Tuesday, December 18, 2012

MRI stands for My Radiant Inside

I just went through a scan called the MRI
Take my word: it isn't worth a try.
In the rarified world of academia
This chapter is 'An intro to claustrophobia'.

The sounds were from a broken hearse
Moving uphill in reverse.
I felt some needles and many pins
And nails on glass and sadistic djinns.

But when I went through the MRI
It was the bill that made me cry.



Saturday, September 29, 2012

Say 'No' to the Demwe Hydro Project in Arunachal



In February 2012, the Hindu, carried two little reports, side by side, on its last page.  The first piece read “Films to help promote Incredible India campaign”, while the piece by its side read “Jayanthi overrules wildlife panel to approve Arunachal dam.”

The irony could not have been greater.

The first report is self-explanatory, so let’s go to the second.  Jayanthi Natarajan is the Union Minister for Environment & Forests, with a mandate to protect and preserve what is left of our forests.  She overruled a committee set up by the National Board of Wildlife that recommended the shelving of a proposal to create a dam across the Lohit river in Arunachal Pradesh (called the Demwe Lower Hydro Electric Project).  This committee, comprising respected wildlife experts, visited the site (which the Minister did not) and detailed the damage to the river and grassland ecosystem, as a result of the dam : fragmentation of wild water buffalo habitat, threats to the Gangetic river dolphin (which, by the way, is our National Aquatic Animal, declared so by Dr Manmohan Singh himself in 2010) and the Bengal bustard.  The ecosystem to be submerged is considered to be priceless and includes a conservation area of medicinal plants, according to the report.  The summary that I read of the report, mind you, did not detail the damage caused to the ecosystem during the construction or the social impact of a large number of construction crews descending on the small villages in the area.

This project is stated to generate 1750 megawatts of electricity, to be transmitted across the country to the power deficit states. About half – I repeat, half - of the energy will be lost in transmission.  The rest will be consumed by the growing business districts that now dot our urban landscapes- malls, centrally cooled homes, climate controlled offices and entertainment parks, none of whom have an idea of just what irreversible damage they are causing to our own collective future.

The Ministry’s defence was that “the spirit of the clearance system (which phrase itself is indicative of the Government’s preference – clearance) demands evaluation of trade offs for balancing the developmental needs with environmental sustainability, examination of the scope of mitigation and capacity of the ecosystems to withstand the impact.  The project, therefore, needs to be considered in the light of this overarching principle.”  In other words, rubbish.

Arunachal Pradesh is not just a part of wild India.  It is the best part of wild India, most of it unexplored, unknown to science and undocumented.  Yet, there are a hundred and fifty dams being built across Arunachal, each with a raison de etre that defeats common sense.  Each dam is a nail in the State’s ecological treasure trove, sealing its future.  My friends, who have spent time across the state, detail the exacting price being extracted: the destruction of livelihoods and forests, increased conflict between humans and humans on one hand, and humans and animals on the other, destruction of tribal culture and loss of their dignity.

Sure India needs power, but at what permanent cost?
Instead of involving the brightest technical minds in this debate and formation of policy, and incentivising energy conservation and dis-incentivising wasteful consumption (such as by paddy growers in Tamil Nadu, where power is free for them), and urgently replacing inefficient transmission lines across the country that create power losses and mandating large office and residential complexes to generate some part of their power need using solar energy, instead of  these sensible measures, the Government’s bureaucrats and vacuous- headed Ministers have moved with ferocity to generate hydro-electric power from every possible source, using their limited understanding of science to destory.   This is the arrogance of power, this is technology without conscience.

So, what can you do?

A great deal.  For starters, do not just take my word, read up on the project (and on the other projects sanctioned in Arunachal).  Then, if you are convinced, please speak up.   Write to the Minister at mosefgoi@nic.in expressing your dismay at her decision and requesting a rethink on the Demwe project.  You may mention that there are smarter options than hydro-power today and that we need to leave Arunachal alone.
Because if we see it as someone else’s problem, we forget Chief Seattle’s immortal words : do not forget, the World is round.


Friday, September 14, 2012

Just Another Chemistry Teacher


There was an air of expectation in the classroom; the rumour was that Chat was angry and would storm in from the Chemistry Lab any minute.  All eyes were on the connecting passage and the forty of us in ninth standard – one of whom was in a stage of advanced terror -  sat in silence. 

