy of hopping from one all-you-can-find-on-topic-X page to another is only paralleled by the glee one experiences when one proudly rattles off recently-Wikied information to a guileless hottie at the pub. Get me no wrong, Wikipedia has been one of the most amazing new ventures in the last decade- by warehousing, presenting and classifying information, it has enabled us and opened our minds.

But we often forget that Wiki's open source strength is itself its biggest drawback. It really doesn't matter when it comes to finding out who appeared on the Playboy cover in April 1984, but when you are talking Maths and famous conundrums, the wwwikipedia reliance could be a bit stuttering. As has been proved in this case.

And this is what it said:

"For a single birth, there are two possibilities (a boy or a girl) with equal probability. Therefore, for two births, there are four possibilities: 1) two boys, 2) two girls, 3) first a boy, then a girl, and 4) first a girl, then a boy; all of them have equal probability. We are given that one of the children is a boy. Thus, only one of the four possibilities -- two daughters -- is eliminated. Three possibilities with equal probabilities (1/3) remain. Out of those three, only one -- two sons -- is what we are looking for. Hence, the answer is 1/3."

That did stump me for a while, until a Chai latte later, I discovered the fallacy in the above. Can you?

* WARNING, DISCLAIMERS AHEAD *

Yes, you got it! (Or you are too bored)

Assume there are 2 variants of the problem.

Variant 1: (the puzzle I asked above)
The puzzle says "THE FIRST ONE of them is a boy" (i.e permutations)

Hence your sample set in this case isnt BB BG GB. Thats wrong. You know that the 1st one is a boy. the second one cud be a B or a G. hence sample set is BB and BG simply. GB is ruled out

Variant 2:
Now suppose you were told that "ANY ONE of the 2 children is a boy. what is the probability that the other is a boy?"

Now this is combinations. your sample set now is BB and BG (BG = GB in this case) and the answer again is 1/2.

What I'm trying to get at is that the incorrect explanation (which leads to answer 1/3) selectively uses permutations and combinations hence resulting in an irrational answer. If you are assuming that the order matters then the case GB cant exist. if you are assuming that the order doesn't matter, then BG = GB and GB is thus a simple repetition of BG. In either case the answer is 1/2. And this is consistent with my 1st logical answer i.e 1/2.

I was surprised to find a lot of debate on this on the net- and quite a bit of it wasteful. For example, there has been talk of frames of reference, of ambiguous meanings of "one of them is a boy" etc etc. And people have gone into discussions of conditional probability v/s absolute probability and have defended 1/3 on the basis of that. But that's absolute trash. The two can often be different, yes, but only when events are dependent on each other. In the case of independent events, they have to be equal! Just because you get an erroneous answer of 1/3 you can't defend it by saying that probability depends on sample sets and hence depending on which sample set you choose, you have a different probability. That's wrong. Whatever sample set you choose, your answers must be consistent.

I was given yet another argument by the friend's random friend: BG and GB aren't the same because the boy being elder to the girl is different from the girl being elder to the boy. This is another argument citing permutations.

Again on first glance, you can make out that this is specious, because ages of the 2 siblings shouldn't make any difference to their genders. You haven't been told which sibling is the boy, the elder one or the younger one. Thus age cannot be a basis of permutations.

More formally, the error in this argument is this: If you really wanted to complicate matters in your head and include age, you should consider it completely. Hence if you considered the various combos as Elder/Younger, the total combos would be BB,BG,GB,GG.

Of this one is a boy, but as we said, it could be the elder one or the younger one. Hence there are 2 possibilities, and the final probablity is given by:

P(2nd kid is boy/1st kid is boy) = P(1st kid is elder)*P(2nd kid is boy/1st kid is boy and hes elder) + P(1st kid is younger)*P(2nd kid is boy/1st kid is boy and hes younger)

There's an equal chance of the kid being elder or younger, hence both probablities = 1/2

Hence P= 1/2*(2nd kid is boy/1st kid is boy and hes elder) + 1/2*P(2nd kid is boy/1st kid is boy and hes younger)

Possibility 1: the boy is elder
In this case BB and BG remain and the answer is 1/2

Possibility 2: the boy is younger
In this case BB and GB remain and the answer is 1/2

and the final answer is 1/2 :)

Of course the clever mind will realize that all I've done is prove that the gender probablities are independent of the age.

Probability theory can get really overwhelming at times- conditional probabilities, what sample sets to choose, independent or dependent events- all cause a lot of confusion. But at the end of the day, there is one thumb rule to mastering it: it should all tie up to common sense. Or else the chance that the purpose of mathematics is lost is unity :)

Dynamics of a tête-à-tête

noreply@blogger.com (Atticus) — Sun, 14 Sep 2008 16:38:00 +0000

Let's admit it- I'm no man of my word (I claimed I'd write a blog regularly and I didn't!). But hey, I'm a man of my words. I'm also a man of other's words- because very often in conversations, I talk so much that I seem to steal the other person's fair share as well. But then talking for me is a passion, each conversation being an enjoyable puff of addiction and every random dialogue with a stranger a welcome stimulus to unlock my inner thought apparatus. And hence, here's an attempt at dissecting it.

