Road Crossing

The old lady was terrified by the noise of the cars. With her failing eyesight and slow gait, she wondered whether she would be able to cross the road that morning, and reach the bank to collect her pension. It was to her big relief then that a strapping young man offered her help. She looked up into his face, gave him a wrinkled smile and blessed him in her croaking voice.

The young man waited for the traffic to thin. He eyed the bank pass book in the old lady's hand and almost rubbed his hands in glee at the thought of such an easy prey early in the day.

The traffic thinned after a few seconds. The young man took the old lady by the shoulders and took slow steps forward to match her pace, who nevertheless had to shuffle along faster than usual. They were halfway across the road when it happened. The young man's shoelace came undone, and he tripped and fell. An oncoming bus missed the old lady by a fraction, but not the young man.

AbNQ

Forms and the Man

Marketing, done well, is the ability to sell to someone something they don’t want in a package they don’t like at a price they are unwilling to pay. Most people who disagree with this definition are marketers themselves, and hence we shall discount their disagreement.

Shah Rukh Khan once admitted that he is a commodity. Okay, he has that oh-so-cute dimple, ability to shake a leg on top of a train without falling off, and an army of females who envy his wife. With so much going for him, SRK would be a commodity whose going rate is always good. Still, he was recently dumped on the open market by a cola major for incomprehensible reasons. Imagine then the pitiable plight of daily workers like detergent sellers, factory labourers, salaried consultants etc., who might have only the oh-so-cute dimple in common with SRK, but who are commodities nonetheless. One special season every year, they are compared to their competitors, their prices haggled over and bids placed for them by people who don’t want them, in packages they don’t like and at prices they are unwilling to pay. This special season … (roll of the drums) … is … (crescendo) … the … (crash of the cymbals) …Appraisal season.

You know it’s that time of the year when the Department in charge of the whole thing starts sending frantic notifications to all and sundry, accusing them of laziness and gross incompetence, and provides statistics for further effect. The smart ones among the lazy and grossly incompetent pick out the hidden adjectives in the message, and make a mental note to mention their antonyms in their own sales pitch (some call them assessment forms). Not surprisingly, in a way some things never surprise you, the said Department stops all training sessions for composing sales pitches right when they are most needed.

Invariably, and much to the self righteous chagrin of the abovementioned Department, everyone starts filling out their forms two hours before the deadline for submission is about to expire. Those intelligent enough copy out slightly tweaked (as in, “Visited the company stall at Expo 2008 and said Hi to the representatives” to “Visited the company stall at Expo 2009 and said Hello to the representatives”) versions of their earlier forms. Those even more intelligent copy out largely untweaked (as in, “Visited the company stall at Expo 2009 and said Hello to the representatives” to “Visited the company stall at Expo 2009 and said Hello to the representatives”) versions of their friends’ forms. Brains are racked for what their owners have achieved in the past year, and after a long search, the brains reply, “Attended team meetings regularly.” A few more pokes, and the brains truthfully grumble, “Filled up timesheet conscientiously.” Owners of the brains give up, and write out on their own, “Organised birthday parties for team mates.” The ultimate examples of laziness and gross incompetence, the creative writers, despair the unimaginative structure of the forms, and end up ranting about it on their blogs.

After the much abused Department server inevitably crashes, deadlines are inevitably extended and spaced out. Meanwhile, discussions during coffee breaks revolve around terms like expectations, evaluation, review, and for sheer lack of creativity, review1, review2, and so on. Inside information on the relative leniency or ruthlessness of the powers that be are traded in hushed tones. The powers that be enjoy their days of glory as work gets done faster (or gets done at all), instructions are promptly acted upon, and juniors put on the powers that be’s favourite caller tunes on their phones. The lucky ones also get a few errands done along the way and occasionally have doors to their cars, or better still, to their juniors’ seductive new cars, held open for them. A pat on the back here, an indulgent smile there, and their worth on the information exchange takes the shape of a bull run.

