Posts Tagged Personal
THANK YOU, ERIC ! GOODBYE 2008!
Last Saturday afternoon, on December 27th to be precise, we went over to the Taj Mahal hotel for lunch. The drive into the hotel was now from its rear-side, originally conceived to be its grand entrance. It seemed so strange, it was a month after the horrific siege, and the Taj was barricaded from all sides , like a protected sacrosanct monument wary of being sullied. A tall magnificent structure loomed large over its historical heritage cousin, both looking out in almost melancholic desolation outward towards the Arabian Sea. People , both our local onlookers and foreign tourists, pointed upwards towards the hotel’s dome and upper floors, where all the madness unleashed on unsuspecting innocent guests just a few weeks before.
The car was frisked by disciplined security-folks, perhaps aware of how their task was now one of the most valued and respected, no longer just an irritating formality that had us all cussing under our breath. It seemed such an incongruous irony, but far away in the distance people had their backs to the famous Gateway of India as they clicked furiously on their digital cameras at where they believed were the battle-zones in the now destroyed Wasabi restaurant.
At the entrance, I meet the simple smiling gentle guards who are perennial faces that greet you with big smiles whenever one goes to the hotel. Upon enquiry, one is relieved to know that some of the other familiar staff who are not there today are fine and survived the tragic events. As we walk into the Taj lobby, it feels surreal, indescribably unnerving, and virtually incomprehensible that it is the same place that had seen unexpected bloodshed, and had come close to being the killing-fields. That it had looked like a remote , far-away inaccessible zone , a dangerous mine-fest on television cameras as fires engulfed the sixth floor, loud grenades exploded, and security forces surrounded the threatened hotel to flush out four deranged men on a destructive mission. Mr Ratan Tata’s team have done an incredible job of amazing resuscitation in ensuring that the great hotel is ready to welcome a new year ahead, even as it comes to terms with its incalculable grief.
We go to the Shamiana, the coffee shop, where it is heartening to see full-tables, guests chattering away, the buffet possessing its usual seductive entrapments , the warmth of the staff , vintage Taj. In a way nothing has changed, and yet so much has. One can see people consciously speak in softer tones, the conversations much subdued in decibel levels , with none of the usual natural cacophonous impact. It appears that everyone is experiencing an inexplicable curiosity, an unfathomable emotion. Exactly a month ago on November 27th it was a coffee shop that had seen bullet-shots through the glass into the open kitchen. Eric’s best friend had died that night.
Eric is a tall, big man with the most humble expression and tender gentleness that I have recently seen. When he asks us if we want more watermelon juice, it is almost impossible to decline that warm inquisition. As we gradually get going, we talk of something we have not done before. My daughters promise me that they will not waste food, not heap delicacies in enthusiastic hurry , and then leave them in pursuit of another round of fresh experimentation. It is strange, but 26/11 has inculcated a subtle yet definite appreciation of everything around us, the indecipherable nuances of life are being better understood.
I ask Eric if he was there that fatal night of 26th November. He says he was fortunately off-duty , but his best friend was not so lucky. The terrorists were dressed in dark colored outfits , and perhaps when they came in with their murderous intent, he walked right into their firing range, not sure if their attire made him misjudge them as the hotel service staff.
” His body was in the hospital for four days, and during that period my wife too was in the hospital. So I spent all those days shuttling between hospitals, day and night, while consoling the bereaved family of a friend who was suddenly gone”. The sadness in his voice is of immense magnitude, but he speaks with a quiet restrained exposure. You can understand his anguish, his pain, the unspoken trauma. But he has accepted his destiny, and has moved on to do what he best knows—-serving his customers.
My daughter tells me not to use my Taj card and use free points in exchange for the meal. I did not intend to. But I am overwhelmed by her sweet thought of such tender sensitivity. “ We must pay, and not look like we are here for exchanging loyalty points and expecting freebies”. It is a touching testimony to the fact that , unknown to me, and perhaps even to herself, she has grown beyond her teen years, in just a month.
Eric gets us some coffee and tea, as we linger on over the meal , perhaps the longest that we have lunched at the Shamiana. The crowd has moved on, and many have replaced them , the usual buzz still prevalent in the first signs of wintry sunshine emanating from the quiet pool-side.
I watch Eric as I sign the credit card bill. He has been courteously enquiring of all the guests under his charge, moving on from table to table, nodding to confirm that he has understood their order, making eye-contact with the first hand that goes up with a request. Unknown to several , he lets his personal struggles be within him, as he goes about his job with a modest smile with utter simplicity. He is an epitome of all things good, gentle, humble and courageous in the face of personal adversity, that in a great way symbolizes the Taj itself. We say bye but promise Eric that we will return—-soon.
On the way out, I see a Page 3 celebrity of immaculate pedigree walk in , concealing her countenance with dark glares so big it looks like a solar eclipse, famous for providing dubiously myopic suggestions to the GOI to destroy terrorism. No, Eric will never be on your friendly TV channel. Ever. But yet there is a lesson for all of us from such unassuming down-to-earth people like him that we encounter every day and know so little of. Or care about. We all need to do what we must do to the best of our abilities, quietly, selflessly, honestly, with dedication, every moment understanding and appreciating the sensitivity of others. I guess if we just do that , everything else will automatically fall into place. No blame -game, no mindless accusations, no vociferous protests, no vested interests, no pontifications, no intellectual humbug. No , we do not need no magical solutions. No divine miracles. We just need to look within.