After all, we all place such a great emphasis on conversations. Consciously and unconsciously, they are critical to every important decision in our life- remember the night you spent discussing your fav cartoons with your girl in the park and realized you both clicked? Or the coffee you had with your current boss when he gave you the confidence to quit and join him (Did you even taste the coffee?)? And oh, we nearly forgot the 2-minute-long phone call that was enough to convince you that the prospective buyer of your flat sounded right! Yes, our hunches are always piggy-backing on impressions derived from conversations.

Most importantly, though, it is such a joy to have a fruitful, meaningful, intelligent, non-stop conversation. The kind where you are parring thoughts back and forth, where one trivial observation is snowballed swiftly into a takeaway to be consumed in solitude. Where no thought is considered bad or stupid or wierd, and where the synergy between two minds is far greater than the sum of its parts.

So I wonder, what makes a cracking dialogue? Is it merely the people indulging in it? Do we only click with people who think alike? Are we born good or bad conversationalists or is it (as I strongly felt) something we can develop? I thought of the questions, but I'd never have conjectured any answers (I was busy talking!) until a chance reading in Gladwell's Blink on improvisation comedy (what Whose Line Is It Anyways is) got me at Hello.

For those who haven't read it (is quite an average book tbh), Gladwell describes the science behind the art of spontaneity- how, unlike what we believe, creativity is honed and not inherited. He talks about how improv actors strictly follow a set of rules- foremost among them being the rule of agreement- no matter what, a character always accepts what is being said, and NEVER is his response to anything denial. Once this rule is followed, the book argues, spontaneity flows easily. The more I thought about it, the more I felt, yes, that's one of the major keys to conversationality as well!

I think good conversationalists are people who follow this rule of agreement. But, agreement in this case doesn't mean agreement of views (they would be really boring conversationalists otherwise), but agreement with the existence of ANY view. You say something radical and they don't get fazed, and even though they obviously disagree, they would hit something back at you that isn't a knee jerk reaction or a judgement of you. Because they are suspending judgement completely. You stonewall a view, and they try breaking through it, asking questions on why you think so. Good con...lists (I'm tired typing now) never stop a topic. They always draw you into a conversation, not out of it. And they know how to steer your intellectual energy (positive or negative) in a positive direction.

Another thing I feel that distinguishes an interesting dialogue from an average one is the difference between observations and facts. Look at students cramming for finance job interviews- they mug up the levels of every goddamn stock index in the world, and are ready to rattle off market capitalizations at the drop of the Managing Director hat. But as an interviewer, what catches the eye when it parses through a sea of intelligent applicants is simply an opinion. A student who has an unrefined, crudely-hatched view on where the market will be in 2010 is anyday a winner over the numbers-spewing Wikipedia-addict. And the same is true for other conversations, I feel. Knowledgeable people do create a good first impression, and if you know your facts you do earn respect. But your shelf-life is also for an instant- ironically, you lose your contributing power the moment you use it! But what really drives a good conversation is opinions and observations, hunches and stances. These are the ones which elicit responses, which draw people into following suit with their own views.

What often makes chat fun is creativity- foremost needed in the ability to package things differently. Everyone conveys a thought in way A, so let's use method B. Isn't that what pick-up lines are all about? Everyone likes a light exercise of the brain cells, and a witty phrase or monicker provides just that, and in the right quantity. And if combined with humour, you've had your prey (in line with the context of pick-up lines!).

But finally, the most basic ingredient of the confab masala is a hunger to talk to people who think differently from you, a genuine curiosity to understand why they think what they think, and a fearless disposition to subject your quirky, could-be controversial views to the microscope that's sitting across the sofa. And that's what makes banter, well, banter :)

Making a counter-point

noreply@blogger.com (Atticus) — Sat, 16 Feb 2008 17:53:00 +0000

Many people commented on my judgemental blog earlier, saying it was too direct and negative. I agree wholeheartedly, but that was the point of it- when one calls a spade a spade, one cant call it almost a heart. Nevertheless a good suggestion by a few has been that I should write a 2nd part, focusing this time on the more positive traits in people. I think its a great idea, but I decided I dont want to repeat myself on the points in the earlier post, since obviously if I dislike something I would appreciate the absence of it. So heres my list:

Above everything else, I respect genuineness and honesty, Mallika Sherawat-ishtyle. It requires immense guts, and more importantly, inner self-belief, to come out into the public and say "Yes, this is the way I am, and the way the industry is"- her practical logic for sleaze as the only way to beat the acting-family grip on Bollywood was impressive. (Admittedly, she overdid it a bit, and often finds herself with her foot in her mouth.) But have you observed, genuineness is a trait every person unconsciously appreciates, however genuine or fake he might be. I think its one of the traits that people who somehow seem to endear themselves to everyone, unfailingly possess.

Next on my list would be determination and ambition, personified by countless successfuls, notably Shah Rukh Khan and Linkin Park. We all know whatever there is to be known about SRK, but Linkin Park, who practise their music 16 hours a day, have taught professionalism to an industry that has always been known for humongous egos and erratic genuises. A lot among us have these virtues in their own small ways- they dare to dream big, and they spend their lives, unfazed by adversity, chipping away towards that vision. Salut!

