The Wolf of Wall Street

In the year 1989, IIMB forgot its arithmetic: they hired more students than there were rooms and put up the excess baggage at D Quarters – affectionately called DQ - opposite the faculty housing. 

I belonged to this group of motley regulars and we kept our genius - that Superior Indefinable Intelligence - carefully away from academics of any sort (the one hard working chap - the indubitable Krishnan Nair - was much maligned by the rest for dragging our collective reputation down, until we realised that we could use his notes).  From the faculty, we had one humble, deeply-emotional request: unlimited compassion, when they evaluated our performance.  No sadism (such as comparison with those who had nothing better to do but study) or making-an-example-of kind of behaviour.     

So, when we heard that one of us - person or persons unknown - had apparently whistled at a Professor’s wife one late evening, there was considerable panic.   

This was not just any Professor (or any Professor’s wife).  For starters, he taught financial accounting – an arcane, terrifying subject to most. He was a fair, dour fellow, with the face of a WWF wrestler who was yet to win a bout but would nevertheless like to beat up somebody in compensation and it was rumoured that the only time he had been spotted smiling was while tearing up answer sheets of Life's Accounting Victims.   

So, here he was, complaining that one of us – one of this endearing, gentle, eviscerated, disenfranchised, embattled, docile, somnolent, enervated bunch – had done the unthinkable.

When we first heard the news, the immediate question that arose was a frightening one: Would we now have to listen to Chari’s jokes on the subject? 

The question of lesser impact, but of greater interest was: Did somebody – one of us – actually whistle at the lady? Not just whistle-whistle, but whistle in that meaningful, vile way that you see in Road Runner cartoons and in the 1980s films with white-shoes Jeetendra.  Was there a wolf among us (and if so, which species) ? 

"No", we all said.  In addition, we unanimously agreed that, when we did whistle meaningfully, it was at the sight of Dollops ice cream (dark chocolate, with nuts, caramel and dates).  This opinion poll carried no weight with the Prof (he had enough of his own, which is what happens when you eat curd-rice nine times a fricking day).   

The third question concerned the impact of this incident on all those who were in His class.  Some of us were in Section A, which he did not teach (who says there isn't a God up there?).   Emotions ranged from defiance, exhibited in much measure by the other Nair in DQ, to despair.  That last emotion, emanated, in particular, from Vish Mathur, whose fear of accounting led to the addition of the word Debitophobia to the lexicon (this has later changed to Ebitaphobia, when making profits means that you are sick and need therapy.  Serious reporting follows, sorry again).  SatRao, another DQ stalwart, used to wake up in the night and say, "Fight, fight" to inspire his troops (noticeably himself). 

The final question concerned the next course of action and the President of our batch, Bhushan, joined the group in an all-hands, no music, this-is-serious-stuff sort of meet.

The news from the political leadership was not good.  The Professor, the suspicious accountant that he was, had the solution all worked out: we would have to exit DQ.  Being an adroit diplomat with commendable ownership, Bhushan moved to damage-control mode.  A key factor in our favour, in addition to the lack of any evidence (particularly the inability of the Plaintiff to duplicate the pitch and tone of the whistle), was that there was a fair bit of construction activity around the campus – could someone else have done this? When you have eliminated the impossible (i.e., us), whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth (not mine. AC Doyle).   

The resultant meeting between the President and the concerned faculty member who oversaw this incident’s resolution was conclusive: Bhushan firmly defended us, his belief in the quality of IIMB students (and their inability to wolf-whistle) unwavering and resolute and the Professor of Financial Accounting had to make peace with one Provision for a Bad and Doubtful Debt.   

As a group, of course, we prohibited any form of whistling while in the shower.  Santy was persuaded to tune up his guitar to stifle any resemblance to a whistle, while those with perpetually blocked noses had to steam-inhale before they slept.

And, needless to add, the mystery remains to this day: just who did whistle at this demure, dignified lady?   

 

What's in a name?