Thank you, Eric, and to all those millions like you , unknown and unheard of , who make this country great.
Happy New Year!
Add comment June 18, 2009
WHY RAJ THACKERAY BLEW IT
(Republished. Originally in Indian Express)
I met Raj Thackeray in his formidable fortress in Shivaji Park, Dadar a couple of years ago, accompanied by two Bollywood celebrities from the land of Pataliputra , Prakash Jha and Shekhar Suman, just when the initial hullabaloo over Railway recruitments had suddenly surfaced. There were several protestations, vitriolic statements were made with great panache, all of it deliberately incendiary, of course. The city of Mumbai seemed headed for a most unwarranted confrontation , and even then the UP bhaiyaas were the principal targets .
Years later, thanks to an essentially gullible electronic media and an impressionable public being swayed by malicious propaganda, it has assumed unnerving proportions. This time , unless intelligently addressed , the ” outsider” conflict carries an implied threat of a permanent mental divide , simmering discontent that can on an impulsive reaction , provoked by political expediency, explode. The last thing a growing India needs right now is social unrest caused by regional parochialism. It will be akin to committing hara-kiri. Seriously, but the Dalal Street bull ( so far laughing all the way to the bank) might just become a ” laughing stock” instead.
Raj Thackeray was extremely warm, instinctively sharp, and came across as a terrific listener. He has all the necessary attributes that make for a charismatic leader, doubtlessly. Over some vegetable burgers and finger chips , I discovered that Raj seemed particularly perturbed about the bad driving habits of the cabbies, the casual impertinence with which they flouted traffic signals, parked in violation of defined norms, and were generally indisciplined . He seemed genuinely violated by these indiscretions, as if a sacrosanct territory was being usurped by foreign aliens, totally oblivious of his hurting sensitivities. To give Raj credit, one can empathise with his perceptible discomfiture on this subject. But does the solution lie in a violent purge? A systematic assault ? In political vendetta? Or does it need greater social assimilation. Therein lies Raj’s essential predicament. Should he allow electoral considerations to outweigh corrective measures more to do with better governance and improved economic sustenance for all?
In Mumbai’s chatterati class , overtly obsessed with ” Bihar must be segregated from the rest of India” syndrome, Laloo Prasad Yadav is perceived , despite his Rs 25000 crore contribution to the national exchequer , as a country bumpkin. And all Biharis are dubbed as glorified manual labour. Over the last 16 years that I have lived in Mumbai , I have been often subjected to this petty ridicule , usually uttered in sarcastic disdain by the slick city types who know as much about Bihar as the Icelanders know about Rakhi Sawant . For them, life begins with the opening price and ends with the closing value of a Reliance share. And their exposure to the real India comes from the sanctimonious pontifications of gossip columnists.
There is thus a new trend emerging —-it’s called Bihari-bashing. And thanks to the latest inflammatory tone set by the politically fractured Thackeray family , it has taken on a new dimension. After all, it is always easy to pick on the fall guy. Even BJP MP Shatrughan Sinha, who can raises a lion’s roar for the most innocuous reasons, chickened out , looking a pale shadow of the man who once starred as a righteous man in Rampur ka Laxman. Sad indeed!
But has anyone ever really asked as to how the desperate migrant, barely surviving mortal combat with abject poverty , has unwittingly found such vicious animosity emanating from his otherwise tranquil neighbors? That he is forced to flee homewards now, overnight destroying his years of livelihood? Let me give you an example of my UP bhaiyya driver and how he survives in this fast-collapsing metropolis, for you to get a clear perspective.
Radheshyam , who has an uncanny Omkara-like profile, wakes up at an unearthly 5 am to ensure he stores enough water before the taps dry up, cooks his morning breakfast, packs his lunch dabba , and around 7 am walks 20 minutes to his nearest suburban station . After letting some bone-crushers zip by, he boards a relatively less crowded local train, packed in like a suffocated sardine layer , where every false step is a near-death experience. After an hour of this asphyxiating ordeal, he extricates himself from the mass of sweaty bodies , and lands at another central terminus. He then waits for another train, which is by now even more densely populated. Another grueling 30 minutes later, he alights at Dadar station, perspiration being the unifying glue amongst the multi-regional commuters. At peak hours ar Dadar station, you see a frantic, gigantic unending wave of restless humanity in kinetic over-drive, struggling to meet deadlines, keep promises, attend interviews, make the office appointment on time. Just survive, maybe..
Radheshyam now changes tracks to the western line, and after about 15-20 minutes of further depreciation lands in his final abode. To save on bus fare, he then walks 20 minutes to start his official daily routine. The return journey, is understandably, the same drudge, accentuated by even heavier human traffic. This is his daily routine. He sleeps a maximum of 4-5 hours daily.
By conventional average pay-outs, Radheshyam earns a reasonable sum, but I am aware that a single drinks- dinner- dessert for four in an upmarket restaurant will be equal to his monthly salary. Besides living in squalid conditions, he saves half of that modest earning for his impoverished family back home, surviving himself on the residual balance. He barely sees them for a maximum of two months in a year. He will never see his children grow up. He will never know what family life is all about.