And I'm always awed by a Darren Gough-esque attitude to life: cheerful, bright and optimistic, you could never see him without a smile or a guffaw. Such people light up our lives with their shining countenance, provide us with memorable moments, and remind ourselves of how life's meant to be lived.

But nothing's as dignified a virtue as humility and simplicity, especially in one's moment of glory, paraded by the likes of Narayan Murthy and Rafael Nadal. Rafael's post match interview after winning the French Open a record third time had more "Federer"'s in it than "I"'s! We always associate the term "being a sport" with failure, but I sometimes think it applies more to victory. I respect and admire people who display generosity and integrity in success- be it in resisting an urge to take a pot-shot at the also-rans, or be it in terms of not wanting victory at ANY costs. And its probably this fine point that seperates the likes of Michael Schumacher from the pantheon of true legends. (I'm sure to kick up some controversy about this!)

This easily has been my shortest post ever :-)

p.s: This bloody blogger sometimes really drives me up the wall. I've tried in whatever way I can, but I can't seem to get that extra line between paras 2 and 3. Anyone else had a similar problem? Works fine for other paragraphs. First person to help me gets a special reading of my 1st book. Only kidding, relax.

p.p.s: And now its doing the same prank on the paragraph above! Bloody hell.

Local anaesthesia- part 1

noreply@blogger.com (Atticus) — Wed, 13 Feb 2008 11:06:00 +0000

Luxury is for the human mind a bastard adopted from the street- we all lend it our own unique name and implication. For the gourmets, it is pampering the stomach, for the art collectors, it's pleasing the eye, and for some like me, it is relieving the legs of their arduous task of transporting my restless energy on its jaunts across town. And hence, propelled by the power of the pound, I have allowed myself the gratitude of taking cabs wherever I go in Bombay, blissful in the thought of avoiding Bombay's crowded local trains. It's a luxury that has taken a long time coming though- having endured 6-odd years of a daily 3-hr full-body massage provided by the Mumbai Suburban Railways have left me with more than a backache. Its been a thoroughly enjoyable journey though, replete with its moments, and my experiences can only seem entertaining in hindsight. So heres the first part of a threatise.

For the uninitiated, the aforementioned massage services are run on 3 lines, Western, Central and Harbour- me being the proud client of the latter-est. There is a clear status divide between the three: we Harbour boys were a bit late in catching the train bandwagon, and hence our trains are the least frequent. Counter-intuitively, our infrastructure is also the worst- saddled with no fast trains and with tracks running through slum-dwellers' bedrooms, we often have been mocked at by the others: "Harbour line pe paan thunko toh gaadi ruk jaata hai" (translated as "Its enough to spit on the tracks when in a Harbour line train to halt, who needs heavy rains or signal failures?") But we are always better off than the horrid Central line, what with its majority clientele of abusive fishwives. The Western line (some parts of it, atleast) is generally accepted as the most cultivated- after you alight, people are polite enough to allow you to climb the stairs on your own- the Central line has no such luxuries. The general quality of women is another driver for the Western line's popularity- repressed Central adolescents regularly take Western-line guilt trips to remind themselves that abusive fishwives are not a good representation of the average Bbay lady.

So lets focus back onto the product- the massage. Its a winner, this one. For starters, it is delivered dynamically, on the go, unconsciously, perfectly positioned to make efficient use of your travel time, and thus fits in handsomely in Bombay's breakneck pace. In fact, "Journey is the destination" was adopted as a slogan by the Railways once. (It was however removed a few days later after customers started stoning rail offices, mistaking the tagline as a lame attempt to pacify them on the matter of train delays). Secondly, and most enchantingly, it is delivered by the clients to the clients, much like a network marketing concept, wow! Such an arrangement upholds India's status as the world's largest democracy, giving customers the power in their hands (and legs and head and shoulders) to customize their own experience.

The dynamics of it all are also very fascinating. It usually starts with waiting for the train to arrive, and the waiting usually starts when its expected time of arrival and you can't see the train anywhere in the distance. Certain self-driven members of the crowd usually act as the harbingers of fate- straining their neck and their binocular-ly organized eyes, they provide free regular updates to the rest. A few minutes later, there is the unmistakeable murmur as you brace for the most important part of the journey: getting into the train- many a self-proclaimed-street-smart Delhi novice has underestimated this step and paid a heavy price.

So you roll up the sleeves, hide the cellphone in the innards of your clothing, lift whatever luggage you are carrying onto the top of your head and take a deep breath. (The deep breath serves two purposes- it destresses you and it saves your life, since there is very little chance you are going to get any air once you are inside.) It is also important to choose the right entry position, the right gambit. Mumbai locals have no doors to their exits, so its a free-for-all, with the exception of a rather inconvenient steel rod right in the bloody middle of the exit. After above mentioned Delhi novices learn after a few attempts to give themselves a chance of getting in, the rod presents their next nemesis, and they often end up smacked right against the rod, with no room for movement and no sensation in certain body parts. You thus endevaour to choose 1 of the 2 sides of the entry to make your way in.

