In a corner of the garden, lies this pot by the side
Into which I used to compost any food I’d want to hide
I kept it closed and alone, for a pot likes to brood
Anyways, you could argue, it makes compost out of food.

When I picked the lid up that day, I heard a buzzing refrain
But (being a genius, you see), I thought it was my brain
Out came a thousand petulant bees, in an angry mood to sting
That is bad manners, I think. The bell they ought to ring.

All the lessons that they teach you on diving from the bees
Are completely useless, I promise. They just want the fees
The only thing to do is Run, over land and over sea
Followed in your wake by a very determined bee.

So I sprinted (having seen videos of the Jalikattu Bolt)
Yet the visible parts of me were hit by a hundred and forty volt
Bees don’t like writers anymore (and they like poets even less)
And this is their malevolent display to rid themselves of stress.

A stinger here, a stinger there, treated with ice and salt
(The ice had been forming nicely for an evening’s single malt)
I now stick to Dire Straits and skip Scorpion and Mr Sting
Never push your luck, I reckon, for what will music bring?

But every cloud, they say, has a silver perimeter
I have a ghastly ex-boss, a Glassdoor history-sheeter
Who thinks he’s bright & capable (the idiot) and boastfully intrepid
I will call him home one day and ask him to open the lid.
 

AI For Washing Dishes: an encyclopaedic history of private equity in Bangalore

 In parts of Bangalore, until recently, when people were done with washing the dishes or online yoga, they registered a start-up and appointed an investment banker to raise a hundred million dollars or multiples of that modest figure.  Generally, everyone created an App to do something that has been done perfectly well since the Vijayanagar empire.  Like milk delivery.  

The next step was to write this idea down in a Business Plan, which is a document that nobody pays any attention to, unless they are done with work for the day and want to settle down with a cup of tea and some fiction. 

During this stellar period in human history, the only goal of every start-up was to burn cash in super-quick time, which process was - with the usual complexity that is intrinsic in private equity - called Cash-Burn.  The enriching idea was that once they had raised money and lost it, they could raise more money that they would lose quicker than the earlier pile, so that they could raise even more money - this is called Series C for the important and deeply intellectual reason that it follows A and then B.  The National Record in this Event, when reports last came in, was held by a company called Cred which, at a highly impressive stage in its life, earned Re 1 for every Rs 732 that it spent. Even a spendthrift friend of mine, who is utterly incompetent and runs a chaotic NGO, is in awe of such stellar performance.  

They kept on raising money till Series AH or something, at which point they became Unicorns. A Unicorn is a company that people who are permanently affected by smog-induced shutdown of the frontal cortex of the brain think is worth a billion dollars or more. Like the setup - which is run by a phony tail guy - that sells an electric scooter that has a front wheel which, like the yogis of old, believes in being detached and therefore has an independent free mind.    

Generally, anyone who made money from a business and therefore did not need multiples of hundred million dollars was considered a Supreme Idiot by everyone, including the critically-opinionated experts at WhatsApp School of Advanced Debris.  A typical Founder spent all his time pitching to investors, using words like Traction, Machine Learning and Network Effects which no one understood, but since anyone who does not use words like Traction, Machine Learning and Network Effects is considered to be Supreme Idiot, version 2.0 and escorted to the lift, everyone nodded sagely (especially if they were awake).  

And some of these investors have made money by selling to some other investors who then made money by talking up the story to more investors who will make money if they hold on till 2074.  This process has, like Cash-Burn, a technical name in private equity: the Bigger Fool Theory.  

My next update will be in 2074.  Stay posted.

Dad - A Tribute on a Day of Peace

May 12th
On this day, forty-one years ago, Dad was gone.

It took, of course, years for everyone - and that included his large circle of friends and family, with him in the centre, a larger-than-life gregarious, humourous figure- to accept his absence with a sort of detached equanimity.  In modern language, with its epithets and attempts at neat labels, it is often termed ‘closure’, but it never is, if the memory wishes it to remain, often preserved in the sepia of an old photograph and those conversations that begin with, ‘If Vasu were here…..’  

When the drumbeats of war shook us up this early May and the memes, messages and meandering underscored the restlessness of anxiety, I thought of him and, of course, I have thought of him today too. 

For he had faced conflict far more often than any of us who read this will have: twenty-five years old and returning from his day’s work in a train in the summer of 1947, with bodies of victims bearing the scars of conflict on both sides of that metre gauge track; being asked, at the age of forty, to drop his wife to an air field to be evacuated, while the men stayed back to face the possibility of a Chinese invasion that was reportedly hours away and, after which, the family would be gone forever; a 1965 war and another one in 1971, of which I have a dim memory of a darkened home, hooded headlights and a mum who had endured another sleepless night.  

It wasn’t just him, of course, most men and women of his generation had heard those drumbeats roll, their echoes a distant ominous portent, the beats conflating with those of the heart, so there was consolation in knowing that others were in the same boat on a turbulent river.  But little else.  Each such conflagration brought forth the likelihood of never seeing his beloved Palakkad again, with its palms and paddy and politics, and his family, particularly his grandmother, my mutashi, who was his life (and I have often wondered what she had gone through in her ninety-eight years, but all I remember is a fetching toothless smile, a hanging earlobe and that half-bent body). 

He loved Nehru, admired Mrs Gandhi and hated Nixon and he loved the idea of India above all else, for he had lived with it all his adult life.  That emotion extended to idealism, perhaps even quixotic idealism, with decency and kindness at its core.  I know he hated war because there is never a winner and he had seen enough of it.  He hated war for its consequences on simple, ordinary people who are the ants scurrying out of a battlefield of two raging deranged tuskers.  I know he hated war above anything else because his father, Dada, had been an officer in the British Army in the Second World War and a continuance of that tradition is taken for granted in the Nair community, with its history and pride and affirmation of battle.  

But it was, for Dad, never an option, partly because his grandmother took a promise from him that he wouldn’t fight and partly because of his idealism and resolution.  No, war was never an option: the armed forces were there as the crucial institution for defence, not aggression, a view that he had learnt from listening to Nehru, reading the Mahatma and those insightful books about partition, all of which formed his pacifist view where peace was the central tenet of human existence.  This meant that he was liberal too and could live comfortably with those who disagreed, as Major VR Menon, his best friend did, but those views of his would never change. 

Today, I think of those views - which are mine too - and realise, with some solace, that I remember Dad for much more than any gift he had given me.  Idealism and kindness can be preserved in sepia too.

The Fab Four: Uncles Sawant, Rathnam, Vish and Dad.  They saw it all. 
And they were kind and idealistic.