Let me ask you, is this man and several like him threatening the social fabric of Maharashtra? Does he harbour any ill-will towards his fellow neighbors? Is he the nasty grievous threat that he is made out to be?
Politically, the anti-Bihari tirade is a suicidal step, as it is not just alienating ” north Indians ” but has assumed pan-India proportions. It is a sons-of-the-soil versus ” outsider issue”. So even the South Indian population ( the early victims ) and the rest of the non-Maharashtrians will be equally insecure and threatened..Come election time, they will attempt to exercise their powerful rights. They will. In fact, it is a huge strategic blunder that will inevitably boomerang, and you don’t need to be an astute psephologist to make that prognostication. The repercussions of the Thackeray -tirade will be felt for sure, impacting even the essentially peace-loving average Maharashtrian who are remarkably simple people. I should know that.
I grew up in Pune of the early 1970s, when visiting MG Road by the local residents was a rare monthly outing, as it was seen as far too cosmopolitan and hip-hop an address, influenced by a cross-cultural liberal mix, owing to the ubiquitous members of our defense services. But Deccan Gymkhana, and its precincts in nearby proximity , was home. I understand Raj Thackeray’s anguish on the disintegrating Pune culture, because it embodied the true Mahrashtrian spirit. The old-fashioned wadas, the delicious thali joints, Balgandharva theatre, lavani dances on standstill trucks at street corners, the Chatursinghi annual mela, family picnics in Shivaji park, and Joshi’s inimitable batata vada. . The same is being fast replaced by a Café Barista, shopping malls, Punjabi cuisine serving Chinese variations, multiplex chains, and mindless real estate construction. Pune is undergoing a socio-cultural fragmentation for sure. But what has the rank outsider looking for gainful employment done to threaten the local man or politician? The two issues are as distinct and different as Andrew Symonds and Prakash Karat. These are natural ramifications of urban growth in a fast-growing economy. The daunting problem of migration. It is also an opportunity to actually harness productive energy, instead of allowing it to become a community nightmare.
The challenge is of the teeming hordes of young, rural, semi-urban people with both employment goals and big ambitions who will enter a dream factory called Mumbai. Like they do in New York. New York is a melting pot. Where a Vikram Pandit , a Maharshtrian boy goes on to become the CEO of Citibank. Where a Rajat Gupta made it as head of global consulting Mckinsey. And where the Mayor of the city celebrates Indian Independence Day in the heart of central Manhattan. And here, we are threatening dire consequences for a chhatt festival and UP’s annual day being held in Mumbai?
It is easy to criticize the charge-sheeted Bihari politicians, but tell me of one state that is the fountainhead of unimpeachable integrity? And by the way , the new poster boy of Indian cricket is a certain MS Dhoni who is considered a great leadership icon of India today , and whatever his ancestral origins, he is a product of erstwhile Bihar, let us not forget that.
I also think we just take ourselves too seriously. My daughters joke with me in sardonic humour, when I mishandle the fork in an uppity snooty restaurant, or cannot pronounce the nouvelle French cuisine in an ornate menu. They say, “Dad, stop behaving like a Bihari”.. I laugh. They laugh too. And naturally since the joke is on me, my wife laughs the loudest.
My wife is a quasi-Maharshtrian, and her grand-father is not just one of the founders of modern industrial India, but a symbol of regional pride. His home base was Maharashtra. My girls have a typical Bihari Brahmin surname but they speak fluent Marathi, and have yet to visit my birth-place Bhagalpur, or see Patna where their grand-father once taught economics. They are Indians, nothing else matters.
If a Barack Hussein Obama can capture the conservative American imagination, and seek political change and a historic mandate , it is symptomatic of rapidly altering political landscapes world-wide. The social structure is shifting, there is an imperceptible drift in thinking , a subtle but definitive reminder that people are not looking for token reforms. They are expecting a dramatic transformation..
The age of status quo is dead. In every sphere, people want more than gradual growth. They are looking for radical results. Risk-takers. They want an upheaval. A metamorphosis. They will experiment. Like US voters are showing us with Obama perhaps, they care a fig for even lack of political experience. Past statistics. They are creating a wave borne out of instinct. Of trust. Of a promise of a better tomorrow.
For the Thackeray family, paradoxically enough, the UP-Bihari migrants should have been the ultimate vote-bank ( just see how Hillary Clinton woos the NRI population) . Because contrary to their image of being armed dacoits, violent mercenaries, and inveterate rapscallions, Biharis are intrinsically the most humble, soft-spoken and down-to-earth people , conditioned so by years of servitude and social inferiority , economic deprivation, raging exploitation and total isolation. But they have prodigious respect for their hosts, for their benefactors. Always. Anyone who gives them a ray of hope. I think the Shiv Sena and MNS may have just blown away one of their core options for 2009.
I think we should quit this myopic fixation of making Mumbai a Shanghai. The story does not lie in hard infrastructure, shopping malls, software parks, night life and a financial business district alone.. It lies in it’s soul. It’s energy. It’s oneness. It’s inclusiveness. Perhaps Mumbai needs to be more like New York. Not just a city of India. But a city of the world.
