Just another day in paradise...

Evening, to be precise. Here's a gist of what unfolded on that fateful day.

Tuesday, 17th November 2009, 6:00 PM – Thinking of getting out of office early today. Not much work anyway. The match is boring as well. Sri Lankans batting like the asuras and raavanas combined together.

6:10 PM – Happen to look outside. Startled. The world outside the windowpane is pretty much pitch black in complexion. Like a scene straight out of Armageddon or Apocalypto or whatever those doomsday movies are called.

(Oh by the way, its not supposed to be pitch black, let along even a hint of black before 7 PM here)

6:30 PM – Take a long peek at the situation outside. Pondering how to manage getting home amidst this cataclysm. Need to go for a hair cut urgently. Have a wedding to attend next weekend, and I don’t want to look my best, lest I impress any nubile and impressionable young ladies down there.

6:40 PM – I am informed that someone is coming to get me and has a spare umbrella. Bless her. As you might have guessed by now, I don’t have an umbrella with me. I stopped carrying those contraptions long back, after I had magnanimously donated quite a few of those to the general unassuming public within a short frame of time, during my adolescence. I also don’t carry water bottles to school. Rather, I didn’t. Long story. Suffice to say, I am pretty much resistant to the worst of water today.

7:00 PM – Reach the subway (MRT). Bid adieu to my gracious saviour and board a train back home. The hair-cutting saloon is on the way from the MRT to my home. Its called Sri Kandi. Reminds of a rather delicious Maharashtrian dessert. Anyway, they charge only $8 per haircut and the ambience is rather like one you would find back in my hometown. Only air-conditioned. No massage to top it off, though. But the cheapest and best I could find.

7:15 PM – Hey how’s that possible? I walk out of the underground station and on to an implausibly dry sidewalk. No hint of rain. No stormy winds. Am I in the same city or what? Barely 10kms from where I boarded but the world is showing no signs of ending here! It’s all pretty balmy out here. Rather.

7:40 PM – Haircut is done and a satisfied customer walks out, having again unknowingly and magnanimously donated his newly borrowed blue umbrella to the unassuming Sri Kandan gentlemen. However, God smiles on those who do good deeds and such must be the traits of my previously described gracious saviour. So, my barber uncle (I hope I don’t have to call him hairdresser uncle) comes running out after me and completes the cycle of Good Karma. Thank God, I think – at least, my record with umbrellas stays intact.

7:45 PM – Walking through a football field on one side and an unused school building on the other – which defines the footpath leading into the estate where I live – I come across a rat scurrying for cover. Probably initially attracted by my Ganesha belly but later intimidated by my rather stuck-up and indifferent presence, the rat tries to escape into the football field through a wire mesh fence at least 4 times and fails. On the fifth try, he succeeds, obviously. Dumb rat, I think. But wait, this is the first time I’ve seen a rat in Singapore, I believe. Is this an omen?

7:50 PM – Trudging up the steps to my apartment block on Braddell Hill (yes, its rather hilly, by Singaporean standards - must be at least 10 meters above sea level), I again wonder why there is no hint of rain or storm or even any breeze. It’s just eerily quiet. And calm.

8:00 PM – I’m the first to reach home today. As I settle down on the couch in our living room, again the absence of a breeze is discernible. Usually, the cross ventilation in our 19th floor setup can lead to an unnecessarily windy scenario if both windows are open. Today, the silence is palpable. A baby lizard leaps off the window grille on to my thumb, as I open yet another shutter.

8: 10 PM – I can hear a dog howling rather loudly in a neighbouring building. Very unusual – even the dogs and the babies are well behaved in Singapore. Suddenly, even the koels aorund here start cooing. Out of nowhere, on a still November evening.

8:30 PM – Where is all this leading? Why are things so unnaturally calm and quiet? Not even a leaf is moving here, when just 10 km away, I valiantly escaped a storm that was supposedly about to wreak havoc in the Central Business District. Why are the animals behaving so oddly? Why so many firsts in one single evening?