Finally, a few days later, as numbers and comments roll in, popular mood dips regardless of the nature of the numbers and comments. Those getting anything less than the best complain that they deserved the best, while those who get the best complain they deserved it last year itself. Such is human nature. Little does it realise that even commodities fluctuate in value! Sigh…

AbNQ

To Tie or Not to Tie - Alternating Perspectives of a Necktie and a Corporate Historian

Clothes maketh the man.
- Someone

And if that man beeth on the payroll of an MNC, they maketh him even more.
- Centuries later, Someone Else

(Apologies to female readers, but Someone and Someone Else weren’t always politically correct.)

I am a tie. A necktie. I am a sombre blue in colour with white pinstripes running diagonally across me. I came with a tie pin, a flashy show off if ever there was one. But we got on well together. Contrasted against the silky white of our friend the shirt, we had quite a day. A really good day. A really long time ago. Umm, no, I don’t quite remember how long. You see, since that day – the day our man got married – I haven’t quite seen the light of day, and have lost count of time. This is surprising, because I belong to the wardrobe of someone who’s on the payroll of an MNC. Imagine my surprise then, when today our man poked his head inside his wardrobe, and pulled me out from under a heavy duty pair of Killer jeans. Killer was suitably miffed for not having been the chosen garment for the day, as he had been for very many days, and came down heavily on my tail. Ouch, I totally agree with his name…

There was a notification from the highest level of the MNC that tried to, more or less, take away the option of wearing a tie. Another thing it did was, more and not less, to banish the wearing of jeans (Killer or otherwise) and sneakers. Of course, reactions to this notification varied. There was an organized underground movement by rebels to get the junta to wear worn out denim and anything but formal shoes on the first Friday after this notification. Then there were those closet dandies who decided to come out in the open regarding their clothing preferences. (“Our man is one of them,” adds the necktie.) And as usual, there was the majority that was confused, did not know which side to take, and decided to maintain the status quo while it became clear which extreme would ultimately win…

I was slid over and knotted appropriately around our man’s neck. His wife did a double take when she first saw this change in her hubby’s appearance, but recovered quickly to perform the filmy style knot tightening act of the loving wife. The kids were thankfully off to school, otherwise I am sure they would have giggled their heads off at the unexpected sight of me. A little while later, our man dutifully missed his office bus by a whisker, and looked around for an alternate means of transport. He then suddenly remembered me and decided to give a royal miss to the public buses stopping invitingly in front of him. A tiewala in a public bus? Nah! A cab driver got lucky instead…

Unknowingly or knowingly, battle lines were being drawn in the form of rolling eyes and jibes at the changed look of the dandies. Members of the opposing factions eyed each other warily and started to move around in the safety of numbers of their own kind. Elevator conversations invariably turned to discussing about which person had taken which side and taking stock of the parties’ strengths. The atmosphere in the cafeteria was generally tense but even that was occasionally heightened by the guffaw of the rebels at the sight of a dandy smearing his tie with chicken gravy. The erstwhile smoking areas in the office building served as meeting places where members of the confused majority were brainwashed alternately by the warring factions and cajoled, urged and threatened to join or face consequences. Eventually, with numbers stacking up against them, the rebels took to refuge in minor victories, as in, “Even my boss doesn’t wear a tie, so why should I?!” and started challenging the ‘wearers’ to maintain their dandyism once summer arrived…

Our man and I reached office by the time the guards at the office gates had regained their humour post the morning rush. One of them saw us, smiled, touched the knot of his own tie, and said to our man, “Et tu, saar?!”

AbNQ

The Chair Bumpers

Having enjoyed the sunshine, central AC and spacious loos of a modern office building, I was recently deported to an ancient twentieth century office. After a few days of mild depression (comparable to that of a Beverly Hills resident putting up in an Indian railway general class waiting room), I decided to stop being glum about it, and to look at things from a positive perspective. About many things, I managed to console myself, but the pièce de résistance, the one thing I can still not reconcile myself with, is having a seat next to a shared printer.

With reams being written and talked (did someone say Stop Talking, Start Doing?!) about eco-friendly workplaces, it is astounding to get to know about the affinity of laptop-toting execs for The Printed Word. Once I got used to my chair being bumped from behind by people (ranging all the way from “Oops, I’m so sorry,” to menacing eyes saying “Get outta my way!”) on their way to collect their Printed Words, I did some analysing and inferencing and categorised these Chair Bumpers as follows.

