“Do you have any idea what potato prices have become....it’s now twenty three rupees a kilo! It’s hard to imagine that they used to once come for eight to ten rupees!” my father commented while trying to balance the plate passed on to him during dinner. Now I am not quite sure what small talk the RBI governor D Subbarao indulges in during dinner time, but I am quite confident that he too must be sharing my father’s concern for that rising CPI graph that refuses to be tamed!
Not surprisingly the run-up to the much touted Second Quarter Review of the RBI’s monetary policy was occupied by discussion on how it planned to tackle inflation. The famous debate in economics between growth and inflation once again claimed limelight. Would the RBI increase interest rates to quell inflation? RBI’s answer this time was, “No, but we have it in mind.” Much to the relief of industry captains, the key policy rates remained unchanged at previously benign levels while the SLR requirement was nudged back to its pre-crisis level of 25%. The other policy decisions taken by RBI (like doing away with refinance facilities) were similarly cosmetic in nature; all indicating that the RBI was shying away from any affirmative roll-back of its monetary prodigality this time around; but was signalling of stiffer action to come.
But why did RBI have to increase SLR? Well of course it is a step towards containing liquidity, but the fact remains that most banks are currently satisfying their SLR requirement comfortably; as a matter of fact they are exceeding it. A minor rectification of this ceiling is really not of much consequence to them. One might argue that it is a signalling device for tougher policy later. But again, why does the RBI need that? The moot question is: What would have happened if the RBI had not indulged in these token policy measures now, and directly attempted to target inflation by raising policy rates later?
The crucial missing piece of the jigsaw is that the RBI is really not interested in targeting inflation now. What the RBI is really concerned about in this review; is ‘expected’ inflation. And there is an important reason behind this concern. If people perceive a lethargic central bank that does not seem to worry about inflation, they would revise their expectation of inflation upwards in the coming months. This would in turn lead to the hoarding of commodities since people would expect prices to escalate. However paradoxically, this very action would lead to an upward spurt in the spot prices of commodities. Hence ultimately the same inflation that people ‘expected’ to materialise in a few months would in turn end up haunting them immediately.
Hence the RBI understands that howsoever superficial may be its policies in this review; some good marketing is necessary! People need to have cause to believe that the RBI is going to take proactive action, and that there is not going to be the case of a runaway inflation. And this feeds into a virtuous cycle since the RBI in turn requires this perception for its policies to succeed. Or else it would be grappling with inflation on a week-to-week guerrilla basis!
However the larger question is that instead of indulging in this charade, why didn’t the RBI in the first place increase key policy rates in this quarter itself. After all there were many allusions in the media of Israel and Australia hiking their rates. It can also be argued that monetary policies come with a lag and with WPI already nearing 6% and the base effect disappearing, there is certainly a case for urgency. Secondly, huge liquidity in the market leads to a potential for an asset price escalation. This compounded by large capital inflows could lead to bludgeoning asset prices. Infact in some ways, RBI has attempted to address this issue in the current review by hiking provision requirements for loans to commercial realty (which in my opinion can backfire since developers would pass on the increase in cost of funds to the buyers, and if demand refuses to be daunted there could be another rally of real estate price hike)
Finally some could argue that even if the RBI increased interest rates or upped the CRR; it need not have necessarily translated into higher costs for borrowers. This is because credit growth in India remains quintessentially weak, and banks would be hesitant to extinguish any demand for loans by increasing lending rates. And if their assets are not growing, banks would have no incentive to chase liabilities by providing higher deposit rates. So even tampering with policy rates would be akin to a token gesture.
However with the look of things, RBI is certainly not willing to let its growth objectives be hijacked by the whims of banks deciding whether to change their deposit and lending rates in response to RBI’s rate hike, or to demand and supply conditions in the market. Secondly a reversal in monetary policy would lead to increased yields on government bonds which in turn could thrust interest rates upwards and hence affect consumption and investment demand negatively.
But in my perspective the primary reason why the RBI refused to compromise on growth in this quarter, is because 60% of the Indian populace is employed in agriculture and the drought situation threatens to hit their disposable incomes badly. This drought promises not only to accentuate inflation, but also create a huge growth deficit. Which is why emulating Israel’s or Australia’s rate hikes may not be the best alternative for us. Finally an increase in interest rates could also lead to further capital inflows; which apart from inflating asset prices, would also be putting pressure on the rupee to appreciate.
The RBI seems to have got the trade-off right this time; but I doubt if tough choices are going to excuse themselves any time soon! It is indeed time for the tiger prowling on its emblem to prove its mettle. This quarter it has just growled; next time, get ready for its roar!
Wednesday 28 October 2009
Sunday 18 October 2009
The Ghost
Dear Sir/Madam (How anti-feminist indeed.....if it’s a lady reading this, she might prefer Madam/Sir)
I would like to apply for the position of.......
I have recently completed my MBA from London Business School; previously MSc Economics from LSE, and graduation from....... (you better be reading this very carefully- it took me over two freaking decades of my life to fill up this paragraph)
I am really interested in the Investment Banking profile of the job. It is something that excites me tremendously (oh yes, I have wild, rave dreams about companies in the night)
In support of my leadership qualities, I have been the (President of the United States), and also spent some very constructive time during my previous internship (where I found out that I had a rare talent for online stick cricket)
Please find my CV attached. I am sure I can value-add to your company (Oh, I so love this term)
Yours Sincerely (Pleadingly, Grovelling-ly, Begging-ly)
Arijit Sen (Have a heart!)
“And now, ‘Send’ “. The button mocked a push with a light click of the laptop touch-pad. Immediately to be sent across cities and oceans and mountains, to join other applications into the e-dustbin of another company’s HR office, Arijit thought . Would he be really awarded this time for his absurd stretch of imagination? “Well somebody should fall for it", he soliloquised.
“So, Arijit.....”, with special emphasis on the ‘so’, was usually the way any of his mother’s friends would begin a conversation with him, just as he tried to sneak out unnoticed. “So, Orijit; akhun ki korcho” (Arijit, what are you upto now). Arijit realised that till not so long ago, the name of an exalted university and an impending exam would be enough to shut all of them up with an impressed smile. This time, Swapna aunty gave a long slurp to the tea and with remarkable snugness went on, “Don’t worry. With your qualifications, there are lots of jobs out there”, pointing her tea cup towards the open expanse from his ninth floor window. “You just need to keep trying. You know, my daughter. See, now she is working with TCS. Ofcourse hers was campus placement. For you, you need some experience. Puchhh. It’s not easy. But don’t worry”
Arijit wondered if Swapna aunty with her versatile daughter was infact his greatest worry; with his sordid condition of inaction being treated by her as biscuits to be moistened with her tea. “I need to go, aunty”, he replied, standing up abruptly,and giving a sweet smile that could have easily landed him a job of a butler at a five star joint. "Doesn't she have anything else to do?", Arijit rumbled under his breath
It’s been roughly two months. Two months since he came back from London. And reformed the contact details on his CV. And though every HR personnel had become intensely ‘Dear’ to him in cover letters, none bothered returning his affections. Some did, and then an odd interview would occur and then everything would again go deathly quiet between the company and him as if the subject of jobs was too taboo a topic to be discussed.
Back at home, his father would brew tea in the morning with an Armageddon look on his face. “Why don’t you apply to Analytics jobs? There are so many of those”.
“But Baba, I am not interested in those...”, Arijit would say wondering why there wasn’t a faster way to have tea than by luxuriously sipping it.
“What do you mean, not interested? Not interested. Job is job”. After a while, “Then government?”, Baba would explode with renewed energy. “Why not government services? Give an exam, clear it....”
“And then sit on a table and clear files”, Arijit mentally completed Baba’s sentence. In the big, cruel, cold world out there, his father still had admirable resolve in the behemoth Government sector to tuck his son in with paternal benevolence.
Arijit discovered that tea could be had faster when it grew a bit colder. One gulp and he earned his salvation from the living room that had turned into a career-counselling clinic.
“Yaaaaar, what are you doing today, man”? Arijit never really managed to give a coherent answer to that ebullient question of Rohit. In response to his mumbling, Rohit would quickly drown it by saying, “Chal yaar, movie pe chalte hai”.
Rohit was Arijit’s friend, who had risen from slumdog existence. Unknown colleges, unspoken grades, rocking parties.......an oblivious speck in the world of insecure toppers. When he started off with a job, he looked bit like a pet Labrador being thrown into a pack of street dogs to spend his life with them. Two years hence, and Rohit had transformed himself into a deft street-fighter. Into marketing and sales, he could churn out industry jargon in conversations as if it were being sprayed from machine guns.
At the mall, Rohit went on mindlessly chattering how he was marked for crucification next week, for not generating enough sales figures. “Arre, arre....please, I will pay”, Rohit stopped his monologue to prevent Arijit from taking out his wallet at the ticket counter. On the way up the escalator to the top floor where the multiplex was located, Rohit completed his interrupted oral sales report, and then asked, “So, wassup with you, dude? How’s the job search coming along?” Arijit’s summary lasted for barely one floor of the escalators’ ascent. As they handed the tickets to the usher, Arijit decided to summarise it with a ‘Chal raha hai, yaar. Let’s see.”
Back in McDonalds, after the movie got over, Arijit watched Rohit’s eyes move around with undercover stealth. Then suddenly in the middle of a bite of a burger, Rohit hissed “To your left, behind, in front of the glass wall, having a cold drink.” As Arijit attempted to turn around, Rohit stopped him saying, “What do you think you are doing! Turn slowly man; don’t turn like somebody is pointing out something to you!” Arijit this time turned with an orchestrated James Bond nonchalance to see a slim girl in a black dress sipping from a towering McDonald carton and staring out of the window. “Hot, na”? Rohit smirked with devilish intent. “Even she was staring at me.”
Arijit returned home tired. Normally he found Rohit’s newly acquired corporate sheen and his imaginary tryst with girls sitting a dozen tables away, quite amusing. But this time, he felt different. While he was tasting the new icecream-dipped-in-coke at McD’s, something that Arijit had immediately voted as one of the worst culinary innovations ever, and watching Rohit rattle alternately between sales figures and girls; he noticed a sense of pride and satisfaction in the guy. He was talking his heart out, as if he had earned the weekend. He was taking out his wallet with the relish of having worked for the notes ensconced in it. That girl by the window side was his affordable hobby because he was standing on his two feet. Arijit realised that he, on the other hand was standing on the red carpet of some exotic paper certificates. Pull the carpet, and he would be on the floor. Mentally Arijit told himself that any further movie with Rohit would have to wait.
Days inched by. Weeks crawled on. Diwali came. Amidst an outrageous cacophony of blasts that seemed to occur eternally outside, Arijit sat in his room with his laptop cradled on his legs. Nothing. No one. Yahoo mail tauntingly revealed no new mail, inspite of him refreshing the page with frustrating regularity. For the past half an hour, Arijit had been watching new status messages being posted in Facebook. “4 new posts”. After a while “1 new post”. Arijit felt like he was on National Geographic watching and recording when one lion would yawn and the other would sit down. Gtalk obviously had an array of red and green bulbs beside names of several of his friends. But nobody bothered dropping by for a chat. “Nobody really cares, do they”, he wondered. “I am after all the unshaven unemployed couch potato, writing flattering letters and boastful CVs, while all of you are leading smart lives in a smart jobs”. Arijit felt a kind of childish hostility against them all. “If they don’t bother chatting with me, SO WON’T I”.
Five minutes. Ten. Fifteen minutes. His Gandhian protest seemed to go unnoticed. “HELLO GUYS CAN’T YOU SEE ME”, Arijit felt like yelling. But each one seemed to be absorbed in their own parallel universes. Even if somebody did stop by, Arijit wondered if he really had any answer for the question, “How was your day”. The day was ............Arijit realised that he was decaying from inside. Nowadays if his mother would ask him to get something thing, he would idly stare at the object for some time wondering why it did not suddenly grow a pair of legs to walk past him. The ultimate shocker came to Arijit when he realised that he was watching FRIENDS....and wasn’t laughing at all. It was as if he was okay with the recorded laughter of the audience doing it for him. “I am going mad”, he told himself.
“Yaar, Wasssup”, Rohit’s enthusiastic voice came with the phone ring that suddenly flashed on Arijit’s mobile phone. “Hey listen, I need a favour man. It’s this babe, yaar. Met on the bus. And guess what, this one actually talks to me! So here’s the deal. I want to ask her out, but before that I want to sort of make her feel comfortable. So I thought that I would call her for dinner with my friends; you know just to make her feel as if I am not really dating her, or something..” Arijit decided that if there was indeed a low point of his dismal day; listening to Rohit make Bush-like plans to woo a girl, was most certainly it.
“So great, go ahead”, Arijit replied.
“That’s the problem, no one is free yaar.” Rohit replied as if waiting for the cue. “Why don’t you come along?”
“Hi, my name is Arijit”, Arijit replied to the slightly overweight girl at the side of Rohit. “Great, so let’s go then. There’s this really cool Chinese restaurant on the way. Let’s go guys.” Rohit suggested with orchestrated enthusiasm. “So what are you doing, Arijit?” Pooja asked over a glass of beer, once they walked into a plush restaurant that Arijit suspected would lighten Rohit’s pockets dearly once the bill came. “Well, actually nothing. Rohit here will tell you that I am even available for hanging his coat. But the answer to your question is that I am just out of LBS and LSE. Looking for a job.”
“Wow, that’s something, isn’t it? What do you need for getting into LBS.”
“Nothing much, actually; you need some profs who think that you are a prodigy. And some great essay writing”, Arijit replied.
At the end of the dinner, as they came out of the restaurant, Pooja gave him a rather penetrating stare as she said, “It was lovely meeting you, Arijit.”
“Bye, Pooja”, said Rohit.
Days later, Pooja Gupta’s friend request came on Arijit’s Facebook profile. There were three hundred and twenty nine faces lined up there already who did nothing more than just smile at him constantly. Another one could do no extra harm. “Just need to tell Rohit that she doesn’t seem his type”, Arijit thought as he accepted the request.