And then it hits me. We are in the eye of a storm. A huge one is brewing. It’s on its way. A twister or tornado or something. A shiver of anticipation goes down my spine. This is going to be a lifetime experience. One I can surely write about. Tell my grandchildren. The works.

9:00 PM – Finish a good dinner of French Toast and Maggi Hot ‘n’ Sour Tomato Chill Sauce (“Its Different”) to help me prepare for the eventuality that is fast approaching.

9:10 PM – The sky is weirdly white. Not even red. Just a whitish orangish grayish haze. I know it’s coming. I message some of my friends about the impending catastrophe, warning them to stay clear of open spaces.

9:20 PM – The streaks of lightning are more noticeable now. My eyes are hooked on the sky with feverish anticipation. I know we can’t be in the eye for much longer.

9:30 PM – We must be almost there. I can visualize myself being branded a hero for having predicted this, and saved so many lives. Getting a Red & White bravery award or maybe the Marlboro Man award or some tobacco company award will be a breeze now.

9:40 PM – Are we there yet?

9:50 PM - Are we there yet? Are we there yet?

10:00 PM – NO we are not. Unfortunately, nothing happens. All my romanticizing comes to naught. It’s just another boring Singapore evening - and windless at that.

Nothing to shout about. Sighhh.

R E S P E C T

We have all seen able men. We have all seen brave men. Or have we? I, for one, have not had to look very far. As my dad turns 60 today, let me take this opportunity to salute him and the other dads of his generation – who have given much but not taken much in return. Who have opted for stability, and never bothered about all the so-called “options” in life. And in turn, opened up all the options for the next generation – us – to choose from.

While it may seem facile to thank our parents, I will again take this opportunity. So, thanks, Baba, for being the perfect gentleman always and inspiring us to emulate your integrity and humility. Thanks for taking the pains to find the perfect ilish maach every time I came home and for inculcating the love of eating – well, almost anything. (There’s always time to compliment Ma’s cooking, of course). Thanks for writing some of the best English and Bengali I have come across in my life and letting us know that the languages will stay with us, equations will come and go. (Which also means thanks for ghostwriting so many homework essays during my school days).

Thanks for watching so many World Cups and Wimbledons with us and braving Ma’s protests in doing the same. Thanks for teaching us to drive, swim and ride a bike – especially the latter! And thanks for believing in us and not bothering about our exams and results too much, unless we got 60 odd in Mathematics. And finally, among countless other things, thanks for getting our priorities right and putting our hearts in the right place. So cheers and here’s hoping you enjoy the next phase of your life to the fullest as well! Happy 60th Birthday, Baba!

Dev D - Bring it on!!!

Warning: I have never written a movie review before, so this may not be too inspiring a masterpiece. Also, this is not expected to be a literary marvel, nor an idealistic viewpoint and definitely not humorous. Basically, I am not that gifted.

So why did I choose Dev D for this rite of initiation? Well – while critical reviews of this film tended to border on either extreme – the Indian movie-going public seems to have agreed with me finally, giving Bollywood its second hit of the year and reinstating some hope in me as to the maturity of the audience. The hope, which I had lost, when movies like Parzania, Amir, A Wednesday, Mumbai Meri Jaan floated into oblivion without any public recognition. Of course, the movie I’m going to talk about is not in the same league as the above movies but I had not expected even this dose of realism to work. Especially when it was contending with history. Considering that Sarat Chandra Chatterjee’s Devdas remains possibly one of the greatest tales of unrequited love ever told in Indian cinema and remade well over 10 times in various languages, it takes some courage to pull it off again. And I salute that bravado.

After director Anurag Kashyap’s last attempt “No Smoking” – a dark, ponderous and seemingly unfathomable disaster – my expectation meter was set rather low when I walked into the theatre. But all for the better. What Kashyap excels in here is the characterization of the lead (and even not-so-lead) players. All of them evolve from the unidimensionality etched in our memories – here there is nothing in black or white. Kashyap shows us varying shades of grey and darkness - even in the humble Sikh cab driver. Lest the audience feels good about themselves, Chanda (Chandramukhi, played by newcomer Kalki Koechlin) reminds us that when people labeled her a whore (reference to the DPS RKPuram MMS scandal), they forgot that those who watched and shared the MMS were probably more perverted than those who made them. Indeed, towards the end – when Kashyap’s filmmaking threatens to paint a world so real and so black that no light seems to filter in – I tell my friend sitting beside me that Kashyap would’ve wasted a brilliant effort if he ended it there. But he didn’t. Thankfully.