Chat, as always, did not disappoint.  He strode into the room with an air of irascible purpose, and I was immensely relieved that his ire was to be vented on someone else.  One of my classmates had messed something up and sat in front, quivering like a huge lump of freshly-set jelly buffeted by a monsoon wind.  Chat looked around for him, peering over his specs and spoke in that uniquely ascending nasal voice, his index finger jabbing the poor fellow’s chest, “I say, I will take you by the scruff of your neck and the seat of your pants and physically, do you understand, physically eject you from my class.” This was Chat’s favourite sentence and he would say it as only he could, in the most comical way, his academic stoop accentuated by the rapid forward-backward movement of his head, much like an ostrich in a zoo sizing you up.  His bottle-brush moustache would bristle and move in directions beyond his control,  and the face would turn a mild red, the ears a bright crimson. 

 Yet, no one in class dared laugh, giggle, snigger or show traces of a smile.  For this infuriated him and an angry Chat could go berserk, throwing things, getting into a fit and hammering students without any seeming control on his hands.  

Chat – David Chatterjee – was the Chemistry teacher for three generations of students from Josephs and the best in the business.  He seemed obsessed with the subject and, had he had children of his own, would probably have named them after acids.  He would spend a large part of his day lurking around in the Chem lab, with its myriad colours and smells, and plotting the creation of some arcane compound or digging into a grim textbook the size of a bedside table.  
In class, he would, with childlike delight and a trademark smile that showed just how much he was enjoying himself,  rattle off formulae and dictate notes with only occasional reference to a book, notes that were clear and precise.  Occasionally,  this dictation was interspersed with phrases from quotidian Shakespeare,  for he was as much a master at English literature as he was at Chem.  On one memorable occasion, arriving at a conclusion by the method of induction,  he quoted Sherlock Holmes as well, ”If you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth”.  I felt a thrill, the one you feel in the presence of a Superior Human.

Yet, what made Chat unique, what put him in a class of his own,  were his peculiar mannerisms.  I am hardly knowledgeable about psychological disorders, but there is little doubt that Chat had every one of them:  prone to great mood swings and particularly suspicious of his students’ intentions.  If you were smiling when he hadn’t said something he thought funny, he took it to mean that you were smirking at him and  the index finger of the right hand would dangerously wag up and down in the warning sign of recrimination .  Once, in my four years in Chat’s class, I smiled at something the fellow next to me was drawing.  In an instant, Chat was by my side staring at me with a menacing furious glare through those thick specs that froze the bone marrow.   I shrunk back and put my head down, a figure of sorry contrition, until he wordlessly turned away. 

Another trademark was his humour, or alleged sense of humour:  when he smiled, it was at something he felt was blindingly funny, though the forty boys in front of him sat open-mouthed in puzzled silence for a few seconds before deciding to follow suit.  His upper lip would rise, much in the way an Army major smiles before the execution of a sworn enemy, and out would pop some comment that was, admittedly, very droll indeed.  When presented with a wrong formula by an unprepared (but shaking) fellow in front of him, for instance, Chat turned towards us and said, the upper lip rising a millimetre and the head rocking on its hinges, ostrich-style: ”I say, we have in front of us, a fellow who has redesigned the arithmetic of valency.  He has the hallmarks of a genius.” while the rest of us let ourselves go and laughed heartily.  Or the time when,  with a smile that was dripping with Chat sarcasm,  he mocked a fellow writing a formula on the blackboard:  “This man is unique in his ingestion of the recesses of mercuric oxide” or some such cryptic sentence in his own slowly-ascending recitation, while the left shoulder seemed to do a sort of waltz of its own - he seem to laugh most at that shoulder. 

On these occasions, the entire class would burst into laughter.  Poor Chat never quite realised that the laughter was because of his mannerisms, not at the student’s inadequate knowledge (in which condition, I assure you, he was not alone).   If he wanted to call you names, options such as ‘foolish’ or ‘negligent’ would simply not do.  He once called my closest friend a ‘troglodyte’, which had us rushing to the library in the recess.

Then there was the memorable incident when he forced each one of us to smell hydrogen sulphide.  Now, as you know, there are gases.  And gases.  And then there is hydrogen sulphide which, he emphasised with much delight, smells of rotten eggs (when it is in a good mood).  He somehow got it into a test tube and had every one of us take a short breath of it, our extreme reactions, even the odd attempt at retching,  giving his upper lip a fair bit of work.  It was Chat’s way of saying, “So you see what a career in Chemistry can do to you?”  Four decades after the incident, I have not forgotten the smell. 

Chat was the aloof sort. He stayed close to school and cycled to and from it; if you passed him by on the road and greeted him, he would nod briefly and continue on his way.  He had few friends, mingled very little with other teachers and, due to his bouts of anger and mood swings that both terrified and confused the students, was the subject of much gossip amongst us, the most common one being that he concocted his own consumable alcohol in the lab.   Everytime we entered his class, all of us would look for the signs on his expressive face and at the movement of the head.  For the formidable brain within was a mystery wrapped in enigma.