It was Diwali again. This time Arijit found himself in his office party wearing a rich sherwani, putting his life on the line for lighting a fire cracker. As he faked a laugh with some of his colleagues, he managed to efficaciously slide the paneer tikka off the serving-spoon onto his plate. Finding a quiet spot he seated himself, giving a royal brush to his sherwani to prevent sitting on it. Butchering the paneer into two neat halves, his thoughts flew to the evening last Diwali. Where he met Pooja. The only person who went on to poke him on Gtalk, saying “Hiya, how are you doing?” The one who turned out be his greatest support during those unshaven days when he had nothing to do but watch the screen for a mail to drop by. In all those days of inaction, she was the only one to reach to the phone to get his call, and return them back if she missed him. She was such a great friend.
But was he so absorbed in himself that he did not realise that she had actually fallen in love with him? Arijit would have perhaps never known. His new job started. Life suddenly picked up frenetic pace. Long philosophical conversations got converted into quick “Hw r u. Im fine” messages. New places, new people, new friends......without realising it Pooja faded to the background.
Arijit munched on the paneer piece as he remembered the day when in one phone call one evening Pooja admitted that she could no longer keep the crush to herself. Yes, she loved him. The words stung him like something he had never felt before. “I do like you”, was all he could cough out. In a fraction of a second, Arijit suddenly found himself delving into his own self like a person thrown off a cliff, wondering what he really felt for her.
“That’s ok”, came a gruff reply from the other side of the phone. “Hey listen Arijit, I need to go now.” Arijit could now feel Pooja’s pain float out pungently with her discretion. ‘Was I using her? Was I being selfish... But I never wanted to hurt her’, Arijit screamed out silently. Groping for words, he finally said, “Hey Pooja........I...” .“No probs Arijit” came a calm reply from the receiver; “ I wasn’t expecting it either. Good bye.”
Click. And then silence.
It was as if Pooja was there all though the darkness of recession, and then like a spirit disappeared theatrically when the first rays of recovery found its way into Arijit’s world.
Pooja never called after that. Neither did she answer calls. And Arijit had to accept the inconvenient truth that he was not doing bad at all. Yes, his good friend was lost. But several not-so-selfless ones emerged. Pooja was a small, itching blot on his conscience; the gnawing feeling of having let down a friend.
"Hi Ari", from the seat below, Arijit could only see a long expanse of legs till the skirt hit his view like a saving grace. "How are you doing? Aren't you the new guy who joined......."
Arijit forced a smile as the attractive lady sat beside him. "Have I seen you somewhere. I mean before this ofcourse. Would you be knowing....."
Arijit went on answering in his polite self. But in his mind there was a red flag that was billowing furiously. And he realised that he was giving guarded replies; smiling, but not laughing; conscious of an unease. Suddenly he found himself deeply analysing every word of the lady in the unknown recesses of his mind, wondering if they concealed anything more than what it seemed. It was as if something in the bottom of his mind rattled as if warning him of something dire.
The lady soon walked away, unimpressed by Arijit's muted and strange replies. "Rohit would have killed to be in my position five minutes back", Arijit chuckled.
But as he idly gazed at the slim hips of the lady oscillate off to another corner of the hall, Arijit knew exactly what was happening. Why he was behaving so charmlessly. Why he was being afraid of the unforseen circumstance of harmless flirting. What was stopping him from exploring anything else with anyone else.
It was the ghost of Pooja that was haunting him.
I would like to apply for the position of.......
I have recently completed my MBA from London Business School; previously MSc Economics from LSE, and graduation from....... (you better be reading this very carefully- it took me over two freaking decades of my life to fill up this paragraph)
I am really interested in the Investment Banking profile of the job. It is something that excites me tremendously (oh yes, I have wild, rave dreams about companies in the night)
In support of my leadership qualities, I have been the (President of the United States), and also spent some very constructive time during my previous internship (where I found out that I had a rare talent for online stick cricket)
Please find my CV attached. I am sure I can value-add to your company (Oh, I so love this term)
Yours Sincerely (Pleadingly, Grovelling-ly, Begging-ly)
Arijit Sen (Have a heart!)
“And now, ‘Send’ “. The button mocked a push with a light click of the laptop touch-pad. Immediately to be sent across cities and oceans and mountains, to join other applications into the e-dustbin of another company’s HR office, Arijit thought . Would he be really awarded this time for his absurd stretch of imagination? “Well somebody should fall for it", he soliloquised.
“So, Arijit.....”, with special emphasis on the ‘so’, was usually the way any of his mother’s friends would begin a conversation with him, just as he tried to sneak out unnoticed. “So, Orijit; akhun ki korcho” (Arijit, what are you upto now). Arijit realised that till not so long ago, the name of an exalted university and an impending exam would be enough to shut all of them up with an impressed smile. This time, Swapna aunty gave a long slurp to the tea and with remarkable snugness went on, “Don’t worry. With your qualifications, there are lots of jobs out there”, pointing her tea cup towards the open expanse from his ninth floor window. “You just need to keep trying. You know, my daughter. See, now she is working with TCS. Ofcourse hers was campus placement. For you, you need some experience. Puchhh. It’s not easy. But don’t worry”
Arijit wondered if Swapna aunty with her versatile daughter was infact his greatest worry; with his sordid condition of inaction being treated by her as biscuits to be moistened with her tea. “I need to go, aunty”, he replied, standing up abruptly,and giving a sweet smile that could have easily landed him a job of a butler at a five star joint. "Doesn't she have anything else to do?", Arijit rumbled under his breath
It’s been roughly two months. Two months since he came back from London. And reformed the contact details on his CV. And though every HR personnel had become intensely ‘Dear’ to him in cover letters, none bothered returning his affections. Some did, and then an odd interview would occur and then everything would again go deathly quiet between the company and him as if the subject of jobs was too taboo a topic to be discussed.
Back at home, his father would brew tea in the morning with an Armageddon look on his face. “Why don’t you apply to Analytics jobs? There are so many of those”.
“But Baba, I am not interested in those...”, Arijit would say wondering why there wasn’t a faster way to have tea than by luxuriously sipping it.
“What do you mean, not interested? Not interested. Job is job”. After a while, “Then government?”, Baba would explode with renewed energy. “Why not government services? Give an exam, clear it....”
“And then sit on a table and clear files”, Arijit mentally completed Baba’s sentence. In the big, cruel, cold world out there, his father still had admirable resolve in the behemoth Government sector to tuck his son in with paternal benevolence.
Arijit discovered that tea could be had faster when it grew a bit colder. One gulp and he earned his salvation from the living room that had turned into a career-counselling clinic.
“Yaaaaar, what are you doing today, man”? Arijit never really managed to give a coherent answer to that ebullient question of Rohit. In response to his mumbling, Rohit would quickly drown it by saying, “Chal yaar, movie pe chalte hai”.
Rohit was Arijit’s friend, who had risen from slumdog existence. Unknown colleges, unspoken grades, rocking parties.......an oblivious speck in the world of insecure toppers. When he started off with a job, he looked bit like a pet Labrador being thrown into a pack of street dogs to spend his life with them. Two years hence, and Rohit had transformed himself into a deft street-fighter. Into marketing and sales, he could churn out industry jargon in conversations as if it were being sprayed from machine guns.
At the mall, Rohit went on mindlessly chattering how he was marked for crucification next week, for not generating enough sales figures. “Arre, arre....please, I will pay”, Rohit stopped his monologue to prevent Arijit from taking out his wallet at the ticket counter. On the way up the escalator to the top floor where the multiplex was located, Rohit completed his interrupted oral sales report, and then asked, “So, wassup with you, dude? How’s the job search coming along?” Arijit’s summary lasted for barely one floor of the escalators’ ascent. As they handed the tickets to the usher, Arijit decided to summarise it with a ‘Chal raha hai, yaar. Let’s see.”
Back in McDonalds, after the movie got over, Arijit watched Rohit’s eyes move around with undercover stealth. Then suddenly in the middle of a bite of a burger, Rohit hissed “To your left, behind, in front of the glass wall, having a cold drink.” As Arijit attempted to turn around, Rohit stopped him saying, “What do you think you are doing! Turn slowly man; don’t turn like somebody is pointing out something to you!” Arijit this time turned with an orchestrated James Bond nonchalance to see a slim girl in a black dress sipping from a towering McDonald carton and staring out of the window. “Hot, na”? Rohit smirked with devilish intent. “Even she was staring at me.”
Arijit returned home tired. Normally he found Rohit’s newly acquired corporate sheen and his imaginary tryst with girls sitting a dozen tables away, quite amusing. But this time, he felt different. While he was tasting the new icecream-dipped-in-coke at McD’s, something that Arijit had immediately voted as one of the worst culinary innovations ever, and watching Rohit rattle alternately between sales figures and girls; he noticed a sense of pride and satisfaction in the guy. He was talking his heart out, as if he had earned the weekend. He was taking out his wallet with the relish of having worked for the notes ensconced in it. That girl by the window side was his affordable hobby because he was standing on his two feet. Arijit realised that he, on the other hand was standing on the red carpet of some exotic paper certificates. Pull the carpet, and he would be on the floor. Mentally Arijit told himself that any further movie with Rohit would have to wait.
Days inched by. Weeks crawled on. Diwali came. Amidst an outrageous cacophony of blasts that seemed to occur eternally outside, Arijit sat in his room with his laptop cradled on his legs. Nothing. No one. Yahoo mail tauntingly revealed no new mail, inspite of him refreshing the page with frustrating regularity. For the past half an hour, Arijit had been watching new status messages being posted in Facebook. “4 new posts”. After a while “1 new post”. Arijit felt like he was on National Geographic watching and recording when one lion would yawn and the other would sit down. Gtalk obviously had an array of red and green bulbs beside names of several of his friends. But nobody bothered dropping by for a chat. “Nobody really cares, do they”, he wondered. “I am after all the unshaven unemployed couch potato, writing flattering letters and boastful CVs, while all of you are leading smart lives in a smart jobs”. Arijit felt a kind of childish hostility against them all. “If they don’t bother chatting with me, SO WON’T I”.
Five minutes. Ten. Fifteen minutes. His Gandhian protest seemed to go unnoticed. “HELLO GUYS CAN’T YOU SEE ME”, Arijit felt like yelling. But each one seemed to be absorbed in their own parallel universes. Even if somebody did stop by, Arijit wondered if he really had any answer for the question, “How was your day”. The day was ............Arijit realised that he was decaying from inside. Nowadays if his mother would ask him to get something thing, he would idly stare at the object for some time wondering why it did not suddenly grow a pair of legs to walk past him. The ultimate shocker came to Arijit when he realised that he was watching FRIENDS....and wasn’t laughing at all. It was as if he was okay with the recorded laughter of the audience doing it for him. “I am going mad”, he told himself.
“Yaar, Wasssup”, Rohit’s enthusiastic voice came with the phone ring that suddenly flashed on Arijit’s mobile phone. “Hey listen, I need a favour man. It’s this babe, yaar. Met on the bus. And guess what, this one actually talks to me! So here’s the deal. I want to ask her out, but before that I want to sort of make her feel comfortable. So I thought that I would call her for dinner with my friends; you know just to make her feel as if I am not really dating her, or something..” Arijit decided that if there was indeed a low point of his dismal day; listening to Rohit make Bush-like plans to woo a girl, was most certainly it.
“So great, go ahead”, Arijit replied.
“That’s the problem, no one is free yaar.” Rohit replied as if waiting for the cue. “Why don’t you come along?”
“Hi, my name is Arijit”, Arijit replied to the slightly overweight girl at the side of Rohit. “Great, so let’s go then. There’s this really cool Chinese restaurant on the way. Let’s go guys.” Rohit suggested with orchestrated enthusiasm. “So what are you doing, Arijit?” Pooja asked over a glass of beer, once they walked into a plush restaurant that Arijit suspected would lighten Rohit’s pockets dearly once the bill came. “Well, actually nothing. Rohit here will tell you that I am even available for hanging his coat. But the answer to your question is that I am just out of LBS and LSE. Looking for a job.”
“Wow, that’s something, isn’t it? What do you need for getting into LBS.”
“Nothing much, actually; you need some profs who think that you are a prodigy. And some great essay writing”, Arijit replied.
At the end of the dinner, as they came out of the restaurant, Pooja gave him a rather penetrating stare as she said, “It was lovely meeting you, Arijit.”
“Bye, Pooja”, said Rohit.
Days later, Pooja Gupta’s friend request came on Arijit’s Facebook profile. There were three hundred and twenty nine faces lined up there already who did nothing more than just smile at him constantly. Another one could do no extra harm. “Just need to tell Rohit that she doesn’t seem his type”, Arijit thought as he accepted the request.
It was Diwali again. This time Arijit found himself in his office party wearing a rich sherwani, putting his life on the line for lighting a fire cracker. As he faked a laugh with some of his colleagues, he managed to efficaciously slide the paneer tikka off the serving-spoon onto his plate. Finding a quiet spot he seated himself, giving a royal brush to his sherwani to prevent sitting on it. Butchering the paneer into two neat halves, his thoughts flew to the evening last Diwali. Where he met Pooja. The only person who went on to poke him on Gtalk, saying “Hiya, how are you doing?” The one who turned out be his greatest support during those unshaven days when he had nothing to do but watch the screen for a mail to drop by. In all those days of inaction, she was the only one to reach to the phone to get his call, and return them back if she missed him. She was such a great friend.
But was he so absorbed in himself that he did not realise that she had actually fallen in love with him? Arijit would have perhaps never known. His new job started. Life suddenly picked up frenetic pace. Long philosophical conversations got converted into quick “Hw r u. Im fine” messages. New places, new people, new friends......without realising it Pooja faded to the background.
Arijit munched on the paneer piece as he remembered the day when in one phone call one evening Pooja admitted that she could no longer keep the crush to herself. Yes, she loved him. The words stung him like something he had never felt before. “I do like you”, was all he could cough out. In a fraction of a second, Arijit suddenly found himself delving into his own self like a person thrown off a cliff, wondering what he really felt for her.