Add comment June 18, 2009
GOODBYE, AMADEUS!
He came home for the first time in the small space in front of a Bajaj scooter usually reserved for hand gloves , helmet and license papers. He was so small. It was in Pune, 1996, and he was delivered to us by a nondescript dog merchandiser who was brokering a sale deal for a pedigree German shepherd . That’s how he came into our lives. Around the same time, we saw the Hollywood classic , 9 Oscars winning movie Amadeus, based on the bizarre tumultuous life of a musical genius , Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. It was a compelling watch. My wife and I looked at the small soft inscrutable black-haired frisky thing in our hands and thought he possessed all the maverick predilections of the music icon. He was bouncy, irrepressible, clearly had a mind of his own and made arresting sounds, not necessarily musical , but impactful nevertheless. That’s how Amadeus came to be.
 Amadeus (1996-2008) |
In a country where “station” is pronounced “tishan”, “heart is hurt and hurt is heart” in Delhi, for instance, and everything is a “joy” in Kolkota ( is Sanjoy being cheeky, Babu Moshai??) , Amadeus got nick-named by all and sundry with a cowboy’s license. The girl who cooked called him Aamras. The driver pronounced him as Amdus. The walker christened him Amu. Which also frequently became Aam. I called him several names, Omelet being one amongst several of them. But it was Amu that stuck, the indigenisation perhaps is keeping with convenience and common sense. . Of course, I was also to discover that not many in the cocktail circuit knew that Amadeus and Mozart were the same person. But that is another story.
Amu had the formidable grandeur of the imperial king in his mane; a handsome frame, commanding a glistening hue of golden brown and dark black . The ears stood in perpetual attention, the side of his finely crafted jaw had a conspicuous dark spot, signifying the distinctive mark of a blue blood. The tail swaggered in rhythmic harmony whenever he smelt cottage-cheese, and since non-vegetarian meal is strictly prohibited at home, Amadeus was essentially a reluctant vegetarian who could have done with some red meat steak . In the end, his diet was supremely “saatvik type”, much to his discomfiture,. Which is why when I took him out for his walks so that he could do his daily ablutions, he would rather hold back his constitutional urges if he as much as spotted a bone. He had an art of concealing the broken bone pieces so ingeniously , it would take Hercules Poirot to discover it’s location. Later as my wife hollered at him for disturbing the pure vegan environment at home , he had a quizzical expression; “Me Dog, Love bone. Why you guys getting so uptight?
Amadeus was essentially in the Gandhian mould, and remarkably tranquil given his natural inherited inclinations when it came to the human race. But when he spotted another tail running around in his territory, he assumed wolfish proportions. He came into his refulgent own. It was his own sacrosanct home and neighboring dogs were forewarned to stay clear; that was his non-negotiable diktat. In that sense, he was schizophrenic. Only once he sniffed up with rather pervert intentions the dropping trousers of an unsuspecting visitor, till that poor fellow almost literally hit the ceiling.
He loved car-rides so much, I believe, he would have loved to be on the drivers seat. Going back and forth to Pune, he would stand upright even as the car bumped along the circuitous highways, his heavy breathing resonating in the car. For him , this was the open space that a journey provided, away from the claustrophobic excesses of the cosmopolitan base that was his life in Mumbai. Occasionally, I would watch him look at the traffic snarls from our second floor residence, as if he wondered why were the nitwits so clueless about work-life balance; why this utter madness, the incessant honking, the frenetic pace? I think he almost shook his head in acute disbelief.
He walked majestic, loved the early morning stretch, and did the complex poses with effortless ease, amused that we made such a big deal about yoga exercises. Unmindful of the sensex volatility, attrition rates, the Nano controversy and Sourav Ganguly’s exclusion from the Indian team , he snoozed and slept his way through his daily travails. He needed no stress-busters, excepting that sneaky mongrel sometimes. And almost everyone became his best buddy.
Giving him a bath was usually a monthly ritual, and he had Shyamalan’s sixth-sense about when there was a big conspiracy being hatched to trap him . He dodged intelligently, his nose smelling trouble yards away . Usually he hid under the sofa sets till some delectable biscuits he fancied invariably did him in. He was susceptible after all. And when he was fully wet and shampooed, his expressions conveyed disgust at our cleanliness fetish; get on with it, guys, and let me go, was his succinct message.
Amadeus adored my two girls, allowing them to indulgently create havoc with him, make a mess of his afternoon nap-sessions, put him through some fashion experiments, and even wear branded apparel. But he never ever complained. They gave him the most unadulterated pure love I have ever seen . It was a pulp of foamy mush and bonding of the souls. And my wife treated him with such gentle caring affection it gave him the status of being our “ little boy” at home. The feeling was clearly mutual. It was endless love.
Today was my day of giving him the Sunday walks, our regular routine. A walk interjected several times by his sniffing his way into the perfect spot for his daily constitutional . Amadeus had converted shitting into a sublime perfectionist art. I also think he sensed my occasional restlessness, but told me that this was the least I could do for him at least once a week. He usually won those silent arguments.
