The Triumvirate of Leadership

At different points in time a company will call upon its leaders to perform the role of Brahma, Vishnu or Siva. For those not familiar with this powerful triumvirate in Hindu religious scriptures let me take you through a quick introduction and explain further.

Brahma is the God of creation, all knowing, all seeing and giver of life to all that we believe is our world out there. He is an Idea guy and his vision of what your life should be is the reality you see and live. As with all creative pursuits, somethings click and somethings go bang! This never stopped him from dreaming more and more reality into existence.

Vishnu is the Sustainer or Preserver, a benevolent soul in supine repose; keeping a watchful eye on the lives of mortals and demi-gods that look up to him to maintain order in this complex world Brahma created. He will be called on to help each of his subjects in their mundane quest for health, wealth and prosperity. A generous being, he is quick to grant wishes and boons to the faithful ones.

Then there is Siva, the ascetic god who, in his divine abode in Mount Kailash, leads a fairly chilled out life in deep meditation, unconcerned and unperturbed by the goings-on of quotidian existence. Until of course he is woken from his trance because something somewhere has hit the fan. Then he becomes the Destroyer! Harsh, uncaring and aggressive in his ways, irritated at being disturbed from his peaceful trance, he works with a single-minded goal to bring down whatever it is that is causing the nuisance. Using all manner of weapons, munitions and name-calling his untiring effort is focussed on bringing back a semblance of calm and order quickly, so he can hand the reins to Vishnu and go right back to doing nothing with style.

The timeline of every organization requires that its leaders play the role of any, several or all of the above gods. In the inception stages Brahma steps in, with a dream to create something from nothing. The building blocks for the vision of the future are put together painstakingly, with a blind belief that the world will come around to believing in this new form of reality. Once this reality is accepted by a quorum then the role changes – Vishnu steps in and keeps the multitude happy and growing and invested in this current reality. Many favours are granted and returned, ensuring the needs of one-and-all are placated. Right or wrong is based on the existing reality and none will question the status quo for fear of foregoing the munificence that comes their way. And when this reality is unable to sustain itself and stands on weak legs, Siva begins afresh, altering or tweaking the current circumstances, while bringing stability to the quivering foundation, whatever the means utilized.

The fables that are written about each of these gods reflect the life-lessons our ancestors thought prudent to pass onto future generations. We learn from their strengths and their weaknesses and inculcate these into our own lives. There are situations where they even teach each other lessons! No one is above learning. Self-awareness of what role we play, be it Brahma, Vishnu or Siva, drives our attitude and actions in any given situation. 

So the next time you find yourself answering the question, “Who do you think you are, a god?”, your answer should be, “Yes.”

Sporting Miracles

My First Sports related blog.

I was watching the IPL game last night and witnessed RC take out DC and I caught myself talking out loud (in response to another DC wicket)...."Shit, these guys are useless!!"

The look on the batsmans face as he walked off the field triggered a memory flash...a younger me walking off the cricket field on the Sishya field, having got out first ball in an intra school tournament. A whole bunch of students watching (worried more about the girls though!;)) ...some sniggering...I remember the thought that ran through my head, "Machan, you dont even know how to hold a bat..."

In the same match, standing behind the wickets as the Wicketkeeper/Captain I remember my team-mate Mayank, a wonderful pace bowler (though with an erratic run-up that confused most batsman) bowling with full gusto at the opponent. Wonderful line, a gentle swing, perfectly pitched and rising to perfection, beating the batsman and into my gloves, standing 15 feet behind the stumps. I also remember the pain!

He was not bowling any more than 75 or 80 kmph (we were only in the 10th grade and small built)...but even at that distance behind the stumps my hands were killing me (though I had inner gloves and a brand new set of keeping gloves, grudgingly handed over by the PE teacher)....even though I had collected the ball cleanly, the stinging sensation running up through my hands made me see stars!