“That’s ok”, came a gruff reply from the other side of the phone. “Hey listen Arijit, I need to go now.” Arijit could now feel Pooja’s pain float out pungently with her discretion. ‘Was I using her? Was I being selfish... But I never wanted to hurt her’, Arijit screamed out silently. Groping for words, he finally said, “Hey Pooja........I...” .“No probs Arijit” came a calm reply from the receiver; “ I wasn’t expecting it either. Good bye.”
Click. And then silence.
It was as if Pooja was there all though the darkness of recession, and then like a spirit disappeared theatrically when the first rays of recovery found its way into Arijit’s world.
Pooja never called after that. Neither did she answer calls. And Arijit had to accept the inconvenient truth that he was not doing bad at all. Yes, his good friend was lost. But several not-so-selfless ones emerged. Pooja was a small, itching blot on his conscience; the gnawing feeling of having let down a friend.
"Hi Ari", from the seat below, Arijit could only see a long expanse of legs till the skirt hit his view like a saving grace. "How are you doing? Aren't you the new guy who joined......."
Arijit forced a smile as the attractive lady sat beside him. "Have I seen you somewhere. I mean before this ofcourse. Would you be knowing....."
Arijit went on answering in his polite self. But in his mind there was a red flag that was billowing furiously. And he realised that he was giving guarded replies; smiling, but not laughing; conscious of an unease. Suddenly he found himself deeply analysing every word of the lady in the unknown recesses of his mind, wondering if they concealed anything more than what it seemed. It was as if something in the bottom of his mind rattled as if warning him of something dire.
The lady soon walked away, unimpressed by Arijit's muted and strange replies. "Rohit would have killed to be in my position five minutes back", Arijit chuckled.
But as he idly gazed at the slim hips of the lady oscillate off to another corner of the hall, Arijit knew exactly what was happening. Why he was behaving so charmlessly. Why he was being afraid of the unforseen circumstance of harmless flirting. What was stopping him from exploring anything else with anyone else.
It was the ghost of Pooja that was haunting him.
Saturday 18 July 2009
The Matter that Matters
The salesperson at John Lewis repeated the final statement twice, just to make sure. And I suspect it was nothing to do with his British bearings. The British have this peculiar habit of answering any question by first repeating the question. There is nothing dim-witted about it; infact it is a very clever strategy. It has the advantage of beguiling the other person with a very long and impressive answer though it is only fifty percent productive!
This person’s reaction however had a different source. As an employee to a major retailer on London’s famed Oxford Street, I imagine that he must have been quite used to people treating him like a museum curator- looking cautiously into the shelves, and then barraging him with questions about something that they otherwise have no plan to buy. Infact I had long been in that pestilential category; disappointing many a sales assistant with hopeful questions on ipods, cell phones, cameras, books, and at the climactic moment giving a quick ‘Thank You’ to tell him or her that my debit card was off their limits!
This time, it was quite different. My father very casually asked about camcorders. Telling him that he wasn’t too sure which one to buy. The sales person guided us mechanically through the shelves of camcorder exhibits, each one as if curling itself up in a tight cocoon of compactness and economy. His final stop was a resplendent Sony model in steel and black, where his guided tour demanded a recitation of the camcorder’s excellent features. While he went on nonchalantly with the zoom, mega-pixels, screen, looks, hard-drive....my father cut him mid-way, saying, “That’s okay; we will buy it.”
“Right......” replied the salesman, suddenly appearing to take his job seriously for the first time. “So,you want to buy it! Okay, so why don’t you pay on that counter sir; and then collect it from the customer service desk on the ground floor. If you show this receipt...............”
I don’t think my father had any choice. The fact is that we are leaving London in about a month. And fanciful tales of frequent flyers entangled in time zones does not really apply to our modest family. So most of us have already prepared ourselves for the inevitability that as the plane will taxi itself to the runway of Heathrow airport, it would be the last we will see of this disciplined land in a very long time to come.
Ordinarily, it should be time to feel sad.
But then that’s such a waste of time. There’s infact no better time to get busy!
Belonging to an Air India household for the past twenty two years; I was quite used to listening to stories of officials coming back from foreign postings and decorating their living rooms into a mini inspirational model of the imperial Victoria and Albert museum. Now, as I observe our house in London get cluttered with impressive boxes and wrappings of cameras, camcorders, laptops, cutlery, clothes, watches.....I have a feeling that our Mumbai flat is all set to become a very crowded place to live in. Every day has become a frenzied shopping extravaganza, and much to my mother’s ecstatic delight; there is seldom a day that does not end with pushing the door open with large departmental stores’ bags biting into the palms.
And it’s not just to do with shopping. In every discernible activity; there is the feeling that ‘It’s the last time. Make the most of it!’ Statues of semi-clad angels agonisingly stretching over ceilings and gateways; large framed photos of kings, queens and their family; palatial palaces on public display; parks; memorials; museums; theatres; skidding over river Thames in a ferry that could easily put our speed boats to shame; Madam Tussads; standing foolishly on the Greenwich Mean Time line, trying to feel historic.......it is a trek that can easily make you allergic to archaic objects for a long time.
“Paris, Italy, Spain, Switzerland, Austria, Belgium....and where was that other place...yes- Germany!”- the demure recital of one of my friends did not surprise me. She simply joined the long list of Indians here who believe in the sacrosanctity of a Europe tour all gulped down in one orgiastic schedule, before the visa for London expires. These are after all places where all Indians salivate to visit; and once visited, proudly brag about them in communal gatherings with a sufficiently loud voice, intercepted by an occasional belch originating from their overloaded plate. Coming to London, and not visiting Europe is akin to a touristic hara-kiri!
These are indeed turbulent times. No, I am not talking of the economy, stupid! I am talking of all these trips into British history, or with dinosaurs at the Natural History Museum, or digging my teeth into a delightfully warm Belgian baguette on Bond Street; or worse of all, waiting for a shopping list to be ticked with bureaucratic lethargy. All these have managed to evoke one universal reaction—namely hitting the bed with a violence that otherwise came after a hard day at the university.
But the reality has yet to sink in. That what is turbulent is indeed the economy, and in this Alice-In-Wonderland world; I am being the stupid person! Soon after all these sights and sounds have been photographed, recorded, shared, tagged and labelled; after every suitcase has been strenously zipped through sheer human perseverance; and after the final hug has been exchanged..........
.....the same stewardess on flight who will mention "The outside temperature is 15 degree celsius"; will ten hours later, on reaching Mumbai be mentioning, "We have landed at the Chatrapati Shivaji Intenational Terminus. The outside temperature is 33 degree celsius......"
The heat will be turned on. Figuratively and literally. And something tells me that the expensive camcorder whose purchase helped make the day for the salesman in London; will come of little aid then!
This person’s reaction however had a different source. As an employee to a major retailer on London’s famed Oxford Street, I imagine that he must have been quite used to people treating him like a museum curator- looking cautiously into the shelves, and then barraging him with questions about something that they otherwise have no plan to buy. Infact I had long been in that pestilential category; disappointing many a sales assistant with hopeful questions on ipods, cell phones, cameras, books, and at the climactic moment giving a quick ‘Thank You’ to tell him or her that my debit card was off their limits!
This time, it was quite different. My father very casually asked about camcorders. Telling him that he wasn’t too sure which one to buy. The sales person guided us mechanically through the shelves of camcorder exhibits, each one as if curling itself up in a tight cocoon of compactness and economy. His final stop was a resplendent Sony model in steel and black, where his guided tour demanded a recitation of the camcorder’s excellent features. While he went on nonchalantly with the zoom, mega-pixels, screen, looks, hard-drive....my father cut him mid-way, saying, “That’s okay; we will buy it.”
“Right......” replied the salesman, suddenly appearing to take his job seriously for the first time. “So,you want to buy it! Okay, so why don’t you pay on that counter sir; and then collect it from the customer service desk on the ground floor. If you show this receipt...............”
I don’t think my father had any choice. The fact is that we are leaving London in about a month. And fanciful tales of frequent flyers entangled in time zones does not really apply to our modest family. So most of us have already prepared ourselves for the inevitability that as the plane will taxi itself to the runway of Heathrow airport, it would be the last we will see of this disciplined land in a very long time to come.
Ordinarily, it should be time to feel sad.
But then that’s such a waste of time. There’s infact no better time to get busy!
Belonging to an Air India household for the past twenty two years; I was quite used to listening to stories of officials coming back from foreign postings and decorating their living rooms into a mini inspirational model of the imperial Victoria and Albert museum. Now, as I observe our house in London get cluttered with impressive boxes and wrappings of cameras, camcorders, laptops, cutlery, clothes, watches.....I have a feeling that our Mumbai flat is all set to become a very crowded place to live in. Every day has become a frenzied shopping extravaganza, and much to my mother’s ecstatic delight; there is seldom a day that does not end with pushing the door open with large departmental stores’ bags biting into the palms.
And it’s not just to do with shopping. In every discernible activity; there is the feeling that ‘It’s the last time. Make the most of it!’ Statues of semi-clad angels agonisingly stretching over ceilings and gateways; large framed photos of kings, queens and their family; palatial palaces on public display; parks; memorials; museums; theatres; skidding over river Thames in a ferry that could easily put our speed boats to shame; Madam Tussads; standing foolishly on the Greenwich Mean Time line, trying to feel historic.......it is a trek that can easily make you allergic to archaic objects for a long time.
“Paris, Italy, Spain, Switzerland, Austria, Belgium....and where was that other place...yes- Germany!”- the demure recital of one of my friends did not surprise me. She simply joined the long list of Indians here who believe in the sacrosanctity of a Europe tour all gulped down in one orgiastic schedule, before the visa for London expires. These are after all places where all Indians salivate to visit; and once visited, proudly brag about them in communal gatherings with a sufficiently loud voice, intercepted by an occasional belch originating from their overloaded plate. Coming to London, and not visiting Europe is akin to a touristic hara-kiri!
These are indeed turbulent times. No, I am not talking of the economy, stupid! I am talking of all these trips into British history, or with dinosaurs at the Natural History Museum, or digging my teeth into a delightfully warm Belgian baguette on Bond Street; or worse of all, waiting for a shopping list to be ticked with bureaucratic lethargy. All these have managed to evoke one universal reaction—namely hitting the bed with a violence that otherwise came after a hard day at the university.
But the reality has yet to sink in. That what is turbulent is indeed the economy, and in this Alice-In-Wonderland world; I am being the stupid person! Soon after all these sights and sounds have been photographed, recorded, shared, tagged and labelled; after every suitcase has been strenously zipped through sheer human perseverance; and after the final hug has been exchanged..........
.....the same stewardess on flight who will mention "The outside temperature is 15 degree celsius"; will ten hours later, on reaching Mumbai be mentioning, "We have landed at the Chatrapati Shivaji Intenational Terminus. The outside temperature is 33 degree celsius......"
The heat will be turned on. Figuratively and literally. And something tells me that the expensive camcorder whose purchase helped make the day for the salesman in London; will come of little aid then!
Saturday 16 May 2009
Welcome back to....INDIA'S GOT TALENT!
Like most things Indian, even the title of this note is plagiarised from a western concept (or rather ‘inspired’ as many film makers choose to term it after translating many Hollywood scenes in Hindi). In the UK, there is something of a craze with respect to a talent show called BRITAIN HAS GOT TALENT. The rough equivalent of American Idol, or our very own Indian Idol. I believe that the American one and the British one is graced by the charismatic smile and acidic remarks of Simon Cowell, whereas Indian judges try their level best to grimace, claw and behave like tough cops. Simon however remains quite unbeatable.
India chose its winner today in what was the world’s largest talent show- namely India’s assembly elections. Millions of people, countless districts, action-packed newsroom drama, hilarious political rallies, madness and dust-saw Manmohan Singh flash the V sign. The reluctant politician, whose squeaky voice is more suited more for lectures in classrooms than on microphones across acres of open spaces where election rallies are generally held in India. An inoffensive, quiet, retiring and gentlemanly person. And he was voted victorious on an arena dominated by arguably the most eloquent, vociferous and rhetorical participants that politics from anywhere in the world could possibly have.
I say Manmohan Singh, but news channels across India would correct me by saying that it is the Congress Party who has won the landslide victory under Sonia Gandhi’s stewardship. But that is for the record. Off record, I think that it is the prime minister who stole the show. Had the Congress Party not had Dr Singh as their poster boy, there would have almost surely been another coalition mix-and-match taking place now in India.
So what saw an Oxford educated Economics professor, an ex-governor of India’s central bank and former finance minister; capture the imagination of a billion plus people?
Now I find this quite strange and funny. India has a rich history of lawmakers who have should we say, rather dismal CVs. Not only have most of them never visited a school in their lives, but have alternatively done enough to spend the rest of their lives in prison had the system been more utopian. And they have been repeatedly voted to power. As if voters were blind. Or plain apathetic. There is infact no one more suited for the prime ministerial berth than the sagacious Dr Singh. But what surprises me is that the same huge population suddenly started to collectively feel the same way. It was as if there was a huge untapped market for a clean, educated and level-headed fellow, and bang- brand Manmohan captures that market.
Which sets me thinking that nothing is really impossible in India. Tell any well-to-do family in India to send their child to politics, and the general comment is that, “Oh Indian politics, it’s too dirty. That is no place for an honest man.” Well Manmohan Singh just rubbished that claim. And he made it to the top job. And he reminds me so very much of all the other Indian miracles that nobody initially believed in, but eventually happened. Like a couple of decades earlier, nobody believed in the fable of 8% growth. Nobody ever believed that a country where telephones were once considered a luxury good, would become the world’s largest consumer of mobile phones. A country that was on the verge of rejecting computers, becoming a global leader of IT. Indian companies acquiring global ones.
All of them, once impossible dreams that the Indian mind was incapable of dreaming. But all these did happen. Indeed if you woke up once in every five years, this country assures you of a new morning. And yet if you woke up every day, you would never notice the change. There are strong, invisible undercurrents that shape this nation that otherwise habitually looks hopeless to its own people.