The day before yesterday at 11.07 am he passed away .Almost as quietly as he had arrived in the palm of a hand twelve and a half years ago. He had been battling an internal condition for over two weeks that had suddenly consumed his already-depleted energy and strong reserves. Over the last few months, the big jump at the door had transformed to a slower wag and a half-hearted lurch. Now he preferred to be smothered; his tiring legs prevented him from even making his customary call at the door. The big wide smile was still there as was the unbridled happiness of seeing us all home. But a spate of illnesses had become regular. The decline was perceptible. And it was time to do a Google search on average life expectancy of a German shepherd. It said 12-13 years. .
I took a walk down the back-lane today, where we hung in together. His favorite locations, his penchant for following a process. A sniff. A circle. A sniff. Two circles. And then indecision. I remembered it all. I looked around at all the places at home where he ensconced himself in his magnificent pose, watching the entire household with his alert eyes. At meal –time, his usual vessel was empty. That inimitable smell of boiled rice from his body was not in the air. His walking leash lay on the shelf untouched. When one heard a distant bark today, I almost thought he was resurrected. Or perhaps never gone. And I somewhere looked for those large brown eyes, speaking a million nuances, with just a longer lingering stare. Or the incandescent gleam of joy. Or the pain of an end that he knew was inevitable.
In Dale Carnegie they tell me that communication is about a combination of words, tone and tenor and body language. I have written approximately 1200 words here to express my love for Amadeus, knowing fully well that he needed to say none to express his own.
Add comment June 18, 2009
GO TAKE A WALK, FORREST GUMP
Friday March 12th 1993 seemed like just another pre-summer day , clear blue skies, odd shaped clouds drifting away in a cluster as if in animated conversation, with crisp sunshine flooding the skyscrapers of Nariman Point. Bombay ( as it was still called that then) seemed to exhibit it’s usual brisk pace, a breezy bustling like environment, unrelenting speed, chaotic frenzy, and a no-nonsense business-like exterior. In a few hours, it was all to change.
A corpulent colleague of mine, Anand Chadha ( name changed , for personal reasons) , who would have ransacked McDonald’s kitchen single-handedly ( we had to do with Mafco’s mayonnaise -stuffed chicken rolls in those days) walked up to me , looking a picture of utter dejection. It seemed as if he had just been given the pink-slip.
” Boss”, he said, his morose expression , having a contagious effect on me within seconds as I prepared to give him my shoulder to cry on , ” let’s go out for lunch”.
I was naturally too flabbergasted to respond to such a somber invitation, even as I was happy for him that he was still in company rolls.
” I just checked today’s lunch menu. It’s awful. Doraiswamy is messed up big-time. All bland, boring stuff”.
I looked at my watch; it was still early to consume calories by my usual body clock. But the humongous man in front of me looked clearly distressed.
” Let’s go”, I said, very reluctantly.
We quickly jumped into a cab, my colleague occupying three fourths of the backseat, as I craned my neck out of the window for some breathing space. Then my eyes suddenly noticed something peculiar. Far away in the distance, black smoke emanated from what looked like the Bombay Stock Exchange.
” Look”, I said, pointing towards the sky, the smoke now swelling up considerably, like a balloon undergoing inflation.
But my colleague sat there rubbing his bulging tummy , as he copiously made mental notes of the restaurants close by that he could plunder.
The cab neared Flora Fountain, but with every yard we covered, my unease began to escalate. The fire engulfing the BSE building seemed a formidable one, it was not just a cylinder blast in some downtown Udupi restaurant. It was disconcerting. There was something wrong.
Throngs of people were accumulating , looking and pointing skywards, perplexed and worried.
Anand and I walked into this restaurant serving the typical Bombay burgers , crisply fried chicken cutlets sandwiched gently between two huge flying saucers, with an overdose of tomato slices and coleslaw , trying to furtively squeeze out from all sides.
I looked out of the restaurant, Anand cussing the waiter for taking too long, two minutes after placing the order.
I then saw , for the first time in my life, a blood-soaked individual. He looked shell-shocked, his head and face like a red mask, his clothes torn to small shreds. Some passer-bys held his limp body up, as they hailed a taxi. And then I saw a middle-aged man, bleeding profusely from his neck and wounds on his chest, struggling to stand-up, looking dazed as if hit by a lightning. And then I saw another. And another.
This was a deadly bomb explosion, I had no doubt about that. I could not eat, but Anand had ensured that my chicken burger did not require to be packed.
It was time to drive back to the office and tell our office folk what we had just seen. There is this strange human instinct to want to narrate the bad breaking news with a first-hand account.
We reached the Air India building , circumventing wailing police jeeps, ambulances , press vehicles and traffic snarls. Evidently, there was panic and pandemonium had spread all around.
” Boss, let me have a quick paan ( betel-leaf) after such a satisfying meal ,” said Anand, smothering his burp and rubbing his stomach in an anti-clockwise direction. .
A few friends from the bank joined in. There was the usual lunch gossip, about why bosses are rightfully associated with a certain part of the body anatomy. Anand described the awesome softness of the chicken in his meal with a chef’s passion. And my description of the horror playing out in the BSE building was considered exaggerated.
A minute and forty seconds later I was in the washroom of my bank in Express Towers when the bomb exploded. It had an unnerving fury about it, as glass shattered, frantic screams followed, and there was a sudden outbreak of terror in the air. I stepped out towards the next door Air India building, running against the tide of humanity surging in the opposite direction. Even as they ran, they fell, and even as they fell, they ran.
