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The Man Who Doesn't Need PowerPoints: What Himmat Singh Taught Me About Real Leadership

noreply@blogger.com (Shrinivas Krishnamurthy) — Thu, 22 Jan 2026 12:53:00 +0000

Look, I've been managing engineering teams for over 15 years now. I've sat through countless leadership seminars, read my fair share of Harvard Business Review articles, and endured more "inspirational" CEO keynotes than I care to count. But sometimes the best leadership lessons come from the most unexpected places.

For me, it was watching Kay Kay Menon play Himmat Singh in Special Ops.

I know, I know. Learning leadership from a fictional RAW agent sounds a bit ridiculous. But hear me out.

The Anti-Hero We Actually Need

Most fictional leaders are either shouty alpha types or impossibly perfect Boy Scouts. Himmat Singh is neither. He's that quiet colleague who sits in the corner of the meeting, says very little, but when he does speak, everyone stops and listens. You know the type—the one whose phone never stops ringing because everyone trusts their judgment.

I've worked with maybe three such people in my entire career. They don't announce their credentials or wave around their achievements like flags. They just... deliver. Consistently. Without drama.

Singh does exactly this. No chest-thumping speeches, no elaborate presentations, no motivational quotes on LinkedIn. Just gets the job done while keeping his team alive and sane. In the corporate world, we call this "executive presence." In reality, it's just being good at what you do without making a song and dance about it.

Credibility Over Charisma

Here's something I learned the hard way while managing a 60-person engineering team spread across Mumbai, London, and Singapore: your team doesn't follow your title—they follow you. Or they don't.

I remember this one incident a few years back. We had a critical system failure during a weekend, and instead of barking orders over Slack, I quietly called each team lead, asked what they needed, and then spent the next 8 hours helping them coordinate the fix. No heroics, no public credit-taking. Just making sure everyone had what they needed to solve the problem.

Come Monday morning, something had shifted. The team looked at me differently. Not because I'd saved the day, but because I'd proven I wouldn't throw them under the bus when things got messy.

Himmat Singh operates the same way. In Special Ops 1.5, we see him protecting his subordinates from institutional pressure, even when it costs him personally. That's not movie heroism—that's real leadership. The kind that earns loyalty instead of demanding it.

The Master of Strategic Juggling

You want to know what modern leadership actually looks like? It's not the guy charging up the hill with a sword. It's Himmat Singh at his desk, coordinating five different operations across three continents while his boss breathes down his neck and his daughter won't return his calls.

That's program management right there. Multiple stakeholders, conflicting priorities, incomplete information, and everyone expecting you to have all the answers while pretending you're not making half of it up as you go along.

I've spent years trying to explain to senior executives what a program manager actually does. Show them Himmat Singh for ten minutes and they'll get it. He's managing a portfolio of high-risk projects with life-or-death consequences, using limited resources, while navigating office politics and keeping his team motivated.

Sound familiar?

The man has three phones and uses all of them. He doesn't have time for elaborate project plans or status reports—he needs real-time intelligence and the ability to pivot quickly when things go sideways. Which they always do.

Emotional Regulation Under Fire

Here's where Singh really shines, and where most leaders completely fail. The ability to keep your personal mess separate from your professional responsibilities.

I've watched talented managers derail entire projects because they brought their relationship drama or family stress into critical decision-making moments. We're all human, we all have stuff going on, but there's a time and place for processing your feelings, and it's not during a crisis.

Singh deals with complex family relationships, moral dilemmas, and the weight of people's lives on his shoulders. Yet when he walks into the RAW office, he's focused on the mission. Not because he's emotionally numb, but because he understands that other people are depending on his judgment.

This isn't about being a robot. It's about professional maturity. Something that's increasingly rare in our therapy-speak, feelings-first corporate culture.

Building Trust Across Boundaries

One thing that struck me about Singh's team is how they operate across different cultures and contexts while maintaining complete trust in each other. His agent in Dubai doesn't question orders from Mumbai. His analyst in Delhi doesn't second-guess intelligence from the field.

Having managed teams across India, UK, and Singapore, I can tell you this is incredibly hard to achieve. Time zones are the least of your problems. It's the cultural nuances, communication styles, and building personal connections when you only see faces on video calls.

Singh does this by being consistent, reliable, and absolutely transparent about expectations. No hidden agendas, no playing favorites, no different stories for different audiences. Everyone knows where they stand and what's expected of them.

This is leadership 101, but you'd be amazed how many senior managers fail at it completely.

Standing Your Ground When It Matters

The thing I respect most about Himmat Singh is his willingness to be the bad guy when principles are at stake. He doesn't bend rules to make people happy or take shortcuts to hit deadlines if it means compromising safety or ethics.

I've been in those situations. When the business is screaming for delivery, stakeholders are applying pressure, and the easiest path forward involves cutting corners. It's tempting to rationalize, to tell yourself "just this once," to prioritize short-term wins over long-term integrity.

Singh doesn't do this. Ever. Even when it costs him politically, even when it makes him unpopular, even when his superiors are questioning his methods. He has a line he won't cross, and everyone knows it.

That clarity is incredibly powerful. Your team knows you'll protect them, your stakeholders know what to expect, and you sleep better at night.

The Leadership We Actually Need

Look, I'm not saying Himmat Singh is perfect. The man has commitment issues, communication problems, and a tendency to shoulder too much responsibility alone. But those flaws make him more believable, not less effective.

In our Instagram-filtered, personal-brand-obsessed corporate culture, we've forgotten that real leadership is often quiet, unglamorous, and involves a lot more coordination than inspiration. It's about making good decisions under pressure, building trust through consistency, and getting results without burning people out.

Singh doesn't post motivational quotes on social media or give TED talks about disruption. He just shows up, does the work, and makes sure his people have what they need to succeed. In a world full of leadership theater, that's refreshingly authentic.

After 15+ years in program management, I can tell you that the best leaders I've worked with were more like Himmat Singh than Tony Stark. They were the ones who remembered your birthday, knew when you were struggling, and somehow always found budget for the tools you needed to do your job properly.

They didn't need to tell you they were leaders. You just... knew.

Sometimes the best leadership lessons come from the most unexpected places. Whether it's a 30-year-old HMT watch that teaches you about patience and precision, or a fictional RAW agent who shows you what quiet competence looks like, the key is paying attention to what actually works rather than what sounds impressive in a conference room.

Intent & Capability. Never Resources.

noreply@blogger.com (Shrinivas Krishnamurthy) — Thu, 22 Jan 2026 05:29:00 +0000

Fifteen years ago, I walked into my first program management role and heard something that made me wince. A senior executive was discussing headcount planning and casually referred to our engineering team as "resources to be allocated." These weren't spreadsheet entries - they were people I'd just spent weeks getting to know. Anupam, who could debug anything after his morning chai. Asha, who had this uncanny ability to spot design flaws before they became disasters. Sandeep, who'd been coding since before most of us owned computers.

That's when it hit me. Every corporate objective, every ambitious target we set, comes down to two things: Intent and Capability.

Intent isn't just leadership saying they want better outcomes for customers. Real intent is when you see a VP rolling up their sleeves at 8 PM because they genuinely believe the solution matters. It's the difference between hitting quarterly numbers and actually solving problems that keep people awake at night.

But here's what I've learned managing teams across Mumbai, London, and Singapore - capability isn't just budget allocation. Yes, you need financial backing. But true organizational capability? That's when someone like Sandeep decides to stay back and mentor a junior developer, not because his KRAs demand it, but because he remembers when someone did the same for him. It's when Asha suggests a completely different approach that saves six months of work, because she feels heard and valued enough to speak up.

I've seen companies with massive budgets fail spectacularly because they treated people like interchangeable components. And I've watched small teams punch way above their weight because leadership understood that behind every successful program is someone who chose to care about it.

Maybe it's time we retired "human resources" altogether. How about "Human Capability" instead? Because the moment we start talking about people as resources, we've already missed the point.

What do you think? Does the language we use in corporate environments shape how we actually treat people?