Yes, Indian politics is still a dirty quagmire. Yes, there is a gross abuse of power at all levels. Yes, Manmohan Singh’s own colleagues could be a bunch of imbecile money minters. But they dare not touch the guy who has found the favour of the public. That force is too strong to challenge. And this could very well be a quiet symbol of a new reform in India’s infamous polity. Like most of the other ideas, this is also a laughable one. But if like the Indian economy, Dr Singh’s coup represents a fresh chapter in Indian politics, I think it goes well to call him a true hero.
Back here in London, I am just happy that I will once again be proud of the guy from my country, who will be shaking hands with foreign presidents and prime ministers. I am proud that my country is represented by a person who has a reputation for talking sense. A person who is known to carry with himself, his own audience.
You know, India has this talent show every five years (unstable governments make you wait even lesser!)
Its just that the right contestant takes a while to come!
Saturday 25 April 2009
VOTE FOR NANDAN NILEKANI!
Nandan Nilekani existed for so long only in the Economic Times for me. For all my non-Indian readers, Economic Times represents the Indian attempt at producing a fashionably serious financial newspaper that borrows its paper colour from London’s Financial Times. Nandan Nilekani is the co-founder of Infosys, the behemoth Indian software company whose success story is used much beyond prescription, to put forward the case of India Shining. Mr Nilekani came to the London School of Economics to launch his new book on ‘Imagining India’. And by virtue of the fact that for some reason, many great people discover a past-time in impressing LSE students and professors, Nandan Nilekani floated right out of the Economic Times to brush past me to the back stage as I waited outside for the doors of the lecture theatre to open.
'Nandan', as most of the people on stage chose to repeatedly addressed him as; was the second CEO I had seen in my life so far. The first was Vikram Pandit, head of CitiGroup, who happened to be exceedingly lucid in all topics, except on those related to finance and banking. And so he took from me the pride of being a student of Finance, given that I had quite failed to read his lips. And filled me with apprehension that Nandan’s domain being software, could prove to be completely out of my league.
Nandan Nilekani comes to the podium to talk about his perspective on India. And what I immediately get from him is a content page of...... ideas-
Ideas that in Nandan’s view have already struck India,
Ideas that are in the pipeline, and
Ideas that will eventually strike. Three+Two+Two. "Seven ideas", Mr Nilekani solemnly announced as if they may be some holy commandments about to be dictated from the scriptures.
But he is the founder of Infosys after all; and these are after all His ideas.
So I listen.
1. Population is now considered as a human resource than a social liability.......
2. Indian corporate houses started from being sceptical, and are now receptive to globalisation........
3. Primary education needs to be boosted.........
4. Infrastructure needs to be prioritised................
.........how higher education needs bureaucratic freedom, how politics needs to change, how climate change was important and to summarise, how India is a great country with great potential.
I was accompanied by two friends of mine, geeks whose currency of conversation usually entailed words like markets, funds, private equity holdings, returns, companies etc. Infact one of them had come geared to ask many uncomfortable questions on Infosys and other matters of corporate importance. But with Mr Nilekani suddenly getting all worked up about demographic patterns and climate change figures, I could not but miss a kind of bemused silence from my neighbour.
Because who we got to see today was Nandan Nilekani, the ace politician- campaigning for his book. Politician-type discussion into our problems, our strengths, our weaknesses. As if all the while we were waiting for the cofounder of a NASDAQ listed company to spell it out to us. Telling us that primary education is important and so is infrastructure. Which is absolutely fine, except that it was coming from a person whom one associates with the Innovative Indian Brain. It’s the kind of person we would look to for answers. The kind of person who gives keys to questions. Instead we got a Nandan Nilekani who provided flourishing question marks at the end of questions, and questions that we already knew.
Can the cofounder of Infosys attempt to tackle any of these problems using his experience as a CEO? That answer we are interested in, and that answer we do not get. What we get instead is what happens on bringing five argumentative Indians on a group-discussion table. Exactly the kind of good-to-hear rambling with no conclusion that you get to hear in overdose during election time in India.
But Nandan started his speech by some joke on Indian politicians during election time, and we all laughed. So even at the end, we still failed to think any less of our hero. In India, once a hero, forever a hero; and once a villain there is no way out of the public’s sentimental disdain. It was announced that Mr Nilekani would be around to autograph books in case you wanted to buy it from the stand outside. Immediately a serpentine queue to the stage materialised, every Indian student clutching a copy of the twenty pound book.
Perhaps when they will get home, look beyond the autograph and unfurl the pages, they will realise that there was nothing in their twenty pound purchase that they did not already know. Twenty pounds was just the price of some excellent packaging and memoir jotting.
And ofcourse, of the autograph.
'Nandan', as most of the people on stage chose to repeatedly addressed him as; was the second CEO I had seen in my life so far. The first was Vikram Pandit, head of CitiGroup, who happened to be exceedingly lucid in all topics, except on those related to finance and banking. And so he took from me the pride of being a student of Finance, given that I had quite failed to read his lips. And filled me with apprehension that Nandan’s domain being software, could prove to be completely out of my league.
Nandan Nilekani comes to the podium to talk about his perspective on India. And what I immediately get from him is a content page of...... ideas-
Ideas that in Nandan’s view have already struck India,
Ideas that are in the pipeline, and
Ideas that will eventually strike. Three+Two+Two. "Seven ideas", Mr Nilekani solemnly announced as if they may be some holy commandments about to be dictated from the scriptures.
But he is the founder of Infosys after all; and these are after all His ideas.
So I listen.
1. Population is now considered as a human resource than a social liability.......
2. Indian corporate houses started from being sceptical, and are now receptive to globalisation........
3. Primary education needs to be boosted.........
4. Infrastructure needs to be prioritised................
.........how higher education needs bureaucratic freedom, how politics needs to change, how climate change was important and to summarise, how India is a great country with great potential.
I was accompanied by two friends of mine, geeks whose currency of conversation usually entailed words like markets, funds, private equity holdings, returns, companies etc. Infact one of them had come geared to ask many uncomfortable questions on Infosys and other matters of corporate importance. But with Mr Nilekani suddenly getting all worked up about demographic patterns and climate change figures, I could not but miss a kind of bemused silence from my neighbour.
Because who we got to see today was Nandan Nilekani, the ace politician- campaigning for his book. Politician-type discussion into our problems, our strengths, our weaknesses. As if all the while we were waiting for the cofounder of a NASDAQ listed company to spell it out to us. Telling us that primary education is important and so is infrastructure. Which is absolutely fine, except that it was coming from a person whom one associates with the Innovative Indian Brain. It’s the kind of person we would look to for answers. The kind of person who gives keys to questions. Instead we got a Nandan Nilekani who provided flourishing question marks at the end of questions, and questions that we already knew.
Can the cofounder of Infosys attempt to tackle any of these problems using his experience as a CEO? That answer we are interested in, and that answer we do not get. What we get instead is what happens on bringing five argumentative Indians on a group-discussion table. Exactly the kind of good-to-hear rambling with no conclusion that you get to hear in overdose during election time in India.
But Nandan started his speech by some joke on Indian politicians during election time, and we all laughed. So even at the end, we still failed to think any less of our hero. In India, once a hero, forever a hero; and once a villain there is no way out of the public’s sentimental disdain. It was announced that Mr Nilekani would be around to autograph books in case you wanted to buy it from the stand outside. Immediately a serpentine queue to the stage materialised, every Indian student clutching a copy of the twenty pound book.
Perhaps when they will get home, look beyond the autograph and unfurl the pages, they will realise that there was nothing in their twenty pound purchase that they did not already know. Twenty pounds was just the price of some excellent packaging and memoir jotting.
And ofcourse, of the autograph.
Saturday 7 March 2009
Why Mr Vikram Pandit can never get the Nobel Prize
The New Academic Building of LSE, (funny thing that the name would never really allow this building to ever grow old, though as of now it is genuinely new!) is a place which has such elaborate security placed, that you feel that it is LSE’s latest in-house maximum-security prison. While other buildings of the London School of Economics allow you to stroll in and out as and when you like, in the NAB (as it is colloquially called), you need to impress a set of grave black coat gentlemen and a sliding glass partition with your ID proof before you can step in. So it came to me as no big surprise to find a lot more restrictions in place when Mr Vikram Pandit, CEO of Citigroup decided to come over to LSE to talk about the future of the banking industry.
Actually I should have replaced the full-stop in the previous sentence by an exclamation mark. Imagine a banker talking of banking in this scenario! I can imagine politicians, professors, career advisors, psychologists talk of relevant stuff regarding the crisis. But to know from a banker how to patch up the hole that he so meticulously dug, was like getting to know from a thief how to keep your wallet safe.
Of course there was a more nationalistic reason for me lining up for the lecture-Vikram Pandit is an Indian, and I remember vividly how a couple of years back when I was in Delhi; newspapers and news channels in India made a hero out of him on getting to know of his ascendancy to the top job.
The Sheikh Zayed Theatre, (if it is not obvious, the clumsy title has more to do with the identity of the building’s largest donor, than anything ascetic) was chock-block full. Howard Davies, LSE’s director comes to the stage in his impeccable best and all of a sudden breaks into such nostalgia, that we in the audience are made to believe that perhaps Davies and Pandit were indeed childhood chums. The front rows of the magnificent hall were filled with distinguishably dressed people, and you can sense that amidst tailor made suits, glittering watches and an air of aristocracy, they represented the class that Mr Pandit belonged to.
Mr Pandit walks to the dais in measured steps, starts talking out of his notes in an accent that betrays his Indian origins and reveals his true American colours. Ofcourse he is delighted to come to LSE and interact with budding economists, he says. And then he starts talking.
He talks, talks and talks.
He talks of changing world financial structure; of constructing an even-playing field for intermediaries, regulatory reform, global coordination and a new financial architecture.
Peppering it occasionally with mentions of the greatness of Citibank; how huge, wide, big and successful it is. Sounding more like a Citibank commercial being played within every ten minutes of talk on the financial crisis.
And then he sits down beside Howard Davies, both having a snug, comfortable smile on their faces as if it is a job well done. We in the audience are forced to break into applause after having assailed with half an hour of complicated terms and concepts in Finance, knowing that perhaps there was certainly something in that web of grandiloquent ideas that we were too naive to spot.
“So how do you propose regulatory reform, Mr Pandit?” braved a student in the audience during the question and answer session. “After all, you happen to be the ones who are paying them.”
Mr Pandit answered by first shifting his weight from one arm of the chair to another. Then he said. “We appreciate that it is a daunting task, and the fact that it would require complex mechanisms in place, that will look into the more difficult issues. With respect to risk taking measures, there needs to be more active participation of the public sector and the way in which these regulatory organisations respond, by widening their net so that the bedrock of capitalism is restored.”
Howard Davies quickly shouts, “Next question” to prevent any more sense to be made out of that insight.
“Mr Pandit, what do you think of Citigroup becoming nationalised.”
Again came a reply that was a cocktail of words like- appreciation, participation, complexities, coordination, regulation and collaboration.
While Mr Pandit kept shifting on his seat from one arm to the other, I lost track midway and suddenly daydreamed of an interview I remembered seeing recently of another banker on television during the 10'O Clock news. The banker was Nobel Peace Prize winner, Mohammed Yunus. He stared straight at the TV presenter and said confidently, "We have lots of money. We are doing pretty well." To which the anchor replied, "Not many people I know of, actually manages to say that these days! How do you manage to do it Mr Yunus......"
Come to think of it, I reasoned out; both Vikram Pandit and Mohammed Yunus were at the heads of their respective banks. But one came in a striped coat that made way for a dotted blue tie, and glittering cuff-links; while the other was in the interview wearing a simple white jacket and a ‘kurta’. One was talking currently of things that even an Economics student would find difficult to make sense of. While Yunus was talking in a language that my mother who is otherwise mortified of Economics, could very easily appreciate.
Both talked of change. Of reforming a system. But Yunus spoke more simply. And more creatively. He spoke of the fact that there is something fundamentally wrong with the financial system that exclusively caters to just one section of society and pretends as if the other never existed. The reason Grameen Bank is making multi-million dollar profits is because the bank knows who it is lending to. The person with the loan is surrounded by a community that regulates and checks on defaults. Yunus reasoned out that in the current scenario, all what the banks had were only a bunch of legal documents and a set of AAA ratings. They had no clue who they were actually lending to. It was a ghost economy. We need to now make a financial system that runs on the real economy. With real people. But if we do not learn from this crisis, and return back to the original model after bailing out the banks, we would be planting seeds for another and much greater crisis. Human beings have great potential. Bring that potential into the market place. It will lead to more purchasing power, more consumer spending, more reliable banking.
“And that’s exactly what Citibank is doing", concluded Mr Pandit, breaking my reverie. "We currently have 109 branches all over the globe with two third of our staff belonging to their home country, and so we have a set of local banks, that cater to regional needs, and we connect all these ‘local’ banks across the globe to make a truly global bank called Citibank.” drawing an arc in the air while trying to connect his 109 local banks.
My friend sitting in the row ahead turned towards me in reaction to that, and sheilding her face with her hand gave me a sarcastic smile. She knew what I was thinking. And I knew what she was thinking.
Citibank might be one great bank that out of pure coincidence had to be bailed out. Mr Vikram Pandit may continue to expound and chase his lofty ideas of global coordination and comprehensive regulatory architecture. Audiences in lecture theatres and board rooms may continue to get impressed and give standing ovations. And Mr Pandit may still end up remaining to be the head of his ‘global-cum-local’ bank.
But there is no way the Nobel Prize could possibly land on his lap.
That is perhaps an entitlement of people who can think much simpler.
Actually I should have replaced the full-stop in the previous sentence by an exclamation mark. Imagine a banker talking of banking in this scenario! I can imagine politicians, professors, career advisors, psychologists talk of relevant stuff regarding the crisis. But to know from a banker how to patch up the hole that he so meticulously dug, was like getting to know from a thief how to keep your wallet safe.
Of course there was a more nationalistic reason for me lining up for the lecture-Vikram Pandit is an Indian, and I remember vividly how a couple of years back when I was in Delhi; newspapers and news channels in India made a hero out of him on getting to know of his ascendancy to the top job.