I assume everyone is familiar with the basic story so I won’t waste any time on that. I’ll just dwell on what struck me as interesting and brave filmmaking. Apart from the clever camerawork and the three guitar playing–tap dancing-drink-induced dream sequence over-lookers, that is.

What impressed me most was how the contradictions in the main characters are superbly brought out. So while rich spoilt kid Dev amuses himself by asking for compromising photos of his childhood sweetheart Paro (played by Mahi Gill – isn’t there an award for best casting director or something?) over the Internet, he has difficulty in coming to terms with her obvious sexuality when she comes onto him and accuses her of infidelity. Paro, unlike her predecessors, doesn’t grovel or plead with Dev, either. Though she may know that Dev has some inherent goodness, she obviously knows that he doesn’t really care for her either. No lighting of the eternal lamps here. And while the married Paro will still wash Dev’s clothes and give him a bath and even let him touch her, she desists from taking off her clothes or kissing him. And she doesn’t look back when Dev, in a fit of misguided machismo, pushes her out. Well done, Paro. And take that, all ye fluffy birds. And go kill yourself, Chanda’s altruistic father, for not supporting your little girl when she most needed you.

Diehard romantics and followers of Devdas’ eternal love theory should definitely give this movie a miss – as Kashyap threatens to shatter that myth. For even Dev here realizes in a final frenzy of introspection that all those fluffy notions of “love” were nothing more than probably a physical attraction. Just the concept of realizing your one true eternal love shouldn’t be that important at all, in the greater scheme of things. If it were so important, then he probably shouldn’t have let Paro get married. Or pine afterwards. Or justify that utterly irresponsible drink- smoke pot- drink- sleep on foreign whore’s bed- drink- screw up- call Paro- drink- call home for money- drink some more routine. This is where previous renditions of the story have fallen short. For they have tended to glorify the “losing your love, drinking to forget” part by casting superstars like Shahrukh in the part of Devdas, and chosen to overlook many of the evident shortcomings in the male protagonist.

Some of the dialogues and situations are worth a mention as well– a far cry from Shahrukh’s hammy “babuji ne kaha paro ko chod do, paro ne kaha sharaab chod do, maa ne kaha haveli chod do…” types. So we have Dev’s father telling him that his stay in London has changed his Punjabi taste – from whisky to vodka, chicken to fish and well-nourished women to stick-thin apparitions. Or Chanda telling Dev that calling her a randy is more appropriate than a “commercial sex worker”. Or Chunni wickedly asking Dev relay chalta hai na before embarking on a vodka-whisky-white rum-black rum- no gin spree. All priceless moments.

Overall, I guess the heady dose of realism that Anurag Kashyap injects into this movie is why it ticks for me. And the non-tacky dialogue. And the clever use of songs and innovative background scores. And Abhay Deol. The actor seems to turn whatever he touches into gold. I had long decided to watch any and every movie that features him and the rewards have been good – from Socha Na Tha to Ahista Ahista, Honeymoon Travels, Manorama 6 Feet Under, Ek Chalis ki Last Local, and Oye Lucky Lucky Oye – not one movie has disappointed me. Maybe it’s his choice and maybe it’s his luck. But the charm seems to be working for now. Go see Dev D, if you have not.

Heroes

For the past few days, I have realized that there is something amiss. Couldn’t really put my fingers on it till I realized that I had finally lost my innocence, my childhood – I was growing older – I no longer wanted to rush to the nearest cricket screen after office and watch the last 15 crucial overs of the 2nd India-England ODI match even though it promised to be a thriller (that it was not and India won comfortably, I learnt on ndtv.com 3 hours after the match was complete). Cricket, I guess, was the last straw connecting me to that part of my life, when I had few worries, when the people who mean the most to me were always around me – in short, it still brings back so many good memories of time spent at home watching our good men do India proud on the cricket field, that the feeling that those scenes may not repeat ever again, emanates in a slow sinking experience that I am not enjoying at all.