When the ICSE results were announced every year, all this would be forgotten.  For, without exception, every student would do well, indeed very well, in the subject, and no one would hold back their tribute to the man they feared, yet held in some awe.   When I finished my tenth and left school to join up at college in the accounting stream, I was relieved at having left Chat behind and sad at not taking up Chemistry further on, both emotions being a tribute to the idiosyncratic, yet brilliant, teacher. 

Two decades later, and after having taught for about thirty odd years,  Chat left the school, some say, in a bit of a huff.    Shortly thereafter, he dropped into school to collect some papers and, on his way home, was hit by an autorickshaw, while crossing the road. 

Across the World, from the thousands of students who had studied under him, there arose a collective groan at the news of his demise.  The tributes flowed thick and fast (my own little piece was titled 2KMNO4 + 16 HCL =............ , the beginning of my favourite formula that I remember to this day), and in the years since, when we old students bump into each other across the seamless World and walk down nostalgia lane over chilled beer, Chat inevitably pops up as a topic of conversation and, often, imitation.  Much to the amusement of those watching, we stand up and recite the formulae for neutralisation, mimicking his stride as we do so, the stoop at the shoulder and the head moving up and down, the eyes twinkling with the passion for knowledge.  And we all realise that three decades later, we still remember a great deal of what he taught but have gladly forgotten his wayward, unpredictable tantrums.

For such is the power of a teacher. 




Monday, August 13, 2012

The Art of Keeping Up the Pretense of A Conversation With Someone Who Knows All About You, But Who You Wish Would Vanish


If you are a bit like I am – and in this respect, I think you are – you have probably classified yourself in humanity’s ‘Most Forgetful’ category.  It happens to me all the time: I am standing in some queue or the other or in the reception of a company and a fellow walks up, all 32 teeth on display, puts his hand out and says, ‘Hi Gopa, how are you?’.  As you see him walking your way, you know this is going to happen; its too late to run or pull out your self-defence weapon – a newspaper to hide behind – and, when he begins to speak, the only question on the otherwise-vacuous mind is ‘What the hell is his name?’ Actually, there is a second question: ‘Where did I see this fellow?’, which gets answered immediately with his ‘It was good to be in your session last week’ or some such thing.

Now, after years of such trauma, I have perfected my response and, when you have read this piece, you will acknowledge, with trembling folded hands and grateful, weeping eyes,  that I have done my good deed for the day.

Here’s the trick.  I have stopped trying to guess his (or, worse, her) name and instead focus on which part of India he comes from.  If he is from TamBram land, you can begin your reply in basic Tamil (much of which is picked up at the Chennai Railway Station) and now choose from the following four names that are most likely: Venky, Subbu, Anand or Karthik.  If, like me, you can make out a Mallu from a mile, use the second ‘Rule of 4’, if you think he is a Syrian Christian (which is about one-third of the population in Kerala, but one-sixteenth of the population of any software company).  His surname will end, I assure you, in one of the GMAT code – George, Mathew, Abraham or Thomas.  Feel free to choose from these and combine in any way, for instance, Abraham Mathew or George Thomas.  If your gut tells you this is not the name, start speaking in Malayalam.  When I do so, most Mallus excuse themselves, for they recognise torture when they hear it.  

If you recognise a trademark Bengali swagger, you are saved much of this process by simply addressing him as ‘Babumushai’, which was pretty much Rajesh Khanna’s only contribution to making our lives simpler.  For the rest of India, you can use Hindi with ease and, if the other person does not know Hindi and says so, remember to continue with even more difficult Hindi until he recognises some profanity and slinks away in shame.

I am not yet done.  If you are in the premises of a software company, there is a mean trick you can use, and it works all the time.  After a couple of initial sentences, draw his attention away to something on the wall – even if it is the ubiquitous clock showing the time in Monrovia – and then sneak a look at his prisoner’s identification tag, which companies impose on their people.  If you meet in a queue, say in a passport office, at an ATM or in a department store, take out your mobile, manufacture an apologetic smile and mention that your phone is in the silent mode, and pretend to take a call, which can go on until he makes an apologetic smile in return and moves away. 

I am still not done.  If the other person is in his teens or twenties, you can guess his name to be Aditya, or the female to be Aditi.  Most people in the sub-continent are now called one of these two names and it is a tendency that must be strongly encouraged using social media, flash mobs and Satyamev Jayate.  Imagine the ease of meeting someone like this and confidently shaking hands with a “So, how are you, Aditya?’ In fact, why don’t you try it?  If he replies with, ‘Sorry, I am not Aditya’, you can always say, ‘Well, from now on, you are….’ and get him to run from the scene of the crime.