The place where we had last confabulated and discussed salacious bank gossip with office colleagues was in flames, parked cars were overturned and burning, the whole place was already destroyed and deserted. Food stalls were charred black, the metal road railing were bent and twisted, even as some people were running away in whichever direction they believed stood safety.
I minute 40 seconds separated us from the ghastly explosion that had just killed several innocent people. . I looked at my watch. If I remember correctly, it was a few minutes past 2.30 pm.
The truth is that as I reflected the next day on the March 13th serial bomb blasts that devastated Bombay , I realized, that Anand had unwittingly saved my life. In a lighter vein, perhaps, his voracious appetite certainly had. Let me tell you how.
I had made it a habitual practise to eat lunch when our canteen was reasonably empty. And secondly, almost invariably I would take a short walk to the Air India building, walk on it’s inner sidewalk, stop and look towards the tranquil Arabian sea beyond the Marine Drive embankments . It soothed me, allayed my nerves, kept me in touch with a world that did not care for the claustrophobic politics that prevailed between corporate whiz-kids in the bank. To the world outside, the infantile misdemeanors of mature bank professionals fighting for a quicker promotion or a bigger bonus was as meaningless as the pebble they threw into the waters below. It did not matter. To me, the post-lunch afternoon walk to Air India building was my daily dose of walk-on meditation. I had a most predictable routine, and was usually there by 2.30 pm . Every day.
When is the last time you took a walk around the block, for no obscure reason during your office hours? Or just stepped out to see what the real temperature was? Skipped the office meal, to just taste food in the new restaurant and sauntered thereafter aimlessly ? When did you just invite a friend from nowhere and have lunch without talking shop? When did you surprise someone special in your life by arriving home early, and then did nothing?
It is in our most innocuous acts that come to us naturally that we connect with reality. I keep reading about the new burn-out syndrome that is hitting everyone in corporate India. If we don’t correct ourselves, it will soon become like an epidemic, subsuming us with remorseless delight.
Take short break. A pause. Everyday. Make it a routine. Whatever you choose. A short walk out twice a day. Calling your mother just to say hi and exchange notes. Or just to sit silently and do nothing. It might be just 20 minutes. Or 10. It does not matter. But the break will punctuate your life with meaning. It will make you recognize that sometimes our priorities can be so misplaced. And in the larger scheme of things in the universe, does it really matter? Are the things that give you sleepless nights or raise your hypertension levels likely to reverse global warming? Will it solve the Iraq imbroglio? Will it alter the shape of the sun? A few months later, will you even remember why you were sweating about it?
On March 12th 1993 , by a whisker of 1 minute 40 seconds I believe I got a second innings to play. But life actually is like a one-day game. There are no second chances. Live it well. You deserve it. Give life your own pace. Believe me, nothing slows down. Everything still happens, and happens well. There are no TRPs here, so why make it a cliffhanger?
The cab neared Flora Fountain, but with every yard we covered, my unease began to escalate. The fire engulfing the BSE building seemed a formidable one, it was not just a cylinder blast in some downtown Udupi restaurant. It was disconcerting. There was something wrong.
Throngs of people were accumulating , looking and pointing skywards, perplexed and worried.
Anand and I walked into this restaurant serving the typical Bombay burgers , crisply fried chicken cutlets sandwiched gently between two huge flying saucers, with an overdose of tomato slices and coleslaw , trying to furtively squeeze out from all sides.
I looked out of the restaurant, Anand cussing the waiter for taking too long, two minutes after placing the order.
I then saw , for the first time in my life, a blood-soaked individual. He looked shell-shocked, his head and face like a red mask, his clothes torn to small shreds. Some passer-bys held his limp body up, as they hailed a taxi. And then I saw a middle-aged man, bleeding profusely from his neck and wounds on his chest, struggling to stand-up, looking dazed as if hit by a lightning. And then I saw another. And another.
This was a deadly bomb explosion, I had no doubt about that. I could not eat, but Anand had ensured that my chicken burger did not require to be packed.
It was time to drive back to the office and tell our office folk what we had just seen. There is this strange human instinct to want to narrate the bad breaking news with a first-hand account.
We reached the Air India building , circumventing wailing police jeeps, ambulances , press vehicles and traffic snarls. Evidently, there was panic and pandemonium had spread all around.
” Boss, let me have a quick paan ( betel-leaf) after such a satisfying meal ,” said Anand, smothering his burp and rubbing his stomach in an anti-clockwise direction. .
A few friends from the bank joined in. There was the usual lunch gossip, about why bosses are rightfully associated with a certain part of the body anatomy. Anand described the awesome softness of the chicken in his meal with a chef’s passion. And my description of the horror playing out in the BSE building was considered exaggerated.
A minute and forty seconds later I was in the washroom of my bank in Express Towers when the bomb exploded. It had an unnerving fury about it, as glass shattered, frantic screams followed, and there was a sudden outbreak of terror in the air. I stepped out towards the next door Air India building, running against the tide of humanity surging in the opposite direction. Even as they ran, they fell, and even as they fell, they ran.
