These past few days,
le poor business has had it bad.
The van Winkles running advertising all this while,
suddenly decided to wake up.
And have the bad taste in the mouth all figured out.
The business sucks. The people suck. The pay sucks.
The new recruits suck. Clients suck. Everything sucks.
We are 'experts without expertise'.
(Words not mine.)
Wait a moment!
But weren't you guys on top all this while?
Weren't you calling the shots?
Weren't you charting paths?
Weren't you evolving agency culture?
Weren't you involved in negotiation?
Weren't you there when the agency got a raw deal?
Weren't you sitting in on pay and scales?
If you were not, what were you doing at the top?
And if everything suddenly sucks,
who should be taking the blame?
The poor AE who's joined you at 15k because Usha Boiler Repair House didn't take him?
It might not be what it should, ideally.
But just because a few at the top are tired and defeated,
doesn't mean the business sucks.
But the business will suck tomorrow.
And that will be thanks to the people who run the business today.
Because the greed for higher and higher profits ensured
that entry level salaries are lower than the afore mentioned UBRH.
(Your trainee client earns the same as your average AD.)
You charted the effing course.
Now the ship's taking in water.
And you take the only lifeboat,
look back at the ship and
suddenly figure that the hull's rotting.
You, you master of deduction, you.
Thursday, December 21, 2006
Sunday, September 24, 2006
Saturday, September 23, 2006
Live Life Kingsize
“The neelakurinji’s bloomed after 12 years.
Let’s go check it out”, I told the wife,
from within the newspaper.
“Hey, let’s go stay in Hampi awhile”,
I said, 23 minutes later.
“We should watch the World Cup in the West Indies.”
I agreed wholeheartedly with the guy.
And we chugged a few more.
“It would be nice to just do nothing but read for a week.”
Statement made when she asks me to draft application.
To the local electricity office.
“When can we stop having to work for a living?”
With a friend during a morally high weekend.
“I think I’ll walk to Gokarn via Sirsi” – self.
“Isn’t that a few hundred miles?” – wife.
“But I want to do it, my heart tells me to!” – self
“Shut the door when you leave.” – wife.
I stepped out, backpack and all.
I shut the door.
Decided to check the mailbox on my way out.
The phone bill, the electricity bill, credit card bills,
the net bill, the newspaper bill, the milkman’s bill,
the car EMI reminder, the insurance reminders,
the home loan insurance, the mechanic’s long overdue bill….
I picked them all up and walked back in.
And she was making lunch for both of us.
Let’s go check it out”, I told the wife,
from within the newspaper.
“Hey, let’s go stay in Hampi awhile”,
I said, 23 minutes later.
“We should watch the World Cup in the West Indies.”
I agreed wholeheartedly with the guy.
And we chugged a few more.
“It would be nice to just do nothing but read for a week.”
Statement made when she asks me to draft application.
To the local electricity office.
“When can we stop having to work for a living?”
With a friend during a morally high weekend.
“I think I’ll walk to Gokarn via Sirsi” – self.
“Isn’t that a few hundred miles?” – wife.
“But I want to do it, my heart tells me to!” – self
“Shut the door when you leave.” – wife.
I stepped out, backpack and all.
I shut the door.
Decided to check the mailbox on my way out.
The phone bill, the electricity bill, credit card bills,
the net bill, the newspaper bill, the milkman’s bill,
the car EMI reminder, the insurance reminders,
the home loan insurance, the mechanic’s long overdue bill….
I picked them all up and walked back in.
And she was making lunch for both of us.
Monday, May 15, 2006
Elections in Kerala
I was home recently, in Kerala.
Proud home of the first democratically elected communist government in the world.
And after many years, I was there around election time.
Every five years, the Malayalee hitches up his lungi (with it his ideological beliefs), knots it high on his waist and sets off to do battle.
Brother against brother. Neighbour against neighbour.
In multi-coloured lungis, shouting slogans political, bawdy, inflammatory and ludicrous, regiments march up and down the green paths of Kerala.