For a long time, I have pondered on just why I am so forgetful with names.  My mother insists that her mother’s generation had a great memory and that, what with all the pollution, deteriorating quality of life and television, our generation is getting an early case of Alzeimer’s or brainstain or whatever.  This theory sounded a bit off the rack to me, so I came with one of my own.  Imagine, then, my delight when I read recently of the Dunbar number, that proves me dead right (or, let me honest, about a quarter right). 

The problem, it seems, is that we are meeting or corresponding with just too many people these days.  This guy, Robin Dunbar, is an Oxford Univ anthropologist, who, like others of his kind, spends most of his waking hours reasoning out just why humans make monkeys of themselves, when science did the reverse.  About twenty five years ago, he found that people tend to self-organise in groups of 150.  Humans evolved in groups of about 150 and most of us interact with about 150 other people. 

Now, this was just another piece of research which had no validity whatsoever, since he had not used Facebook.  But, he’s just done that! Yessir, what makes this absolutely sacred is that Dunbar has studied this pattern in Facebook communication as well.  This number – now known as Dunbar’s number and I am not making this up – is the upper limit to how many interpersonal relationships our brains can process.  

When I read this, I opened an Excel file and began to write down the names of everyone I interacted with, in a reasonably regular way.  When the list just about crossed 140, it was time to pop a cork out of a figurative bottle (and close the file).  So, why did Dunbar not win a big prize for this, a prize like the Nobel?  The Swedish guys are always giving it away to frizzy-haired scientists who chase neutrons in a lab, but ignore those like Dunbar, who make you feel really good about not having Alzeimer’s or whatever.  It’s high time that right thinking people like you and me have a say in just who gets the Nobel; awarding these prizes by election would do just fine.

I recommend, with the greatest emphasis, that you do the exercise I did and feel good about your memory.  If you score like I did, inform your Mum and post it on Facebook, Twitter and your online college group.  If you score below, much below this number, inform your Doctor.  If, that is, you can remember his name.


Wednesday, July 25, 2012

They happen only over a beer



They happen only over a beer, these discussions of philosophical import for which any form of circumspection or inquiry into human nature is elicited.  And there we were, Dilip, Vij and I sipping the lager of animated conversation.

Our topic of discussion moved on from one to the other, until we landed on the issue of ethics among Indian working ‘professionals’, or, to be precise, the absence of ethics amongst them.  The papers have recently been full of all that Kingfisher has been upto - except their planes, of course, which are not upto, but down to a dozen or so, most of which grace the tarmac with their unsolicited presence all day.  And then there was Reebok, where the senior leadership milked the golden goose (to mix up metaphors, much to an ecologist’s chagrin).  Closely followed by the CEO of Onmobile, whose entire goal seems to have been to make the company Offmobile for good.  There are dark rumours about Subhiksha’s CEO  that have now come to light (in which case, you could argue, the rumour would not be dark any more).  Multiple stories of sales heads of big – really big - pharma companies pinching samples meant for doctors,which practice itself is not high on anyone’s list of ethics, and then selling them in a market that they have made all their own.  These luminaries, of course, line the walls of a rogues gallery that is under perpetual construction, where the demand for space far outstrips its supply. 

‘What is it,’ Dilip asked meditatively over a Tintin Toit, ‘ that makes our managers this way?’ 
I have pondered on this question for the last few days, much after the beer wore off.  Was this always true? Is it our upbringing? Is it society?  Or is it that a meditative beer should be best avoided?

Until some years ago, money was just another factor in our judgement of another.  Was his integrity unquestionable?  Did he have guts to stand up to authority?  Was he skilled at his job?  Was he tough, but fair?  Did he carry himself with dignity? 
Of equal importance was his lineage -  the “he comes from a good family” bit -  or even his school (I was sent to St Joseph's for this reason).  As you think of this, reflect on the men and women you admired in the 1970s and the 1980s  (if you are old enough, that is).  Most of them were possibly not rich, certainly not by the standards of 2012, yet they were conscious of their image and down played their wealth.  Those who chased money all their lives were christened Delhi-wallahs, Banias or Marwaris, unequivocally.  A telling way to see this is to ask the question: who would have been a Chairman of any of the IIMs in the 1980s?  The answer is: most probably a retired public sector head or a distinguished economist (such as Abid Hussain), or possibly an academician.

Sometime in the 1980s, this began to change and, in the 1990s, wealth became the factor in judging a person. Usurious wealth that stock options generated in the US and, to a lesser extent, here, added fuel to a growing fire.  This was above board, but got many thinking of, not the means, but the ends. Cricket is a good metaphor: as the substance of test cricket gave way to one-days, and now T-20s, the mantra changed from style and technique to ‘let the runs come, no matter how they come.’ So too with money. 