·         I-Can-Do-It-On-Screen-But-It’s-Easier-On-Paper

I ask, what is easier on paper? Reading? No, they say, it’s the ease of analysis and annotative capabilities and the comparability and shareability of documents (using multiple copies of course). Yeah, I add, the invigorating aroma of fresh ink on virgin paper too? They nod in excited agreement. These I-Can-Do-It-… types will typically have self-important expressions of smugness when they come to collect their Printed Words, and start reading them on the return journey to their chairs – So much to read and so little time, yaar! As if they hadn’t read the Words on their TFTs before.

·         Read-at-Home

Poor workaholic souls who take their work home, yes, both in electronic and paper format. Their trick is to be spotted by the boss with a bunch of Printed Words while leaving the office. Earns them an additional point from the higher-ups and helps them show off their workaholism to their fellow travellers on their way to and from home. (For more on commuting sociology, read this.)

·         Clandestine Publishing Company Pvt Ltd

They will come in early, stay back during lunch hour, or even after hours, so that they can print their copies of War and Peace in peace (sorry for the pun!). The good part about these Publishers is that they avoid bumping chairs, and in fact greet you apologetically and envy you at the same time for sitting so close to the printer. In the beginning, it was strange to be greeted politely for a change rather than being Chair Bumped, but then things fell into perspective pretty soon. Publishers of this type are easy to spot – before striking Ctrl-P, they’ll always look around with shifty eyes and make sure the path to the printer is free of obstructions. And then, they put Usain Bolt to shame by the speed with which they complete their sprint to and from the printer. Oh and yes, a friendly guy sitting next to the machine is a potential partner in their Publishing Company.

·         The Environmentalists

With a stricken expression as if the printer is using their blood rather than ink to do its job, the Environmentalists use duplex printing and hunt around for used paper in their drawers that they can recycle onto the printer tray. You would know them by the tagline Please do not print this unless it is absolutely necessary at the bottom of each of their emails. I would readily have myself Chair Bumped by these people than anyone else, but the trouble is they oblige me very rarely. So that journeys to the printer become social occasions and time for chatting up with long-lost friends who sit near the printer.

And then of course, you have those who sit next to the printer all day and take out prints of their blog posts by the dozen. Muwahahhahaha!!!

The Fine Print

With all the brouhaha about the nuclear deal between USA and India, yours truly got interested in getting down to the fine print. And as is usually the case with fine print, it threw up some pretty interesting stuff. Sample this:

Published in January 2006, the Henry J. Hyde United States-India Peaceful Atomic Energy Cooperation Act of 2006, popularly known as the Hyde Act, says...

It is the sense of Congress that— ...
(12) any commerce in civil nuclear energy with India by the United States and other countries must be achieved in a manner that minimizes the risk of nuclear proliferation or regional arms races and maximizes India’s adherence to international nonproliferation regimes, including, in particular, the guidelines of the Nuclear Suppliers Group (NSG);

Perfect. Further down the twenty-eight page document, it also says in its Statements of Policy in Section 103 that (among other things) the following should be a policy of the US...

Given the special sensitivity of equipment and technologies related to the enrichment of uranium, the reprocessing of spent nuclear fuel, and the production of heavy water, work with members of the NSG, individually and collectively, to further restrict the transfers of such equipment and technologies, including to India.

Makes it crystal clear, doesn't it, that USA wants to further restrict transfer of sensitive equipment and technologies to India? And then, we have a media note released in August 2007 that publishes the text of the Agreement for Cooperation between the Government of the United States of America and the Government of India concerning peaceful uses of nuclear energy (123 Agreement). Here's what it has to say:

The Government of India and the Government of the United States of America, hereinafter referred to as the Parties,
Have agreed on the following: ...
1. The Parties shall cooperate in the use of nuclear energy for peaceful purposes in accordance with the provisions of this Agreement. ...
2. The purpose of the Agreement being to enable full civil nuclear energy cooperation between the Parties, the Parties may pursue cooperation in all relevant areas to include, but not limited to, the following: ...
g. Supply between the Parties, whether for use by or for the benefit of the Parties or third countries, of nuclear material; ...
i. Supply between the Parties of equipment, whether for use by or for the benefit of the Parties or third countries;

Quite a change of heart or what?! Are the underlined parts in the above documents really that contradictory, or is it just me who's unable to grasp the meaning - or intentions - of the (Super)powers that be?!! If you are interested in knowing more about this topic, click here. Hopefully you too would become interested in the fine print! AbNQ

The Journey

Awright, a personal blog post after a long time... yeah, first time maybe...