Build teams that actually deliver... themselves

noreply@blogger.com (Shrinivas Krishnamurthy) — Thu, 22 Jan 2026 05:23:33 +0000

Last year at 5:47 PM one Friday, one of my lead engineers pinged me: "We're blocked on the API integration, the integration team went dark, and the release is due on Monday" My immediate instinct was to jump in, fix it myself, make the heroic save—after all, I've been doing this for 15+ years and know exactly how to untangle these messes. But here's the thing about leadership I've learned the hard way: the moment you rob someone of solving their own problem, you've stolen their growth. So instead I asked: "What are your top three options, and which one would you bet on?"Delivery consistency isn't about clockwork precision or robotic adherence to sprint velocity—it's about building a team that knows how to think when things go sideways. Because things will *always* go sideways at 5:47 PM on a Friday. The best teams I've built weren't the ones with the fanciest tech stack or the most impressive resumes; they were the ones where each person felt ownership, not just over their code, but over the outcome. When someone on your team wakes up at 2 AM thinking about an elegant solution to yesterday's problem, not because they have to, but because they genuinely care—that's when you know you've built something real.Team morale isn't just donut parties and motivational quotes (though I'm not opposed to good donuts). It's that moment when your junior developer presents an architecture idea that's actually better than yours, and you're genuinely delighted rather than threatened. It's watching someone who joined six months ago now mentoring the new hire with the same patience and enthusiasm someone once showed them. Morale lives in the space between "I trust you to figure this out" and "I'm here when you need me"—that delicate balance where people feel both challenged and supported.The engineer from Friday? She came back in 40 minutes with a workaround involving a clever retry mechanism I hadn't even considered. We shipped as promised on Monday, and more importantly, she later owned that entire integration pattern across our services. These are the strange and abstract victories that create great teams—not the perfect sprint retrospectives or the flawless burn-down charts, but the accumulated moments where people surprise themselves with what they're capable of achieving. That's the real delivery consistency: building teams that solve tomorrow's problems you haven't even thought of yet. And most importantly, trusting your team to solve them in time for the milestone delivery.

The Art of Leading Without a Manual: Lessons from Managing 30+ Engineers

noreply@blogger.com (Shrinivas Krishnamurthy) — Thu, 22 Jan 2026 05:23:00 +0000

Three years ago, I inherited a team that looked suspiciously like a collection of brilliant individuals who'd rather debug code than attend meetings. Sound familiar? As someone who once convinced his family to let him ride a motorcycle by sheer persistence over "1 year, 9 months and 22 days," I knew this would require a different approach than the standard management playbook.
The breakthrough came when I stopped trying to be the smartest person in the room and started being the most curious instead. During our first team retrospective, instead of dictating process improvements, I asked a simple question: "What's the one thing that makes you want to throw your laptop out the window?" The responses were brutally honest and incredibly insightful. Our deployment pipeline was slower than Mumbai traffic during monsoon, and our code review process had more bottlenecks than the old RTO where I once got my license.
Here's what I learned about leading technical teams: they don't need a boss, they need a conductor. My job isn't to know every line of code or architect every solution. It's to remove obstacles, amplify their brilliance, and occasionally translate "this will take five minutes" into realistic timelines for stakeholders. When one of my engineers spent three days optimizing a query that improved system performance by 40%, I didn't question the time investment - I celebrated it in our all-hands meeting. Well worth the boxes of donuts for the team that week!
The real magic happens when you create space for people to be themselves while working toward something bigger. Whether it's implementing ISO 27001 compliance or delivering a critical client feature, success comes from understanding that every engineer has their own version of that perfectly timed motorcycle kick-start - you just need to give them room to find their rhythm. Today, our team delivery rate has improved by 35%, but more importantly, they actually look forward to our Monday stand-ups. Not bad for someone who "dislikes speaking with people, unless I really really like them."

Delivering Software Like Tuning a Royal Enfield: Patience, Process, and a Good Mechanic

noreply@blogger.com (Shrinivas Krishnamurthy) — Thu, 22 Jan 2026 05:22:00 +0000

There's something beautifully analogous between delivering enterprise software and getting a vintage Bullet to start on the first kick. Both require understanding the intricate mechanics beneath the surface, both demand respect for process, and both will humble you faster than you can say "deployment pipeline."

After 20 years of wrangling code releases and managing $3M+ budgets, I've learned that successful software delivery is less about heroic last-minute saves and more about boring, repeatable excellence.

The epiphany came during a particularly stressful client delivery three years ago. We were implementing a complex integration, and our Agile transformation was about as smooth as my first attempt at riding that Bullet - lots of stalling, some embarrassing moments, and the occasional backfire. That's when I borrowed a page from Raju bhai's garage wisdom: "Every machine has its rhythm, you just need to learn to listen."

So instead of forcing our team into textbook Agile practices, we started adapting the methodology to fit our actual workflow, not the other way around.
The results were transformative. Our delivery cycles shortened from 6 weeks to 3 weeks, our on-time delivery rate jumped to 92%, and most importantly, our code quality improved dramatically. We implemented continuous integration that actually worked, established code review practices that enhanced rather than hindered productivity, and created automated testing suites that caught issues before they became customer problems.

The secret sauce wasn't in the tools - it was in treating software delivery like craftsmanship rather than just cranking out features.
Today, when I review our weekly delivery metrics with clients, I see the satisfaction in their faces that mirrors my own when I hear that perfect mechanical tick of a well-tuned watch. Clean code deployed seamlessly, features that solve real problems, and systems that scale gracefully - these aren't accidents, they're the result of patient, methodical excellence. Some might call it boring, but there's profound beauty in software that just works, every single time.

All things mechanical, the polite ticking of the escapement mechanism of my HMT Sunil

noreply@blogger.com (Shrinivas Krishnamurthy) — Mon, 18 Aug 2025 09:55:00 +0000

I spend a lot of my time pursuing very varied and abstract interests. Took up cigar smoking a couple of years ago, and sourcing good cigars has become a fulfilling passtime. Then I went the audiophile way with a pair of IEM's and a DAC and an apple music subscription for lossless streaming music. All in the name of doing things right, and doing the right things. At least those things that brought me pleasure.

This year I started obsessing over one particular mechanical hand-winding wrist watch manufactured nearly 3 decades earlier by HMT, a now defunct state-owned watch maker. The mere realisation that there was such a device named after my dearly departed friend and brother Sunil had me dreaming of getting my hands on it. The search began through several instagram handles, and subreddit's until I found good ole facebook to have a post with this watch by a Mr Das based in Kolkata. I wasted no time and reached out to the gentleman, who was kind enough to video call with me to display the watch, its functions and fit-for-purpose nature. He agreed to part with it for a meager sum and shipping costs which I readily transferred. The watch was delivered 4 days later and I was beaming all day in the office eager for the day to end and for me to get back home to Sunil. I remember unpacking the box and ripping apart all the tape to get the watch out.

As soon as I picked up the watch from the box, it was immediately apparent that the metal bracelet was several sizes too small for my wrist and not properly attached to the spring bar hole on one end. I carefully took the bracelet off, and proceeded to wind for the first time my HMT Sunil. 36 clockwise turns later the crown showed resistance and I knew the main spring was fully wound and would now gradually unwind to power the movement. The rhythmic ticking of the escapement mechanism was a sound that brought me untold joy! It was now time to observe the watch for 24 hours until the next morning at 8:30 am when it would be time for another winding and accuracy check. Come the next morning I was pleased to note there was no loss in accuracy and the watch showed 8:30 am as I leaned back to wind it once again revelling in the magnificent mechanical design in my hands!

I then set about trawling reddit for a Nato strap in the 16mm dimension. After falling through several rabbit holes I finally found khisa.in an Indian leather goods maker who made 16mm nato straps. I immediately ordered this excellent strap and in 2 days it was delivered. To my annoyance, at first it seemed to be too thick to fit the gap between the case and the spring bar hole and the spring bar would keep popping out instead of staying firmly in place. Cursing my misfortune, I wrote to khisa.in explaining how much I loved the strap and how sad I was that it just wouldnt fit. I sent this email at 11 am on Sunday morning. At 12 pm Mr. Sudip the proprietor of Khisa.in called me on the phone and inquired about the problem I was facing. As I did my best to explain what was happening, he immediately understood he is speaking with an amateur hobbyist with little to no idea of what he is doing, and immediately offered to come home at 5:30 pm and check it out himself! I was floored at this response from Sudip and couldnt believe how my luck had turned! That evening, a couple of friends also came over as meeting Sudip (who is a watch afficionado and connoisseur himself with upwards of 2000 watches in his collection) was too enticing to pass up on.