The accepted yardstick now for measuring a person’s worth is by measuring his Generally Accepted Bank Balance (GABB).  If a guy in school with me, who got less marks than I did, is now worth a couple of hundred crores, surely I should be as well?  If not stock options, how about a quick bank heist or IPO (which is what many entreprenuers have done in the last fifteen years, taking public money off for themselves).  Or a fudging of shoe stock at Reebok?  Or a quiet diversion of some customer payments to an overseas account, with a later claim of ‘bad debt’?

And, now, for the clincher.  The Chairman of IIMB is Mukesh Ambani.  What academic input can he provide, other than to design a session on 'how to pocket a Government' or 'how to lose a billion dollars in a new business without really trying? 
Maybe it is the meditative beer.  Or maybe I am right.  In any case, since we can’t do a damn about it, how about one for the road?

Wednesday, June 6, 2012

A Visit to a Foundry

Twelve years ago, I visited a medium sized castings company in Coimbatore; it seems though as if it were yesterday. The company had been around for over twenty five years and was owned by one of the largest business groups in South India. Along with my colleague, a hardened finance guy and a number cruncher if there ever was one, I met the CEO of the company. He was a sharp, middle-aged member of the business family, clad in spotless white. The opulence of his office and the car outside indicated clearly enough that he was enormously wealthy.

After the introductions were over, he commenced talking about his company, its financial history, its dominant status in casting components with India’s large automotive companies and of the possible tie-ups with World majors for captive production facilities in India. He spoke eloquently of the significance of India’s low cost of labour and of the shifting of production bases to India to leverage on the country’s intrinsic strengths. We listened attentively and asked a few questions that we believed were relevant to our study of the castings industry. After an hour or so, we evinced a desire to see the unit. He picked up the telephone and asked for the Works Manager who came up in double quick time and stood by my side, head bowed obsequiously. Instructions were passed to take us around.

We went down the stairs and out of the air-conditioned office. A short walk brought us to the foundry, located a hundred yards away. Nothing during the walk prepared us for the sight within.

The foundry shed was a large one, spread out over an acre or more, with a high asbestos ceiling . There was hardly any light inside, except for the flames from the Cuppola furnace at one end of the shed. The temperature inside the shed must have been at least 45 degrees C. I saw a number of men and women engaged in gruelling and highly mechanical tasks, reminiscent of the images of the Industrial Revolution. The foundry had, it seemed, never been modernised. The workers transported molten metal from the furnace, in barrows, to the casting boxes where it was manually poured into the box and then covered with sand, an extraordinarily hazardous task, that would be certain to cause serious injury to a worker at some point of his working life. I saw a couple of men drag a train of casting boxes on wheels along a rail, much like a horse-drawn carriage. Others carried loads of sand on their back. The level of dust was incredible – indeed, the far side of the foundry was a haze.

And then I saw a little girl, probably all of twelve years, stand by the gravity separator. She mechanically unloaded the heavy castings from their boxes and then loaded them onto wheel barrows standing on rails. She should never have been part of this hazardous environment, but then none of them should have been part of this. She saw my obviously shocked face and smiled feebly, yet in her eyes I saw the signs of depredation and despair. My colleague, hardened though he was, stood in silence. He too was watching the little girl. After a while, he walked up to the girl, thrust a twenty rupee note into her hand and walked out of the foundry. I stood around for a little while longer, taking in the details of the foundry with incredulity, and then followed him. His eyes were moist: he was probably thinking of the child he had lost years ago.

Back in the office of the Director, we listened in silence as he continued his talk on the industry. I felt terrible and hollow inside. Now I understood why he didn’t accompany us to the foundry and risk getting his white shirt dirty. Everything that had been said about India’s competitiveness, exports and the low cost of labour seemed to ring empty. His foreign collaborators wanted to come here, because they could avoid the installation of basic systems required to make the workplace habitable. This was not a company built on principles, but one built on exploitation. The pantheon of Gods who lined his walls were mute spectators – their presence there itself was farcical, almost pernicious.

I, as an armchair analyst, would sit in my cushioned office and spout finite wisdom and abstruse financial analysis in my report, probably repeating all that he said dutifully, and exculpating him from any possible charge on the grounds that anyone working in a castings foundry should expect such exploitation. I would argue that the working conditions being inhuman were, in fact, beneficial to profitability and that the continuance of repression meant sustained growth for the company (never mind if none of these workers ever became a shareholder).

Perhaps, in the last decade, some or much of this has changed. Perhaps the implementation of human rights has improved. On the other hand, perhaps it has not. India does not need such foreign exchange, created out of the depletion of human capital and the creation of perdition. India does not need such companies, who will no doubt fail to see the changes in the work order and will fall by the competing wayside.

That day, I felt, for once, that there was something wrong somewhere. How do we change?