In world cricket we see speeds in excess of 120kmph...from a medium pacer! Even Kumble, a spinner (off break) generates speeds in excess of 100kmph. The wicketkeeper actually stands right there, up next to the wickets...imagine his reaction time when he makes a stumping or run out…mindblowing! To understand the magnitude of their achievements we mere mortals have to slow the video down to fractions of seconds and even then we need modern technology, with all its computing power and simulations and 100billion operations a second, to tell us something the umpire already knew 10 seconds ago, with his finger up in the air! An interesting example of the sheer pace of events on the field was put in perspective when, between overs, the TV producer replayed the images of a fielder at short midwicket hold a catch from a sizzling shot by one of the batsman. They replayed the shot and resulting catch in slow motion again and again, while measuring the time from when the ball hit the bat to when the fielder caught the ball. This entire sequence of events took 0.6 seconds! For humans to experience fluid vision we need to see 24 images (frames) a second. This shot and the catch was captured in just 14 !

If mankind is looking for inspiration we need to look no further than these tiny miracles that happen everyday in every sport at every level. Performance and human capability taken to the limits. At the end of the day, as mere mortals, who are we to Judge?

Want to watch a chip?

'Films' were called films as the medium on which they were captured was a physical strip of photosensitive material. So you could watch a 'film' at the local theatre.

With the advent of digital technology and movies being recorded on re-writable electronic memory, the 'film' is almost obsolete.

Does this mean the local theatre now features the latest 'chip'? The 'chip' that I saw yesterday was very good. The 'chip' critic gave a thumbs down to the latest 'chip'. I went to the theatre to watch a 'chip' and ate chips and coke for a snack...and the list goes on.

Time to rethink?

Go figure.

Chapter 11- Laptop Blues

My laptop seems to be on its last lap. Its memory is failing and it keeps losing its keys, on the keyboard that is. Viral infections have taken a toll on its system and it suffers from a bad case of the COLD (Completely Outdated Laptop Device). The software is hard to use and the hardware is overused. To get it fixed I have called in the handy-dandy service professional but from day one it seemed like I was talking to an Alien from outer space.

He tried to switch on my computer and could not get it to turn on. That’s when he mentioned that I had a boot-sector virus. I was a little embarrassed. I am not sure how he figured it out but I did have a little fungal infection between my toes. He must have smelled my shoes while entering the door. Embarrassed, I told him I would get it checked by my podiatrist soon. He also requested that I backup my hard drive frequently. So I have taken to driving my car in reverse in front of my house everyday. I dont understand how this helps my computer but who can keep up with technology these days?

The other day he came to fix some problem with the computer and nearly gave me a heart attack! He mentioned that I had low Level-2 Cache. How did he know that my bank account was short of funds? In fact I was so strapped for cash that I was not sure I could pay him for his services! Somewhere along the way he also mentioned that my chipset was old and needed to be replaced. The guy had some gall! Not only had he raided the snacks in my kitchen without my knowledge but he was complaining about the expiry date on the packet of chips. He finished his work and mentioned he would be back the next week. I quickly hid my boots as he left, for fear of another nasty comment from him.

He returned the next week and he mentioned that he had a new Motherboard with him. I could make neither head nor tail of this. Was his mother living with him now? Or was it someone elses mother? Maybe a stepmother? Why did he mention it now? Maybe he knew I could not pay and was looking to have his mother stay with me for a while! As he messed around in the computer he made another funny statement. He mentioned that he was going to rearrange the BUS to increase speed. Was he using public transport to move around? I could see his car standing outside so that did not make sense. Maybe there was a lot of traffic on the road and he thought public transport would be faster. Who knew? I let it go but I thought to myself that these geeks were a weird bunch!

Just as he left he mentioned that he was going to replace Windows the next time he came. That’s it! I finally figured it out. This guy was some sort of crook who under the pretext of being a technician scoped out houses, ate their chips without permission, used public transport to avoid detection and involved his mother to blackmail financially-stressed people like me. And now he was telling me he was going to replace the windows in my house, which he would then break into at some later date! Nice try pal! I am not falling for that one.

I let go of his services and junked my laptop. I had the last laugh too. I used the money to put up a new security system on all my windows. After all, he’s not the only one who can install a Windows Security update!