Every Malayalee takes a side.
It’s not very taxing.
You are either for the left.
Or against.
There is no third alternative.
If anybody claims there is, many pardons to your hitched saffron lungi brother, there isn’t.
In the evening, as you walk down to the toddy shop for a glug, the quiet is suddenly pierced with the pungent odour of a hundred men sweating toddy.
And there, past the palm-lined river bank, march a hundred toddy happy men.
Together, happy, committed, confident.
You let them pass, silhouettes waving red flags at the gathering dusk, bunched fists punching the hot, humid air and an imagined opponent.
And as you proceed, a few stragglers bring up the vociferous rear.
These are the ones who paused longer at the toddy shop for the one for the road.
This happy lot, somewhere between bottle 2 and 3 have forgotten their responsibility to the land at large, their duty to the nation, and pass by singing the latest film songs, fists proudly in the air.
At the toddy shop though, there still are a few stragglers, fighting ideological battles from the relative comfort of a bench, gathering confidence, faith and comfort from the spirit of life.
Here slogans therefore, are a little more colourful.
You question my ideology and I question your sister’s ways.
Till two ideologically separated men menacingly rise from behind their tables, and promptly fall into the fish curry.
On verandahs across the state, men deliberate with great interest chances, scams, scandals, policies and manifestos.
With every sip, your candidate’s chances increase and his opponent bites the dust, percentage after percentage, sip after sip.
At seminaries and temple grounds across the state, crusty theologians debate the policies of the opposing sides and its impact on the sheep.
Under banyan trees after dusk, men from the most educated and literate state discuss the effects of global events on their local elections.
Women cadres go door to door promising goats, cows and chicken in lieu for support.
In the towns, rallies compete with each other.
For numbers, decibels and for innovative sloganeering.
Till all assemble in the centre of the town and from loudspeakers facing each other, shout the other party down.
It has not been unknown, for over-enthusiastic speakers to hurl abuse at each other across the square.
Over the microphone.
Every morning during election time, the Malayalee reads more than one newspaper.
So that he can imbibe different points of view, to then abuse everyone who doesn’t agree with his.
In the ubiquitous tea-shop, impromptu debates rage all day till in the evening it shifts to the toddy shop.
And this goes on till election day.
Election day in Kerala is when you witness the power of democracy, the power of the common man.
Demand a car to go to the polling booth and a car will come.
Demand lunch and lunch will come.
Demand a drink and spirits flow.
Just for that one day, you matter.
You matter, you insignificant speck among a billion Indians.
Your mandate decides the fate of millions.
And then, there is peace and quiet.
In the toddy shop, the centre of our action, bonhomie resumes.
Till counting day.
In Bangalore, I don’t even realize when elections come and elections go.
I miss the fervour.
I miss the debates.
I miss the involvement in the political processes.
I miss the opportunity to influence the fortunes of our vast, functioning anarchy.
And above all else, by this constitution and everything else that I hold sacred, I miss the toddy.
Proud home of the first democratically elected communist government in the world.
And after many years, I was there around election time.
Every five years, the Malayalee hitches up his lungi (with it his ideological beliefs), knots it high on his waist and sets off to do battle.
Brother against brother. Neighbour against neighbour.
In multi-coloured lungis, shouting slogans political, bawdy, inflammatory and ludicrous, regiments march up and down the green paths of Kerala.
Every Malayalee takes a side.
It’s not very taxing.
You are either for the left.
Or against.
There is no third alternative.
If anybody claims there is, many pardons to your hitched saffron lungi brother, there isn’t.
In the evening, as you walk down to the toddy shop for a glug, the quiet is suddenly pierced with the pungent odour of a hundred men sweating toddy.
And there, past the palm-lined river bank, march a hundred toddy happy men.
Together, happy, committed, confident.
You let them pass, silhouettes waving red flags at the gathering dusk, bunched fists punching the hot, humid air and an imagined opponent.