And before you know it, the train has chugged onto the platform, and there are people spewing out of the moving train in dozens and thirteens, headed right towards you. Which is very unnerving, as many of them will drop right onto your right toe, thereby spilling the pickle from their tiffin box conveniently onto your shirt pocket. But you shrug it off, not letting it divert your attention from catching the train. And as the train finally grinds to a stop, there emerges an even greater exodus of humans in every size, shape and mood, falling off like grains from a leaking sack.

Everything after that can be simply described as going with the flow- a concerted wave of pressure from people behind you propels you with lightning quick speed into the compartment. The crowd also rationally takes care of your seating preferences- if there are free seats inside, you will be taken right to them. The massage then continues unabated throughout the journey- you only have to steer clear of the all-encompassing-in-its-midst Kurla-exiting flow and you have gained full value for your money.

And then its time to hop off. Alighting from the Mumbai local is as simple as staying in- again, you simply go with the flow. If you are in a Central line train and alight at Kurla, and the flow is headed to the bus depot at Kurla's stations east-side exit, thereby interfering with your plans of catching the Harbour line train to Vashi, you dont fret. You simply follow the flow to the bus depot, and latch onto the next flow originating from there to your preferred destination. Its simple ergonomics, you see.

So before you realize it, you have been released from the pressure cooker- clothes rumpled, confidence eroded, de-de-odorized but positive about life- after all, you have successfully completed another day of reaching office! And you say to yourself, "Wow, there weren't any bomb explosions either! Life is indeed beautiful." :-)

p.s: This initially was meant as a comprehensive essay on the local train services of Bombay. Midway through the piece however, it struck the author that there was more to it than he had envisaged- as the memories came tumbling back much like men from a Dadar local, he realized that this journey was worth more than 1 Harbour-line trip down memory lane. Watch this space for the trilogy!

The Barberic ordeals

noreply@blogger.com (Atticus) — Sun, 11 Nov 2007 14:32:00 +0000

Its that dreadful time of the month again. An hour to be wasted in worsening my appearance. A good day and two's abuse to be had for how funny I look. An extra bath to be taken, albeit without a closure, without that feeling of complete cleanliness. An hour's emptiness to bear, looking at other people dreadfully look at themselves in mirrors, and sifting through women's magazines. Oh, its time for a haircut again.

Well hair has never really been my best physical asset. I seemed to have been born with a good wave of it, but somehow over the years it transformed itself into this mad rush of, well, rushes. I was very deservedly called the porcupine- my hair resembling an army of hapless warriors in retreat, some of them attempting to run away, some brave enough to fight, and some others wondering what the fuss was all about. All they needed was an able leader, an insightful hairdresser. And thus became the quest of my life.

Now hairdressers in India are a funny lot. If you judged their haircutting ability by their own coiffeurs, you would never step into any of those salons and volunteer yourself for a hairdo. Unfortunately as a middle-class kid I didn't really have much choice, so I just used to pray, take a deep breath and keep my fingers crossed, hoping that the next free hairdresser would cut me a good deal. It came to the point that on the rare occasions that I found my haircut satisfactory, I politely asked the hairdresser's name, hoping that Id make him my regular- but no luck there too, I always forgot their names, and there never seemed to be around the next time I mustered my courage for a trip. Moving to London only worsened matters- I dabbled with the 4-pound Mr.Topper's for a while, and thats exactly how they treated my hair too- start to finish in 15 minutes! Grudgingly I've moved to Supercuts.

But my dreams have always remained unfulfilled. Month after month, it is the same story- sometimes they cut it so short that my medical-school-attending sister used my skull as a prop for a bone-identifying quiz with her friends, some other times they cut it so uneven that I have had to blame it on the paper-shredder at work. Of course, partly, I am to blame- I have lesser of a clue of what to do with my hair than they did. I still awe at those hairdressees who sit confidently on the high hairdresser's chair as if it were a director's and rattle off orders (I can imagine them shouting "Cut!")- I always preferred to utilize the time to catch up on my afternoon nap. Perhaps was a result of the realization that the result of that ordeal was going to give me some sleepless nights in the days to come.

Which in itself is ironic, since sleep is when our body hair grows the most. So, in the wake of the mishap, I get up from bed every morning, casting a glance at the mirror, hoping to catch the extra hair grown on my scalp. And so it goes, the life cycle of a haircut, the relief at it finally having grown to a respectable level, the week of basking in that joy, and the swift transition that occurs between then to the moment at work when your boss mentions, "Mate, I think you need a haircut". Hair we go again :)

The memoirs of a hopeless romantic

noreply@blogger.com (Atticus) — Sun, 11 Nov 2007 12:09:00 +0000

Soon it will be time for the last page of the 2007 calendar to present itself. And soon it will be time for the year-end India trip, the highlights of which, among other things, will be the annual writedowns of my Love life Ltd accounts. They happen as part of a very friendly, social setting called the wedding. Weddings of close female friends, who would have been my love interest at some point of my spectacular love life. Its really becoming a disturbing pattern of late.

There is absolutely nothing more disheartening for a nice guy than a unrequited love's wedding invitation. Why do they have to rub it in? It goes something like this:

Unrequited love: "Suuuummeeeeeeet!!!!! I'm so happy"

Sensible brain: "You sound like you are very much in love and are about to get married to that jerk who was worse than me in every sense. So you are off my development list. No more resources granted. I've gotta rush! Can I talk to you later?"