The place where we had last confabulated and discussed salacious bank gossip with office colleagues was in flames, parked cars were overturned and burning, the whole place was already destroyed and deserted. Food stalls were charred black, the metal road railing were bent and twisted, even as some people were running away in whichever direction they believed stood safety.
I minute 40 seconds separated us from the ghastly explosion that had just killed several innocent people. . I looked at my watch. If I remember correctly, it was a few minutes past 2.30 pm.
The truth is that as I reflected the next day on the March 13th serial bomb blasts that devastated Bombay , I realized, that Anand had unwittingly saved my life. In a lighter vein, perhaps, his voracious appetite certainly had. Let me tell you how.
I had made it a habitual practise to eat lunch when our canteen was reasonably empty. And secondly, almost invariably I would take a short walk to the Air India building, walk on it’s inner sidewalk, stop and look towards the tranquil Arabian sea beyond the Marine Drive embankments . It soothed me, allayed my nerves, kept me in touch with a world that did not care for the claustrophobic politics that prevailed between corporate whiz-kids in the bank. To the world outside, the infantile misdemeanors of mature bank professionals fighting for a quicker promotion or a bigger bonus was as meaningless as the pebble they threw into the waters below. It did not matter. To me, the post-lunch afternoon walk to Air India building was my daily dose of walk-on meditation. I had a most predictable routine, and was usually there by 2.30 pm . Every day.
When is the last time you took a walk around the block, for no obscure reason during your office hours? Or just stepped out to see what the real temperature was? Skipped the office meal, to just taste food in the new restaurant and sauntered thereafter aimlessly ? When did you just invite a friend from nowhere and have lunch without talking shop? When did you surprise someone special in your life by arriving home early, and then did nothing?
It is in our most innocuous acts that come to us naturally that we connect with reality. I keep reading about the new burn-out syndrome that is hitting everyone in corporate India. If we don’t correct ourselves, it will soon become like an epidemic, subsuming us with remorseless delight.
Take short break. A pause. Everyday. Make it a routine. Whatever you choose. A short walk out twice a day. Calling your mother just to say hi and exchange notes. Or just to sit silently and do nothing. It might be just 20 minutes. Or 10. It does not matter. But the break will punctuate your life with meaning. It will make you recognize that sometimes our priorities can be so misplaced. And in the larger scheme of things in the universe, does it really matter? Are the things that give you sleepless nights or raise your hypertension levels likely to reverse global warming? Will it solve the Iraq imbroglio? Will it alter the shape of the sun? A few months later, will you even remember why you were sweating about it?
On March 12th 1993 , by a whisker of 1 minute 40 seconds I believe I got a second innings to play. But life actually is like a one-day game. There are no second chances. Live it well. You deserve it. Give life your own pace. Believe me, nothing slows down. Everything still happens, and happens well. There are no TRPs here, so why make it a cliffhanger?
Add comment June 18, 2009
DON OF THE DEAD
I suffered from an acute childhood obsession, almost a quirky fetish; the love for petrol smell. It sent me into a delirious zone , as it had a macho aroma about it and my nostrils invariably sniffed out the closest fuel dispensing outlet. Small wonder then that my first career job was at a leading petroleum behemoth, and for a man for whom the scent of petroleum products was preferable to the fragrance of Denim ( the most sought after cologne in those days) the assignment held unlimited potential for experiencing spiritual ecstasy while at work. . Or so I believed.
Twenty-one years later, as a professional young IIM talent and IOC executive lay brutally slaughtered by the oil mafia in the conundrum of crime, Uttar Pradesh , I almost lived a vicarious experience. Will there be another Manjunath Shanmughan tomorrow , slain with methodical precision and in cold blood because he discovered the nefarious nocturnal activities of the vicious oil mob ?. And probably it’s entire diabolical network ?. The answer, is a loud unambiguous, unequivocal—YES.
I was told that I had ” topped” the written examination cum interview in a strangely hushed manner by a perpetually smiling secretary at the Head Office . I had thus earned the right to be treated like a blue eyed boy , as this was amongst the early recruitments being done by this public sector enterprise post-nationalisation. This meant that amongst the 50 odd Management Trainees , I would be in the select coterie of candidates who could choose his functional discipline-Operations, Aviation or Sales. The interview which followed the post- training sessions was as brief as Sachin Tendulkar’s innings at the crease these days—- sales, it was. When I asked rather innocuously how could I have a sales target when we were advertising oil conservation and fuel saving , it was met with a contemptuous indifference reserved for a college upstart afflicted by a serious mental aberration. So off I went for my first professional posting to a regional office.
In those days post- nationalization , the oil companies senior management staff had much snootiness , with many of them belonging to the upper strata of society , fork and knife type with blue blood to boot, a royal kinship and political lineage being added qualifications. St Stephen’s, Mayo and Doon School ruled the roost in the Old Boy’s Club. The Divisional Manager ( who typically headed a region) was on the invitation list of society’s glitterati; after all, you needed his desperate intervention to get that coveted LPG connection for your newly married daughter. Even getting a refill cylinder ahead of the waiting list was like making a huge social statement.
