Tin Factory to Whitefield

Even if it was only a couple of days back, my memory fails to register the bus number through which I travelled. Being written Kannada challenged, but adequately comfortable in the tongue I asked the friendliest looking face in the bus, Whitefieldu hogattha? This reminds me of my first years in Bangalore, when I first asked a shy “Mathikere hogthara?”  to a rather bemused commuter. Much more assertive now, I received a rather warm but slightly hurried reply, “Hoggathe banni” (Goes, come in) from the conductor.

                I trudged inside and sat comfortably in one of the first gents’ seat in the bus.  Those familiar with the topography of a BMTC Parisara Vahini bus would identify the first gents’ seat peculiarly housing another seat opposite it. Like it or otherwise even if it most often the latter, one would be forced to appreciate the half shaved face in front. The situation is even more acute to the minority population which does not have the luxury to fiddle with a Whatsapp or a Temple Run.  I had to make do watching the temple of an old man. After multiple failed attempts by passengers to proxy the conductor’s whistle, the bus slowly entered into the road only to stop again with all the other vehicles in the road.  At least, the bus had company. A panting school boy boarded the bus and sat down with a violent thrust that only tired people are capable of. Gopalan High School, his uniform read and the pencil moustache hinted at the lad studying in pre University College. This age is better remembered for its second crush and the first one sided love affair than the Irodov problems which most of us fail to understand, leave alone remember.

                “Pass thorsi, ticket thogoli” said the conductor and nonchalantly walked behind much before I could dig out my pass from the bag. As any experienced commuter would testify, the first announcement by the conductor is only for commuters to keep their wares ready and sit with a 10 rupees waiting for the conductor to come back. So, did he. He scantly seemed keen to look at my face in the pass.  After punching a few holes, he looked at the school boy’s face which exactly meant, “Your turn”! The boy in turn removed a 50 rupee note.  These bigger notes always tend to bring out the growl in the conductor and he yelled a very predictable “chillare kodi”.  Apology written over all his face, the boy looked around in his pockets to find none. The conductor wouldn’t budge on his demand. It was his territory after all. And he walked away towards the ladies section, with an air of having conquered his little duel with the little boy. The ruffled boy flashed his 50 rupee note to an onlooker who was eying it all. Not me, someone else who replied a polite no. He then enquired the man standing next to him, who twitched his lips. The desperate boy now looked at the man next to me. “Illa”, he said and stretched his hands deep into his pockets to pluck a 10 rupee note and handed it over to the boy. The boy was totally puzzled. The conductor just walked by. The boy mumbled something to the man who assured him he didn’t want the money back. The conductor was totally ashamed by his high handed behaviour and tried explaining that this was how he ensured commuters carry many ding-dong sound making coins in their packets. As the conductor left for his next round, the boy once again dug deep into his bag. And this time, his hands did not return empty.

                One, two, three,….  seven of them. He removed mint chocolates and forced it into the hands of the benevolent donor who was grinning from ear to ear. And so were all of us onlookers. Sometimes, good things happen in Tin Factory and Whitefield too.

A demonstration of non-linear reduction of estimate through bargaining principles

                It’s tempting to start with an abstract, followed by an introduction, a section on literature survey and make a pointless conclusion about how our method is 0.002% more efficient than the neighboring researcher’s method. But disruptive outcomes deserve better treatment and hence this post on one of the most “productive” meetings that I have attended. Wait, did I tell a “productive meeting”? Wasn’t that phrase universally accepted as an oxymoron now?

                If productivity is measure in rupees, then 11 lakhs saved in 2 and hours has to be one of the most productive hours. As a part of a tech fest in office our department had to set up a stall and we were promised 5 lakhs to do it. As is our wont, we drew elaborate drawings in our mind, scribbled a few of them on the board and went to the contractor. And said, Boss kitna chahiye?

                2 days later in a hurriedly convened meeting, the contractor meets us and demands 18 Lakhs! 18 Bloody Lakhs for a stall we thought in unison. And the castles in air or rather our stalls in air came crashing down. Were it to be our friendly National market, it would have been easy to bring down the cost through the standard Indian method of bargaining. The standard Indian method I hope you are all aware of and I shall reiterate it for the convenience of the disadvantaged. Fix up the price you think the product is worth, say X. Let the quoted price by the shopkeeper is Y. Y would obviously be >> than X. Start demanding the product at a rate (X-(Y-X)). After n rounds of iteration, the shopkeeper eventually gets rid of the item to you with curses muttered so that it would fail in a day or two.

                However, the comparatively posh environment of JFWTC and the august company of our co-workers was restraint enough to avoid an exhibition of the above mentioned method to bargain. This proved to be the “pathfinder” to a novel attempt at bargaining. In this method, each component of the sum total is separated out such that no item is a combination of two or more primary components. This is important as every component in our bill has to undergo a GRC* transformation which reduces its price non linearly.