And as you proceed, a few stragglers bring up the vociferous rear.
These are the ones who paused longer at the toddy shop for the one for the road.
This happy lot, somewhere between bottle 2 and 3 have forgotten their responsibility to the land at large, their duty to the nation, and pass by singing the latest film songs, fists proudly in the air.
At the toddy shop though, there still are a few stragglers, fighting ideological battles from the relative comfort of a bench, gathering confidence, faith and comfort from the spirit of life.
Here slogans therefore, are a little more colourful.
You question my ideology and I question your sister’s ways.
Till two ideologically separated men menacingly rise from behind their tables, and promptly fall into the fish curry.
On verandahs across the state, men deliberate with great interest chances, scams, scandals, policies and manifestos.
With every sip, your candidate’s chances increase and his opponent bites the dust, percentage after percentage, sip after sip.
At seminaries and temple grounds across the state, crusty theologians debate the policies of the opposing sides and its impact on the sheep.
Under banyan trees after dusk, men from the most educated and literate state discuss the effects of global events on their local elections.
Women cadres go door to door promising goats, cows and chicken in lieu for support.
In the towns, rallies compete with each other.
For numbers, decibels and for innovative sloganeering.
Till all assemble in the centre of the town and from loudspeakers facing each other, shout the other party down.
It has not been unknown, for over-enthusiastic speakers to hurl abuse at each other across the square.
Over the microphone.
Every morning during election time, the Malayalee reads more than one newspaper.
So that he can imbibe different points of view, to then abuse everyone who doesn’t agree with his.
In the ubiquitous tea-shop, impromptu debates rage all day till in the evening it shifts to the toddy shop.
And this goes on till election day.
Election day in Kerala is when you witness the power of democracy, the power of the common man.
Demand a car to go to the polling booth and a car will come.
Demand lunch and lunch will come.
Demand a drink and spirits flow.
Just for that one day, you matter.
You matter, you insignificant speck among a billion Indians.
Your mandate decides the fate of millions.
And then, there is peace and quiet.
In the toddy shop, the centre of our action, bonhomie resumes.
Till counting day.
In Bangalore, I don’t even realize when elections come and elections go.
I miss the fervour.
I miss the debates.
I miss the involvement in the political processes.
I miss the opportunity to influence the fortunes of our vast, functioning anarchy.
And above all else, by this constitution and everything else that I hold sacred, I miss the toddy.
Friday, February 24, 2006
A time for Zorro.
I don’t know Jessica Lall.
In any case, a few hundreds are murdered in this country everyday.
Why then, should Jessica Lall make me feel so helpless?
Preity Zinta made a point on TV.
You can get a year, she said, for blackbuck.
But you can kill a person and get way with it.
It’s true.
A few notable examples.
Manu Sharma.
Admiral Nanda’s grandson.
Kunhalikutty.
Ameeta Modi and Sanjay Singh.
Amar Mani Tripathi.
Natwar Singh and son.
Clout circumventing the judicial process is old hat.
The issue today, is not that.
The issue is that all the above, are still welcome in our society.
They continue to hold offices.
They are still part of the social circuit.
This, their brazenness and our acceptance, spells doom.
It means that today’s Indian society, you and me included, are willing to condone murder.
Willing to condone the castration of justice.
Willing to turn a blind eye to anything that doesn’t directly involve us.
Willing to tolerate injustice.
Too ready, to forgive and forget.
We as a society have degenerated.
The letter of the law is strictly the letter of the law.
No longer does it hold a moral value for us.
It’s getting caught therefore, that makes crime a crime.
Not so much the act.
We don’t have a collective conscience as a nation any more.
We don’t have a sense of justice any more.
We don’t, as a nation, believe in the law any more.
Many, many years back, there was a crime of passion.
A naval officer called Nanavati shot his wife and her paramour.
Russi Karanjia of Blitz kept India focused on the case.
And the whole nation developed an opinion.
Including the then PM, Pt. Nehru.