I guess this affliction will affect many of us in the mid to late 20s, who have grown up on a steady diet of the heroics of Sachin Tendulkar, Anil Kumble and Srinath to begin with, and then identified with Dravid and Ganguly in our teenage years to the extent of fistfights to resolve our heroes’ cause. We have been lucky enough to be privy to that magical day at Eden Gardens when the sublime Laxman and the gritty Dravid never played a false shot. And now suddenly, two of them have gracefully retired from the scene and the remaining are counting their days. Our boyhood heroes are growing older. Can we be left far behind? Time for major retrospection, I believe.

Over the course of the 18 uninterrupted years I spent at home, I must have spent at least 12 (assuming I don’t remember much before I was six, though I have hazy images of Border with the ’87 World Cup trophy) avidly following each and every of India’s fixtures around the world. And not only me, my whole family must have been cricket crazy, even the ladies. If my mom could eke out some time from her busy schedule of work in feeding us and doing all the other stuff that moms do to make sure that our lives run smoothly and we have time to watch cricket matches, she would invariably join me, my brother and father in making “watching cricket” the family experience of the decade! And the advent of Day-Night cricket only added to the zing. From Sachin bowling that last over in the Hero Cup Final to Srinath and Kumble doing the heroics with the bat against Australia, and Rajesh Chauhan hitting that last ball six, I can still recall the expressions on all the others who were there in it, cheering with me.

I have woken up early mornings to watch India negotiate the Aussies Down Under before leaving for school, I have stayed up late to watch proceedings in the Caribbean, I have finished my XIIth Board exams early to dash off home and watch the remainder of the day’s proceedings – I have done lots of stupid things for cricket. I have taken sides in Dravid vs. Ganguly discussions, even though I’m a “fan” of both, I have chewed more nails than Sachin ever did on the field (and defended it as something great people do, when my mom protested against this unhealthy habit), I have not moved a single inch for several hours if I felt that position of mine benefited India, but will I ever do it again? With Dada’s retirement opening the floodgates, it just feels like a part of me is no more.

I’d thought I would be visibly sadder on the day Sourav Ganguly retired, but I was not – maybe I ‘d been expecting it all through and that lessened the impact. I think the moment after the NatWest final when he took off his shirt at Lord’s still remains one of the most visibly etched memories in my mind, much like Kapil Dev’s lifting the Cup would be for a somewhat older generation. Dada, though not the ideal “good boy”, that our parents would have wanted us to be (that would be more Sachin or Rahul), has over the years, embodied so much – from ability, determination, courage, leadership, integrity to attitude and resilience – that I guess our parents would have been happier if we had turned out more like him. Though the media makes him out to be a regional hero, one survey of the undergraduate colleges across India, I’m sure, would reveal the fact that Indians are not as parochial and narrow minded as they are made out to be – and the constant chanting of “Dada, dada” at Nagpur brings out that spirit. Dada brought the spirit to the game, and its supporters, and will be sorely missed.

I hope the current crop of players like Sehwag, Dhoni, Yuvraj, Gambhir and Bhajji and those to follow can replace the Fab 5 at some point of time. Maybe they’ll bring me back to the TV screen and I can be a child again. Maybe I’ll have that sparkle in my eye once more. Much like my father does every time he watches a game with me.