So the clock strikes 5:30 then 5:45 then finally Sudip walks into my place, a pleasant middle aged gentleman wearing a Seiko 5 automatic, true to form. He meets us and takes his place at my work table where the watch is laid out on a small microfiber cloth alongside his khisa.in strap and the included spring bar removal tool and two spring bars which he insists on sending along with his straps to encourage customers to install their straps themselves, and forming a better bond with their watches. He repeats, he is not a trader, he is a hobbyist and is constantly fighting the extinction of the species of vintage mechanical watch collectors. So he takes a good long look at my HMT, fits one spring bar, and while fitting the second one observes the obstruction in the hole in the case. He asks me to take it to a proper watchmaker, there are two near the house, to clear the obstruction and maybe also service the watch if required. I immediately agree and we spend the next 20 minute talking about watches, my father walks over with his Actus Seiko, a gift from my uncle for dad's wedding 50 years ago! And we swap stories about our hunts for watches and he gives us an insight into his world where he is dismayed with the number of fake and painted vintage watches in the market but is simultaneously happy that guys like me are getting interested in these mechanical wonders and getting into the hobby.

That was how my Sunday evening was spent! In the company of an excellent and distinguished gentleman, with the stories about great watches, great hunts for watches and great memories. These are the strange and abstract occasions which create great memories. For now, I will leave you with a few pictures of my HMT Sunil and the HMT Janata I just bought from Mr. Das.

HMT Sunil

Khisa strap:

HMT Janata

Motorcycle driving license test

noreply@blogger.com (Shrinivas Krishnamurthy) — Mon, 16 Dec 2024 15:30:00 +0000

Admittedly, this incident happened nearly 2 decades ago. Why do I recollect it today, and more importantly why does it feature here after so many years of oblivion? I don't really know, some weird neural synapses fired and they caused a memory recall of their own accord. Promise, I did not cause this to happen.

Anyway, onto the meat and potatoes then.

Sometime after my 17th birthday I had applied for and received a learners license for motorcycles. This was a paper booklet with my photograph on the first page and a bunch of empty pages after that. This is all before the age of card licenses, yes I am that old, no I am not obsolete. I continued using the learners permit for nearly 2 years, renewing it every 6 months, simply delaying the pukka license test because I was still convincing the family to allow me to ride a motorcycle. That, however is a different story for a different post, it took all of 1 year, 9 months and 22 days for me to plead, beg, coerce and bulldoze the resistance at home until I got the motorcycle, a glorious Yamaha RX-100. Unfortunately I had to sell this in a few months as I quickly realised I really really wanted a Royal Enfield Bullet Std. 350. And so, I acquired a second hand bullet around my 20th birthday. Not really knowing how to ride one, I hung around a bullet mechanic, learning the upkeep, maintenance and lingo for a few months. Raju bhai was an indulgent sorta fellow who didnt skimp on details and passed on much of his tribal knowledge to me that year.

Then one evening Raju bhai asked me for a favour. A customer's bike needed to be picked up from near my house and brought to the garage, but he didnt have the time to spare. Not knowing I only had theoretical knowledge on riding a bullet, he asked me to go and get it. The overconfidence only granted by youth was fortunately available to me in excessive quantities. And so, I went to pickup the customer's Bullet. I reached the building and his watchman handed me the keys to the bike. Now I had watched Raju bhai kickstart the bullet a few hundred times, and even helped him do that often, so I knew there was a separate key for the ignition and a second for the fuel cock. After turning them both on, I knew the ammeter needle had to be brought to deadcenter using a choke + slow kick. Then depending on how the stars were aligned and how merciful the Gods of Internal combustion were on you, a swifter kick should ideally bring the engine to life with the trademark dug dug dug cadence of the standard 350.

Fortunately, the bike turned over after a few iterations of the above and I swung a leg over it and took the position. Please note, back then helmets were not mandatory, and I was wearing shorts and sandals. Something my older self would look back on with several facepalms. So I put the bullet in gear with the toe of my right foot pushing the gear lever up engaging first, let the clutch out slowly while giving some throttle, and miracle of miracles the momentum started building without the bike stalling on me! My nights of simulated motorcycle riding seemed to have borne fruit! As I rode the 5.5 kilometers between that building to Raju bhais garage, every turn, every stop at a redlight and every open stretch of road added to my confidence and in about 14 minutes I had mastered the art of riding a Bullet standard 350.

Cut to the day of my pukka license test. This happens in thane at the old RTO which has a small ground where the officer conducts the test. He usually sits at a table in one end of the field to have maximum visibility on the figure 8 drawn in chalk which has to be ridden by the aspirants. My test was scheduled for 9:30 am. I got a little late and pulled into the RTO field at 9:45 am and parked my Bullet adjacent to the RTO officer's table while he watched me coast to a stop and put the bike on its center stand. As I casually sauntered to his desk with my learners permit and form to get in line for the test, he stopped me with an upraised palm. His paan (betel leaf) filled mouth formed a question, "kuthun aala bike gheun", this translates to "from where did you ride here on the bike". I told him my home address which is a bit more than 6 kilometers away from the RTO. His instant response was, "zhala tujha test, form de mi pass karto tula", translated to "your test is done, give me your form, I am passing you". And with that I took the stamped form and walked over to the window to get my pukka license! Was this carelessness on the part of the RTO officer? I believe not. As riding a Royal Enfield Standard Bullet 350 at the age of 20, as casually and nonchalantly as I had did imply a certain amount of skill and expertise. Had the officer asked me to ride the figure 8, I would have done that easily too. This isn't a boast, it's just the truth. I rode that bullet for 4.5 lakh kilometers across India over the next 9 years until I moved on to other motorcycles. But the Bullet is still the origin of my love for all things on 2 wheels!

9 things revealed

noreply@blogger.com (Shrinivas Krishnamurthy) — Tue, 24 Sep 2024 06:19:00 +0000

Sharing 9 things about myself:

1. I like black coffee. No adulteration. Copious quantities of it.

2. I am bad at cooking, but great at being a food critic.

3. I wake up before 6 am every morning. Not voluntarily, blame the sleep cycle.

4. I dislike speaking with people, unless I really really like them.

5. I love driving/riding my car/bikes.

6. I hate socks

7. I dont have any photographs of the most memorable moments of my life.

8. I remember other peoples birthdays (with an assist from Google Calendar)

9. I used to whistle well, dont anymore.

Hair in the ear ( auricular hypertrichosis )

noreply@blogger.com (Shrinivas Krishnamurthy) — Wed, 18 Sep 2024 07:22:00 +0000

Yes, I suffer from this absolutely normal physiological condition where one or several hairs sprout from ones ears. In my specific case, there is exactly one hair which sprouts from the top of my right ear lobe and stand out like the proverbial overachieving student in class found perennially with a raised hand and fore finger even before the teacher completes her question.

I do not really care about this from any aesthetic point of view. But it irks me at times, and I just yank it out whenever I remember to, about once every two months. I have no other hair from my ears, but as COVID has caused all of us to be very touchy feely with our ears what with having to repeatedly assault them with earphones for all those work Teams/slack/meet calls, the hair no longer goes under the radar and is evicted with extreme prejudice regularly.

How I like my eggs

noreply@blogger.com (Shrinivas Krishnamurthy) — Wed, 18 Sep 2024 06:06:00 +0000

Yeah, start with taking the non-stick pan from the cabinet.

Put it on the stove, then spend 2 minutes lighting, then relighting the stove (its an old one and has its own startup routine)

Bring those 4 eggs from the refridgerator door. Crack them into a ceramic bowl and grab that fork to whisk them into submission. Then curse silently at yourself to go grab two slices of cheese from the fridge, trudging there and back mournfully, lamenting the lack of process optimization you have just practised.

Grab the olive oil and butter and put a bit of each into the pan. Let it warm up, the oil becomes more viscous and you give the pan a whirl to coat every millimetre of it so the eggs dont stick.

You then get into the endless debate with yourself, should I add the salt and pepper to the eggs in the bowl before whisking? or should I dump them into the pan then sprinkle them on top. You spend 10 seconds debating then your hunger makes the decision for you and you dump the eggs into the pan and sprinkly salt and pepper on top when you see a little white(they are cooking).