(Driving opinion has its own dangers but the advantage was that everyone knew that the world was watching.)
If today, the bench knew that India was watching, would it acquit Manu Sharma so easily?
Would witnesses so easily turn hostile?
The Nanavati case awoke the collective conscience of a nation.
And Jessica Lall proved us that our consciences have gone to bed.
This is the time for Zorro.
A time for vigilantes.
This is the time for Biblical, barbarian justice.
An eye for an eye, ear for an ear.
Drag Manu Sharma to India Gate and hang him there.
For the murder of Jessica Lall.
And his father.
For the twin crimes of procreation and for believing that justice is there to be manipulated.
Will this happen?
Last year, Malayalam cinema had a rare box-office hit.
Directed by Jayaraj.
It had unknown faces and was pretty shoddily, frugally produced.
It featured 4 students who take the law into their own hands.
Who kill, maim and generally play Zorro.
It was a superhit.
It tells me a few things.
That audiences empathized with it.
And therefore, that there are millions out there who feel castrated.
That our society is full of impotent, angry, helpless youth.
And that, at a national level, always spells bloodshed.
In any case, a few hundreds are murdered in this country everyday.
Why then, should Jessica Lall make me feel so helpless?
Preity Zinta made a point on TV.
You can get a year, she said, for blackbuck.
But you can kill a person and get way with it.
It’s true.
A few notable examples.
Manu Sharma.
Admiral Nanda’s grandson.
Kunhalikutty.
Ameeta Modi and Sanjay Singh.
Amar Mani Tripathi.
Natwar Singh and son.
Clout circumventing the judicial process is old hat.
The issue today, is not that.
The issue is that all the above, are still welcome in our society.
They continue to hold offices.
They are still part of the social circuit.
This, their brazenness and our acceptance, spells doom.
It means that today’s Indian society, you and me included, are willing to condone murder.
Willing to condone the castration of justice.
Willing to turn a blind eye to anything that doesn’t directly involve us.
Willing to tolerate injustice.
Too ready, to forgive and forget.
We as a society have degenerated.
The letter of the law is strictly the letter of the law.
No longer does it hold a moral value for us.
It’s getting caught therefore, that makes crime a crime.
Not so much the act.
We don’t have a collective conscience as a nation any more.
We don’t have a sense of justice any more.
We don’t, as a nation, believe in the law any more.
Many, many years back, there was a crime of passion.
A naval officer called Nanavati shot his wife and her paramour.
Russi Karanjia of Blitz kept India focused on the case.
And the whole nation developed an opinion.
Including the then PM, Pt. Nehru.
(Driving opinion has its own dangers but the advantage was that everyone knew that the world was watching.)
If today, the bench knew that India was watching, would it acquit Manu Sharma so easily?
Would witnesses so easily turn hostile?
The Nanavati case awoke the collective conscience of a nation.
And Jessica Lall proved us that our consciences have gone to bed.
This is the time for Zorro.
A time for vigilantes.
This is the time for Biblical, barbarian justice.
An eye for an eye, ear for an ear.
Drag Manu Sharma to India Gate and hang him there.
For the murder of Jessica Lall.
And his father.
For the twin crimes of procreation and for believing that justice is there to be manipulated.
Will this happen?
Last year, Malayalam cinema had a rare box-office hit.
Directed by Jayaraj.
It had unknown faces and was pretty shoddily, frugally produced.
It featured 4 students who take the law into their own hands.
Who kill, maim and generally play Zorro.
It was a superhit.
It tells me a few things.
That audiences empathized with it.
And therefore, that there are millions out there who feel castrated.
That our society is full of impotent, angry, helpless youth.
And that, at a national level, always spells bloodshed.
Monday, February 20, 2006
The world is a fun place.
Here, laugh.
All of India is outraged.
Cotton farmer and Simi Garewal alike.
The good, London based Mr.Mittal has been slighted by France and Luxembourg.
The Indian government and people are livid.
Imagine, the cheek!
Dubya was right about those yellow livered, cheese....