Jimbly

The greatest risk is to risk nothing at all

Vande Mataram

One of my articles published in the Indian Express a few years ago.

************************

It was a typical muggy evening in a sunny southern state of America. My sweat stained kurta sticking to my back, I stood in line waiting to buy a ticket for the Festival of India. This was an eagerly anticipated annual event and drew large crowds of the sub-continental people from all around. It also drew indigenous crowds of ‘educated’ people wanting to ride elephants, see snake charmers and shake hands with a Maharaja. They were sorely disappointed. The snake had escaped and bitten the Maharaja, who was then taken on the elephant to the emergency room.

As I waited, I glanced at the poster for the event. It promised a wondrous evening showcasing the diverse people, food, cultures and titillating splendors of an exotic country, if you could get into the auditorium. There were long queues for tickets comprising homesick Indians looking to talk to another human being without having to roll their r’s. What surprised me most was that not one of them was jostling for space to get ahead in the line, there was no fat uncle rubbing his smelly armpits in my face and definitely no one spitting paan on my shoes. Talk about culture shock! The odds of seeing such an orderly queue in India is rare. Some would say as rare as India winning the Cricket World Cup. Either of these events is cause enough for the general masses to rise up in union and exclaim jubilantly in chorus, “The gods are on our side! Our sins have been forgiven!” Of course, this would promptly be followed by political parties calling for a curfew to ascertain which gods were being propitiated and to include a quota for proper representation of the minority communities in these prayers!

But I digress.

An excited throng of sari, dhoti, kurta, salwaar and turban wearing multitude milled around the auditorium. The incessant babble of people around me was intermittently drowned out by music blaring from the speakers. Small shops had been setup selling everything from cheap imitation Indian jewelry at exorbitant prices to pirated Hindi movies, still running in theatres back home. Dance programs on stage highlighted the latest fads from bollywood songs, with enough pelvic gyration to give the local belly dancer a hernia! Even the large overflowing trash cans in every corner seemed to lend an aura of authenticity.

My attention was drawn to a table across from me. The sign above it instantly piqued my interest. I licked my dry lips with my tongue. A slight tremble in my hands gave away my anticipation. I moved closer to the table. I reached out slowly. My hand closed in around the plate of free, hot samosas. It was not a figment of my imagination. Neither was the small cup of sweet chutney on the side. I dipped the samosa in it and took a bite. An overwhelming surge of curry spice and sweet chutney enveloped me in a sense of well-being. I licked my fingers and wiped the delicious crumbs from my lips. I beamed from ear to ear. And that’s when it hit me.

It is well known that, “The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach”. The belief that love is governed by a base need like hunger leads me to re-state, “To know if man has a heart, fill his stomach”. I walked away with a renewed faith in my fellow beings, my country and in the unstoppable positivity of a satiated stomach. With a look of utter satisfaction on my face and lightness in my step, I thought to myself, “Fill the plates of the hungry and the poor in India and you will soon rejoice in its new found patriotism.” After all, one billion stomachs’ is a ‘whole lotta love!’

Chapter 10 - Vanakkam, my name is Mani.

Was walking by a nice, clean building, single storeyed, blue and white exteriors. Looked like a bank. It was. The brightly lit sign outside said in bold white letters against a blue background, “GE Money”. Right underneath in tamil text, the same. With my limited knowledge of Tamil, it took me a while to “kooti padikku-fy”. And that’s when it hit me. GE Money, when read by a person in Tamil, especially if that person was from the boondocks and did not know about the existence of the mutli-billion dollar conglomerate, would make absolutely no sense. I stopped walking for a few seconds and a broad smile wrapped itself around my face as this imaginary conversation between two village bumpkins ran through my head:
First bumpkin: “Dei, yaarida intha G.E. Mani? Ooruku puthusa? Enna Vikuran?”
Second bumpkin: "Theriyada? Ooruku puthusa vanthurkire collector!"

("Dei, who is this G.E. Mani? Is he new in the town? What does he sell?")
("Dont you know, he is the new collector in town!")