Now you do what every street eggs vendor in Bombay does and take 4 slices of bread from the packet, dunk each on either side in the still runny eggs and place them on top of the eggs. Then you take the cheese out of the packets and keep them ready. Soon as you dont see any more runny yellow bits, you take the big wooden ladle and flip the eggs to now be bread side down on the pan. Letting the bread slices go golden brown while you place the two slices of cheese on each bread slice, you grab the tomato ketchup and splotch a dollop on each slice. Now proceeding to folding the bread slices one over the other you come away with the Bombay egg sandwich which now you slide onto a big plate, grab a knife to separate first the full bread slices, then halve them as well. Splotch a few more blobs of ketchup on the plate and get ready to carry this heavenly breakfast to your table in front of the Television.

How I deal with losing important people

noreply@blogger.com (Shrinivas Krishnamurthy) — Wed, 18 Sep 2024 05:35:00 +0000

Yes, this is my coping mechanism for dealing with the gut wrenching, unlimitedly tragic feelings that follow the loss of someone very important in my life.

For some strange reason, they aren't dead for me, rather they have gone on a long train journey and I am seeing them off at the railway station after driving them there and loading their bags.

They are waving to me as the train rolls out of the station, and I walk beside the train for as long as I can waving back and reminding them to call when they reach.

As the train finally becomes just a speck in the horizon, I turn back to my car, get in, a little sadder and a lot lonelier than a few minutes ago. Driving back home alone is very brutal, as I keep running through memories of happier times with them in the past.

I think this probably implies I am living in denial and not confronting my loss. But screw it, I am able to keep going and that's all that matters.

Another thing that matters is, I hope when it comes time for me to take that final one-way train journey into the twilight, there is someone who cares enough to come drop me to the station and wave goodbye one last time.

Facts- whether you like them or not

noreply@blogger.com (Shrinivas Krishnamurthy) — Thu, 12 Sep 2024 11:47:00 +0000

The morning shower tires you out more than it refreshes you

Putting on good work clothes isnt as much fun as it used to be

You have enough watches, but never enough time

When you sneeze, theres rarely anyone about to whisper a 'Bless you'

Men used to sweat and swear, they barely whimper anymore

The traffic is as bad as it used to be, only now you realise you are the traffic too

The mornings still start early, but the nights never used to end this soon

The drive to work is long, but sometimes not long enough to be fun

The work is endless, hectic and tough, but not as much fun as you want it to be

The coffee is warm enough, but never strong enough

The dinner is fulfilling enough for the body, but rarely enough to satiate the soul

The memories of your friend are incredibly detailed, but still not as good as the real thing.

Song lyrics are still remembered, but rarely sung aloud anymore

The future is as bright as it used to be, but you need to wear sunglasses now.

Dukes Hotel, Chapel road, Bandra, behind MET building

noreply@blogger.com (Shrinivas Krishnamurthy) — Mon, 05 Aug 2024 10:22:00 +0000

So Chapel road via Veronica road connects the Gen Arunkumar Vaidya road (Lilavati hospital) to Hill road in Bandra. This happens to also contain several worthy establishments like J.Bob tailors (Waroda road), a cold cuts place, a place where you can get your car done up for weddings and receptions, and last but most importantly the legendary malbari restaurant which called itself Dukes.
Dukes had 9 tables each could seat 4 people in a tight fit, 2 people comfortably, and was run by malbaris, malyali muslims who served malbari parottas with all kinds of beef fry, chicken fry, mix veg gravy with half rice plates. This esteemed establishment is where Oscar and I would go for lunch every afternoon, often ending our meal with a one by two masala thums up to aid the digestion.

The strange and esoteric ecosystem that exists in the inner lanes and streets of Bandra are charming, bustling and great fun. The characters you will meet there even more. on the way back from dukes towards Mt Carmel church, there was an old bihari gentleman who would have a matka on the doorstep of a house with a danda which he manipulated with two ropes to mix the sweet lassi he would sell you for 5 bucks. A dessert worth the meal consumed at Dukes for sure!

The owner at Dukes was a mustachioed mallu gent who had nothing but smiles for his regulars and nothing but rebukes and curses for his two waiters with the sounds of a "kapda maar chaar number pe" and a "paani de teen number ko" and usually a "half rice de rassa maarke lambu saab ko" making their way towards all his patrons. At the end the waiter would bring a scribbled piece of paper with your itemized bill and a very modest sum at the bottom which would invariably leave a few coins for his tip so the customers never needed to bother to make change for that purpose.

Dukes had a freezer with ice creams and larger cold drink bottles, but it was seldom put into service by the wait staff as the working men who frequented this decidedly working mans establishment for lunch or chai never indulged themselves, being frugal to a fault.

I miss Dukes since moving away from Bandra more than a decade ago. I miss not just the parottas and half rice plates, but also the conversation with the guys there, their smiles and optimism, the walk to and from chapel road with the sights of expensive vehicles getting adorned with flowers and ribbons for the wedding, or crosses and wreaths for the funeral service. The old lassi wallah churning away with the everpresent beedi on his lips, the vegetable vendor on his haath gaadi serenading the residents with promises of fresh aloo, tamatar, bhindi, kobi.

The world has moved onto swiggy instamart home deliveries of groceries and essentials with food delivered in 20 minutes from the nearest joint, but the joy of going in person to a Dukes and picking up some kelas from the street vendor on your return remain simple pleasures that are priceless!

Mental acuity over physicality and the endless pursuit of convenience

noreply@blogger.com (Shrinivas Krishnamurthy) — Tue, 25 Jul 2023 07:08:00 +0000

During the course of a drive into work, the human mind often drifts and ponders many areas of tangential interest, either triggered by a chance encounter with that topic at some time in the recent past, or simply the seemingly random confluence of neural pathways uncovering said topic, akin to driftwood, or more specifically tumbleweed rolling between the feet of two Wild West gunslingers looking to terminate each other with unnecessary aplomb.

The reaction of the brain to this unwarranted trigger is very similar to that of a toddler who sees a big red button, while the said infant begins depressing this button repeatedly with increased gusto, the brain follows suit and dives headfirst into the topic so randomly chosen for your next mental mastication session.

One such topic I have been masticating upon has been how fortunate most of us are to have our daily job involve significantly greater participation from our mental faculties while the bare minimum is expected from our physical prowess or lack thereof. It does not strike me as coincidental, and I rather conclude that for generations our ancestors have guided us to achieve excellence in education and thereby develop our brains because at some point some of them must have deduced that humanity is inherently extremely lazy. And a consequence of this laziness will result in humans physically evolving from the tall, broad-shouldered Homo sapiens who explored the length and breadth of this globe, combatting the elements, predators, and everything else to become the planet's foremost species into a veritable blob of flesh deposited on a comfortable couch with the TV remote in one hand, a smartphone in another and with some sugary snacks or drinks in close proximity. The present company is guilty of being a representation of the above, excluding any fondness for sugary snacks or beverages.

It has dawned upon me, that were I, or many of us, required to have greater physical abilities for even our simple survival, that would be something we have neither been trained for nor have the slightest predisposition towards. Think about it, we as a race have been in an endless quest for convenience, innovating absolutely brilliant contraptions starting from the TV remote control to the automatic transmission motor vehicle and every thingummy in between. I mean, just the concept of an audiobook transcends the already supremely luxurious action of lounging in a comfortable chair reading a book, to consuming it via our auditory pathways instead.

If this trend is to continue, and I have nothing to deny it will, then my mind cannot yet comprehend the extent of this affinity to convenience. Where will it take us? Will we have electric toothbrushes which fly into our mouths? Will we have shoes with wheels like a Roomba which slip themselves onto our feet? Will we have emails that auto-respond using Chat GPT for context? Will we have innovated enough algo automations to replace our daily interactions with family, friends, and even pets? I do not know, but I am sure my brain will continue to masticate on these and other outcomes over the next several drives to and from the office!

Being married, some learnings after close to one year.

noreply@blogger.com (Shrinivas Krishnamurthy) — Fri, 06 Nov 2020 03:24:00 +0000

Yeah, yeah, there remains a sense of amazement that sriku could be married, and happily so for close to a year. Well, I'm not surprised, at least not as much as some of my friends. There have however been some learnings that came about in these 11.5 months which I shall share here now, consider it a PSA if not a baring of the soul.

1. Be a decision supporter and sounding board, do not take over the decision making itself.

2. Your parents and family will be as close to her as you are to her parents and family.

3. Her friends will be as welcoming of you as your friends are of her. Encourage the mingling.

4. Do chores before being asked to, earn those brownie points, don't make it a point to explicitly cash them in when you want something for yourself.