Nice-guy mouth: "Heyy!! tell me about it!"

Unrequited love: "Im getting married to Un-nice-guy!!!!! I'm so happy!!! I met his parents last week and it was all finalized!"

Sensible brain: "why not me?" "Why not me?"

Nice-guy mouth: "Awesome! I'm so happy for you! When is the D-day?!!?"

Boring monologue follows, and then she proudly proceeds to reveal the most disturbing statistic:

Unrequited love: "You know Sumit, you are the first friend to know!"

Nice-guy mouth: "I'm so honoured! Thanks!"

Sensible brain: "Boo hoo. %&#&*^. That's the most useless thing in the world. Its like telling a cancer patient that he's going to die, and then telling him "You are the first one to know!". No, babe. I'd rather not know. Ever heard of ignorance being bliss?"

Unrequited love: "I soooooo want you to be there! Please please don't ditch me! Listen, I'm not going to marry unless you are attending!"

Sensible brain: "I'd love to attend, darling, but only as the groom. Since you have already chosen someone for that position, I really dont see the point of wasting my time, money and emotional energy by attending your wedding. And seriously, you promise me you won't marry if I don't attend??? Sounds like a plan!"

Nice-guy mouth: "How can I not attend? Ill be there for sure, to witness you in your special moment!"

The phone line's long gone dead, but I'm still absent-mindedly holding the receiver, as if it were transmitting my thoughts back to school when the heart was more hopeful but the record equally abysmal. The annual losses then were revealed mid-year, at another festive occasion called Raksha Bandhan. I hated it every bit- as if the remembrance of having real sisters wasn't painful enough, the fashion among girls of making "muh-bole" brothers made it even more depressing. For some reason I was prime muh-bole material- every girl I liked would reveal her feelings to me in the form of a dirty string to be worn around my wrist, and parried around for the day for everyone to mock me! My mental angst soon had a physical form- I strangely started falling ill every Raksha Bandhan day. Doctors could never find the problem, but I had found the ultimate solution!

So its UL-wedding day. And as I stand there in the wedding hall, devouring yet another generous helping of the mutter paneer (food does work as a good anti-depressant), another machiavellian pattern presents itself to me. Every girl that I pine for, have a crush on, or am romantically involved with, somehow ends up getting married within a year. Of course to someone else. It was most disturbingly proved last year- she wasn't even thinking of marriage when I first met her. "Oh no, I'm really not looking to settle down soon.", I swear she told me. And 12 months later she had married someone she had known for 6 months!

So I'm really thinking of starting a matrimonial witch-craft agency, targetted at desperate parents of nubile women. Your daughter doesn't want to marry? Commitment phobia? Too career-oriented? Cant find the right man? Arrange a meeting with the renowned marriage sorcerer, Sumit Mehta aka Nice Guy! Aka the "hopeless" romantic :)

Why We-blog

noreply@blogger.com (Atticus) — Thu, 06 Sep 2007 17:55:00 +0000

"Why do you blog?": This isn't the first time I've been asked this very simple question. Back in 2005, when I was excitedly announcing to everyone that I was about to start MY OWN blog, a friend of mine did wonder the same. She argued that all the benefits of a blog could be achieved by having one's own personal diary, then why exhibit one's personal life to the scrutiny of a voyeuristic surfer-by? I don't think my answer was very convincing then, because I was just doing something that seemed right to me. The basic elements seemed to be in place- I could write, I was happy to write, and I had things to write about. What else did one need!

Two years, 30 posts and a revival of a almost-dead blogging career later though, I think I have a fair idea why. A hectic social life and the coincidental timing of me relocating to a new country have left me with very little time to blog- but somehow I keep wanting to go back to it.

It's primarily because I always have a lot to say. I'm somewhat opinionated (though I like to keep an open mind!), I feel strongly about certain things and I'm curious about almost everything. And I love sharing with everyone those small incidents that are probably just worth a chuckle. Though my closest friends often wiggle their way out of having to listen to my funny anecdotes, I never give up: I always find opportunities to insert them into casual conversations. Blogging is another method I employ to expand my victim circle.

But most importantly, for a person like me, the very public nature of blogging is something very essential to bringing out the best in my writing. I have written diaries in the past- a year later I would read them and find them so boring, because they were an exact replica of my usual thoughts- verbose and haphazard. Only when I blog is when I sit down and order them, construct meaning out of them and present them concisely (ok, relatively speaking!). The fear of writing a bad post and getting negative feedback on it always plays on the blogger's mind- and she/ he responds to it by being one's own critic, proofreader and editor. And that's where one transcends writing to a higher level.

This may sound strange, but after you become a regular blogger, the one-way traffic lane between your mind and the blog transforms into a duplex exchange. For initially, you write everything that you think, but then you soon exhaust all of them. When the mind then starts hunting for different topics to blog, and finds something interesting (like this post!), it becomes attuned to thinking more towards it and completing the thought's incomplete silhouette. Thus blogging helps me think more, think better, and think focussed. (That could be used as a tagline by Blogger!)