Recently, I started using my office bus service because, among other things, it is free. The other big reason was that one doesn't have to offer explanations if one decides to be late to office on a Monday morning – just pretend having missed the office bus by a whisker, and demonstrate using a minuscule distance between your thumb and forefinger to your colleagues.

It’s amazing how people tend to seek comfort zones even in a crowd that is waiting for a mode of transport. There could be your old friend from school, the person who sits in the cubicle next to you, one who works on your floor, another who’s in your company but in a different office, or even someone who looks just as lost as you are. There’s the customary chitchat about the weather and grumblings about the ever-decreasing quality of food in the cafeteria. The conversationally challenged are delighted if they have the previous day's cricket match to talk about. (On other days, they’d switch to the bad state of the road they’re standing on.)

And then the first bus would be sighted. It’s an unofficial competition as to who spots the ugly vehicles first, with the winner getting to announce to the rest of the crowd that the Holy Sighting has indeed been made. People supposed to board the bus that arrives first pump their fists in the air and offer mock consolation to the losers. Actually, the jubilation is pretty genuine and some people can barely suppress their glee. Tearless (thankfully) goodbyes are said, and boarders of the first bus march towards the podium, which here are the steps of their bus.

Once inside the bus, protocol takes over like nowhere else. Seated inside would be about a couple of dozen of one’s co-workers, each occupying a window seat or an aisle seat. There would always be a gap of one seat between two occupied seats, and occupiers would guard these buffers of their privacy zealously. Various methods are used to do this, ranging from placing office luggage on the empty seat, or using it as an armrest, or simply sitting on a seat and a half. One is supposed to find a seat that does not violate this arrangement of alternate seating, and at the same time ensure that one’s intrusion into the bus does not wake up anyone who is pretending to sleep. Oh yes, pretending to sleep with your bag on the empty seat next to you doubly ensures that it remains empty. Generally, one gets the least desirable seat in the entire bus, and plonks down for the rest of the journey. But there would always be members of your comfort zone (see para 3) who board the bus after you, and would feel comfortable only next to you. So they would cozy up to you and ask you to shift your base by one seat so that they can plonk down on what should reasonably have been your own seat. And in the process end up annoying the person whose privacy you have violated by eliminating the empty seat between yourself and them, and feeling annoyed yourself for having your own privacy doubly violated by the dolt next to you. You could, however, feel relatively lucky if that dolt is of the conversationally challenged variety (and there was no cricket match the previous day). If not, make a mental note of striking off the dolt from your comfort zone members.

Making for a striking comparison between the standing-for-the-bus to the inside-the-bus stages, chitchat is strongly discouraged. If closed eyes don’t deter any wannabe gabsters, one can simply plug a pair of earphones into one’s ears and try to distract oneself with strains of RJ blabber. Or if one doesn’t have earphones and doesn’t feel like pretending to sleep, just stare out of the window.

Sooner rather than later, depending on traffic conditions and the driver’s relative ignorance of suburban geography, the bus grinds to a halt in front of the office gates, and there’s a final scramble to get off the bus before anyone else. Those who miss out on the initial scramble pretend (yeah there’s a lot of pretence involved in the whole game) they would rather take it easy and be the last to get off – as if they have nothing to do in office, which again is mostly true, as this post testifies!

Traffic-Stopper

Dressed up in bright pink with golden embroidery, she was ready to be the cynosure of all eyes at the wedding. A free spirit with a happy heart and a spring in her stride, she knew the world was hers. Having alighted from her cab, she couldn't wait to cross the street to be with her friends at the party. Rushing forward, she almost knocked down a biker, who smiled and passed on. Slightly flustered but her spirits undamped, she glided further away. A second biker, this time coming from the opposite direction, narrowly missed her hemline. By then, her father had had enough and admonished her mother. "Paanch saal ki bachchi hai. Raasta paar karte hue haath nahin pakad sakti?!" AbNQ