5. Celebrate the little things, make them a big deal.

6. Be open and communicate often, at least until she asks you to STFU.

7. Watch what she wants to watch on TV along with her on occasion, do not watch episodes of a series you are watching together on your own at your own peril.

8. Be the man in the equation, this does not mean sit on your chair and drink beer all the time, it means be the guy who supports her in everything.

9. Your exes are the past, do not encourage discussions how much ever she needles you into those conversations, change the topic subtly, have a laundry list of her interests in your back pocket always.

10. You say no to your mom, she will say no to hers. Keep that equation always.

11. Live as if you are no longer a bachelor, break the habit of going solo on anything anymore. That was a dark time whose sunset has passed and you have welcomed the dawn of a new beginning.

12. Be happy when she pays attention to you. Reciprocate often. It helps.

13. Be committed to what you have chosen for your life. Dive deep and stay submerged.

14. Say no when you think you need to. Reason it out rather than staying aloof. You never needed to before, but you must now.

15. Say yes when you think you should. No reasons are required.

16. Trust in her choices for anything. Let go of some control. Your peace of mind will thank you for it.

17. Be honest above all. Speak the truth, coating it with tact and honey when you perceive it may not be what she would like to hear. But speak the truth, and ask her to do the same.

18. Find out what brings her joy, and encourage her to do those things. Do not badger her into doing things you in your infinite wisdom determine to be good for her.

19. Laugh often, with her, never at her. Laugh at yourself, your stupidity, you know you deserve nothing less than mocking for your actions at times, why not do that yourself.

20. Love her unconditionally, and let her know that you do. How? by all the points above, and any others you can think about.

There, my crib notes to be successful at a marriage/relationship/union with somebody who chose to be a partner in the journey of your life.

Friends, brothers, the older they are, the more you like them.

noreply@blogger.com (Shrinivas Krishnamurthy) — Sun, 05 Jul 2020 13:36:00 +0000

Two posts in one day, I really need to learn to pace myself, seeing that I went a few years without even a single one! But hey, I have time, I have thoughts, some depressingly nostalgic, others optimistically themed. And you, my dear eyeball owners are my captive audience, so enjoy, or do not, either way I couldn't really be bothered.

I have an old friend, he lives close to my home, we meet for drinks every Saturday night, a ritual that we have kept up with through breakups, highs, lows and covid as well. We enjoy each others company, or at least I do, he being the free thinking idiot that he is, may have a differing opinion. We spend Saturday nights in each others company, having a few drinks, pontificating about current affairs, the state of the country, things we experienced through the week, and in his case for a long time, the marital woes of a man who has a wife and 2 children. Now that I am married myself, I find myself empathising a little more with his troubles. He runs a manufacturing tool room, making tools and dies for the automotive industry and others via their channel of ancillary vendors in the ecosystem. His tool room has some snazzy CNC machines that operate 24/7 and churn out jobs that seemingly keep his stove burning. He happens to be a commerce graduate, who, by dint of his on the job training and 20 years of running his business is more of an engineer than those trained in the profession, like me will ever get the chance to be. But, I digress, this post was intended to describe our relationship, our Saturday evenings and little else.

So we walk to the nearest watering hole, about 700 meters away, each Saturday evening around 8:30 PM. Just like the bar in the sitcom, Cheers, its a place where everybody knows our name. So we are welcomed by the head waiter and led to our choice of tables, far enough from the lavatory, and well situated below two ceiling fans to be comfortable. We have been frequenting this haven for more than 10 years now, and it has since had a management change, but what has not changed is our continued patronage of this establishment. Chitranna, the man in charge here, greets us personally and we shake his hand, as he directs us to our seats and informs us about what he intends to send to our tables. And we never second guess his choices, for he understands our taste, and historically his choices have always been excellent. Once we are settled in, we order our drinks, and as we wait for them to arrive, look around at our fellow patrons, some of whom are regulars just like ourselves. There is the odd couple, both middle aged men, one clearly the dominant one with his lackey. The dominant one belongs to a political party know for extreme right wing views, and though irrelevant in the larger scheme of things, makes enough noise and trouble to remain in the news. He orders red wine, which I think is totally out of character for his persona, that being almost Godfather-like, more thug than Don Corleone. We wave at him, my friend who is usually effusive and talkative shares a conversation or two with him in Marathi, while I tap my fingers on the table wishing the waiter to bring our liquid courage soon. Soon, thankfully the drinks arrive, and the waiter goes through an elaborate ritual of mixing them with soda, mixer and water as the case may be. We bang our glasses together and take the first sip. Soon after we fill the relative silence with words. He starts talking about things he thinks are wrong with the world, I nod in agreement and keep sipping my drink. Soon it is my turn to vent, and I have precious little to contribute to the theme of the evening, not being long enough in the marital situation to really have 'woman issues', and not really caring about anything going on in politics to have a strong opinion about it. Occasionally, we find a topic that the both of us share similar views about, and here the lubricated vocabularies of our sozzled minds reach their creative epitomes, as we deliver TED talks to each other about either Virat Kohli's cricketing abilities, Narendra Modi's political genius or simply how good the latest automobile launched by Honda/Mahindra/Tata is.

As we continue the night, the drinks make way for food, and if in an extravagant mood, we order some ice cream for dessert. Then it becomes time to end the night and go back to our real lives. We settle the bill, and begin walking homewards. It is near 1:30 AM by now, my family is fast asleep. His children though are ready and waiting to resume jumping on their bed, much to his dismay. Such is life, I guess. And while I recognise that I am perhaps 3 years and one offspring away from being in the same situation, in the interim, I shall enjoy my peaceful repost.

Corona Pandemic, China, and other random musings

noreply@blogger.com (Shrinivas Krishnamurthy) — Sun, 05 Jul 2020 11:54:00 +0000

Yeah, another post on Corona. Another drop in the ocean of literary nothingness that we find ourselves surrounded by these days. Perhaps a little different perspective though, one of a homebound motorcyclist that used to roam the highways, but is presently grounded and in the near future shall have to remain so.

The corona pandemic has brought to our doorsteps a shutdown that has been unprecedented in our lifetime. Everything is shut, malls, coffee shops, restaurants, economy and yes, even your friendly neighbourhood cigarette shop. There are people who lived their lives on instagram, with daily posts of the sun and sand, the hilltops, beautiful oceans, crazy parties and more. These insta-fluencers find themselves shutdown. 2020 has not been a good year for anybody, least of all those who depended on these outdoor vistas for their likes and livelihood. It has been a hell of a year for those who were planning on getting married, buying a house, a new car, going abroad for a vacation, hell just joining a gym as part of the guilt ridden new year resolution they thought they would adhere to for a month or two before allowing the guilt to fade and be replaced by their forever constant slovenliness that they remain in denial of. I, myself had grand plans to go on a motorcycle trip for 10 days, exploring the beautiful nation that is India. Now, I could lie and blame corona for not getting around to it this year, but truth be told, I have been putting it off since the beginning of 2019. Which brings us back to the fact that life is short, eat dessert first!

There are people who are keyboard warriors and spew venom, angst, frustration and vent against all things Chinese. And I do not blame them. But then there are those that see that this kind of situation separates the men from the boys, and it has certainly done so with regards to the Indian leadership. Our Prime Minister, a 69 year old right wing nationalist who leads our country did the single most inspiring thing any head of state could. He made a surprise visit to the top of our country, Ladakh, a place that is well known to all motorcyclists as it is on all our bucket lists. This little Union Territory is 11000 feet above sea level, and all of us know that at those altitudes changing a car tyre, or even laughing very hard is a feat that only the superhuman amongst us can achieve with ease. And yet, this 69 year old, thumbing his nose at AMS, pooh poohing the entire acclimatisation directive that forces those of us that are young, flew into Ladakh, address the Indian Armed Forces, spent 7 hours walking around, nay strutting like a lion, roaring into the microphones and putting down speeches that were akin to those made by Mel Gibson in Braveheart on the battlefield. For that, and for many other reasons, I remain in awe of this stellar gentleman. For, I know close friends and family who on reaching those altitudes had to take the aid of medication and sleep for a few days just to be able to function the next day.