Tuesday, May 22, 2012

Taatan

I never quite got his full name from anyone who knew him, though the surname was Menon. The world of Malayalees – the entire world of Malayalees, for such was his reach – knew him simply as Taatan. If you are about my age or older and had in the distant past attended a wedding (any wedding, one needs to emphasise) in Guruvayoor, you may recall seeing a man of medium height at the fringes of the commotion, in a white shirt and mundu, with a shock of white curly hair, a clean shaven face sporting a gentle smile and an umbrella in one hand and his purse in the other. Now, you might argue, this defines about 43.7 per cent of the Malayalee male population and you would be right. What set Taatan apart was his unmistakable manner of speech - a slow, careful drawl, in a soft voice that had a sing-song quality to it.  You would also not fail to notice that in the hand that held the purse was, inevitably, a copy of the Bhagvad Gita.

Once the wedding was over, Taatan, while wishing the couple, would present them with the Gita, his modest yet invaluable gift which the couple would, of course, immediately gift onward to their parents, a practice that did not, oddly enough, extend to the cash they received.  
After the mandatory photograph with the couple, he would eat a hearty lunch, exchanging pleasantries with the numerous attendees. Every such person he would call by first name.  He would enquire of the health and general being of the family members or, at the drop of a hat (or a mundu, if you prefer), trace the concerned person’s distinguished or not-so-luminiscent ancestry in an ever so gentle way that enhanced the person’s esteem. And then, he would make his quiet exit, using a bus or a train to traverse the length of the State. Nobody seemed to know just where his income – a most modest one, no doubt – came from, though it was a subject of considerable interest.

To reiterate, Taatan knew everybody south of Payyanur. Let me correct that: those whom he did not know south of Payyanur must have been visiting the area or probably did not know that they were in that rare, genetically modified variety not known to the One. Most impressively, everyone wished to know him in turn as well, which was a happy coincidence. There were two reasons for his popularity, the first being his wonderfully gentle disposition and the quiet dignity with which he carried himself. The second was a bit more devious: if there was any boy or girl of marraigeable age in a family, Taatan needed to be informed. For, in that extraordinary brain, was a special place reserved for alliances.

I had the privilege of watching Taatan join a family get-together once. It was summer in Kerala and, as always, awfully hot. I must have been in my early teens then and, much to my Mother’s consternation, was turning anti-establishment, anti-Malu and anti-arranged weddings with a vengeance. Yet, it was a special treat for me to see him in action, in the airy living room in which we had all gathered, the children being there despite considerable admonishment and the silly repetition of the trite ‘now, go play’ directive by the adults because, in their august opinion,  there was a serious discussion going on. It is a directive that is always ignored, of course, for nothing thrills a child more than adult conversation.

There was much social talk and gossip and we all knew that it was leading to the Agenda. When the topic of a suitable boy for the girl in the family arose, all eyes turned in Taatan’s direction, though other pretenders to the throne had an alliance or two to suggest. Taatan began modestly, with a couple of possible names, but moved into gear with gusto, suggesting at least a dozen or so potential grooms. “Our Kotakkal Nair’s wife’s first cousin settled in Bombay has a son who is so and so” or “Sankunni Menon told me the other day about his Uncle’s co-brother’s grandson, who is in Trivandrum running a generator agency…” and so on. Taatan’s skill was in matching the many complex variables – social status, income and standard of living, family disposition, family's sense of humour (or its pronounced absence)  - though he did sometime get it wrong, as will happen when a genius is burdened with a large population.  Let it be known, even Einstein made the odd mistake (he lost money in stocks in the Great Crash of 1929.  Are you now relieved?).  

To return to the discussion, my cousin, who was training to be a expert on such matters and who had never subscribed to a policy of discretion, added many qualitative comments to Taatan’s proposals, most of them negative, such as, “Taatan, that fellow is a thendi (Malu for ‘wastrel’)” or “Do you know how this fellow got his degree?”, while Taatan smiled sagely along. None of these potential bridegrooms had the faintest idea that they were now being dissected under a rather critical lens and some must have had a mysterious round of hiccups at the time. Yet, knowing my cousin well, those present ignored his emphatic judgments, while focusing on the essentials of the variables and trusting Taatan’s judgement.

When the discussion adjoured for lunch, there were possible permutations, some cancellations and many desired combinations. After a leisurely paan, he continued to, in his inimitable way, guide the conversation, even as I went off on a secret mission to save the World, as I used to do on most days in summer. When I returned, Taatan had left, yet the family, in a figurative way, had not left him. They were discussing him in great detail and with not inconsiderable awe, with my cousin leading the charge. “I disagree with many of his alliances, but his network is without parallel,” he announced. Another young cousin, a brash fellow who was a bit older to me, had left the conclave earlier. He now re-joined it with a look of disdain. He was a fellow whose manners had never been corrected enough (in his later years, the absence of etiquette has become an affliction. Perhaps, child is the father of man after all). “All this praise of Taatan drives me up the wall,” he announced, “if he is so good at making marraiges happen, why did he not get married?”