Some decades ago, when I was in my early teens, we had an occasional visitor – an acquaintance of Dad’s – who was an interesting character. A portly fellow with a heavy paunch that rolled over his belt - the result of deep, unbiased affection for starch and red meat and pudding - he was from the rubber country of Kottayam.  Being a brainy dude, he did his Chartered Accountancy and worked for a leading CA firm in Bangalore, but, far from numbers, was principally interested in 3 things (in increasing order of importance):
1. Any beverage that had been fermented, particularly if it rhymed with frisky
2. Horse racing
3. Himself.
 
To this last topic, he devoted much of his research, fascination and his conversation, usually after downing a Patiala peg. The chap would speak about himself in hushed, reverential tones, and the anecdotes attesting to this Superior Intelligence were as awe-inspiring as they were fictional.  Dad would sit there patiently listening to excruciating details of how this Whizkid had won money at the races or shown his boss that he (the boss) was an ignoramus, while the rest of us would smirk and giggle.
 
But here’s the catch: none of us were quite sure of the fellow’s name. Dad vaguely remembered that he was a Mathew, but was there a George too in it?  I disagreed immediately because the initials on his briefcase did not match (I was obsessed with Sherlock Holmes at that time, as you can infer).  My mother recalled meeting his long-suffering wife, who had referred to him by another name – she would have been justified in calling him names of a different genre too, as you will agree, but let us not divert from serious reportage.   To resolve this vexing issue, we had a short family conclave, where we recalled earlier conversations and short-listed the possibilities to George, Mathew, Abraham and Thomas. Unable to proceed further, the fellow was now named GMAT.

The name, I am glad to report, stuck and any call from GMAT on the landline had me covering the mouthpiece and yelling, “Dad, it’s GMAT for you”, which is likely to have transmitted clearly to the other end even in those primitive Bangalore Telephone days. 
 
(If you are shocked enough to delete my name from your friends directory, note that this is hardly the only blooper I made, having once asked my mom, “Is Dad at home?  Pesticide Radhakrishnan wants to speak with him.” I was immediately given a lecture by mum, after which I asked her if, in future, I should refer to this senior manager of Pest Control India as Pesticide Uncle instead.  Apparently, mum then decided that  she would let sleeping dogs - and sons with inadequate appreciation of niceties - lie.)
 
My Dad, had the last word on GMAT, comparing the human to the exam: spending an hour with the test paper was a test of skill, he said, while an hour with the other was one of will. 

Why I Am Likely to Win The Nobel Prize

I am deeply touched that millions of people are buying cryptocurrency.  For years, I had been searching for a reliable way to measure the percentage of idiots in a population.  My ultimate goal, as you have now shrewdly guessed, is the Nobel Prize for Economics and Literature combined, and I was, until recently, about as far from it as Orion is from Earth.
ps: Orion is getting closer at the rate of six inches a year.  Persistence pays (but not in cryptocurrency).
 
The current population of gullible, naïve, inept, self-delused, infatuated, doting, obsessed, asinine, gauch, gumptionless, bird-witted, desipient, unstable idiots on our planet is officially at about 240 million, which translates to about 72% of the population of the United States (do not read anything more into this).  These are people (crypto buyers, not Americans) who wake up all animated in the morning and say, “Is there a new scheme to defraud me?” and, if they hear an echo, they do a funds transfer.
 
The most heartening news, of course, is that the population of idiots is exploding and new precious insights are a daily occurrence. For instance, one recent discovery is that crypto buyers do not know the difference between a virus and a cryptocurrency: apparently, Omicron, a cryptocurrency that was launched at the beginning of November moved from $65 to $325 after the virus variant was named.  They assumed (with crystal clear, profound, incontrovertible logic) that since both are invisible to the naked eye, they are the same.
 
Another one called Dogecoin that was set up as a joke even has its founder screaming, “Don’t buy, it’s a scam” Dogecoin buyer-idiots, who will not recognise a mistake if you present it to them in a lava-encrusted pressure cooker-with-weight, are convinced that this is reverse psychology at work, so they buy even more.  There is even a coin called SafeMoon that has been thoughtfully named by its creators who live there and prefer that the idiots stay on Earth. 

 

Then, there is the ultimate scam called Bitcoin that is today priced at Rs 37 lakhs a piece, which is the same price as a BMW X1 (which is where the similarity ends).  If someone had bought it years ago, being an Early Idiot and held on for years and years, he would now be worth Rs 37 lakhs in fake money.  Which, I must agree, is a lot of fake money to have, because I play Monopoly regularly and have never seen so much.
 
