My Dream Jobs..............

Date: June 10th 2002
Place: Trivandrum, Kerala, India
Time: 09:00 hours

I was wearing a deep blue full sleeve formal shirt with a silverish-grey colored formal trousers and a chic silver tie. My hairs were neat with a healthy bounce, thanks to the shampoo and my boots had a high shine. I needed to look good. After all who does not want to look good on the first day of your work life?

I wanted to be a software engineer from way back in 8th standard in 1993 when I discovered I was good in programming. On that summer day of 2002 my dream turned into a reality. The next few years were a great ride and it still continues. No, I have not won a Nobel Prize yet, not even filed for a patent yet; but the work keeps me interested and I guess I feel I am very much at the right place.

But then this blog is not about boring you with the details of what I do day in and day out. I am changed from a kid of standard 8th and today if I were to dream about choosing a profession, what will I pick?

Presenting to you, a one of kind countdown! A countdown of my dream jobs….. (Spoiler Alert: If you are already tired of your job, I suggest this is the time you quit reading….)

Rank #3: Wild Life Conservationist

I peer down from the helicopter window. Through the shallow cloud layers I see the river Mara. A great drama is being enacted. The river is muddy and has a sharp current. I look closely and I see numerous Wildebeests at the bank. Among the Wildebeests are many Zebras and Thomson Gazelles.

All the animals are piling on top of each other and their cries and grunts are growing louder and louder. The annual migration of 2 million strong mega herd has reached its last leg. Surely it is the most dramatic phase of the migration and I am in the planes of Kenya and Tanzania in East Africa where the herd of 1.5 million Wildebeests, 500,000 Zebras and 300,000 Thomson Gazelles would cross the mighty Mara River to reach the safe heaven of the Savannah grasslands. But the animals are scared. And there is a real reason for the scare.

As soon as the first Wildebeest jumps into the water the rest make a mad dash for it. From the Helicopter window I see the herd start its spectacular river crossing that happens each year. The heroic herbivores who have partaken in this marathon of over 800 km are now doing the final lap. But not before they get tested.

In blink of an eye a huge group of Nile Crocodiles appear from their watery camouflage. The herd is attacked from all sides by these powerful predators who have been patiently waiting for their turn to sink their dagger like teeth in to the herd’s flesh. As the crocs take a few victims, drown them, tear their bodies apart and chew on the flesh, the mega herd crosses by. The muddy river is now a full continuous line of thousands of animals crossing with their new born calves, mothers, alpha males and other members in search of greener grass. What a sight……

Welcome to Serengeti National Park, Tanzania. I work here as a wild life conservationist looking after this annual mega herd migration and seeing the biggest drama in the animal kingdom unfold in front of my eyes. I deal with lions, hippos, elephants, crocs, cape buffaloes and many herbivores and ensure that the planet never sees a day when these magnificent animals don’t roam it.

The world is full of amazing bio diversity. The outrageous Okavango Delta, the amazing Amazon Rain Forests, the eerie Gobi Desert, the fabulous Gangetic Delta of Sunderbans, the harsh Russian Siberia, the frigid Arctic…. I can never get bored of the wonders and what best I don’t just sit and write stupid blogs about it, I strive to keep them in pristine conditions. I love my job!

Rank #2: Mountaineer

It is -17 degrees outside. The weather looks good. The group leader gets off the radio. It is a go from the Abruzzi Spur base camp! The team gathers around for one last time together. It is 05:00 hours and we may have full 14 hours of daylight to complete the ascent to the summit. We are 600 meters shy of the magic 8611 meter mark of the summit of K2.

The team is an experienced lot. We have 14 climbers from different parts of the world with one mission, to climb the toughest mountain on the face of the planet. The same team did the other extremely challenging climb of Mount Annapurna and the spirits are high. I am not marked a summiteer, which means I am not designated to reach the summit. I would be playing my part in the team so that the earmarked climbers can summit and the mission meets its objective.
Not every climber summits in a challenging climb like these. The team rallies around the most efficient climbers who are the chosen summiteers. You have to respect a mountain which claims one out of every four who try to climb it. You have to respect a mountain which has not let anyone conquer it in the winter months till date, a fate shared by only one more mountain- Mount Annapurna which this team has tamed in the past.