And of course, it helps me reach out to people in an efficient way. Feels good to see comments from friends I haven't met in years, and to meet new interesting people. What's been fabulous is a few complete strangers who emailed me complaining about me being so lazy with my writing- that has really spurred me on. To know that people connect with/ mull over almost every thought you put out is a massive sense of achievement. As Sudha points out, its just another medium for a people-hungry extrovert to expand his social associations! :)

Test (on) Tube, baby...

noreply@blogger.com (Atticus) — Fri, 31 Aug 2007 20:11:00 +0000

Right, so I decided to venture my blog into the maze of cryptic crosswords. Ill confess, I've been a fan of this geeky business since I was a kid. All courtesy my Dad, who spent his mornings multi-tasking between ignoring my mother's fervent pleas to start exercising his body and joyously exercising his mind. Sometimes, the crosswords were beyond his reach, so he started employing my help in finding words or just in finishing off the left-overs. Google hadn't woken up, so we used big fat Oxford dictionaries. It ashames me to admit that I've spent hours combing through them, looking up all words that were 5 letters long, with the 2nd and 4th letters being R and Y! (One such word is CRAZY)

So it wasn't long before I had caught the craze, and soon me and my Dad were fighting over first right to solve the crossword. That gave my mother some more headache: soon she was multi-tasking too, between yelling at my Dad to exercise, and exhorting me to go out and play. Every extra moment of sleep was critical: if you weren't awake to jump on the scared paperboy when he came into deliver the paper, you had lost the match there itself- 50% of the crossword would be solved by the time you could put a hand to it. Soon it became very competitive, and after a few cases of domestic violence over the newspaper, it was amicably agreed to buy 2 newspapers. The scared, bewildered paperboy just couldn't fathom what was the matter with this nutty news-hungry family who loved the paper so much that they weren't satisfied with one- he soon changed his delivery area, citing personal problems.

So, back to this one. I've tried to make this one fairly easy, so as to not scare away people who havent got much practice in cryptics. Cryptics are very enjoyable because on first look, they look so tough and yet when one finds the answer, it always seems that it was right there staring at you. Solving these requires a fair bit of lateral thinking: you have to force your mind to abandon its usual flow of logic, nay, interrupt it at certain points and then reconstruct it all together at the end. That's what makes them so much fun. I don't understand what all the fuss about Sudoku is- working numbers into a grid is just so boring! Cryptic crosswords combine language skills with logic and lateral thinking all into one neat little 15X15 grid that can massage your brain better than anything else.

And if you are one of those who want to get started on cryptics, but dont know what to google, there's something for you too! I like some webpages that give a fairly easygoing and comprehensive introduction: try this and that. You might want to read these before you try the one above.

Finally, some notes before you start solving: This is a themed cryptic, and the theme is London Underground (mostly zone 1) stations. Which explains the total lack of symmetry- I've not added any words outside the theme to make it look better. If you are not acquainted with London, heres your cheat sheet. Clues are a mix of cryptic and simple ones, mostly the former. In some cases where the words are multiple (like Willesden Green), clues may refer to the entire word formation (e.g Will+esd+eng+re+en). Some clues refer to the theme, or hint towards it (e.g "area in london...", "london's financial center...") whereas some don't.

So get cracking! I already subjected my manager to the ordeal yesterday, he being the perennial test market for all my eccentric ideas and thoughts. The trouble one has to take for one's mentee :)

noreply@blogger.com (Atticus) — Wed, 29 Aug 2007 12:31:00 +0000

Confessions of a Judgemental Mind

noreply@blogger.com (Atticus) — Thu, 23 Aug 2007 17:14:00 +0000

Sudha ran an interesting article the other day, writing about the 10 things that she judged people by. She's tagged me to do the same, and I thought, I consciously stay away from negative emotions on my blog because I'm such a cynic at heart. So do I really want to do this? But then I said, what the heck, lets give it a go!, but I know, this is going to be ugly. So here are my 6:

They live life within their comfortable closed loop of thinking. They mock those who are brave enough to experiment, and react bucolically when someone confronts them on the shut windows of their dust-gathering brains. They are the parochials, the narrow-minded ones. I find quite a few Indians here, and also in India who can be described such: they are parochials on issues such as integration with non-Indians, respecting people for qualities other than wealth, and attitude towards women. I judge them instantly and I instantly despise them.

Their minds, in an effort to make sense of the complications around them, simplify by classification. They occasionally get lost in the maze of things, and to rationalize, they run to the help of adjectives. They are the stereotypers, the judgers. They judge you from day 1, moment 1. They judge you oh-so-unfairly even before you open your mouth: they have already labelled you based on your appearance. "You are wearing outdated fashions, you are so uncool, you would be so boring to speak to!" "You are Muslim, oooh you must be a fanatic" "You are so hyper, its because you are insecure about yourself!"- their minds are at it already. I pity them for their unevolved thinking, and really cant stand it when they proceed to share with me their half-baked judgements of me. So ironic, but I judge judgers.