The Sheikh Zayed Theatre, (if it is not obvious, the clumsy title has more to do with the identity of the building’s largest donor, than anything ascetic) was chock-block full. Howard Davies, LSE’s director comes to the stage in his impeccable best and all of a sudden breaks into such nostalgia, that we in the audience are made to believe that perhaps Davies and Pandit were indeed childhood chums. The front rows of the magnificent hall were filled with distinguishably dressed people, and you can sense that amidst tailor made suits, glittering watches and an air of aristocracy, they represented the class that Mr Pandit belonged to.
Mr Pandit walks to the dais in measured steps, starts talking out of his notes in an accent that betrays his Indian origins and reveals his true American colours. Ofcourse he is delighted to come to LSE and interact with budding economists, he says. And then he starts talking.
He talks, talks and talks.
He talks of changing world financial structure; of constructing an even-playing field for intermediaries, regulatory reform, global coordination and a new financial architecture.
Peppering it occasionally with mentions of the greatness of Citibank; how huge, wide, big and successful it is. Sounding more like a Citibank commercial being played within every ten minutes of talk on the financial crisis.
And then he sits down beside Howard Davies, both having a snug, comfortable smile on their faces as if it is a job well done. We in the audience are forced to break into applause after having assailed with half an hour of complicated terms and concepts in Finance, knowing that perhaps there was certainly something in that web of grandiloquent ideas that we were too naive to spot.
“So how do you propose regulatory reform, Mr Pandit?” braved a student in the audience during the question and answer session. “After all, you happen to be the ones who are paying them.”
Mr Pandit answered by first shifting his weight from one arm of the chair to another. Then he said. “We appreciate that it is a daunting task, and the fact that it would require complex mechanisms in place, that will look into the more difficult issues. With respect to risk taking measures, there needs to be more active participation of the public sector and the way in which these regulatory organisations respond, by widening their net so that the bedrock of capitalism is restored.”
Howard Davies quickly shouts, “Next question” to prevent any more sense to be made out of that insight.
“Mr Pandit, what do you think of Citigroup becoming nationalised.”
Again came a reply that was a cocktail of words like- appreciation, participation, complexities, coordination, regulation and collaboration.
While Mr Pandit kept shifting on his seat from one arm to the other, I lost track midway and suddenly daydreamed of an interview I remembered seeing recently of another banker on television during the 10'O Clock news. The banker was Nobel Peace Prize winner, Mohammed Yunus. He stared straight at the TV presenter and said confidently, "We have lots of money. We are doing pretty well." To which the anchor replied, "Not many people I know of, actually manages to say that these days! How do you manage to do it Mr Yunus......"
Come to think of it, I reasoned out; both Vikram Pandit and Mohammed Yunus were at the heads of their respective banks. But one came in a striped coat that made way for a dotted blue tie, and glittering cuff-links; while the other was in the interview wearing a simple white jacket and a ‘kurta’. One was talking currently of things that even an Economics student would find difficult to make sense of. While Yunus was talking in a language that my mother who is otherwise mortified of Economics, could very easily appreciate.
Both talked of change. Of reforming a system. But Yunus spoke more simply. And more creatively. He spoke of the fact that there is something fundamentally wrong with the financial system that exclusively caters to just one section of society and pretends as if the other never existed. The reason Grameen Bank is making multi-million dollar profits is because the bank knows who it is lending to. The person with the loan is surrounded by a community that regulates and checks on defaults. Yunus reasoned out that in the current scenario, all what the banks had were only a bunch of legal documents and a set of AAA ratings. They had no clue who they were actually lending to. It was a ghost economy. We need to now make a financial system that runs on the real economy. With real people. But if we do not learn from this crisis, and return back to the original model after bailing out the banks, we would be planting seeds for another and much greater crisis. Human beings have great potential. Bring that potential into the market place. It will lead to more purchasing power, more consumer spending, more reliable banking.
“And that’s exactly what Citibank is doing", concluded Mr Pandit, breaking my reverie. "We currently have 109 branches all over the globe with two third of our staff belonging to their home country, and so we have a set of local banks, that cater to regional needs, and we connect all these ‘local’ banks across the globe to make a truly global bank called Citibank.” drawing an arc in the air while trying to connect his 109 local banks.
My friend sitting in the row ahead turned towards me in reaction to that, and sheilding her face with her hand gave me a sarcastic smile. She knew what I was thinking. And I knew what she was thinking.
Citibank might be one great bank that out of pure coincidence had to be bailed out. Mr Vikram Pandit may continue to expound and chase his lofty ideas of global coordination and comprehensive regulatory architecture. Audiences in lecture theatres and board rooms may continue to get impressed and give standing ovations. And Mr Pandit may still end up remaining to be the head of his ‘global-cum-local’ bank.
But there is no way the Nobel Prize could possibly land on his lap.
That is perhaps an entitlement of people who can think much simpler.
Tuesday 17 February 2009
How I was robbed on my way back home
It was in the waiting room of the Hayes station that I met Shoma Mitra.
Shoma Mitra and her son, Mohul Biswas.
I was waiting for the train, disinterestedly staring at a rejected piece of advertisement of Dell laptops that was occupying my seat before I displaced it; and cursing a whole set of morning events that had lead me to miss the earlier train by a mere minute. To see the tail of a train disappear away into the wilderness of tracks, for me was a regular sign of abject failure to never manage on time. It was then that the door creaked open and a plump lady pushed in holding in her palm the hand of a three year old boy; both covered in an extravagance of coats and scarves. Guided by her son’s pull to one of the seats, she asked in a suitably appeasing tone, “Do you want to sit here...?” The boy looked indignantly at the seat and then very solemnly answered, “No, it is dirty.” “Then sit on this one”, guiding him to the next seat while carefully accommodating herself on the first seat. “Ki Shona, any problem. Jol khaabe? (Do you want to have water?)
Now that happens to be the universal lingo that any Bengali mother, anywhere in the world will continue addressing her child as, until she realises that he or she has grown up (and that she usually realises pretty late). “They’ve got to be Bengali”, I said to myself. And so while I made pretence to study the Dell advertisement even harder, my ears perked up like the antenna of an insect, straining to catch a few more words of Bengali between the two to confirm my suspicions. However it seemed that behind the Dell laptop leaflet, I was forced to accept defeat as a sudden whisper of the child in his mother’s ear made the two suddenly get up and proceed out of the door; presumably because of the boy’s demand to use the washroom.
With the announcement of the train being made roughly five minutes later, I walked out of the waiting room. I saw the two standing on the platform, heads strained in the direction of the yet-to-arrive train, with the mother still tightly clutching the hand of the child. A gush of audacity overtook me, and in a fit of recklessness, I suddenly walked straight up to the lady and asked in Bengali, “I am sorry; but are you by any chance a Bengali?”
It was then that I got a full view of Shoma’s face. She was not quite tall; infact I could recollect her irritating quality to allow herself to be dwarfed by most people. Her nose supported a pair of dark-rimmed spectacles, which looked fashionable but at the same time made her glasses look more conspicuous than her face. In reply to my question her face suddenly broke into a very warm smile, as if she had stumbled upon an old friend, and she exclaimed, “Yes! Are you a Bengali too.....?” A whistling train cut her short and all three of us boarded the same compartment, with the son having to be buoyed by both the mother and I from the platform into the train. Inside, before either of us could regain our composure she started speaking, “Oh it’s so nice to have found a Bengali here! What is your name? By the way, my name is Shoma Mitra. I am much elder to you, so you can call me Shoma Aunty. And this is my son.” Nudging him, she said, “Mohul baba, tell Dada your name. His name is Mohul. Mohul Biswas.” And before I could phantom the discrepancy of the surnames, she said lowering her voice, “Mohul’s father and I have separated. So I am a Mitra, and he is still Biswas.” She said it with a kind of theatrical nonchalance; as if they were lines that she had been used to repeating, and that she had them very well rehearsed.
I managed to give my name, number and allow myself to be judged by my surname, my father’s profession and my current occupation; things that every Bengali would discreetly enquire from any newly acquainted fellow Bengali.
“So, how long have you been staying here, Aunty?” I asked.
“From 1986, I think. Ya........1986.”
I was taken aback. I was used to seeing Bengalis and infact other Indians too, strut about like proud peacocks in London, as if using their arrogance and stoic reserve to advertise how well-settled they were in a much better life. And here in front of me was this lady who had come to England about the time I was born, and was conversing with me without any show, sophistication and infact with a potentially rustic simplicity. “Mohul likes Elish fish with rice. He just doesn’t eat anything else for dinner. So I need to keep going to Hounslow to buy fish.” she continued as I wondered, sitting opposite the two in the ongoing journey to Holborn in the tube train. “I first came around twenty years back from Kolkata”, she replied to my enquiry. “That was when an Indian firm offered me a position in their London office after my graduation. I wanted to do something different, and so I broke away and came here. I still remember how I had learned cooking on phone from my mother and sister receiving dictation in a flat in London. Then I got married, went to Kolkata. And now I have come back. My father is no more. My mother is in a flat in Kolkata, quite close to the airport as a matter of fact. We will be visiting her quite soon, aren’t we Mohul? Mohul shona, you want to see didu, don’t you?” she said, as if suddenly aware of letting herself ignore her son for too long.
“I am taking Mohul to see his father today. According to the court settlement, he gets to meet him once every fortnight.”
We stood framed at Holborn station’s eternally long escalator, while I fought the umpteenth invitation by Shoma to accompany them to lunch later in the day. In the station, I shook hands with her ex-husband. He seemed quite pleasant. I mean, that was just how much you could size up a person in one handshake. As I left them, they infact looked very much like a happy family with the child gambolling about between them. And so when I reached college, I absentmindedly asked a friend, “If you’ve broken up with somebody, can you possibly not be bitter to him? Can you honestly make a good friend out of him?”
Shoma Aunty called the next day and I dutifully handed over the phone to my mother. I could sense a feeling of caution from my mother’s side as she chatted on the phone with her; like me even my mother seemed to have been taken aback with the huge superfluity of speech. She reciprocated back by inviting Shoma Aunty and her son for dinner. After keeping the phone down, she did what I had always seen her do after knowing that guests would be coming over-- consult my father on what dishes she should be preparing.
Shoma rung the bell and seeing her once again in the dark British evening with a fluffy coat, talkative smile and clutching Mohul who was covered from head to toe like an astronaut; I was reminded of how she was permanently smiling ever since I had met her. After handing over a bottle of wine and box of chocolates to my mother, she gave an unprecedented big hug to my mother; who for the second time in the day was caught wondering how to react to this sudden gush of intimacy. As Shoma accommodated herself on the sofa, while Mohul started laying down his arsenal of cars and fire engines on the floor, I realised that she was once again in her talkative usual. While my mother was in the kitchen getting the tea, she continued chatting inconsolably with my father. “Dada, Mohul ato dushtu hoyeche. Badi te aei sofa theke arakta sofa jump korte thaake. Nijeke Spiderman bole!” (Mohul is so naughty, at home he keeps jumping from one sofa to another. Calls himself Spiderman!) As I listened to her talk, I realised that from the very beginning, her talk would closely gravitate around to Mohul who unaware, was absentmindedly pushing his cars and trucks with intense seriousness.
Leaning on the wall, absent from Shoma’s attention; I heard her tale. The tale of a bright girl coming to London, making her own small fortune out of her job, getting a house for herself and ultimately even a British passport. Then meeting someone, going to Kolkata with him to marry. In the temptation of a settled life she lets go of all that she had accumulated over so many years-her job, house and money. Within a few years after marriage, her sister-in-law expires of cancer. Mother-in-law convinces herself that her daughter-in-law was responsible for this calamity. Harsh words exchanged, her parents regularly insulted in conversations, physical and mental abuse; and within all this- birth of her child. Which does not mend matters. Instead it becomes a liability, as if a curtailment on her bargaining power. Husband stays aloof. Would often come home drunk. Shoma decides that she does not want her son to be growing up in this abusive-being abused environment. Cuts her losses, gets a divorce. Her decision makes her the topic of endless discussion, ridicule and offensive curiosity amidst relatives in Kolkata. Finally, she could bear no longer the shame and stigma of being a single mother in India. Immigrates back once again to England, this time with a child in tow. Seeking the support from a foreign country that her own country denied her. Back to square one. And with less than what she had, when she had first come in 1986.
“He’s now married, you know.” she continued. “He contacted me again when he too immigrated with his wife to London. For Mohul’s sake, I have kept good terms with him. Mohul still knows that father goes to work very far off and hence can meet us only once in a fortnight. I do it for him. I am now trying to get work in the council or school. But I try not to brood over what has happened. I try to be happy, to be smiling, to make Mohul feel good. One day when he grows up, I want him to learn Science. I am deeply interested in religion, you know. I would like to sit in a rocking chair then and debate with him for hours whether Religion supports or contradicts Science..........”
Shoma Mitra, with her talkativeness and her eternal smile, remained our acquaintance for quite some time. As promised she came once from her new home in Greenford with a car to take us there, telling my father, “Dada, I told you I would come personally to take you for dinner to my house in a Mercedes car! Unfortunately I couldn’t manage a Mercedes this time. But I am sure Mohul will buy me one when he grows up!”
Then like leaves on an autumn tree she withered away from being an occasional visitor to a historical archive entry in the telephone book.
I was staring at the harsh light of the projector that flashed onto the white screen displaying a set of horrendous looking equations that was sending my professor into raptures. He pranced on the stage, excitedly drawing figures, scribbling expressions and talking animatedly, while I looked on clueless. I could not understand a word he was saying. Instead I felt like sobbing. Sobbing since for the first time in a long time, I was feeling so lost. The lectures seemed to progressively make lesser and lesser sense to me. I didn’t have any prospective job, a couple of interviews that did happen, all turned out into mare’s nests. My PhD applications seemed to have drifted into a state of lethargy, while people around me were getting lucrative calls. Back home, I had already appalled my parents with my mock exam marks. Hearing their regular nagging mired with expectation that I do better, seemed to make it a messy piece of dialogue. I had a tumultuous break-up with my girlfriend, and I wasn’t quite sure whether I was relieved or sad about it. Life had turned into one big, free fall. The more I tried to rein it in, the more it slipped out of my hands, like restless sand through a closed fist. Nothing was right. Everything was horribly wrong.