And this gentleman is so patriotic that he hasn't even surrendered his Indian nationality!
One of our own!
This shall be discussed when Mr. Surrender Monkey himself is in town.
Monkey money, indeed!
Meanwhile, Palestinians have the right to self-determination.
Provided Israel agrees with what they, well, determine.
Hamas? No cash!
In far Iran.
Dubya has decided that enough is enough.
No more sabre rattling!
When Dubya says stop, you stop.
Or else, more American boys shall die civilising the turbans.
Elsewhere in Baghdad, unwashed barbarians run riot.
While poor American boys have their toys confiscated.
No more cameras, says the Pentagon.
Muammar Gadaffi has substituted his sabre for an iPod.
"Thid hadh more beauthifol noith", said M'mar.
Osama ruminates.
Laz-y-boy or the bone-setter?
In India, Manmohan is faced by the burning Bush.
To Iran or not to Iran?
As is all this isn't fun enough.
Protests break out all over the world.
People agree that the world is a great, fun place.
And we don't really need cartoons to liven it up.
The world is a fun place.
But I would rather be quail.
That seems to be more fun.
Imagine, a bird's eye view of lawyers eating dirt.
Duck, its Dick!
All of India is outraged.
Cotton farmer and Simi Garewal alike.
The good, London based Mr.Mittal has been slighted by France and Luxembourg.
The Indian government and people are livid.
Imagine, the cheek!
Dubya was right about those yellow livered, cheese....
And this gentleman is so patriotic that he hasn't even surrendered his Indian nationality!
One of our own!
This shall be discussed when Mr. Surrender Monkey himself is in town.
Monkey money, indeed!
Meanwhile, Palestinians have the right to self-determination.
Provided Israel agrees with what they, well, determine.
Hamas? No cash!
In far Iran.
Dubya has decided that enough is enough.
No more sabre rattling!
When Dubya says stop, you stop.
Or else, more American boys shall die civilising the turbans.
Elsewhere in Baghdad, unwashed barbarians run riot.
While poor American boys have their toys confiscated.
No more cameras, says the Pentagon.
Muammar Gadaffi has substituted his sabre for an iPod.
"Thid hadh more beauthifol noith", said M'mar.
Osama ruminates.
Laz-y-boy or the bone-setter?
In India, Manmohan is faced by the burning Bush.
To Iran or not to Iran?
As is all this isn't fun enough.
Protests break out all over the world.
People agree that the world is a great, fun place.
And we don't really need cartoons to liven it up.
The world is a fun place.
But I would rather be quail.
That seems to be more fun.
Imagine, a bird's eye view of lawyers eating dirt.
Duck, its Dick!
Thursday, February 9, 2006
House-husband
Wake up.
Work for an hour.
Read the papers, through classifieds and forecasts.
Breakfast.
Hang around Raghu who thus far used to wash the car in peace.
Check the screws on the bike, kick-reassure the tyre.
Wife leaves for work.
Read.
Call wife.
Read.
Check furniture for dust.
Contemplate paunch.
Check waist with tape.
Call wife.
Warm lunch and gulp it down.
Inform wife that lunch has been had.
Read.
Doze.
Wake up, wipe book dry.
Check on bike.
Call wife.
Read.
Read Good Housekeeping.
Stare at mobile phone.
Hang around gate with dog.
Talk to dog.
Wife calls to say she'll be late.
Read Interiors.
Call dog names to see if he'll react.
Sing 'How much is that doggie in the window'.
Laugh hysterically.
Dog leaves with dignity.
Try new hair-style.
Read.
Wife comes home.
Show-off new hairstyle.
She has a headache.
Order from Wok-n-Grill.
Rum and coke.
Rum and coke.
Wok-n-Grill scooter arrives.
Try to engage delivery boy in conversation.
Eat.
Read.
Crash.
This is not what I had planned.
Not exactly.
When I first realised that I would be quitting my job, I immediately made 82 plans.
Or thereabouts.