So what is China upto, when they are being cornered by the civilised world for exporting this virus, for laying waste to our indigenous manufacturing industries, and still brazenly having border conflicts with all of their neighbours? Perhaps, we should ask the WHO. They seem to have a relationship that is more than that of a donor to their charity. I will not speculate on China's intent. All I know is that their intent does not serve my countries interests, and is expansionist and something that the world does not need today of all days. So, I will allow Arnab Goswami to take them on, night after night, his vocal chords blasting decibels of aggressive intent towards their actions and intentions. Maybe they will see the light and do the right thing (which ironically could be them not doing anything more).

For now though, this virus makes me think of a poem by the late great William Blake, The Tyger, and specifically one line in his poem:
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?

Lockdown diaries- Thane a suburb of Mumbai, the city of dreams

noreply@blogger.com (Shrinivas Krishnamurthy) — Fri, 03 Jul 2020 04:49:00 +0000

Welcome to this blog. As my preamble has suggested, this blog will be infrequently updated with posts about motorcycles, life and the myriad thoughts that occur to me. In this particular instance, I write this post amidst the pandemic that is Covid19. A plague that has no known vaccine as yet, and one that has taken its toll on humanity, economy, cashflow, emotions quite like the proverbial storm in a tea cup. The tea cup being, of course, our existence. Before I preach on, for sometimes like the best of men and some women, I too suffer from the hubris of loving hearing myself speak, let me get back to the point. Here, I attempt to outline the routine of a regular, middle class, educated, some might say comfortable, married man.

I start my day early, 6 am to be precise. This is not the outcome of any blaring alarm clock that pitilessly wakens the dead each morning, it is an unfortunate consequence of having a body clock that does not permit me to stay in bed beyond this hour. My wife, on the other hand, having no such limitation imposed on herself, enjoys the pleasures of the pillow for a few more hours, a fact that endlessly amazes me, and paints me green, with envy. So awaken I must, before most humans, and the first thing any self-respecting human of South Indian origin must do, is prepare filter coffee, and I abide by this stereotype myself, religiously. The right combination of coffee powder, sourced from the right manufacturer whose judicious coffee to chickory ratio tends to please the senses, lay waste to the cobwebs of an early morning brain-fog is an experience that delights me ridiculously. Well, as they say, coffee or rather caffeine is the most socially acceptable drug of choice for humanity, and I, myself, am rather enjoying my addiction. So coffee being drunk, now the stupor of an entire night (4-5 hours) having been left behind, I tend to put on my householder hat, and begin my chores. Already the previous night, we have washed the clothes in the washing machine, and there they wait for me, to be hung on the line, to dry, to be worn again post morning ablutions, to continue their cyclical existence of going from fresh laundry to soiled, only to meet the machine again that night to be cleansed of the day's soiling. Not that they are soiled much these days, what with the lockdown in place, there is scant probability of them taking on any perspiration, unlike the days when we were all mobile and permitted to venture outdoors, to curse at traffic, to meet fellow office colleagues, to sweat and soil them with gay abandon! Once this chore is complete, I move on to my next and most coveted ritual, the pumping of iron. I possess a pair of dumbells, some rods and plates that while being sufficient to maintain muscle mass and strength levels, more often end up simply inflating my ego. The fact that I can lift these weights often enough, with requisite ease, quite simply makes me feel bigger and stronger than I actually am. That being said, they are useful to maintain one's health and vitality, so I persist. This ritual complete, the clock nearing 9 AM, I then take a shower, scrubbing away at the epidermis, bringing some fresh soapy scent to my otherwise peculiar pheromonal funk, one I might say is not a matter of complaint from the wife at the worst of times.

Now it is time to get to work, yes I am one of the large section of the workforce in the IT industry that have the luxury of being able to work from home. A fact especially useful in these times of lockdown and isolation. Although this very luxury also sometimes means that me and my tribe are never really not working, through the technological innovation (curse) that is the modern day smartphone, we are always reachable, always online and always on-call. My company builds software, so we work long hours at the best of times. This is compounded by the fact that our customers and founders are in North America, lending our work hours to often extend in to their day time, which is far into our zzz hours. But I cannot and do not complain, for I love my job, I am good at it, and it is what I do, not just to make a living, but also to fulfil my aspirations and ambitions. So work begins, goes on for a few hours until it is lunch time. I take a small break for lunch, often a working lunch, which means your laptop and plate of food often argue with each other squabbling for room on the table in front of you. Lunch, thankfully is something my wife prepares, and regularly exceeds herself at.

After lunch, comes even more work, web-meetings, discussions, messaging and a lot of time spent exercising the muscle that is the human brain. While work often continues far into the night with me, I do confess to one guilty pleasure, I watch an Indian news channel debate, the Republic TV debate every night from 9 PM onwards, chaired by this right wing, often belligerent, unapologetically nationalistic anchor, Arnab Goswami. I watch this debate, not because it is my habit to have my fingers on the pulse of what goes on in the nation or in the world. But I do so, more than often, just to watch members of the Left and Right wing in India have at each other, not unlike gladiators in a Roman coliseum. All while the biggest and loudest dog in the yard, Arnab, yells over all of them and engages in chest thumping and acrimonious dialogue that no debate thus far has ever been guilty of promoting. This ends at 10 PM, whereafter I am in work calls usually until midnight. And once the days labours have been completed, I retire to my bed, tired, but satisfied after a day's efforts.

There are those that complain endlessly of the isolation they are subjected to during this lockdown. Their distance from the rest of humanity being an aberration to the regular scheme of things. Their inability to meet people, experience crowds, shake hands, hug their friends, and just go out for a meal with those they are familiar with. I do not suffer from any of the above. I have always held that humanity is overrated. And while I understand the need for having them around as a workforce, I do not pander to any sentimental longing for being a sheep amidst their herd. I, for one, quite like my isolation. I do not miss mingling with the hordes out here. I do not miss cursing at traffic on my way to work from the air-conditioned confines of my car. I certainly do not long for the sweaty crowded elevators that take us to our places of work. I am, for all intents and purposes, a hermit at heart. Forced to live amongst the rest of humanity, suffering all their agonies, all the discomforts they bring, not because I want to, only because I have to, in this inevitably long, unending journey that is my middle class existence.

Quieter, more sober, why should that be surprising.

noreply@blogger.com (Shrinivas Krishnamurthy) — Mon, 06 Mar 2017 06:33:00 +0000

So I have been at the receiving end of the barb that many of my close friends have stuck in my side regarding me becoming a much quieter, more somber version of my previos supposed mirthful and over the top nature. This fact may have some merit, after all, nobody goes through life being the same person they were when they started out. There is bound to be an evolution, a maturing of sorts. And if my own has made me this way, it is probably the result of life experience that has made me this way. And to be honest, I see no problem in it. Why should there be alarms raised if a fellow, dealing with life's interminable ups and downs, decides to put his head down and simply get to the task of surviving the roller coaster ride. Sure, there may be others who take a different approach, possibly becoming even more gregarious than they were previously, and they might achieve a modicum of success in their approach as well. However, such is not my approach, and I believe my approach has its own merits as well. Not to say that I have become a recluse or a hermit or anything like that. But I simply choose more carefully my engagements with the social world that surrounds me. And use my prudence to engage when I deem it convenient and suitable. And I for one, see nothing wrong with my approach. Why should there be an overwhelming reaction from any party that finds this inappropriate or surprising is beyond my reasoning. Is there something amiss, something I may be missing? Well, I do not think so, but feel free to disagree! It being a free country where persons are free to their own opinions and approaches, including me.

Chennai Racetrack MMSC beckons!

noreply@blogger.com (Shrinivas Krishnamurthy) — Tue, 05 Jul 2016 07:25:00 +0000

So, its been all quiet on the motorcycling front. Easy to put that down to loads of work, not enough time and also the intense onslaught of the monsoon here. However, that hasn't stopped me from riding out before, and I'm a bit perplexed as to why it has this time. I guess, I'm just growing lazier than before, perhaps sedentary is an apt way to describe this. Although I have a feeling that a nice long ride will be very welcome to blast the cobwebs from my mind, I guess it will happen when it does. For now though, I am preparing the scrambler for its first outing at the track, with an upcoming trackday scheduled for August 15,16 at Chennai's iconic MMSC race track. Track days have always been great fun, with all my previous track days happening at the Kari motor speedway at Coimbatore with a fun bunch of riders from the Kawasaki Ninja 650 brotherhood to which I belong. Though I sold my Ninja 650 last year to get the Ducati Scrambler, once you're in the Ninja brotherhood, there's no getting out. And honestly, I wouldn't want to distance myself from this stellar bunch of motorcycle mad petrolheads, who are quite literally the best bunch of guys to spend a few days trackside with. All the track sessions are incredibly intense and also fun, but the off-track banter and camaraderie is a very welcome distraction from the regular mundane existence.
I will update this blog with a post containing several pictures from this trackday, and a report of the entire experience. As it is my first time at the Chennai track, it will take me many sessions to get to grips with the track layout, only after which will I be able to push myself and the bike to any good laps. However, it is all a labor of love, and I look forward to it! Also, we have been promised a nice time in Chennai, with the guys there eager to treat us to their hospitality. I have no doubt that they will take good care of us. I am getting street tyres for the scrambler this week, as taking the bike with the semi knobby Pirelli MT60 tyres to a race track is a very bad idea. Although the Pirelli's give great grip on tarmac, they are a 70-30 balance of road and off-road tyres, not perfectly suited for the blemish-free tarmac of a racetrack. So, onwards and upwards we go towards August and a good time at the Chennai track! Here's hoping there are no untoward incidents and we make it back in one piece, motorcycle and man both.