In that raucous assembly of a family get-together, there was a moment of silence, for no one really knew the answer.

One has been reading of Kerala’s skewed population ratio – many more women than men- and its declining number of marraiges. Right thinking people know that the root cause of this is that Taatan is no more.
The others are mere economists.

Monday, April 16, 2012

The Stairs at Vrindavanam

You may have seen many stairs
Yet none like this at all
If you cry, “Who cares?”
Pride comes before a fall.

There are some stairs you could climb
While others are meant to surf
But the one we have in mind
Is a difficult bit of turf

You stand at the base and stare
Gearing up for the task
Hitch on your carabiner and glare
And carry a cognac flask

Begin slowly. Each step is steep
Must hold on to the rail
If you have not crept, you creep
Be prepared to fail

Use your hands and legs
In equal measure and force
Take a break in the mid dregs
To tally up the scores

Achtung! The end is near
You’re feeling smug (and thinner)
When you hear a voice come clear
Calling you down for dinner.

Sunday, March 18, 2012

Why Fat is Complex (not a Complex Carbohydrate). Yet

Fat is the ounce
That can bounce.

Fat isn’t good
A fact understood.
But what we don’t know
If how far to go
So let the torch shine
On your waist line.


While some can be had
Most fat is bad
Fat saturated
Not unsaturated
Fat ennervated
Not fat dehydrated
Fat inculcated
Not fat decimated
..and transfat is, well,
trans fatal.

Omega three and omega six
Are a must-have in your daily fix
Get their input ratio right
Else the liver gets a fright.

Fat can be lit,
But isn’t quite light
It adds bit by bit
But not to your might.
Have you now learnt
Why they say fat is burnt?

And, scientists say, the story of fat
Is not as simple as that.

Carb isn’t fat
I never knew that.
Vice versa, adipose
Ain’t sucrose.
Yet, learn
There’s a qern.
A simple carb can add
To the fat that is bad
Complex carb is fad
And hence can be had.


Eat, in a word
Skimmed curd.

Cows are fat
And they live like that.
Dogs are fat
And they live like that
Cats
Are fats
And they, too, live like that.
Even, SUVs, dammit, are fat
And they live like that.

But why the stat
That when humans are fat
They die like that.

Sunday, February 19, 2012

Mahogany leaves

You know it is the beginning of our spring in Bangalore when the Mahogany sheds its leaves. Indeed, I never cease to be amazed at just how many Mahogany trees there are in the city, judging from the millions of leaves on most roads in the older residential areas. The early mornings are a joy to behold, for all through the night the leaves have gently drifted down onto the road, forming a carpet of shades of brown.

This morning I am out with my son in Defence Colony. He is on his little cycle, while I am on foot, jogging to keep pace with him. We pass an impatient supervisor from the Municipality, who is ordering the street sweepers to sweep the roads clean of leaves, while they grumble and gossip amongst themselves. I would love to see the carpet of leaves remain, but……

One of the sweepers has a little child. He is an active fellow and cannot sit still, which feature draws my attention. I then notice his preoccupation: he picks up many leaves that have been swept onto the side of the road, drops some and collects the rest, comparing them to the ones he has put away, sizing them for colour, shape, form and condition. He pays close attention to each leaf, as if it were a potential friend and takes an instant decision to reject or add to the pile by his side.

“Do you like these leaves?” I ask in Tamil
“Yes.”
“But why are you collecting them?”
He does not have an immediate answer, prompting me to repeat the q.
“Because,” he replies, “I don’t get so many at any other time of the year.”

I continue my walk-jog, marvelling at the reply. A Honda Civic, with a busy, harried owner at the helm, drives past me at some speed and over a leaf-carpet, sending a rush of leaves up into the air. There are a number of morning walkers – brisk, tuned individuals – most of whom have ear-plugs with music on, a tight exercise schedule and certainly no time for leaves. I cross a small group of college students, walking to their tuition class, all with their heads down, their attention exclusively on the the mobiles in their palms.

Fifteen minutes later, we are back a full circle and the boy has followed his mother further down the road, his collection of Mahogany leaves in a plastic bag. He is still looking around, but clearly, with a satisfactory collection, his standards are now high. As i cross them – mother and child – I wonder just how inaccurate English is as a language. We don’t grow to be adults, we regress to that condition.

Sunday, January 8, 2012

When Hans Came Visiting

When Henri Stader III (Hans) called me from Singapore Airport, he was all excited. “I have just met,” he breathed into the phone, “a woman called Cynthia over on the flight from LA. She's fabulous company and gorgeous; we spent much of the flight just getting to know each other and I must plan my return to coincide with hers.” I was hardly surprised, for I had long known that you could get Hans charged up about a telephone pole if there was an attractive skirt draped around it.