They love to focus on the grim realities of life, only that they do it to an unreal extent. They brood over the wrongs, the lows, the sorrows. The fact that they call themselves "practicalists" is probably the only euphimistic thing they can ever do: they are the pessimists, the half-empty ones. Most of them refuse to play the odds: they are content with making no effort and then complaining about it for weeks after. "What are we doing yar, we dont have a girlfriend" "Some people are earning so much, shit we have no money as compared to them." They look at life's bell curve with one conveniently blind eye, focussing only on the part thats better off than them. They defy the purpose of life, happiness.

They sweat over the small stuff all day, and they do it so well that they are bloody good at it. In the process however, they lose touch with the broader meaning of their lives. They fret and fume about love affairs, about doing things as per schedule, about pleasing their bosses, while they lose no sleep over where their life is heading. I call them the microscopes, the 9-to-5s. (Ariel says I was one of them a few years back!)

They are the spoilt kids of yesteryears, born with a silver spoon up their arses. They strutted about in college in their own elite cabals, laughing at the rest of the world and their lack of social tact. Somewhere down the line, they forgot to do anything useful, while the gawks worked away. Let me introduce to you the rich-dad-poor-kids, the arro-cants. You find them in different kinds- punks in RAIT ("ultra-cool" engg. college in Bbay) or the ICSE kids. There's a great sense of achievement to meet them now, remember at being laughed at, and to have the last laugh.

They spend all day sitting in front of the TV, fascinated by the kitsch that cable television throws at us. Content to vegetate with their own lives, they excite themselves vicariously with the ongoings of celebrity lives- Abhishek Bacchan's new hairdo or Preity Zinta's broken foot, they know about them all. The PR-driven hypocrisy of these "icons" of our society doesn't ever faze their enthusiasm- they are our country's starry-eyed's, the couch potatoes. We dont have a shortage of role models to look upto, but whose to look beyond Bollywood? I think they (and there are many of them) are the bane of modern India.

And, finally not to forget those, for whom there is no black or white, but just various shades of greys. No thought excites them, and no action disgusts them. Existence for them is a clinical and emotion-less duty that they fulfil- they are the impassionates, the fence-sitters. I get frustated by their lack of passion for anything, by their inability to stand up for any cause or attitude.

And oh, by the way, I also judge diplomats, cunning foxes, backbitchers, sweet-talkers, boasters....:)

(And I tag Ariel to air her judgements!)

The Reunion

noreply@blogger.com (Atticus) — Mon, 30 Jul 2007 21:05:00 +0000

Excited as a kid on his first date, I made my way up the slow airport escalators. Within minutes, I was abound the dinghy Ryanair plane bound for Frankfurt. I tried sleeping but the combination of anxiety and anticipation was uncontrollably intense. As the staff bawled out their usual announcements, I felt like I was watching the TV and ruing the fact that the remote wasn't working. Wish I could just fast forward through it all! The two hours seemed unending.

In true cheap-airline spirit, we had a not-very-subtle landing. A ruder shock was to follow- Frankfurt- Hahn airport was a misnomer, someone's idea of a joke- it was 2 hrs away from central Frankfurt and the Frankfurt airport where I was headed. The bus journey cutting through suburban lanes made me feel even more nostalgic.

My heart raced as if on an auto-bahn as I made my way to terminal 2 arrivals. And after a few minutes of hectic running around, I saw him, standing with 2 pieces of luggage, looking all harrowed. The fact that I'd met him only a week back in India didn't seem to make a difference- here was my Dad, moi Pa, in his first trip abroad, all by himself, except for his dutiful son who had come to help him. The joy and pride of that moment was unforgettable.

He was wearing a tee handpicked by my Mom, and his luggage was very heavy, stuffed with Indian food by my Mom, I presumed. I smiled at the thought of how my Mom's packing could be construed as a denial of the existence of food stores abroad. We made our way via cab to the hotel I'd painstakingly chosen and booked for him. I wished he would like it, but he immediately disposed any such notions- his acquaintances travelling for the same purpose had chided him for staying in an expensive hotel "Mehta, you are spending too much money on acco, yar!", he repeated their words bitterly. I swallowed my disappointment hurriedly, his Marwari-ness making me chuckle.

He was going to be there for a week, attending a conference on plastics (or smth like that). It had been his dream for years, and it felt good to be able to help fulfil it for him. I could see the happiness in his eyes- I'd never seen him so excited. He took in the surroundings like a blind man who's suddenly been given back his vision, but I could see there was only one thing on his mind- the conference. He rattled off some attendance statistics that portrayed the scale of the event- I just hmmm'ed away. Inside though, I marvelled at his passion for his work, for his field. I was looking at a man, all of 60 years, who was more passionate about his work than his 24-yr young audience.

He had always been that way. He ran his small-scale factory on pure adrenalin, putting in 12 hrs of work daily, punctuated by all-nighters and travel. He never let adversities dull his resolve- perhaps that's why despite repeated occasions of hesitance, he always decided against selling the factory. As kids we always joked that the factory was more important than the home, but it was actually where his heart resided! Probably, we never understood how much it meant to him. And never will. But a first hand experience of the vagaries of entreprenuership was enough to keep us away from it when choosing our own careers.