My first serious assignment entailed being ” attached ” to a local Area Sales Officer ( who would narrate voluminous stories on the good ole days of the company’s historical multinational era) , and traveling into the rural interiors of Maharashtra in his personal car . I noticed something inordinately fishy every time we visited a retail outlet. The quarterly inspection we were supposed to conduct was to have a sudden surprise element; instead it had become traditional company practice to inform the dealer concerned before-hand .
As a young man of 21 yrs and six months in his first job , such business practices defied basic wisdom and practical common sense. It certainly was a real eye-opener. As I soon discovered , the Sales Officer was second to God Almighty himself, with the dealer genuflecting and gesticulating with feverish emotion his delight at seeing us all from the ” company”. Not surprisingly, the petrol pump would have immaculate house-keeping, the price charts were correctly displayed, the customer complaint book was filled with embarrassing exaggerated adulation and the attendant staff stood in creased uniform.
While the so-called inspection would be carried out amidst small glasses of masala chai and fried samosas, elaborate dinner plans would also be simultaneously conceived with meticulous detail. The dispensing pump staff would give the SO’s ( the acronym for the Sales Officer) car a royal shampoo bath . But what really stunned me was the conspicuous comfort with which they would tank up the car . I never ever saw the SO pay cash or cheque , but he never failed to collect the three inch square petrol receipt. After all, one had to submit original vouchers for reimbursing expense claims. My induction training thus left me thoroughly nonplused, partially disillusioned and highly agitated. I longed to make an inspection tour all by myself. A month later , I got that elusive chance.
I was summoned to make my first independent inspection visit to a popular district which housed some established dealers on both the national highways as well as the bustling city. As I landed by the red and yellow MSRTC bus, I was flabbergasted to see that there were two prominent dealers awaiting my arrival , hands folded and sporting a blatantly fake smile, reminiscent of airline crews. Clearly, they had already been advised of my peregrinations. I firmly refused breakfast and chai pani propositions in their palatial paradise of multiple floors, and got down to the dirty business of taking oil dip measurements.
Oil companies have a straightforward formula to calculate adulteration possibilities, and evaporation losses. I began to thoroughly enjoy doing the arithmetical calculations , pursuing it with aggressive enthusiasm. The objective was to identify if the dealer had added subsidized kerosene into the petrol and or high speed diesel tank to take advantage of price differential. Given their overall sales volumes, the potential for black money was astronomical. The results of my clinical investigations were disturbingly alarming; out of the seven pumps I had reviewed, five were disproportionately high in contamination , while two were moderately north of tolerance limits. In short, adulteration was the norm , not the exception.
I knew this was absolutely sensational stuff and demanded immediate suspension of all supplies pending laboratory tests of sampled fuel by the company. I felt like a Bollywood hero and a social crusader combined. . With a triumphant smile of the New Age Messiah, scurrying around with cocky arrogance and breathless anticipation , I submitted my Tour Reports to the big boss. He picked them up and I deciphered an indistinct, fleeting amusement, before a large frown descended on his countenance, which was soon supplanted by flushed cheeks, and I knew that he was not blushing. His rage was palpable.
As I sat there in nervous trepidation, I got my first lesson in business principles: ” I like your enthusiasm and spirit; unfortunately, they are misplaced. It is obvious that you lack practical business experience. Do you know the repercussions of your bizarre reports ? .It could lead to our retail outlets losing sales, while our competitors thrive. And we will be the only buffoons trying to make an example of our own fraternity while competing outlets will prosper unhindered, as their sales teams will protect and promote their business goals. Do you think it is fair? You are in sales, and choking supplies is not part of your performance review, young man. Learn to build relationships, develop a spirit of accommodation and give and take”. Mark McCormack was bingo; there are some things you can never learn in a business school.
Enlightened and educated in pragmatic business norms and appropriately chastised for being too methodical, I went as part of a fact-finding team for selecting new dealers in a backward district. An overnight trip was warranted. The most promising candidate, who was incidentally politically well connected , boasted pompously that he had already pocketed the allotment. It was to later come true. Joint inspections with other oil companies were such a theatrical farce, you could have christened them as a Bombay theatre slapstick comedy, ” You scratch my back, and I will scratch yours “. LPG, Kerosene, MS/HSD, and even special oils and bulk sales, everywhere in the trade the underlying story had the same dubious concurrent theme across all product lines. . And inspection reports became just another document for claiming cash reimbursements-they were a meaningless paper exercise..
The blue- eyed boy had the unique distinction of not being confirmed in his job, ostensibly because I was an ” unenthusiastic traveler “. I resigned a few months later, just shy of completing two years, to pursue an MBA. Manjunath Shanmughan joined IOC after his IIM, Lucknow.
I have since moved on and worked in foreign banks, asset management, financial services, management consulting and Internet business and experienced extraordinary changes and incredible happenings. . Twenty-one years later, oil companies are the biggest consumers of advertising budgets on TV networks, and sponsor cricket tournaments , entertainment events and Formula 1 race drivers. Marketing whiz-kids talk of the end of commodity positioning and the rise of product branding in the petroleum sector . Mani Shankar Aiyer is working assiduously to lay transnational pipelines and negotiate oil barrel price deals for India . And the oil price news affects the Sensex with cataclysmic effect. But as Manjunath’s death tells us all, deep down inside nothing has changed. Nothing.
Add comment June 18, 2009