I continued walking and i started to wonder if there was any other business names that rural folk would have a problem coming to grips with! Any ideas?

Jimbly

Knowledge speaks, wisdom listens.

Sleepless in Rockcity

Five months of bus rides to and from work has confirmed the following: Everyone sleeps on the bus. Everyone. Only in their sleep patterns we find differentiation. There are three kinds on the bus. You’v got the Zen masters, the bobble-heads and last but not least you have spit-face. Zen masters are weird. They are neither asleep nor fully awake. They have their eyes closed yet manage to sit still as the bus jumps and jolts everyone else around. Then there are the Bobble-heads. These are the guys who have their eyes closed and their heads keep dropping onto their chest. Just when you think they are lights-out they jerk back up to an upright position and repeat the entire procedure again. And then come the spit faces. I envy these guys for they possess the unearthly super power to sleep like no human has ever slept before. From the time they get onto the bus they hit a snooze button and bam! They are of to la-la land. Its very easy to find these guys in the bus. They are the ones hanging half in and half out of their seat or generally smothering their unfortunate neighbor while maintaining a constant stream of spittle from their half open mouths. They will not wake up till the bus has reached the office and that too only if half a dozen of their colleagues dance the flamenco on their heads.

Its also funny the way seating in the bus has so naturally arranged itself. Zen masters always sit next to zen masters. Bobble-heads usually next to other bobbles but some unfortunate ones can get stuck next to a spit face. They never repeat the mistake. Spit faces predominantly sit next to each other. Oblivious to the spittle bath that they shower on each other, these somnolent beings find comfort in their shared inability to maintain consciousness in a moving vehicle. They cluster together like fungus. They also believe in more the merrier. You will always find them in the three-seater benches, never in the two seater, which is usually reserved for the groups of zen’s and bobbles. The other day I saw an incredible sight, what I believe to be the next Olympic sport: Synchronized sleeping! Like trained athletes three spit faces sitting next to each other, all with their heads lolling on their chests, with the same quantity of spittle in the corner of their mouths, jerking this way and that way with the swaying of the bus in perfect unison. Not even trained athletes could muster up such perfection. These unconscious beings swaying to some unheard universal melody; their body, soul and spittle tied together in an ethereal cosmic dance.

Wherever groups of humans get together patterns start to emerge. Are there any other patterns you readers have observed? In different situations maybe? In different circumstances? Do share. Im eager to know. You can say Im drooling for information!

Jimbly

You do not find what you do not seek

Chapter 8

“Dei Congratulations!”
“Whats with all the marriage fever in our batch? Anyway, congrats!”
“Who is the lucky girl?”
“Are you crazy??!!!”

Some of the messages on my facebook account. All because I changed the status on my page to seven simple letters, “Engaged”. I am sure there will be more to come and most will be real colourful. Will post some more of these as and when I get them. I thank my friends for taking a little time from their lives either to congratulate me or pass on their condolences!! That last comment was by one of my friends whose idea of a monogamous relationship is one woman only…every week. The last I heard of him he was fleeing from three angry ex’s, taking a trip to deepest darkest Africa. Wonder if he’ll have access to Facebook there?

So If you are wondering why my blog has remained untouched over the past two months ask my mobile service provider. I happen to be their single largest customer, helping them stay afloat in these lean times. My bills are astronomical as are my head, heart and soul (oh…so mushy!). Telephone conversations with this someone special is consuming all my free time and spare minutes are spent with my ears glued to the cell-phone, milking every last drop of juice from the batteries to get another sentence in. She calls herself my “phone-friend”. I call her, “The reason why Airtel has given me a credit line of ten thousand rupees”. I got a call from the customer service rep requesting me to prolong my engagement till the end of the fiscal year as they still had some bad debt to clear!

A twinkle in her eye, one watermelon juice, and a swish of her skirt and she had me hook line and sinker. Or should I say, “Cellphone, charger and Bluetooth!”

My special “phone friend”.

Jimbly

Better to light a candle than curse the darkness.

Jimbly

Once i make up my mind im full of indecision

Jimbly

He who laughs last...didnt get it !