More later.  My Nobel is waiting. 

Car Seva

Exactly a year ago, I took my seven-year old car for its annual service.  I look forward to this day about as much as you would look forward to a new virus taking Corona maami’s place. 

The service technician walked around the car like a frowning radiologist and was the most demotivating guy I have seen in 2020 (and that year has had no shortage of such folks, so he dominates a highly competitive field). 

“Sir,” he said, “there’s a dent here,” This was so small that it took an electron microscope inside a binocular to view it.  “Leave it alone,” I weakly suggested, feeling that sinking feeling you get when you are feeling that feeling, if you see what I mean.

He then told me that it will rust in the rain, and the door will be eaten from within and will fall off when I am on a highway at top speed and that I will then be on an Instagram video the next day with the caption, ‘…and CAN YOU GUESS what happened next to the car behind this hideous monster’.
Actually, he didn’t say all of that, but you get the picture. 

Then, the headlights had a side scratch of 2 mm that could diminish lumens sufficiently to distract oncoming aircraft, and the top red light at the rear (I did not even know there was a top red light at the rear) was not working which was a threat to no one in particular (for a change) and the sunglass compartment – which I have never used other than to once hide dog food from Oscar (who is the greediest Labrador in the world, and let this be the last word on that issue) – was unhinged and the press-button to open the back door caused a slight noise that is only heard with sound recording equipment used by AR Rahman and the back window wouldn’t roll up right into its terminal socket which could, if the car was next to a Nasa rocket launcher, generate a wind tunnel effect and one back tyre had a width that was 1 mm below recommended operating standards on German Autobahns in winter.  He also noted that my rear-view mirror had insulation tape on it, which, in levels of sheer depravity on the Crime Index, ranks next to assault.

I took a break, announced bankruptcy-in-advance on WhatsApp and asked Anil Ambani to join me for a Buddies-who-are-bust beer. 

Then he saw the big scratch on the side door at the back and the eyes rolled upwards unbelievingly.  I told him to not do this job till I got a housing loan sanctioned (the Finance Minister had just announced her twenty-second economy-revival package in which cars are classified as movable houses).

“Are you sure?” he asked, with a look of Don’t Blame Me If You Are Fined For Driving An Ugly Car Near Cubbon Park and turned away in sheer disgust at the sort of customers who infest Bangalore these days.

The only good news is that the housing loan has been approved, so I can first fund that dinner with Anil bhai, who is the only chap more bust than I am at the moment.

post script: Every story should have a post script, so here it is: whatever be the quality of work done on your car, never (repeat, never.  Just in case you missed this, NEVER) rate it anything less than five-star (repeat, 5*.  Let me get this right: star+star+star+star+star) .

If you do not follow my priceless advice, you will receive the following (free of charges):
a) about 27 phone calls from customer service, of which twelve will be in the final over of the finest T-20 that you have ever seen.
b) each such call will begin with an apology that sounds as fake as Trump's hair colour.
c) one call from Head Office - Customer Service, Gurgaon, asking you politely for your address, so that you can be kidnapped. 

Roles Re-verse(d)

 A snake and a purple heron in plume

Engaged in an argument (they weren't on Zoom)

The twist and the thrust

Was the question of, first

Who should do what and to whom !

Dhan

 Above everything else, it is helplessness that gets you angry. 

At a nearby Reading Room, I browse through the Business Standard and stop at a page that should not merit a second glance.  The next page looks exactly the same.  Turn over.  The same.  And a half-page more.  On these three-and-a-half pages are thousands of account numbers in tiny print, so small that they seem like lines of badly sewn stitches.  
It is a gold auction notice.  

This we – you and I - know: there is an alternate universe where men and, more significantly, women pledge their gold for small loans to address a medical issue or perhaps admission fees for a child in a private school or, unhappily, the costs of adhering to social mores for an unaffordable wedding.  Often, one loan repays another, one crisis ends, another begins, but they soldier on, sometimes lurching and stumbling their way through the maze of crippling interest rates, processing charges, late fees that choke and unforgiving penalties. They never forget that the gold loan needs to be repaid, for gold is never sold, only pledged.  Gold – though I am no fan of it – is social acceptance, comfort, protection, insurance, even identity.  There is a hidden language in that metal in this alternate universe. 