“Is your Indian Airlines flight to Chennai on time?”
“Alas, yes,” he sighed, and hung up to go back to his new girlfriend.

Hans was as American as they come. The son of Henri Stader II (who, no doubt, was the illustrious son of Henri Stader I, all of which means that they had a problem with finding a book of names whenever it was needed), Hans was a magna-cum-laude from some US univ or the other and worked as a VP in an American investment bank that was our joint venture partner. He was a tall, well-built, friendly fellow, with a long face that reminded me of Stan Laurel (of Laurel & Hardy fame) and a smile that could be charming, sardonic or entirely artificial. Like most American investment bankers, he had an attention span that varied from about 18 to 25 seconds (on the outside), considerable stated arrogance when needed and a natural propensity to make some really cool presentations. I knew Hans well for, just a couple of months prior to his India visit, I had spent a month at LA in 1996, with him as my host. He had been hospitable and had spent a weekend driving me around, yet my primary impression was of a fellow who was rather vacuous in the head and driven to distraction by just about any pretty face.

Hans’ India itinerary was to land in Chennai, where my colleague, Chandra, would meet him for an hour, after which he would take the Bangalore flight. He would work with us for a week and return. Simple enough. When he landed in Bangalore, it would be my turn to host him, not an entirely unpleasant prospect, for he could make sparkling conversation and be a perfect guest.

Some hours later, I had an anxious call from Chandra, who was at the Chennai airport. The Indian Airlines flight had landed, all passengers had gone past immigration and indeed left, but of Hans there was no clue. I was convinced of course that he had, in his infatuation, done some fat-headed thing, yet there was little any of us could do but wait.

When the call did come, it was three hours later. Hans was at the Taj Hotel, at Colombo, Sri Lanka and a shaken man.

He had quite a story to relate: landing in Chennai, he was told at Immigration that his visa had expired. Just how he could board the flight at Singapore with an expired visa was a flummoxing question that remains unanswered, yet he first didn’t believe it and later, as it became clear that he was in the wrong for not having checked such a basic detail, he began to get increasingly belligerent with the immigration officer, which, you will doubtless agree, is a particularly bad idea. He demanded that the visa be renewed at that moment – a laughable request – and, when that was turned down, that he speak to the American Embassy, which request was also denied. The situation was turning grim: the immigration officer was on the verge of stamping “Deported” on his passport – the ultimate humiliation to any American – after which he would have to take the next flight out of India, when a kindred soul suggested helpfully that the same aircraft that had brought him to Chennai would be flying to Colombo in an hour and that Sri Lanka did not require Americans to have a visa to visit. This was real serendipity (pun intended, for Serendip was Sri Lanka’s original name!).

To buy a ticket to Colombo was with him the work of an instant and, on arrival, he checked into the Taj, a safe hotel in what was otherwise an unsafe country for foreigners at that time. His boss in the US, he said, had given him a dressing down and added that he bloody well stay in the hotel till the visa was done and not move around.
All’s well, we breathed easy, that ends well. My colleague began the complex task of working on getting a visa for the fellow by pulling strings in the right quarters.

I called Hans a few hours later and he seemed relaxed now. “I have just had the most incredible food here at the hotel. Dinner seems inviting as well.”
The next morning, he called in with encomiums about the food again. Clearly, Hans was having a feast.
On the third morning though, when he called, I could barely recognise his voice, punctuated by a series of groans. He was down in bed with a most upset stomach, the result of over-indulgence in spice, fish, sausages and about everything else at the buffett. Mr. Henri Stader III was now terribly ill, the hotel doctor had been summoned and our traumatised friend had stayed up all night, making frequent, emergency trips to the bathroom. Much as I tried to commiserate with his plight, it was, at once, comical and entertaining and so typical of the fellow to goof up at the slightest opportunity. I hopefully made the right noises in sympathy and continued the work the next day as he gave me session-wise updates on his health, thankfully omitting the gory details.

When Hans finally reached Bangalore two days later, he seemed a changed man. Three kilos lighter – not from having thrown his weight around, for a change – he now spoke in a softer voice, and was visibly weak (and not just in the head, so the condition had now spread in some sense). He spent a few days in Bangalore coming to work, but was clearly preoccupied with recouping his health, in which effort, of course, all of us in office had much unneccessary advice to offer.

On the day of his return, I thought some sympathy was in order. “You have had a difficult trip, Hans,” I said, “ and I hope the return will be fine.”
His face, I recall distinctly, was glum. “All this was OK,” he replied, “ but I have missed the return flight to LA with Cynthia.”

Hans hadn’t changed after all.