Thinking so on my way back from college, I got off the train at the Hayes station, and for no particular reason my attention fell on the quiet waiting room on the opposite side of the platform. It was there, two years back that I had met Shoma Mitra. And her son, Mohul Biswas. And that chubby smile that would hover on the face as if somebody was constantly tugging her cheeks up.
And it was then that it suddenly struck me, that she could so effortlessly smile inspite of her entire life been thrown in doldrums, while here I was, with a much safer and perfect life, with a protective family, friends, house and money; but still feeling depressed and low. While she happily remained with a ray of light in her world of darkness, I was surrounded by light, but yet chose to dwell in the shadows. I had seen her smile so many times, but tragically I could never understand the price of that smile.
And at that very moment of realisation, Shoma Mitra robbed me.
Robbed from me my authority to frown and bemoan at my life. Robbed from me the right to dismiss her smile as simply a product of facial contortion of muscles. Robbed from me my utter disrespect for the so many better things in my life which were denied in hers.
And all this because of the one fine, bright day when I had ventured to ask her “I am sorry; but are you by any chance a Bengali?”
Shoma Mitra and her son, Mohul Biswas.
I was waiting for the train, disinterestedly staring at a rejected piece of advertisement of Dell laptops that was occupying my seat before I displaced it; and cursing a whole set of morning events that had lead me to miss the earlier train by a mere minute. To see the tail of a train disappear away into the wilderness of tracks, for me was a regular sign of abject failure to never manage on time. It was then that the door creaked open and a plump lady pushed in holding in her palm the hand of a three year old boy; both covered in an extravagance of coats and scarves. Guided by her son’s pull to one of the seats, she asked in a suitably appeasing tone, “Do you want to sit here...?” The boy looked indignantly at the seat and then very solemnly answered, “No, it is dirty.” “Then sit on this one”, guiding him to the next seat while carefully accommodating herself on the first seat. “Ki Shona, any problem. Jol khaabe? (Do you want to have water?)
Now that happens to be the universal lingo that any Bengali mother, anywhere in the world will continue addressing her child as, until she realises that he or she has grown up (and that she usually realises pretty late). “They’ve got to be Bengali”, I said to myself. And so while I made pretence to study the Dell advertisement even harder, my ears perked up like the antenna of an insect, straining to catch a few more words of Bengali between the two to confirm my suspicions. However it seemed that behind the Dell laptop leaflet, I was forced to accept defeat as a sudden whisper of the child in his mother’s ear made the two suddenly get up and proceed out of the door; presumably because of the boy’s demand to use the washroom.
With the announcement of the train being made roughly five minutes later, I walked out of the waiting room. I saw the two standing on the platform, heads strained in the direction of the yet-to-arrive train, with the mother still tightly clutching the hand of the child. A gush of audacity overtook me, and in a fit of recklessness, I suddenly walked straight up to the lady and asked in Bengali, “I am sorry; but are you by any chance a Bengali?”
It was then that I got a full view of Shoma’s face. She was not quite tall; infact I could recollect her irritating quality to allow herself to be dwarfed by most people. Her nose supported a pair of dark-rimmed spectacles, which looked fashionable but at the same time made her glasses look more conspicuous than her face. In reply to my question her face suddenly broke into a very warm smile, as if she had stumbled upon an old friend, and she exclaimed, “Yes! Are you a Bengali too.....?” A whistling train cut her short and all three of us boarded the same compartment, with the son having to be buoyed by both the mother and I from the platform into the train. Inside, before either of us could regain our composure she started speaking, “Oh it’s so nice to have found a Bengali here! What is your name? By the way, my name is Shoma Mitra. I am much elder to you, so you can call me Shoma Aunty. And this is my son.” Nudging him, she said, “Mohul baba, tell Dada your name. His name is Mohul. Mohul Biswas.” And before I could phantom the discrepancy of the surnames, she said lowering her voice, “Mohul’s father and I have separated. So I am a Mitra, and he is still Biswas.” She said it with a kind of theatrical nonchalance; as if they were lines that she had been used to repeating, and that she had them very well rehearsed.
I managed to give my name, number and allow myself to be judged by my surname, my father’s profession and my current occupation; things that every Bengali would discreetly enquire from any newly acquainted fellow Bengali.
“So, how long have you been staying here, Aunty?” I asked.
“From 1986, I think. Ya........1986.”
I was taken aback. I was used to seeing Bengalis and infact other Indians too, strut about like proud peacocks in London, as if using their arrogance and stoic reserve to advertise how well-settled they were in a much better life. And here in front of me was this lady who had come to England about the time I was born, and was conversing with me without any show, sophistication and infact with a potentially rustic simplicity. “Mohul likes Elish fish with rice. He just doesn’t eat anything else for dinner. So I need to keep going to Hounslow to buy fish.” she continued as I wondered, sitting opposite the two in the ongoing journey to Holborn in the tube train. “I first came around twenty years back from Kolkata”, she replied to my enquiry. “That was when an Indian firm offered me a position in their London office after my graduation. I wanted to do something different, and so I broke away and came here. I still remember how I had learned cooking on phone from my mother and sister receiving dictation in a flat in London. Then I got married, went to Kolkata. And now I have come back. My father is no more. My mother is in a flat in Kolkata, quite close to the airport as a matter of fact. We will be visiting her quite soon, aren’t we Mohul? Mohul shona, you want to see didu, don’t you?” she said, as if suddenly aware of letting herself ignore her son for too long.
“I am taking Mohul to see his father today. According to the court settlement, he gets to meet him once every fortnight.”
We stood framed at Holborn station’s eternally long escalator, while I fought the umpteenth invitation by Shoma to accompany them to lunch later in the day. In the station, I shook hands with her ex-husband. He seemed quite pleasant. I mean, that was just how much you could size up a person in one handshake. As I left them, they infact looked very much like a happy family with the child gambolling about between them. And so when I reached college, I absentmindedly asked a friend, “If you’ve broken up with somebody, can you possibly not be bitter to him? Can you honestly make a good friend out of him?”
Shoma Aunty called the next day and I dutifully handed over the phone to my mother. I could sense a feeling of caution from my mother’s side as she chatted on the phone with her; like me even my mother seemed to have been taken aback with the huge superfluity of speech. She reciprocated back by inviting Shoma Aunty and her son for dinner. After keeping the phone down, she did what I had always seen her do after knowing that guests would be coming over-- consult my father on what dishes she should be preparing.
Shoma rung the bell and seeing her once again in the dark British evening with a fluffy coat, talkative smile and clutching Mohul who was covered from head to toe like an astronaut; I was reminded of how she was permanently smiling ever since I had met her. After handing over a bottle of wine and box of chocolates to my mother, she gave an unprecedented big hug to my mother; who for the second time in the day was caught wondering how to react to this sudden gush of intimacy. As Shoma accommodated herself on the sofa, while Mohul started laying down his arsenal of cars and fire engines on the floor, I realised that she was once again in her talkative usual. While my mother was in the kitchen getting the tea, she continued chatting inconsolably with my father. “Dada, Mohul ato dushtu hoyeche. Badi te aei sofa theke arakta sofa jump korte thaake. Nijeke Spiderman bole!” (Mohul is so naughty, at home he keeps jumping from one sofa to another. Calls himself Spiderman!) As I listened to her talk, I realised that from the very beginning, her talk would closely gravitate around to Mohul who unaware, was absentmindedly pushing his cars and trucks with intense seriousness.
Leaning on the wall, absent from Shoma’s attention; I heard her tale. The tale of a bright girl coming to London, making her own small fortune out of her job, getting a house for herself and ultimately even a British passport. Then meeting someone, going to Kolkata with him to marry. In the temptation of a settled life she lets go of all that she had accumulated over so many years-her job, house and money. Within a few years after marriage, her sister-in-law expires of cancer. Mother-in-law convinces herself that her daughter-in-law was responsible for this calamity. Harsh words exchanged, her parents regularly insulted in conversations, physical and mental abuse; and within all this- birth of her child. Which does not mend matters. Instead it becomes a liability, as if a curtailment on her bargaining power. Husband stays aloof. Would often come home drunk. Shoma decides that she does not want her son to be growing up in this abusive-being abused environment. Cuts her losses, gets a divorce. Her decision makes her the topic of endless discussion, ridicule and offensive curiosity amidst relatives in Kolkata. Finally, she could bear no longer the shame and stigma of being a single mother in India. Immigrates back once again to England, this time with a child in tow. Seeking the support from a foreign country that her own country denied her. Back to square one. And with less than what she had, when she had first come in 1986.
“He’s now married, you know.” she continued. “He contacted me again when he too immigrated with his wife to London. For Mohul’s sake, I have kept good terms with him. Mohul still knows that father goes to work very far off and hence can meet us only once in a fortnight. I do it for him. I am now trying to get work in the council or school. But I try not to brood over what has happened. I try to be happy, to be smiling, to make Mohul feel good. One day when he grows up, I want him to learn Science. I am deeply interested in religion, you know. I would like to sit in a rocking chair then and debate with him for hours whether Religion supports or contradicts Science..........”
Shoma Mitra, with her talkativeness and her eternal smile, remained our acquaintance for quite some time. As promised she came once from her new home in Greenford with a car to take us there, telling my father, “Dada, I told you I would come personally to take you for dinner to my house in a Mercedes car! Unfortunately I couldn’t manage a Mercedes this time. But I am sure Mohul will buy me one when he grows up!”
Then like leaves on an autumn tree she withered away from being an occasional visitor to a historical archive entry in the telephone book.
I was staring at the harsh light of the projector that flashed onto the white screen displaying a set of horrendous looking equations that was sending my professor into raptures. He pranced on the stage, excitedly drawing figures, scribbling expressions and talking animatedly, while I looked on clueless. I could not understand a word he was saying. Instead I felt like sobbing. Sobbing since for the first time in a long time, I was feeling so lost. The lectures seemed to progressively make lesser and lesser sense to me. I didn’t have any prospective job, a couple of interviews that did happen, all turned out into mare’s nests. My PhD applications seemed to have drifted into a state of lethargy, while people around me were getting lucrative calls. Back home, I had already appalled my parents with my mock exam marks. Hearing their regular nagging mired with expectation that I do better, seemed to make it a messy piece of dialogue. I had a tumultuous break-up with my girlfriend, and I wasn’t quite sure whether I was relieved or sad about it. Life had turned into one big, free fall. The more I tried to rein it in, the more it slipped out of my hands, like restless sand through a closed fist. Nothing was right. Everything was horribly wrong.
Thinking so on my way back from college, I got off the train at the Hayes station, and for no particular reason my attention fell on the quiet waiting room on the opposite side of the platform. It was there, two years back that I had met Shoma Mitra. And her son, Mohul Biswas. And that chubby smile that would hover on the face as if somebody was constantly tugging her cheeks up.
And it was then that it suddenly struck me, that she could so effortlessly smile inspite of her entire life been thrown in doldrums, while here I was, with a much safer and perfect life, with a protective family, friends, house and money; but still feeling depressed and low. While she happily remained with a ray of light in her world of darkness, I was surrounded by light, but yet chose to dwell in the shadows. I had seen her smile so many times, but tragically I could never understand the price of that smile.
And at that very moment of realisation, Shoma Mitra robbed me.
Robbed from me my authority to frown and bemoan at my life. Robbed from me the right to dismiss her smile as simply a product of facial contortion of muscles. Robbed from me my utter disrespect for the so many better things in my life which were denied in hers.
And all this because of the one fine, bright day when I had ventured to ask her “I am sorry; but are you by any chance a Bengali?”
Sunday 8 February 2009
Dogs don't have to come from Slums
Slumdog Millionaire paints India in poor light. That’s why Indians are still not sure of their feelings for the film. If it wins the Oscars should they rejoice that an ‘Indian’ film has made it to the academy awards? Or should they be ashamed of how a Mumbai slum is appalling enough to appeal to the global audience.
In my opinion, there is really not too much of reason for Indians to be ashamed of. We are infact great people of a great nation. And how do I know that? Simply by stepping into London’s National Rail carriage 8:30 in the morning.
People in India may not appreciate this, so I must tell you a bit about British trains. Normally trains run on diesel or electricity. But British trains run on diesel+electricity+old-fashioned politeness! It’s a gentleman’s carriage with gentlemen sitting, who expect every not so gentlemanly person to behave as gently as possible. People sit quietly on the seats-one person per seat, and read books! Hardly as in Mumbai where people will argue eloquently if a seat for three is not being utilised to accommodate four butts. Even when people have to stand in these trains, there is an aristocratic discipline with which they carry themselves. I have spent hours in Indian trains where I have had to tolerate a shoe trampling my foot or a pugnacious armpit hovering around my nose, or trying to not feel envious of the luggage who is frankly more cosily accommodated than me. Out here, its paradise. No sweat. No shove. No loud talking. Only polite whispering. Gracious smiles. Good perfume.
So why should we be proud of our trains, or of ourselves?
Now this is the depiction of an English train when there had been a train at the station two minutes before and a train after it will glide into the station, two minutes later. What happens when this impeccable infrastructure breaks down and suddenly you find no train for half an hour thanks to excess snow; and the platform looks just as populated as a busy Indian platform on a general day.
SLUMDOG HAVOC!
All of a sudden people find themselves quite in the cross-fire between 18th century courtesy and the 21st century practicality of trying to get to work on time. The train slowly and ominously entered my platform today, and it was jam-packed. Lots of people on the train and lots of people on the platform and one humungous cocktail of humanity ensuing when the train stops; that's life as usual for a Mumbai commuter, but life out of the blue for the British gentleman!
Now in Mumbai, before a platform comes, the people in the train who are bound for the next stop collude and the entire gangway reshuffles to get divided in two rough halves, the ones to get off, crowding around the door. In London, people do not rely on this kind of team effort. Here people stay where they are, and after the train has stopped politely ask to be excused! So the train halts. The doors open. And the scene freezes. Then you hear a cacophony of ‘excuse me’s’ and ‘I have to get off’ being heard from inside the train. About roughly two minutes later, the inmates force themselves out as if escaping from a burning apartment.