In this auction notice, read the signs of a crisis in that universe. 

That universe isn’t far away: our domestic help’s family could be living there, as could a family in interior Karnataka struck by Covid or a welder in Pudukottai whose machine shop shut for good after two waves of perdition.  It is their gold that will be sold to feed the collection-and-recovery frenzy reported with diligence to anxious collection managers.  In the old days, these gold hand-loan sort of guys were called ‘blade companies’ in God’s own country, but one can buy respectability:  get the  Kaun Banega Crorepati mascot to endorse you (he was once bust too, but has misplaced the experience).  Or, better still, IPL.   

To take my mind of this, I pick the Business Line up.  Lost reprieve, for it comes right back, this time through an ad.  The same lender has, on this same day, yet in another newspaper, announced its financial results: record profits and collections are the highlights.  As I read this, I wonder if that distressed family in interior Karnataka made this financial performance happen.  I know the answer.
And that makes me angry, in a feeble, helpless way. 

But in the universe I inhabit, the stock markets are booming, Dhanteras rocked while the crackers wouldn’t cease and economic news is about the recovery that the experts did not expect.  The chimera is real here and only a party-pooper would think otherwise, for the collateral damage is below the bonnet.  Only the paint matters. 

Yes, those three-and-a-half pages of badly sewn stitches in the Business Standard tell a story.  We need to listen. 
And help in every way we can. 

 

 

The Stock Market Bull Is On My Heels

 “It’s not, like, fair.  All the guys from my class have, like, made heaps of money from crypto and investing in stocks in the last year.  The girls have been left out and are only now beginning to put money in….”  my 23-year old daughter complains  (this Gen says ‘like’ 224 times a day, plus/minus standard deviation of 30.  Even when they have a problem with someone they say, ‘I like dislike him’, which drives me, like, nuts).  

She continues “This investing, why is this, like, a guy thing?”  

“That’s because girls, including you, generally have much more common sense,” I counter.  Good strategy to apply praise with a butter-coated spoon, but lost on her.  Completely.

We are in a traffic jam, approaching an intersection and an argument (in reverse order).  I try to tell her that the stock market has been insanely over-valued for a long time and has now gone completely cuckoo (Cuculus canorus, if you are a micro-details bird-watcher with disdain for writers and other fungi).  “If the markets are crazily high and risky, how did these guys, like, make money?” she demands, and quite rightly so.

“Well, they could have lost too, because this is not investing, it’s gambling.”

“But they didn’t!  That’s the point!  And, like, K has made 12 lakhs this year…”

“Which bank did he rob?”

“Serious, Pa!”  

“Ok, tell me what he did then?”

“He lost in crypto, but has been, like, buying and selling shares in the last few months everyday.  He quit his job last month and four of them have taken up a flat where they, like, play video games all day and invest in stocks.”

“Correction.  They gamble in stocks.”

“HOW is it gambling if they are winning all the time?”

Well, she has a point there.  

“A crash is overdue and can happen, like, anytime.  Will you stop saying Like, it’s getting infectious.”

“Like, the crash last year?”

“No, that was like the pothole, like, on 9th Main.  This will be a big crash.”

“Like, when was it last?”

“Long ago, when you first got on to Harry Potter.  K is making a big big mistake by quitting his job.  I knew he was weak in the head, this confirms it.”

“At the moment, he is way richer than me, Papa!”

“That means Jacks**t and bull string.  It’s not real money, just the current value of his shares.”

She’s not understood what I said, so she changes the topic. Good thinking, I do the same (these things run in families). “Ok, so he’s agreed to, like, help me invest some money.”

“No.  Not invest, gamble. Plus, don’t do it.” Anti-Nike.

“Then, what should I do?”

“See if visas to Argentina are being issued now.  Backpack a month in Tierra del Fuego.”

“Pa! That doesn’t make any sense.”

Another argument lost.  It’s time to ask that driver in front if he has any idea how important I am.