                Back to the bill. The contractor opened a very professional looking excel sheet to show us the bill. Somehow, I have begun believing that the word “Microsoft” brings a lot of monetary luck. Gates became the richest man. Wielders of Microsoft powerpoint and Excel always seem more blessed with their bank accounts than the poor ones who see more numbers regularly in their Matlab screen.  The first item was ostensibly titled “creative charges”. And it costed us a whopping 35k. Inspite of our protests that most of the design being provided by us, contractor seemed in no mood to relent. Our complaints were dismissed off with little reason but good English and we moved forward to the next item. To the walls of the stall. Off went the fancy material and in came the flex. A few lakhs chopped and yet, we were unsure if that could make any difference. The molten cabin was replaced by their more humble cousins. Bar chairs were thrown out. Every table debated.  Some of the ideas were ridiculous. Of course, I must admit that the the higher the degree of ridiculoulessness the more you could be sure they belonged to me. Like doing away with the platform! Finding the colour which would cost the least.  And after finally after nearly removing everything, we arrived at the magic number 7.7! From 18 to 7.7 at the end of two hours. Ofcourse, we got complimentary headphones at the end of the ordeal. But the best bit of bargain had to be not letting the contractor not buying drawing paper. We promised to get them from the stationary store in office who is obviously going to throw a very curious (but hopefully not a dirty) glance when we order 500 drawing papers in a single shot. And the lovely catch by Sudhanya in not letting the games to be bought by the contractor to avoid 22% of taxes.

In my next visit to National market, hopefully this experience will embolden me to scare the wits of the shopkeer!

Winners are not always heroes

Dreams don’t occur naturally. They have to be dreamt. Yet, are we allowed to dream?

Meet my friend, Abhijeet Shedge. He joined my school, Crescent High School when we were in 4^th standard and used to wear that blighted yellow half trousers as uniform to school. I tend to call it my school because I was already a veteran of 8 years in the school when this little fellow trudged into my school. He introduced himself with his name and history of having studied in a nearby district, the name of which my ageing brain cells fail to remember. His eyes seemed to have shrunk from some severe nonexistent drought which immediately earned him one of his nicknames that would haunt him forever during his school life. Nepali was one of them. Butka was another because of his dwarf like height and Shegdi, which meant a cooking utensil in Marathi.  The geographical intimacy of our homes and the fact that not many people  in our school rated the area we live in of any great standard, we immediately hit off as close friends. Soon, it was lunch with him, wada pav with him. Lots of teasing, fighting and even physical assaults. We once bit each other bringing out the innermost Tyson in us.

               Tonight, he reminds me of a deep malaise which I am guilty of. Of which the society should be guilty about. While I agree to be every bit of douche bag that I sound, I have always managed a better score than this lad. Even better in Marathi, his mother tongue. And the chap used to study, and study. Unrelenting. Inspite of the poor marks, inspite of the many times the teacher has been unfair and awarded him less than what he deserved. His notes always showed the wear and tear that accompanies incessant dwelling with it. Textbooks bore the valiant marks of studying and struggling with a language he and his mother fought hard to understand. Unlike today’s age where you can know the current prime minister of Scandavania, if that is the most obscure country, within seconds, those were the days when you kept newspapers as archives for future reference. He scored well, just not as much as me. And my mistake? Teased him over studying a lot and yet scoring less. It is always a romantic idea of the last bencher not studying and yet acing the exams. Yet, we are celebrating a man who has not discovered his potential. It wasn’t about teasing him about the lesser marks. A number of students scored less. But, they never cared. They never studied. But the subject of ridicule was studying “pointlessly” without results. That stud attitude on my part! The only days I’ve seen him playing with abandon was the day the exams got over. Or a day after.  A day after he has got enough sleep post the stress of exams. I’ve ridiculed him for this and much more.  While my evenings were spent trying to emulate Rahul Dravid, the young man was honing his preparation for the exam.

               For a long while, till today, I thought he was perhaps a loser. Worked hard without results. And then the epiphany stuck me. He indeed could be a loser. Yet, he is a hero. Our society has mistaken winners to be heroes. Heroes are everywhere. They might lose our exams, their girls reject them. Yet, these fellows dreamt more than their allowed quote. The rebels of our age! He dared, dreamt beyond his natural and latent potentialities, if that is the word to use. Punching above one’s weight or even daring to think about punching above one’s weight is what makes a hero. And then, the cliché about failure not really making losers out of men suddenly made sense. Failure implies your ability to think beyond what you can achieve. And that is victory in itself.  These are the small thoughts that lift you when you are stuck in the dark abysses rejected by the world.

               Abhijeet, you are a hero. You make me feel a hero too.  Let the dreams continue.

And she was gone…

My brother’s words were fast disappearing into a haze. I was finding it tough to reply even in monosyllables. I knew I should have stayed. I wanted to go back. I asked him if we should. I knew I wasn’t asking but letting him know I wanted to go back. And we turned back. But, we were late for she had left already.