It was Saturday, and I wanted to sightsee but he would have none. He wanted to reconnoitre the exhibition before it opened on Monday! He would start conversing to every random stranger who crossed our path- the receptionist, a security guard on the road, asking them their names even! We took the local transport, so that I could ensure that he knew the route he would take during the week after I left Sunday. His apprehension worried me. It was obviously a big ask of him to master that in a new place, where English was not the preferred language. We reached the venue, and he roamed around everywhere, fascinated. He spent the rest of the weekend in the hotel room poring through the member kit they had handed us there. Sunday dinner was at an Indian restaurant nearby, but he refused to eat much. I tried explaining to him that it didn't matter to me because I now earned in pounds, but he was stubborn. It was so frustating, me wanting to do everything for him but him not wanting any of it. He was very quiet too, surely missing Mom. In 30+ years of marriage, I can count on my fingertips the number of times they havent been together for more than a week.

He was up very early Monday morning, I think he probably did not even sleep. For a man who's dress sense could be described as accidental, his question of "Sumit, is the tie knot proper?" as he shook me awake astonished me and I was soon sitting up on the bed. I doubt if he had cared abt his tie on his wedding day. He left for the conference an hr before schedule, and I spent the rest of the day with a friend. I didnt ask him how it went when he was back- he told me, in fits and bursts of narration, boasting about all the new people he had met and the latest technologies he had witnessed. He had made quite a few plans for the strategic expansion of his business on the journey back, and he proceeded to explain to me his 5-yr plan. My heart filled with respect at the hope within him, at how bright he foresaw his own future. I thought, how many of my friends now have even 10% of his enthusiasm to life? But unbearably sad was his rare moment of regret, when he wished he had attended it a few years ago. I didn't know what to say, where to look.

Distance and time always give you a different perspective to the same old things. I was reminded of how as a kid I envied my friends' fancy toys and clothes and wished my Dad would do what their fathers did. On that Frankfurt evening, however, there was one emotion, that of unbrindled pride. Pride of being a son to someone who had lived with and imbibed in me such a refreshing attitude to life. Pride of finally having arrived as a son. :)

What were you born to do?

noreply@blogger.com (Atticus) — Tue, 10 Jul 2007 23:29:00 +0000

This entire concept of choosing the right career has always been loitering around the cradle of my thought. For quite some time, it tormented me, teased me at every decision-making node- and then after each time that I piggybacked on the comfortable concept of the "herd mentality" disguised as "why reinvent the wheel?", it sowed seeds of doubt in me. At every step, the dilemma haunted me- study further or work? MBA or MS? Finance or Marketing? What did I want to do? What would be I good at doing? I went through the motions, having taken the confusion in my mind as an eternal truth, and letting fate take its vicissitudinous course.

Then one day, it struck me that I had spent 6 months in a firm without being unhappy- I searched for the discontent, but it was no longer there. I realized I'd accidently stumbled upon my calling! But the idea has still fascinated me- I looked at the transition in my own commitment, and I looked at others, and I wonder, does it exist at all? Does everyone necessarily have a calling in life? Is the theory relevant in today's framework? Does anyone ever "find" their calling or does it just happen to you?

Writers' minds work like magic- the moment you think of a good idea and DECIDE that it will be the fodder for your next bestseller that will pick up Harry Potter by the scruff of his neck and throw him off the bookshelves, some obscure author across the world has already read your mind 3 yrs ago and has shamelessly released a book on exactly the same topic. So it didn't come as a surprise when my friend sent me this: http://www.fastcompany.com/online/66/mylife.html. Interesting read (worth the length, you lazy people!), and I was happy to see confirmation of some hunches I had.

Well, is it practical to find one's calling? Most people view work as a means to an end, and hence choose the best paying jobs outta campus. The idea is that XYZ's calling in life is sound engineering, but it would pay nowhere as close to MBA's, so is he mad to even think twice abt signing the dotted line with Mck? I agree somewhat with the practical logic behind that. But has the inequality between jobs widened so much in today's world as to make the concept unviable? I think not, jobs were always unequal. And as always, there are opportunities today for doing smth that you like, like entrepreneurship and if you succeed you will make much more money as compared to a top banker. Most people overlook the fact that the top bankers are the ones who are insanely driven and very good at what they do- most probably because banking IS their calling in life. It may sound cliched, but if you do what you love, the money will come. In the rare case that it doesn't, happiness always will.

How does one go about finding it? For people like me, with no clear skills sets in any particular domain, its even more difficult. We were the Carpet bombers in IIMB- our motto was "Have CV, will apply". But I genuinely liked every course I took. And loved none. But one fine day, I asked myself, forget the work. What aspects of the working environment would be important to me? And the answers came strongly enough- high intellectual quality of people, dynamicism and a certain bit of luxury. I knew instantly that Marketing wasn't for me, and went headlong into Finance, despite having done badly in it always. Bronson has solved the riddle for me- I guess most confused people like me suffer from misunderstanding what they are good at with what they want to.

I subjected my office friends to a long discussion on this topic, and was deeply disappointed to know that they didn't believe in it at all, or in the fact that it was practically possible for one to find her calling. They opined that your commitment to work should be 100%, irrespective of how much you enjoy it. And I thought how lucky was I, to be incapable of doing that, else I would never have found the answer to a riddle so critical to my happiness. :)