The Crisis and We

A sneak peek at how things stand, from the point of view of an average Indian MBA graduate working in the financial services industry

First, let us look at some things that have definitely changed

§ We finally deign to know how much our bank accounts add up to and consider more carefully before opening that salary account in any random bank (read: the bank we work for)
§ We try to remember if we had any balance in the ICICI bank account opened in Bangalore when we worked in Infosys and try withdrawing those savings
§ We call up our parents to know where they have invested their life savings and try to impart some professional advice, for once trying to put 2 years of hard-earned knowledge (sic!) into good use
§ We fish out the train and bus passes from the unknown corner of the wallet and start using public transport again, finally abiding to our long-time favourite slogan “Go Green with SMRT”
§ We cook up sumptuous meals for friends at home instead of taking them out to fancy restaurants for birthday treats
§ We are suddenly massively humble and treat professionals like consultants, marketers, even lawyers and auditors with a tinge of envy bordering on admiration
§ We convince ourselves that this is the best job, this is the best company and this is the best work environment we could have ever hoped for – no cribs, absolutely
§ We listen to whatever the “esteemed” boss has to say and carry out all ridiculous orders assiduously; also, we stop complaining about buying his/her coffee/ lunch every day
§ We become overtly religious and go to temples on all sorts of occasions to pray for prosperity; if that doesn’t suffice, call the priest home for some good ol’ Lakshmi Puja
§ We can now escape calling up friends and relatives with easy refrains on the lines of “hard times are here now you know” and “too busy saving my job”
§ We refrain from introducing ourselves as “investment bankers” when asked by pretty girls in pubs or by those cocky real estate agents
§ We have to read forwards like this, instead of this
§ We accede, at least to ourselves, that we are not the smartest alecs in the whole wide world

And some things that have not:

§ We continue to expect to be retained without making any significant contribution to the organisation as a whole; in other cases, we continue to believe that somehow our exalted contribution will get noticed and we will be spared the axe when others are not
§ We continue to expect bonuses better than what we had expected
§ We continue to believe in market pundits who can predict the price of Brent crude oil 30 years down the line when we don’t know how the market is going to react to a 50 bps Fed cut 3 hours down the line
§ We continue to advise our juniors in B-schools to take up those obscure optional courses in Credit Derivatives and Market Microstructures, without which no one is deemed to be a true blue “Finance” guy
§ We continue to book ourselves on flights, paying 3000 rupees (or more) fuel surcharge each way instead of taking the Janshatabdi home

I'd actually thought of a whole lot of points on both sides of the coin, while contemplating life on my daily walks to and from the MRT station. However, senility is getting the better of me these days. So dear readers, I beseech you to provide witty additions to this list in the form of comments. All selected entries will be added to the above list and credited to the author - so here's your one chance of being immortalized on this blog!

Sarkar Raaz

Being a sucker for diversity, here's something to lighten up the mood after all the ethical and moralistic soul-searching that I led my readers to do, after my previous post.

One fine day, sometime in the month of February 2006, we notice our protagonist, a guy named Suvro Sarkar walking towards the office of a guy (well actually, respected Professor) named Sahadeb Sarkar, then Dean of PGP, IIM Calcutta, accompanied by a certain PGP Representative who later became famous as the private statistics tutor for the damsels in distress of our junior batch - but that's an entirely different story and hopefully, the damsels in question may someday add more colour to the episode. At this point, we stop to ask ourselves - what is our protagonist doing here? He has not been seen much to hobnob with the academic faculty, and today he's headed towards the most feared and viled dungeon of all - the PGP office! We asked him later and we reproduce the contents of his reponse verbatim below:

Top Secret Mission: To secure a fresh date for his STEP (Student Exchange Programme) interview, which he had missed, having been away from campus for a week to attend his brother's wedding.

He goes inside the Dean's room, and the PGP Rep decides to abondon him at this point, having more urgent matters to look into - or so we suppose - and so from here on, its a battle of the Sarkars.

Sahadeb (SDS): Yes? Who are you?

Suvro (SVS): Sir, I am Suvro Sarkar (stressing on the Sarkar part, to emphasize possible kinship), 1st year PGDCM student, Sir.

SDS: So what can I do for you?

SVS: Sir, I have a request. Sir, I missed my STEP interview...I had my brother's wedding to attend, Sir. Is it possible to reschedule my interview to today or tomorrow?

SDS: So you were away to attend your brother's wedding?

SVS: Yes sir.

SDS: Which day to which?

SVS: (calculating fast to reduce the number of days as far as possible) 1st to 5th feb, Sir (feeling pretty sure he can bank on senior Sarkar to feel nostalgic about Bengali weddings and let the point drop)

SDS: So, 5 days.