Chapter 7 – A Lassi by any other name…..

.....would be called...wait...wait....I’m jumping the gun here. Lets go back to the beginning. As usual this story also involves food but not in as much detail. It all started with just another innocuous dinner. I was about finishing a nice big chole-bhatura and coating my arteries with a fresh layer of cholesterol when I felt like it would be nice to drink something to settle my stomach. I called the waiter over to my table and asked him for a glass of plain buttermilk. He smiled a sweet broken toothed smile, scratched his head and said that he didn’t have any buttermilk. So I then asked him for a bowl of curd to which he replied that he couldn’t do that. Exasperated I told him to forget it, thinking that I would pick up a pack of curd on the way home from some shop. The waiter started to amble away obviously a little anxious at having annoyed a regular customer, one that tips well too.

He took a few steps and turned around and shuffled his way back towards me. I was busy finishing my bhatura, with my head down close to the plate. I caught sight of his slippers and I looked up wondering if he had changed his mind about the curd. He was looking at me a little anxiously fidgeting with the tray in his hand. I nodded my head at him and he stepped closer to me and bent forward. He then asked me a question, which I will come to in a minute, that must have taken a lot of courage and burnt quite a few of the grey cells in his head. Keep in mind that just outside the restaurant is a fruit juice shop where you can get freshly squeezed fruit juices. So he bends sown and barely whispers, “Saar, thayir juice venumma?” (Do you want curd juice?) I was flummoxed, to say the least. What in the name of God was ‘Thayir juice’? The look on my face would have scared any lesser human away but the valiant soul that lingered behind those tattered pants and grimy checkered shirt was not about to give up. He repeated again, “Saar, thayir juice, that they put in a glass with sugar and give you”. Now I have something to say here. If all those great geniuses all through the ages had a light bulb go off somewhere every time they had a great idea (did stoneage man have large fires go off somewhere…is that why there’s none of them left!) then global warming is not really a recent occurrence. Blame those geniuses and their bulbs. If they had only used fluorescent lamps! Anyway…that lamp went off…I got his drift and nodded my head vigorously at which his face beamed with satisfaction and I am sure he was mentally walking down the line of ten grey cells remaining in his head and patting them one by one on the back for a job well done. He brought me back a nice, tall, cool glass of “Sweet Lassi” which I downed with extra satisfaction. I could have missed this delight if it had not been for the quick thinking waiter who managed to understand my need, the constraints, the available resources and put it all together in one delectable “thayir juice”. I tipped that guy extra that day and every day after for the courage it must have taken to come up to me and ask me a stupid (in his own view) question and follow it up with some visionary thinking.

So why am I making a big deal of this. Because just two days earlier I had asked his boss, the manager, for a Lassi and he had given me a rude, “No! We don’t have anything like that here.” Which is why I was asking for buttermilk and curd in the first place and not for a Lassi. In his favor, the uneducated (but divinely gifted) waiter had seized on the opportunity to provide ‘customer service’ in its very intended form and showed that ‘manager’ a thing or two about thinking outside the box.

Lassi is now a featured item on the board outside their restaurant.

Chapter 6 - Rockfort temple

I climbed all the way to the top of Rockfort. Barely. Along the way an elderly gentleman asked me to get out of his way as I was slowing him down. By elderly I mean he was around when god created man. And by man I actually mean woman (just in case there are some womens lib proponents reading this…in which case…”burn the sports bra!!”)

Apart from the incredible thirty rupees I paid for an “Archanai Thatu” (is that normal?) there were other incredible things…the old pillars, the huge temple sitting atop a few rocks, the cool breeze, the old man who raced past me, and the view of the Cauvery river (dry as a bone) cutting across the landscape like a ugly gash in the earth, oozing trucks and autos and motor bikes crossing the bridge. The actual Pillayar temple is small and sits right at the peak of the hillock and hence his name, “Uchi Pillayar”. Simple. Remember what I said about Indians and their lack of originality. Rough steps hewed into the rock face lead all the way upto it from a lower rest area. The rest area, btw, is where young guys like me lean against the railings trying to act cool, pretending to admire the view, when in reality we were just trying to catch our breath from climbing up so far. The nonchalant hand through the hair is us actually wiping the streams of sweat pouring down the back of our neck. And us lying prone on the ground means call the ambulance!