Sexist? Me? Really?

noreply@blogger.com (Shrinivas Krishnamurthy) — Thu, 21 Apr 2016 09:34:00 +0000

So I was recently called out by a friend for posting the above image as my twitter background. The image was of my bike, a Ducati Scrambler, parked against a wall, spray painted with graffiti stating 'VROOM!', standing alongside the graffiti was a hot blonde in a shirt with folded sleeves and short shorts, derriere facing towards the viewer. The image was in no way risque, by any measure, was just, in my opinion, a cool graphic to represent the hot bike. This was deemed to be sexist by the friend, who is more knowledgeable than I in most matters. And I do not understand why. There was no discrimination, or victimization of the hot blonde in short shorts, rather a hot motorcycle placed alongside a beautiful woman, to my uneducated-in-such-matters, eyes, was just appropriate. Although, I have since learned, that just by placing the image of a pretty woman alongside the bike, made this rather engaging graphic, a sexist one, consequently I became unwittingly a sexist for putting the image on my twitter.

Now, I do not dispute any of my friends opinions, she happens to be a very knowledgeable person, better equipped to make such judgements than anybody else I know. However, isn't this just taking it too far? Pretty ladies images have been used for time immemorial to make such graphics, and so long as the images stay within the domain of polity and are not rude or vulgar, is it really sexist? How does an image like this, with a pretty woman, in short shorts, I grant you, promote sexism? One could argue that objectification of the woman is wrong, however, one could also explain that a similar graphic with a man instead of the woman might not be as good, and I would not want to use that image on my twitter at all.

I will now go out on a limb and categorically state that I have, throughout my life and in my every association with women, only been respectful and admiring. Never have I ever, by thought or action ever behaved rudely towards them, it is not how I was raised, and I was raised alongside an elder sister, whom I love and adore, and due to the 8 year age gap, she has been more a mother to me than a sibling. So there is definitely no possible way in which I would even conceive of being rude or sexist, especially not sexist. I am also accused sometimes of being patronizing, however, I have been raised to be chivalrous, and if that is taken as being patronizing, I decline to apologize. I am old fashioned that way, and make no apologies for being a gentleman.

I guess what really got me worried, was how quick my friend was to pounce on the image, and just as quick to label it as being sexist, and by extension, myself as one too. If it was offensive, and I still do not fathom how, then I admit my guilt. However, is it really offensive? Maybe you can make your own judgement, and let me know. Is my rant all explained away as ignorant mansplaining? As has been proposed by my friend? Am I really a shallow sexist? Despite my upbringing as a gentleman of high moral values? If anybody has answers, please do let this poor sod know! Would hate to be an offensive idiot, even unwittingly.

Catchup

noreply@blogger.com (Shrinivas Krishnamurthy) — Wed, 30 Mar 2016 10:35:00 +0000

So, its been a long time since the last time I posted. For those handful of people who might have noticed. However, in the intervening time, life did go on. Here's a quick summary of things I got up to.
1. I switched from listening to and following commercial bands to getting into Indie music, more specifically Indian Independant music. The genre's are as numerous as you can imagine, however the talent on offer is unbelievable. Coupled with the ability to view most of these bands at music festivals that happen from time to time, like the NH7 Weekender (personal fav), and being able to follow these bands on the internet and soundcloud, makes for very entertaining and musically satisfying times. I must list out the bands that I follow as the subject of a later post. Remind me. No don't.
2. I switched professions from being a professional software programmer and techie to leading service delivery at a technology company (been a year now). The transition, while difficult, continues to give me a lot of pleasure watching my work make a difference in the real world, and leading and grooming a team of engineers that help me achieve it.
3. I got into a relationship, that sadly, did not work out and crashed and burned. The reasons/faults etc are things I will not go into. They are not for the interwebs, they are only for us to know and deal with. The resulting turmoil, I am glad to say, peaked a few months back, and has now become like a lingering ache that although isn't going away, isn't breaking me down either. It was bad, quite earth shatteringly so, to be honest, and walking away from it was possibly the toughest thing I have ever done. Still standing, though. That has to count for something.
4. I'm 34 this year, a tambrahm single boy, well employed, not too ugly looking fellow that is still not hitched to a nice, eligible girl. Not for lack of trying on my part, however a clear case of lack of succeeding for sure. The Parents are trying too, but I'm not ready to leave this to them, no matter how well networked the mami-mafia may be in these matters.
5. I sold my Kawasaki Ninja 650, and bought a Ducati Scrambler. Effectively choosing the scrambler lifestyle that goes along with it. This lifestyle is simply a ride everywhere, explore, chill, let your inner child take a stroll through your life kinda deal. It's working out fine, and honestly I picked the right motorcycle for my life.

Thats that for now, you're all caught up. Seeya sometime later.

Time spent at a hospital

noreply@blogger.com (Shrinivas Krishnamurthy) — Wed, 12 Dec 2012 13:12:00 +0000

A hospital, for regular people, is a place best avoided, second only to places like the police station, morgue and cremation ground in terms of places you would least like to visit, let alone frequent. It is grouped with such especially abhorrent places for some pretty obvious reasons. You visit a hospital either as a patient, or as a patient's minder. In the former case, you are probably going under the knife, or at least getting a whole bunch of invasive/non-invasive "tests" to figure out how much damage your body has to deal with. In the latter, your loved one is probably going under the knife or getting the aforesaid tests. There is a lot of anxiety, waiting, queuing up, monetary juggling, tears, running around and general helplessness involved in either case. But look beyond all of this, and you realize that the hospital is not just a place where doctors fix you up, rather, it is a huge community built up of people, processes and relationships. There are many categories of staff, the nursing staff, administration, catering, PA's to the main surgeons, the in-house surgeons, consultants, anesthesiologists radiologists the list goes on. Each of these groups of people often have complicated relationships with the other groups, sometimes cooperative, downright confrontational at other times. From the perspective of an outsider, these complex relationships seem unfathomable at first, but to get anything done, one has to quickly read the situation and work within the invisible boundaries that govern them. I've managed to do this recently, and have been reasonably successful. That is to say, I managed to get through the hospital experience without any physical altercation. Yes, there were voices raised by me and against me. But reason prevailed, certain compromises on either side ensured these conflicts were quickly and comprehensively dealt with, to the satisfaction of everyone involved. Well, almost.

The first phase of hospitalization is always patient admission. Your doctor recommended hospitalization, you took the advice and got down to the hospital. Armed with reports printed on endless graph sheets, x-rays, your medical history, a picture of your favorite god(s) and accompanied by an entourage consisting of at least 3 relatives, a driver (if that's how you roll) and sometimes even the next door neighbor you make your way to the Admissions desk, where one of your entourage, is given a form to fill, with details of your name, age, sex, marital status, next of kin, permanent address and a bunch of other details. You also put down any insurance coverage details if you had the foresight to get some such cover beforehand. If not, you tick the cash option, and pray you have enough liquidity for the expected expenses.