SVS: Yes sir! (feeling inordinately proud of his institute, now that he is sure his Dean can count).

SDS: Have you read the PGP rules book?

SVS: (trying best to appear truthful, unsure where all this is leading) Yes sir.

SDS: Did you miss the point that you have to inform the PGP Office if you are out of campus for more than 2 working days?

SVS: Oh! is there such a point Sir? (oh, that did not come out the way he would have ideally wanted it to - more of a spontaneous reaction he might regret).

SDS: So you did not think it important to read the rule book? (and regret he does)

SVS: (on the backfoot, well and truely) No Sir, I've read it, Sir. This one skipped my mind, Sir.

SDS: So you think you are above all such rules eh? If you good students do like this, what will happen? Eh?

SVS: (taken aback at the assumptions of moral and ethical standards of "good" students) Sir, good student...no sir, I am sorry Sir - I have read the rule book - just missed that point - won't happen again, Sir - I'm very sorry, Sir.

SDS: So you missed 5 days of classes I see.

SVS: Unfortunately, Sir.

SDS: Hmmm...who did you ask to mark ur proxies?

SVS: (aghast - trying to look like someone who has never heard the word proxy before in his whole life) What - me sir? Proxy- sir? No no, I don't believe in proxies, sir.

SDS: Oh is that so? (calls out to one of the clerical staff) Udayyyy (or watever the name was), bring me the - what section are you? - section C - attendance files for 1st to 5th feb...

SVS: (hoping that his over-enthu classmates had not been foolish enough to mark any signatures against his reg number) No problem, Sir...you wont find any proxies, Sir (trying to sound belligerent and brave)

SDS: (flipping through one or two sheets and not finding any proof against our protagonist) Okk I'll ask the PGP Office people to go through all the sheets in detail (proof of how jobless they are, usually)...you can go now - and give me the application you brought - I'll sign it.

SVS: (relieved) Thank you, Sir! and I'm very sorry, Sir about not informing PGP Office.

So our protagonist went on to live another day and sat through the STEP interview and then opted out of it - all this for nothing! - but that again, is another story. There were some other side effects, though, of the above episode. The attendance sheets were indeed checked - no proxies were found against his name (for the benefit of doubting Thomases, he had categorically instructed all his friends not to mark any before he left for his brother's wedding, having calculated that he was reasonably above water in terms of attendance in all the subjects) - but a pattern of regular proxies were found against many other names and as a result, attendances cancelled en masse, students summoned and warned- sparking large scale rows and debates, and putting an end to the mass-scale proxy signature campaigns as had been practised in the previous two semesters at Joka.

Friends, Romans, countrymen - I believe you will herewith bless our revered protagonist for accidentally removing one of the most widespread social evils in Jokaland, which was threatening to erode the very moral fibres of one and all. Hail the protagonist!

Odd one out

The 40” Samsung LCD wall mounted television in our department was turned on a few days ago when news started to filter in about the quake in Sichuan province of China. The official toll started off with 1 killed, 4 injured and 900 students buried but gradually grew to about 10,000 by the time the next day’s newspapers went to press. Our technical analyst, a middle aged bachelor fond of deciphering charts and eating junk food, immediately sprung up and asked around if any company had exposure to the region (before you ask, I am part of an equity research house and we issue recommendations to investors on stocks we follow). Colleagues looked at their coverage and started calling up corporates to enquire about their assets in the region around Chengdu and Chongqing in Sichuan province. Nobody called up to express concern and ask whether their employees or their families were safe, though. Struck me as very odd. I couldn’t bring myself to call up any of my companies to enquire about possible delays in project completions and the like. Guess I am not cut out for this industry. As our technical analyst joked “Your pain, my gain” and issued calls to short any stocks with projects in the affected region, to the accompaniment of quite a few snorts and sneers from other colleagues, I wondered whether the scent of money has indeed, become stronger than the scent of pain, blood and suffering. Or, for that matter, the scent of power, as the military junta in Myanmar has strived to prove.