But that’s just the beginning. The real fun is when you try to get in.
In Mumbai trains, there is a kind of universal understanding that regardless of how crowded the train is; as long as there is a willing person on the platform, there will be a few square centimetres of place reserved for him in the train. That kind of universality evidently does not appeal to the Brits. So after a handful lucky have got in and a third lady trying to elbow her way in…….the system of politeness and courtesy goes for a toss!
“Can’t you understand, the train is too crowded”, sermonised a girl comfortably inside, to a resolute lady who was trying to desperately accommodate her bulky bag and body inside the train at one go. “F***k off, Why don’t you get off the train then.”, came the reply. “What, how dare you....YOU f***k off, who the f*****g hell do you think you are!” came the counter attack!
Frankly I was disgusted. While Indians try to find a solution by shoving in, ‘pole dancing’ on the train, occupying every inch of available space; all these ‘foreigners’ do is to abuse through their nostrils! As if the entire problem of space and time allocation would be solved by a heated exchange of f***k’s. Which made me think, that given the size of our population, we do pretty well. Under pressure, we are a fantastic organised force. We can do a much better job of getting into trains, getting out of trains, accommodating people into trains; and similarly efficient in other situations; that these Westerners with all their refinement and seemingly gentlemanly superiority are helpless like babies! All those who sneered at India; its poverty and apathy in the film of Slumdog Millionaire should reconsider - if their country was in a similar situation-demographically, economically, socially- they would have behaved like irresponsible brats.
Half an hour on the train, listening to the f***ks, excuse me’s, stop pushing you b*****, can’t you see, there is no place,EXCUSE ME PLEASE, ’ I suddenly realised a very important thing.
Something that I had involuntarily forgotten while watching Slumdog Millionaire.
That it's a matter of pride to be an Indian!
In my opinion, there is really not too much of reason for Indians to be ashamed of. We are infact great people of a great nation. And how do I know that? Simply by stepping into London’s National Rail carriage 8:30 in the morning.
People in India may not appreciate this, so I must tell you a bit about British trains. Normally trains run on diesel or electricity. But British trains run on diesel+electricity+old-fashioned politeness! It’s a gentleman’s carriage with gentlemen sitting, who expect every not so gentlemanly person to behave as gently as possible. People sit quietly on the seats-one person per seat, and read books! Hardly as in Mumbai where people will argue eloquently if a seat for three is not being utilised to accommodate four butts. Even when people have to stand in these trains, there is an aristocratic discipline with which they carry themselves. I have spent hours in Indian trains where I have had to tolerate a shoe trampling my foot or a pugnacious armpit hovering around my nose, or trying to not feel envious of the luggage who is frankly more cosily accommodated than me. Out here, its paradise. No sweat. No shove. No loud talking. Only polite whispering. Gracious smiles. Good perfume.
So why should we be proud of our trains, or of ourselves?
Now this is the depiction of an English train when there had been a train at the station two minutes before and a train after it will glide into the station, two minutes later. What happens when this impeccable infrastructure breaks down and suddenly you find no train for half an hour thanks to excess snow; and the platform looks just as populated as a busy Indian platform on a general day.
SLUMDOG HAVOC!
All of a sudden people find themselves quite in the cross-fire between 18th century courtesy and the 21st century practicality of trying to get to work on time. The train slowly and ominously entered my platform today, and it was jam-packed. Lots of people on the train and lots of people on the platform and one humungous cocktail of humanity ensuing when the train stops; that's life as usual for a Mumbai commuter, but life out of the blue for the British gentleman!
Now in Mumbai, before a platform comes, the people in the train who are bound for the next stop collude and the entire gangway reshuffles to get divided in two rough halves, the ones to get off, crowding around the door. In London, people do not rely on this kind of team effort. Here people stay where they are, and after the train has stopped politely ask to be excused! So the train halts. The doors open. And the scene freezes. Then you hear a cacophony of ‘excuse me’s’ and ‘I have to get off’ being heard from inside the train. About roughly two minutes later, the inmates force themselves out as if escaping from a burning apartment.
But that’s just the beginning. The real fun is when you try to get in.
In Mumbai trains, there is a kind of universal understanding that regardless of how crowded the train is; as long as there is a willing person on the platform, there will be a few square centimetres of place reserved for him in the train. That kind of universality evidently does not appeal to the Brits. So after a handful lucky have got in and a third lady trying to elbow her way in…….the system of politeness and courtesy goes for a toss!
“Can’t you understand, the train is too crowded”, sermonised a girl comfortably inside, to a resolute lady who was trying to desperately accommodate her bulky bag and body inside the train at one go. “F***k off, Why don’t you get off the train then.”, came the reply. “What, how dare you....YOU f***k off, who the f*****g hell do you think you are!” came the counter attack!
Frankly I was disgusted. While Indians try to find a solution by shoving in, ‘pole dancing’ on the train, occupying every inch of available space; all these ‘foreigners’ do is to abuse through their nostrils! As if the entire problem of space and time allocation would be solved by a heated exchange of f***k’s. Which made me think, that given the size of our population, we do pretty well. Under pressure, we are a fantastic organised force. We can do a much better job of getting into trains, getting out of trains, accommodating people into trains; and similarly efficient in other situations; that these Westerners with all their refinement and seemingly gentlemanly superiority are helpless like babies! All those who sneered at India; its poverty and apathy in the film of Slumdog Millionaire should reconsider - if their country was in a similar situation-demographically, economically, socially- they would have behaved like irresponsible brats.
Half an hour on the train, listening to the f***ks, excuse me’s, stop pushing you b*****, can’t you see, there is no place,EXCUSE ME PLEASE, ’ I suddenly realised a very important thing.
Something that I had involuntarily forgotten while watching Slumdog Millionaire.
That it's a matter of pride to be an Indian!
Why Romeo and Juliet should have learnt Chess
It's rather intriguing-we are all in here to do business.
Each one of us are solving this eternally long debit and credit problem where at the end of every period, we look back and check if the debit column and credit column match. If there is a mismatch we try to console ourselves telling that surely credit will catch up with the debit and finally for every penny spent, for every moment utilised, for every contact made and for every hand shaken- there will be a pot of gold that is waiting to be realised sometime later.
Consider this. I am talking on the phone with somebody. That somebody is doing something utterly noisy in the kitchen. The conversation is going on great. Suddenly the noise subsides, and it does not take a Sherlock Holmes to deduce that the kitchen session is now officially over. After a few seconds, you realise something odd. You realise that the somebody has grown reticent. Withdrawn. And you feel on the telephone the same kind of unease that might grip you if you would have unknowingly swallowed something poisonous. The sense of something not being right. And all of a sudden, there are a few strategic things said; a few deft techniques, some pauses, some implied sighs, jabs and within the next couple of minutes, nothing remains of that very interesting call. Hardly surprising. Presumably when you have food sitting in front of you, it would be some sort of a talent contest in self-restraint to mind the call instead of not hogging the food!
So we are all master accountants. Holding onto a call only till we feel it mutually comfortable to do so. Doing a favour thinking of the favour in return. Talking sweetly with someone because it would be sour otherwise. Making an effort because its worth the effort. Meeting someone because we WANT to meet that someone. All for a reason. Give and Take. Nobody's time and company is for charity.
And a ‘best’ friend is simply one who can do all these without making it seem like a business proposition.
And that’s why I am eternally sceptic of this funny thing called love. It’s a high stake game of Debit and Credit. A Casino Royale of all gambling contests. Two people in a fierce war of maximising returns. There can be two equilibria in this game.
Either both are equally selfish and they are in the relationship because they realise that its a fantastic business proposal. So very naturally in this case the relationship falls apart the moment either one finds his or her interests compromised.
Or there is the other extreme when both are selfless, and are ready to stick on regardless of payoffs. That’s rare. The last I saw of it was in Shakespeare’s plays!
But very often there is a third case. Where one is selfless while the other one still at the calculator maximising payoffs. Where one person feels that love is this fantastic moon-light radiated bliss of mind while the other person considers it a household gadget that you should handle carefully once the warranty period is over and throw to the dustbin once it’s stopped working.
And that’s when you have a ‘heart’ attack which no amount of 999 dialing can avert.
So that's why before you fall in love; learn how to play chess. That’s most of what we do in the world; play chess. The good players win. The bad players lose.
The challenge is not in finding the soul-mate.
Its all about avoiding the check-mate!
Each one of us are solving this eternally long debit and credit problem where at the end of every period, we look back and check if the debit column and credit column match. If there is a mismatch we try to console ourselves telling that surely credit will catch up with the debit and finally for every penny spent, for every moment utilised, for every contact made and for every hand shaken- there will be a pot of gold that is waiting to be realised sometime later.
Consider this. I am talking on the phone with somebody. That somebody is doing something utterly noisy in the kitchen. The conversation is going on great. Suddenly the noise subsides, and it does not take a Sherlock Holmes to deduce that the kitchen session is now officially over. After a few seconds, you realise something odd. You realise that the somebody has grown reticent. Withdrawn. And you feel on the telephone the same kind of unease that might grip you if you would have unknowingly swallowed something poisonous. The sense of something not being right. And all of a sudden, there are a few strategic things said; a few deft techniques, some pauses, some implied sighs, jabs and within the next couple of minutes, nothing remains of that very interesting call. Hardly surprising. Presumably when you have food sitting in front of you, it would be some sort of a talent contest in self-restraint to mind the call instead of not hogging the food!
So we are all master accountants. Holding onto a call only till we feel it mutually comfortable to do so. Doing a favour thinking of the favour in return. Talking sweetly with someone because it would be sour otherwise. Making an effort because its worth the effort. Meeting someone because we WANT to meet that someone. All for a reason. Give and Take. Nobody's time and company is for charity.
And a ‘best’ friend is simply one who can do all these without making it seem like a business proposition.
And that’s why I am eternally sceptic of this funny thing called love. It’s a high stake game of Debit and Credit. A Casino Royale of all gambling contests. Two people in a fierce war of maximising returns. There can be two equilibria in this game.
Either both are equally selfish and they are in the relationship because they realise that its a fantastic business proposal. So very naturally in this case the relationship falls apart the moment either one finds his or her interests compromised.
Or there is the other extreme when both are selfless, and are ready to stick on regardless of payoffs. That’s rare. The last I saw of it was in Shakespeare’s plays!
But very often there is a third case. Where one is selfless while the other one still at the calculator maximising payoffs. Where one person feels that love is this fantastic moon-light radiated bliss of mind while the other person considers it a household gadget that you should handle carefully once the warranty period is over and throw to the dustbin once it’s stopped working.
And that’s when you have a ‘heart’ attack which no amount of 999 dialing can avert.
So that's why before you fall in love; learn how to play chess. That’s most of what we do in the world; play chess. The good players win. The bad players lose.
The challenge is not in finding the soul-mate.
Its all about avoiding the check-mate!
What Recedes the most in a Recession
A friend of mine got a job today.
I think he deserves the standing ovation of an entire paragraph made out of the sentence announcing his success.
I was with him when it happened. A magic phone-call vibrated his cell phone and he involuntarily gasped out that it was THE call that he was waiting for. With that gasp; all of a sudden the notes, books, lecture timetables, study packs and an unzipped bag that he was juggling with, fast receded into an oblivious speck and the whole world collapsed to manifest itself into the mockingly bright screen of his cell phone. We were a group of four lounging about at the LSE’s entrance, and with my friend moving away to a quieter place to accept the call; our attention followed him like a dog following its master. While not fully culling our small talk, it was evident that we had all lost interest in what we were talking. Instead we were trying hard to scrutinise his face the way people in India stare mesmerised at television screens moments before a cricket match climaxes. And the moment his face betrayed the first signs of relief we knew that it had happened. The face contorted with joy-pure, unadulterated, and mad; was a face not many were destined to have in this milieu. It was a moment that we knew any person would savour. In this dark, decaying and hopeless world of jobs, my friend had crossed the treacherous bridge to the brilliantly lit world beyond. And we all thought that the least it called for was a firm, congratulatory shake of the hand.
My friend however accepted our profuse handshakes looking bemused, overwhelmed and not aware or caring for whose hand he was limply shaking. His face looked dazed as if suddenly having viewed life for a few seconds in full throttle and now unable to forget the images impressed upon him. But he seemed natural enough. After all, getting a call after chocking yourself with a tie for the umpteenth interview, case study, group work and networking huddles; the Olympics of getting a job can easily put any other hurdle race or decathlon to shame.
But if anyone seemed unnatural, I think it were us; the people who were congratulating him. We were behaving as if somebody had been invited to a grand feast in a country that has been struck by famine. Had my friend behaved the way footballers behave after scoring a goal, and ran around LSE shouting, “GOAL, I’ve got a job!”, I am pretty certain everybody on campus would have also reciprocated by behaving like the crazed spectators of the football match. I go back home and over a cup of tea, tell my parents the news. They immediately become suitably impressed. All of a sudden my friend gets elevated to a different pedestal in the eyes of my family. And typical of Indian parents, who never allow themselves to be impressed by their own children; they said with pursed lips, “See, he got himself a great job. You..................”
Me and many others, Dad...............attend classes; and have by now collected enough material to publish an assorted collection of jokes that professors have cracked and will crack regarding the recession. So as one of my professor explains the nuances of an interest rate model, he adds at the end, “So this is the way people at Investment Banks forecast interest rates. (Pause) (Cough) (Laugh) Of course assuming that any more are left by the time you pass out!” (again laugh)
Indeed behind the doors of an university and shielded by a busy timetable, the current crisis can be talked of humorously, airily and can be examined as a case of great academic interest. Economists are after all known to treat crises with as much delight as palaeontologists get tickled by the skeletal remains of dinosaurs. But it’s a grim reality that we need to face once we are out. And the way we were congratulating my friend today- feeling great for him, but at the same time wondering if we would be lucky enough; it concealed a deep-rooted fear and apprehension brewing in us.