                But her charming smile and exuberant words did not.  My brother continued licking the melting ice cream and I sipped another ounce of lassi. There were still a few customers in the shop we bought our delicacy from. My searching eyes were still surveying for the angel who had stopped me when we came out with the ice-cream from the shop.  “Anna” said the little one, her height barely touching my hips, gesturing at my brother’s chocolate ice-cream asked “ Yeshtu anna ee ice-creamu?”. While I did pay the cash myself, which in itself is a rare occurrence as my friends and parents would testify willingly I did not know the exact price of frozen beauty. I hunted for the price of my modest lassi in the packet to deduce the price of the ice cream. Sherlockesque Rahul, you might say.  As I struggled to locate the price of lassi, perhaps impatience got the better of her. Or she thought my ears were of an old man. “Adhu alla anna, ice-cream yeshtu antha keludhe? “, said she with the brightest of smiles I have ever seen. There was something smart about her. In a green coloured gown, and a black bag resting on her shoulders her smiling face refuses to desert me yet. Even the grumpiest of birds ought to smile back. And so I did and with an extra sense of urgency, I did the calculations. “Adhe adhe, eepathondhu ruppay” (Twenty one rupees) I said. And she smiled again. I did too.

               Barely had I managed to cross the road, there was a bigger thought that crossed my head, did I walk away soon? Was she a little girl who had fifteen rupees and wanted the ice-cream badly? And my brother asked, why did she ask you da? Yes, why did she ask me? Should I have waited to see what she did? Were her parents waiting nearby in a car who would buy her, her coveted dream?  Her bag suggested she was alone.  Rarely does regret fill in you in such unexpected circumstances. I knew were late. Yet, we turned back. My worst fears came true. The little princess had walked away with a broken heart perhaps. She was not to be seen in the shop.

               Of what use were the thousands in the bank if I could not make a little girl’s day? Very seldom, do we have chances to make such a difference in a day of people’s lives. I had a chance today. And I missed it.  How I regret it! And with my brother, we trundled along back home. The ice-cream in his hands had not yet melted, my heart had.

Has he bought romance back?

Even as a supporter of a rival team, there is something unmistakably attractive about Manchester United. The sight of roaring supporters in The Old Trafford, dubbed aptly as The Theatre of Dreams or the words of Sir Alex Fergusson in describing Manchester United as the most romantic club in the history of world football.  And boy, why not! By now, clichéd but Alan Hansen’s remark “You’ll never win anything with kids!” being proved wrong by a bunch of boys who first signed their first Manchester United contracts as school boys and went on to the perch of footballing hierarchy.  Better teams have graced the football field with better football. The swashbuckling Invincibles, the ruthless Manchester City. But isn’t it romantic when a group of lads who grew up playing football from nearby towns with dreams of playing for the club finally realize it together? Isn’t this what we watch football for?

               Have you already started drawing the parallels? Wasn’t it only a few months back, when the Pundits said, AAP can win a few votes, not seats. And they won, not a few but many.  Sometimes such as in the case, winning fades into oblivion when compared to the climate change he has ushered in. Idealism is back in vogue, Khadi is in fashion, travelling in buses cool and being Indian is proud again. Helpless romantic that I am, watching a CM travelling in Metro makes me go weak. Indeed, it is a far cry from the Modi euphoria where a messiah from far off lands would come in his saffron chariot to relive us of our miserable existence.  Perhaps, after the next elections the helpful iron-wallah could become our next MLA. Within a few months, the government no longer seems to be them but we really seem to be a part of it.

               The romance notwithstanding, I have been troubled by some of the developments.  The unrestrained sops doled out on citizens and the midnights raids on Nigerian women are depressing. Before you train your guns on Kejri, I will like you to bear with me for a few more moments. The AAP claims to be a party formed by the common man (or woman!) of the country. Let us for a moment assume these claims to be true. Ofcourse, the other parties are not formed by maritians. But, let us assume again that because of reasons like dynasty and monetary issues, they field candidates who are cut-off from the common man of the country. Going by AAP’s claims their manifesto is only a representation of people’s aspirations. And it is not tough to imagine the people wanting cheaper electricity or free water or anything at a lesser price. I am not certain if you could imagine the same, but hailing from a lower middle locality in Pune, the raids against Nigerian women would certainly have had blessings of the society. They would have never been a part of the manifesto formation or or hardly would consider them as a part of us. Perhaps, doling out unwanted subsidies could stop in a few years if the feeling that the Government really is not a separate entity. But, honestly subsidies isn’t my biggest concern.

               A deeper concern is, at citizens are we matured enough to handle power? Or as a society are we? We as individuals or families seem to make decisions which would hold us in good stead over the future but as a society we seem focused on retribution for the present.  Governance among ourselves does seem a romantic idea, but should we trust ourselves to this extent? The Khap panchayats and village panchayats are example of self-governance. Why do we shudder when the punishment for a rape is marriage by the perpetrator? The majority of villagers seem to have placed their trust on the Panchayat to agree on the punishment. Why do “we” want to impose our “rules”? Perhaps, they would realize their folly once educated. What if “we” are acting like a Khap panchayat currently? The members who wrote the Constitution were not elected members but they seem to have done a fair job in the circumstances. In the mitigating circumstances post the bloody Partition I can imagine a lot of pressure on the committee to declare India as a Hindu country to which they did not fall prey to.                

               If AAP is really a reflection of our society, we are most probably expected to fail. But, we could learn.