A small admission fee and some queuing up at the cashiers window later, you come away armed with a file. This file is basically a record of everything that you will go through during your time at the hospital. Armed with this file, your entourage makes its way to the ward allotment administration section, where some very nicely dressed young person will ask you to sit down, and choose from a brochure of available types of rooms. Shared, semi-shared, private, deluxe, super-deluxe, yes, these are the terms used to describe them. Each of these rooms can be booked by paying an initial deposit, ranging from a pittance to a small fortune, and each has a daily rent that sometimes exceeds what a very posh hotel would charge you. Of course you want to see what your money is going to get you, so pretty soon you find yourself on a walking tour of the wards, starting from the worst (read shared/semi-shared/private) to the best (deluxe, super-deluxe). Walking into the shared/semi-shared/private wards that are usually housed in the same part of the hospital on the same level, it is not uncommon to hear moaning occupants, others struggling along the corridors, dragging along IV drips-on-wheels, nurses that look a lot like jail wardens and a bunch of visitors that you would not associate with outside the hospital. Lets just say, it is a very persuasive argument to walk away from the "downtown" wards and make your way uptown where the people are nicer, roads are wider, traffic is lighter and the lawns are trimmed. So a quick ride in the elevator, and you guide takes you to this utopian ward, where the rooms are larger than your apartment, with coffee tables, lounge chairs, couches and spare beds. The televisions are flat screens, the nurses are, well, not as scary, and there is a general feeling of entering a place where you know convalescence and recovery will be encouraged. You have made up your mind, so what if it costs more than other available options, I'll take the Deluxe ward, thank you. You get a printout of a disclaimer that you sign and return to the snappily dressed person. You get a bunch of stickers with bar codes that identify your patient id, payment mode etc. You get a list of rules and regulations. You also get an Attender's pass and a Visitor's pass. You are informed about visiting hours. About the various telephone extensions in the hospital. And finally you are given directions to the Billing department, where you are expected to quite literally, show them the money.

A bit of a wait, some more queuing up, and a disbursement of funds later, you are now the proud lessee of a room, and you waste no time in getting settled. At this time, the ward nurse in charge of the current shift introduces herself and her team. You are shown a large whiteboard in the corridor that proudly proclaims the nurses and their shifts, the rooms occupants and even a thought for the day. The dietitian comes by, asks for your preferences, and sets up the menu for each day. If surgery is on the cards, preparatory tests commence, you provide bodily fluids and imbibe various medicines that come as brightly colored pills, flavored syrups and the much-hated intravenously delivered variety. I will not go into details like the easy-access gown, bedpans, catheters (ouch), sponge baths (which are most decidedly not enjoyable, unlike what we have been led to believe) and other items. You check out the TV programming, familiarize yourself with the channel numbers of those stations you usually tune into, make a few telephone calls to relatives/friends that could not accompany you into the hospital, and soon are left with nothing to do but stare at the ceiling, and note all the weird whirring/clicking/pinging noises that are ever-present in a hospital ward. More medicines are ingested, more hospital meals are delivered, more tests are done, and finally the HDIC, or Head-Doc-In-Charge of your case makes his rounds and walks into your, now-cozy-but-a-bit-chilly alcove. A few words of encouragement from him, some stern reminders to stay immobile as much as possible, a couple of words with the shift nurse and he's gone back to doing what HDIC's do, which is some pretty mysterious stuff I would think. You now know when the surgery is going to happen, what they are going to do to you, and how many more days post-op you will be residing in the said alcove. With a prayer on your mind, you make up your bucket list, make some calls to people you would rather not talk to, and generally gear yourself up for whatever you imagine comes next.

Post-Op, you are back in your room. Crossed the monumental breach in the time-space continuum that is surgery. Staring at the rest of your life to come. Well, staring at the ceiling to be honest, but in a much better frame of mind than before. Now is the time where you get a virtual stampede of visitors, and each bearing good wishes, temple prasadams, apples, oranges, bananas, horlicks, invitations to their houses, discussions about their experiences at hospitals until you are quite literally exhausted. Suddenly you miss staring at the ceiling. You miss those whirrs/clicks/pings that accompanied your solitude. You miss that silence, that blissful alone-ness. And then it is time to go home. To leave the hospital, get back to your life as you knew it. Clearance forms are filled, paperwork is completed, files are maintained, copies are made, money again changes hands, and you find yourself in the back of a car, heading out into the world again. You get home, only to find it just as you left it. You realize that, monumental though it may have been to you, your brief absence from your world was barely registered. It may have inconvenienced a few, scared some others, but was just a minor aberrance from the norm. Life, thankfully, does go on, and that itself, you realize is all you ever wanted or needed.

Strange are the workings of the human mind.

noreply@blogger.com (Shrinivas Krishnamurthy) — Sat, 24 Dec 2011 07:58:00 +0000

There are few reasons for a man to remain civilized in a city such as ours. Incessantly rising prices, rampant corruption, unbalanced legal system, traffic, people's lack of consideration, rude neighbours, annoying kids, I could go on with this for a lot longer, but I shall not. Belligerent TV news anchors and Arun Lal. Right, enough of that. In all this, a meek and 'by-the-rules' person just cannot survive... or so we convince ourselves. I used to be a meek, and 'by-the-rules' kinda guy. A long time ago. Somehow, somewhere along the way, I changed. Whether because of circumstances, peer influence, or just my own damn evolution, I do not know, nor can I reasonably guess. I am now, no longer, what you may call a timid person. But that's not entirely true. At least not all of the time. There are times when there is no need for force, intimidation, abrasive behaviour, and at such times, I am the very image of the smiling buddha. As serene as a placid lake in the gardens of Eden. But when faced with a confrontation, the facade drops, and things start changing.

Its all very primal, almost animalistic... all the major muscles tense, the body threatening to explode into violent action. Volume levels rise, vocabulary range gives way to semi-coherent grunts and roars... Eyes glare and nostrils flare, all of this a reaction to some inane provocation or perceived slight. There appears to be some proportion between the cause and the magnitude of the reaction, although it would be nearly impossible to quantify this.

Usually, this is just a brief period of insanity between states of serenity. Unless it escalates from the verbal to the physical, and that would be unfortunate, for everyone involved. When eventually the adrenaline payload stops pumping into the already raging system, the machine that is the body, goes back to a calmer and relaxed state. It is truly just as if the body was recovering from a coughing fit, or a sneeze. The mind, however, is forever altered by the experience, the sudden surge of activity, the insanity. It automatically analyses the entire incident, marking the key points, the reflexes that worked favourably, and those that did not prove advantageous. All this, while the body has slumped into inaction, or subconscious reaction. The mind rages on, demanding more, screaming out at the futility of the episode, proud, ashamed and disgusted all at once.
Strange are the workings of this human's mind.

When we were Kings.

noreply@blogger.com (Shrinivas Krishnamurthy) — Mon, 28 Jun 2010 12:09:00 +0000

It always amuses me when older people work in anecdotes about their heydays into conversations with me, always with a contented grin on their faces, as if that particular memory in itself was enough to justify a lifetime of otherwise non-newsworthy happenings. The fact that they are able to obtain pleasure from remembering that small bit of silliness or mischief they were part of, so many years back, consistently amazes me. All of us have had these conversations, where the Elder goes off on a tangent about that first long drive into the mountains when his car broke down and he had to push it uphill while carrying his firstborn on one shoulder, all the while getting drenched in the rain and still singing 'Yeh dosti' from Sholay, or some such occurrence. Many of these memories exist in such vivid detail inside the Elder's head, that he can spend many hours reliving them while pretending to take a nap on that easy-chair. The events themselves may be largely insignificant, but when described by an enthusiastic Elder, tend to bring about a nostalgia-induced stupor that threatens to distract one from the present, however briefly.

Is this then the true benchmark for labelling ourselves as older persons? Are we then to assume that once we begin reminiscing about our glory days, they are all well and truly in the past, with no hope of any of them occurring again in our lifetime? Or am I over-simplifying a theory by ignoring its other possible interpretations. I myself have fallen prey to such day-dreams about when we were Kings, that final year in Engineering College, that 10th Standard farewell party, that first date, that first heartbreak, that first long trip, so many of these memories stand out from an otherwise banal existence that the mind craves to relive them when it is otherwise unoccupied.

Can we interpret the mind's craving to relive colorful memories as a call to arms? Is it a signal from the consciousness to drop whatever mundane routine we have setup and do something memorable? Or am I again over-simplifying it and accepting the first, untested interpretation as the answer to this puzzle. It is quite clear that I manage to out think my own theories, and discredit my own interpretations. Will I remember this 10 years from now? more importantly, will I regale my younger companions in the future with this conundrum with a wistful look towards the skies. Only time will tell. I pray they at least pretend to listen to me then, as I pretended to listen when I was in their position.