And then it struck me that if this is how insecure we were feeling; imagine the state of the hundreds of people who have been thrown off their office chairs and have as a part of their (in)voluntary retirement scheme, only the cardboard box for carrying their personal belongings. While for us students, it’s like a game having winners, losers and lucky people; for them at the sunset of their careers, it’s like being banished to hell. To hear a new person being hired, reminded us of how unemployed we were; but would remind him of how he was fired. At home, with a family, lifestyle, status and plan for posterity; it’s like heartlessly smudging out somebody’s life long work. I am sure he would have not been the most enthusiastic of hand-shakers had he too been standing at the entrance of LSE, and hearing of my friend’s appointment.
Thus what I find most alarming in this recession is infact this recession of morale. A recession that makes us behave as if we are people fighting for survival in a refugee generating nation with no hope or expectation from the future. A recession that makes us victim of envy even when we badly don’t want to and genuinely want to feel happy for the person.
In short, a recession that dangerously enough has the potential of receding our mind.
I think he deserves the standing ovation of an entire paragraph made out of the sentence announcing his success.
I was with him when it happened. A magic phone-call vibrated his cell phone and he involuntarily gasped out that it was THE call that he was waiting for. With that gasp; all of a sudden the notes, books, lecture timetables, study packs and an unzipped bag that he was juggling with, fast receded into an oblivious speck and the whole world collapsed to manifest itself into the mockingly bright screen of his cell phone. We were a group of four lounging about at the LSE’s entrance, and with my friend moving away to a quieter place to accept the call; our attention followed him like a dog following its master. While not fully culling our small talk, it was evident that we had all lost interest in what we were talking. Instead we were trying hard to scrutinise his face the way people in India stare mesmerised at television screens moments before a cricket match climaxes. And the moment his face betrayed the first signs of relief we knew that it had happened. The face contorted with joy-pure, unadulterated, and mad; was a face not many were destined to have in this milieu. It was a moment that we knew any person would savour. In this dark, decaying and hopeless world of jobs, my friend had crossed the treacherous bridge to the brilliantly lit world beyond. And we all thought that the least it called for was a firm, congratulatory shake of the hand.
My friend however accepted our profuse handshakes looking bemused, overwhelmed and not aware or caring for whose hand he was limply shaking. His face looked dazed as if suddenly having viewed life for a few seconds in full throttle and now unable to forget the images impressed upon him. But he seemed natural enough. After all, getting a call after chocking yourself with a tie for the umpteenth interview, case study, group work and networking huddles; the Olympics of getting a job can easily put any other hurdle race or decathlon to shame.
But if anyone seemed unnatural, I think it were us; the people who were congratulating him. We were behaving as if somebody had been invited to a grand feast in a country that has been struck by famine. Had my friend behaved the way footballers behave after scoring a goal, and ran around LSE shouting, “GOAL, I’ve got a job!”, I am pretty certain everybody on campus would have also reciprocated by behaving like the crazed spectators of the football match. I go back home and over a cup of tea, tell my parents the news. They immediately become suitably impressed. All of a sudden my friend gets elevated to a different pedestal in the eyes of my family. And typical of Indian parents, who never allow themselves to be impressed by their own children; they said with pursed lips, “See, he got himself a great job. You..................”
Me and many others, Dad...............attend classes; and have by now collected enough material to publish an assorted collection of jokes that professors have cracked and will crack regarding the recession. So as one of my professor explains the nuances of an interest rate model, he adds at the end, “So this is the way people at Investment Banks forecast interest rates. (Pause) (Cough) (Laugh) Of course assuming that any more are left by the time you pass out!” (again laugh)
Indeed behind the doors of an university and shielded by a busy timetable, the current crisis can be talked of humorously, airily and can be examined as a case of great academic interest. Economists are after all known to treat crises with as much delight as palaeontologists get tickled by the skeletal remains of dinosaurs. But it’s a grim reality that we need to face once we are out. And the way we were congratulating my friend today- feeling great for him, but at the same time wondering if we would be lucky enough; it concealed a deep-rooted fear and apprehension brewing in us.
And then it struck me that if this is how insecure we were feeling; imagine the state of the hundreds of people who have been thrown off their office chairs and have as a part of their (in)voluntary retirement scheme, only the cardboard box for carrying their personal belongings. While for us students, it’s like a game having winners, losers and lucky people; for them at the sunset of their careers, it’s like being banished to hell. To hear a new person being hired, reminded us of how unemployed we were; but would remind him of how he was fired. At home, with a family, lifestyle, status and plan for posterity; it’s like heartlessly smudging out somebody’s life long work. I am sure he would have not been the most enthusiastic of hand-shakers had he too been standing at the entrance of LSE, and hearing of my friend’s appointment.
Thus what I find most alarming in this recession is infact this recession of morale. A recession that makes us behave as if we are people fighting for survival in a refugee generating nation with no hope or expectation from the future. A recession that makes us victim of envy even when we badly don’t want to and genuinely want to feel happy for the person.
In short, a recession that dangerously enough has the potential of receding our mind.
The Arrangement of Love
There was a Sound of Music song that went, “I am sixteen, going on seventeen.......” and to cut the song short, the rest was about how excited the teenage daughter of the strict Captain Bontrap was to fall in love, or atleast be expected to fall in love.
I am twenty two, going on twenty three............... and only the latter option is valid for me. I am expected to be in love. So when I am talking interestedly with a person of the opposite gender, I am pretty used to some of my friends come delightfully to the conclusion that there is something brewing. And the next time they see both of us together, and for reasons far from romance; they behave like the paparazzi. When I am in a large group of incorrigibly talkative Bengali relatives in Kolkata who have just demolished a mountain of rice (and with it at least three varieties of fish), the word ‘marriage’ has to inevitably be mentioned when I am around. And if they see me irritated, that means that it must be discussed at length in my earshot.
In both the cases, I embarrassedly try to find an exit route out. I have never experienced love. Oh yes I have-it was in that latest Sharukh movie. Let me see, it took him about half an hour to serenade the lady off her feet, and another fifteen minutes to get married. Within the next two and a half hours, it went on about the various problems that can arise after or before you say ‘I do’. When you finally leave the cinema theatre you feel as if somebody has stuffed into your mouth love packaged in a Paracetamol capsule. Of course though I haven’t experienced love, I have seen love. I am sitting in the tube train having nothing to do, a gentleman and lady sitting opposite me, everything is going on fine; when suddenly the two decide to fiercely lunge for each other’s lips. In a tube train, there are not many places to really divert your attention to, and so you need to be uncomfortably aware of two lips and two pairs of hands who have suddenly geared into momentum and refusing to stop.
Which brings me to a very important question, that I suppose most of those who like me haven’t fallen in love must be wondering-Do you require love to marry? How on earth do arranged marriages survive? How is it that you manage to live your entire life with a person whom you don’t love, actually don’t even know very well?
Now I am going to talk about something else. Don’t worry, at the end you will realise why.
My parents decided to gift me a watch for my birthday. But again, there was no element of surprise- since watches are a sensitive affair-its beauty very often lies in the eyes of its wearer, and so you better don't end up buying a watch without consulting the person concerned. And so for the past one week, we went shopping- in malls, in catalogues, on the web. Ultimately we zeroed down on a watch, which was elegant. I have a fetish for archaic looking watches- having an old-fashioned golden case, and with a chronograph that points to the date, month, and year all shown in delightfully small dials inside. A few notches below in the shelf, was a watch of my parent’s choice, of the same company, but looking jazzy, full of steel, with a racy streak to it. There was nothing remotely old-fashioned about it. I couldn’t exactly phantom which watch would look better on my wrist.
For some reason, I finally ended up buying the jazzy watch, though to be honest; I was not really fond of it.
So the watch remained displayed now no longer on the glittering show case of the shop, but on the lesser effulgent settings of my side-table. At first I was angry with myself to allow myself to be influenced by my parents’ choice, and so I refused to look at the watch. As if the watch and I had an ego clash the moment we met. Later, I took off the packing cover and had a good look at it. Minus the confusion of glowing lights, rival watches, and talkative salespersons; this watch didn’t look all that bad now. Yes it was a bit too racy, but come to think of it, it had a rugged but impeccable charm about it.
I replaced back the cover, and again left it. With the strap too long to fit my wrist, I couldn’t wear it immediately. But then by virtue of the fact that I knew that I would be spending at least a decade, if not two with this watch; I decided to look at it again. “The red dial inside does look cool”, I told myself. “The watch looks okay. I mean this is better than a poodle-like golden watch”, I said to myself.
Days went by and I realised that I was becoming more and more attached to the watch that lay serenely on the packing case. I had to look at it whenever I went to my room; and at times I went to my room to just look at the watch. Then came a Saturday, when I had the opportunity to go to a local shop and have the strap cut to fit my wrist. And once I wore that watch on my wrist- she looked absolutely stunning!
Now I can’t imagine life without that watch. I adore it. It looks great. I wouldn’t swap it for any other drool looking old-fashioned watch in the world. I am glad I took it. On my wrist we look like a team.
Which set me thinking that perhaps that’s how arranged marriages work. After all there are so many things that we didn’t arrange. We didn’t arrange our parents. We did not have a menu sheet where we ticked on what we want from them, and what we don’t want them to be. But with all their imperfections, we love them. We did not arrange for the house we would be born in; whether it would be a slum or apartment or palace. But the moot point remains that we call that place our home-and we are attached to it.
Arranged marriages I guess, work on the same universal logic. Where you learn to share your life with the other. Where you accept the other’s existence as a part of your own. Where you tell yourself firmly that, now that the other is there; there can be no another.
And then you have the marriages that are truly made and exist in heaven.
Isn’t it?
My watch winks back in approval!
I am twenty two, going on twenty three............... and only the latter option is valid for me. I am expected to be in love. So when I am talking interestedly with a person of the opposite gender, I am pretty used to some of my friends come delightfully to the conclusion that there is something brewing. And the next time they see both of us together, and for reasons far from romance; they behave like the paparazzi. When I am in a large group of incorrigibly talkative Bengali relatives in Kolkata who have just demolished a mountain of rice (and with it at least three varieties of fish), the word ‘marriage’ has to inevitably be mentioned when I am around. And if they see me irritated, that means that it must be discussed at length in my earshot.
In both the cases, I embarrassedly try to find an exit route out. I have never experienced love. Oh yes I have-it was in that latest Sharukh movie. Let me see, it took him about half an hour to serenade the lady off her feet, and another fifteen minutes to get married. Within the next two and a half hours, it went on about the various problems that can arise after or before you say ‘I do’. When you finally leave the cinema theatre you feel as if somebody has stuffed into your mouth love packaged in a Paracetamol capsule. Of course though I haven’t experienced love, I have seen love. I am sitting in the tube train having nothing to do, a gentleman and lady sitting opposite me, everything is going on fine; when suddenly the two decide to fiercely lunge for each other’s lips. In a tube train, there are not many places to really divert your attention to, and so you need to be uncomfortably aware of two lips and two pairs of hands who have suddenly geared into momentum and refusing to stop.
Which brings me to a very important question, that I suppose most of those who like me haven’t fallen in love must be wondering-Do you require love to marry? How on earth do arranged marriages survive? How is it that you manage to live your entire life with a person whom you don’t love, actually don’t even know very well?
Now I am going to talk about something else. Don’t worry, at the end you will realise why.
My parents decided to gift me a watch for my birthday. But again, there was no element of surprise- since watches are a sensitive affair-its beauty very often lies in the eyes of its wearer, and so you better don't end up buying a watch without consulting the person concerned. And so for the past one week, we went shopping- in malls, in catalogues, on the web. Ultimately we zeroed down on a watch, which was elegant. I have a fetish for archaic looking watches- having an old-fashioned golden case, and with a chronograph that points to the date, month, and year all shown in delightfully small dials inside. A few notches below in the shelf, was a watch of my parent’s choice, of the same company, but looking jazzy, full of steel, with a racy streak to it. There was nothing remotely old-fashioned about it. I couldn’t exactly phantom which watch would look better on my wrist.
For some reason, I finally ended up buying the jazzy watch, though to be honest; I was not really fond of it.
So the watch remained displayed now no longer on the glittering show case of the shop, but on the lesser effulgent settings of my side-table. At first I was angry with myself to allow myself to be influenced by my parents’ choice, and so I refused to look at the watch. As if the watch and I had an ego clash the moment we met. Later, I took off the packing cover and had a good look at it. Minus the confusion of glowing lights, rival watches, and talkative salespersons; this watch didn’t look all that bad now. Yes it was a bit too racy, but come to think of it, it had a rugged but impeccable charm about it.
I replaced back the cover, and again left it. With the strap too long to fit my wrist, I couldn’t wear it immediately. But then by virtue of the fact that I knew that I would be spending at least a decade, if not two with this watch; I decided to look at it again. “The red dial inside does look cool”, I told myself. “The watch looks okay. I mean this is better than a poodle-like golden watch”, I said to myself.
Days went by and I realised that I was becoming more and more attached to the watch that lay serenely on the packing case. I had to look at it whenever I went to my room; and at times I went to my room to just look at the watch. Then came a Saturday, when I had the opportunity to go to a local shop and have the strap cut to fit my wrist. And once I wore that watch on my wrist- she looked absolutely stunning!
Now I can’t imagine life without that watch. I adore it. It looks great. I wouldn’t swap it for any other drool looking old-fashioned watch in the world. I am glad I took it. On my wrist we look like a team.
Which set me thinking that perhaps that’s how arranged marriages work. After all there are so many things that we didn’t arrange. We didn’t arrange our parents. We did not have a menu sheet where we ticked on what we want from them, and what we don’t want them to be. But with all their imperfections, we love them. We did not arrange for the house we would be born in; whether it would be a slum or apartment or palace. But the moot point remains that we call that place our home-and we are attached to it.
Arranged marriages I guess, work on the same universal logic. Where you learn to share your life with the other. Where you accept the other’s existence as a part of your own. Where you tell yourself firmly that, now that the other is there; there can be no another.
And then you have the marriages that are truly made and exist in heaven.
Isn’t it?
My watch winks back in approval!
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