I enjoyed the mini trip, a good 1.5 hours of walking. Will go back when I decide to practice for the Boston Marathon.

Time for bed. Adieu.

Jimbly

Knowledge speaks, wisdom listens.

Thank you for comments

Thanks to all of you leaving comments. Sowmya, Lalitha aunty, Cheenu...and some weird Hispanic person who i dont understand. If you get a gmail account i can respond to comments but until then i will have to reply like this. Thanks for the encouragement.

Chapter 5 - The one with the push cart

So we come to the push cart. Food as you have seen seems to be playing a central part in my life, off late. Its like sleep…its never a big deal unless your not getting any. So the lack of good home cooked food has made sure that I am on the constant lookout for 1) cheap , 2) healthy and 3) accessible food. And it must include some good vegetables (its just a phase of mine). And I found just the place. At a good 25 minutes walk from my house, this place is at the event horizon of my third condition but its worth every sweat drop oozing out my forehead and every shoe bite on my heel. Not to mention the chaffing in unmentionable places (jeez…I have got to get my mind out of the gutter).

Right opposite the main entrance to the Rock Fort temple is a small bylane filled with hundreds of shops. Congestion is an understatement. Sardines have it good compared to this. Little shops selling everything from clothes to bidhis to jewellery. A mini Mylapore with a hill in the middle. And as the saying goes, if Rockfort cannot go to the restaurant, the restaurant will go to Rockfort. Enter the push carts. Meals on wheels. Cruisin’ Cuisine. The gluttons perambulator.

It all starts with a nice little ritual. The first day my friend took me over there, around 8pm in the evening (only dinner is served), the “Iyer Mama” was just setting up shop. Its appropriately called the “Iyer Kadai”, of course. Hey! Nobody said the Indians were known for their originality! After off-loading all the “andaa’s” and “yelai’s” onto his pushcart from an auto (no cooking is done on the street, its all home cooked), he quickly pulls out a small ‘yelai’, scoops a big helping of “dhadhojanam” (or thayir saadam, curd rice for you uneducated people) onto it, lights incense, sticks it in the middle of the rice and then raises the whole yelai as an offering over his head, saying some prayers, looking towards the temple on top of the hill. That done, he places the yelai in one corner of his push cart. He then pulls out another yelai, heaps it with different food and hands it over to the waiting old beggar on the side. Charity before business. He then wipes his hands on his lungi, turns to his paying customers and says, “Cholunga Saar! Enna Saapudiringe?”

These happen to be the very words that God utters when he welcomes you to Paradise.

A multitude of “variety rices”, uthapams, idli’s, chutneys, sambhars, poriyals, appalams, sweets, and pongals lay bare the quintessentially heart warming nature of South Indian comfort food, that drives thousands of burger and pizza-sick individuals like me from the gold paved streets and milk and honey baths of the western world into the arms of the warm embracing smell of fresh ghee on hot “chakarai pongal”! With due apologies to amma, I must mention that this man makes the best Kesari on this side of the NH-45. He even offers ‘paruppu-podi sadham’, with ‘goju’ on the side. A dollop of this, a scoop of that, a spoonful of ghee and a lot of licking and lip-smacking later, the loaded ‘burp’ that escapes from the deep confines of your stuffed-to-capacity stomach pays the ultimate tribute to the ultimate meal and leaves you yearning for nothing more than a very short trip to a six feet by four feet of space and one pillow. On the side of the road if necessary.

I hope I have given enough incentive to see some of you people down here in Trichy. See you soon.

Chapter 4.5

Short blog..hence 4.5.

Three continuous sentences in my previous blog began with the word "Now" and none of you commented on that!! I might have been half asleep while writing it but you guys better wake up and kick some sense into my head!!! :))

I will defintely cover the push cart kalyana saapadu next time...i promise. keep tuning in.

adios.