Learn Malayalam.
(That I put off for later.)
Learn photography.
(Am halfway there. Have bought new digital SLR.)
Learn cooking.
(Halfway there again. Now know how to use microwave.)
Fix things in the house.
(This have been told not to.)
Look for business.
(There's no hurry on that.)
Write.
(Reading is an inspiration to write.)
Get fit.
(Tomorrow.)
Travel.
(Not doing too badly on that front.)
Spend time with oneself.
(Not doing badly on that front either.)
Contemplate.
(Am.)
Spend more time with wife.
(It's she who doesn't have any!)
Meet friends and drink.
(They don't have any time either.)
Put down the other 70.
(Can do.)
I have this against advertising.
It doesn't prepare a man for after.
And suddenly you realise.
That you have never spent time alone at home.
All your life.
School, followed by college followed by work.
You had parents at home during school.
Then pals in the hostels and chummeries.
And then, the lady of the manor.
You have never spent days at length alone at home.
You realise that a house in a quiet neighbourhood is quieter in the afternoon than at night.
That if you need a cup of coffee every hour, you need to make it yourself.
And the dog, is definitely not man's best friend.
I read a joke out aloud to him yesterday and the jerk walked away.
Believe the man, it takes getting used to.
And it's mighty dreadful till you do.
Wife agrees.
P.S. Wife read post and found it funny.
Woe is me.
Work for an hour.
Read the papers, through classifieds and forecasts.
Breakfast.
Hang around Raghu who thus far used to wash the car in peace.
Check the screws on the bike, kick-reassure the tyre.
Wife leaves for work.
Read.
Call wife.
Read.
Check furniture for dust.
Contemplate paunch.
Check waist with tape.
Call wife.
Warm lunch and gulp it down.
Inform wife that lunch has been had.
Read.
Doze.
Wake up, wipe book dry.
Check on bike.
Call wife.
Read.
Read Good Housekeeping.
Stare at mobile phone.
Hang around gate with dog.
Talk to dog.
Wife calls to say she'll be late.
Read Interiors.
Call dog names to see if he'll react.
Sing 'How much is that doggie in the window'.
Laugh hysterically.
Dog leaves with dignity.
Try new hair-style.
Read.
Wife comes home.
Show-off new hairstyle.
She has a headache.
Order from Wok-n-Grill.
Rum and coke.
Rum and coke.
Wok-n-Grill scooter arrives.
Try to engage delivery boy in conversation.
Eat.
Read.
Crash.
This is not what I had planned.
Not exactly.
When I first realised that I would be quitting my job, I immediately made 82 plans.
Or thereabouts.
Learn Malayalam.
(That I put off for later.)
Learn photography.
(Am halfway there. Have bought new digital SLR.)
Learn cooking.
(Halfway there again. Now know how to use microwave.)
Fix things in the house.
(This have been told not to.)
Look for business.
(There's no hurry on that.)
Write.
(Reading is an inspiration to write.)
Get fit.
(Tomorrow.)
Travel.
(Not doing too badly on that front.)
Spend time with oneself.
(Not doing badly on that front either.)
Contemplate.
(Am.)
Spend more time with wife.
(It's she who doesn't have any!)
Meet friends and drink.
(They don't have any time either.)
Put down the other 70.
(Can do.)
I have this against advertising.
It doesn't prepare a man for after.
And suddenly you realise.
That you have never spent time alone at home.
All your life.
School, followed by college followed by work.
You had parents at home during school.
Then pals in the hostels and chummeries.
And then, the lady of the manor.
You have never spent days at length alone at home.
You realise that a house in a quiet neighbourhood is quieter in the afternoon than at night.
That if you need a cup of coffee every hour, you need to make it yourself.
And the dog, is definitely not man's best friend.
I read a joke out aloud to him yesterday and the jerk walked away.
Believe the man, it takes getting used to.
And it's mighty dreadful till you do.
Wife agrees.
P.S. Wife read post and found it funny.
Woe is me.
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