We work with extreme caution. We are at the final hurdle of the climb, the “Bottleneck”. It is an extremely narrow gully (couloirs) with major overhangs of ice columns (serac) that intersect the crevasses of the glaciers. One false step and the whole group’s safety would be compromised. We are now very much in the death zone, which means altitude in excess of 8000 meters, a dizzying altitude!

The view from here is surreal. The sun is bright and I can see white cotton cumulus clouds below me. Also below me is the rugged south face of K2 which goes right down to the Godwin Austin glacier. White snow and blue sky, the vastness of each just mesmerizes the beholder. Around me are the various Karakoram peaks, all wearing white coats of snow.

“We did it. We did it.” The radio shrieked. The voice was shrill and everyone in the team pumps their fists. We climbed K2. 6 of our team summit and finally we retrace our path to the camp. The feeling of achieving the summit is awesome. The dedication and the effort that we undertook dotted with courage and amazing sense of team spirit which made this possible fills me with deep satisfaction.

What next? There are so many above 8000 meter peaks to choose from; Makalu, Dhavalgiri, Kunchenjunga…. I can never get bored of the wonders and what best I don’t just sit and write stupid blogs about it, I strive to summit them. I love my job!

Rank #1: International Cyclist

The team meeting was tense. I come out of the team tent and check my bike. It is a state of the art carbon fiber made one mean machine. I take a final sip of the energy drink and line my bike up with my team. We are in the final stage of the Tour-de-France. Today we are riding from Longjumeau to Paris over a distance of 105 km.

Our team has 16 riders; each one with a mission. Our number one rider is the one with the Yellow jersey, which means he is still the overall leader of the tour. However, he holds a wafer-thin margin over his closest competitor. Our team’s job is to ensure he protects his lead and reaches Paris as the winner of the tour. We have to put a good show against our closest opponent.

Our opponent team starts in great pace. 4 of their riders storm out and start at a brisk pace. Some of our riders go on hot pursuit of them. I continue in the peloton (the large group of riders riding together) riding just ahead of our number one guy. This ensures that I take the wind resistance and he rides with relatively less wind resistance. This is called drafting and it helps our number one conserve his energy for the final showdown in Paris’ cobblestones and tarmac.
We are cranking a decent pace and overall there is nothing to choose between us and our competition. I and my team take turns in staying just ahead of our guy giving him the benefit of drafting all the time. As we near Paris, the rural France is eaten up by the bustling metropolis’ suburbs. 20 km to finish!

The tempo rises steadily. Some teams drop behind. We are riding strong and fast. The race is reaching its finale. Finally at 2 km to finish line, our number one launches his final assault. He darts from the peloton towards the finish line. I along with a few more sprinters join him to protect him from the sides. Our opponents immediately launch their counter attack.

Everything becomes a blur. We ride like wind with the pilot car blaring its siren just ahead of us. The last 500 meters are hellish. Our number one torpedoes ahead of us and a one on one fight ensues with his rival. A huge crowd has gathered at the finishing line but all I see is a haze of colors.

As I cross the line and get off the bike I hear the cruelest words. “He lost it.” The words hit me like a sharp blow. But amazingly the man is smiling. He must be aching inside. After years’ training, laboring through 21 days and over 2500 km and coming so close and yet remaining so far…. But the man is still smiling, congratulating the victor, sharing a few light hearted words with people, thanking and crediting his team….. That is sportsmanship! You lose some, but you never lose to lose.

International Sports is amazing. I can never get bored of the wonders and what best I don’t just sit and write stupid blogs about it, I strive to compete and learn the spirit. I love my job!

The Reality

By this time, I am sure I have lost a lot of readers.
“This is a rant of a real procrastinator”.
“This is stupid”.
“This is not a blog but a teenager’s fantasy.”
“This is one pathetic attempt of mixing dreams with words”…blah blah……

I am sure I can never ever measure up to what I have put down as my dream jobs; that is why they are DREAM jobs at the first place.
Sure I can not do anything to get these jobs. For a few I don’t have enough knowledge, enough mental and physical fitness and for most due to abject lack of talent. But can I do something to make my job look a little better? I think, yes I can.

For the start, I can definitely take over the leaf of understanding the environment better from the dream of being a wildlife conservationist. I can surely connect to people better and try making the lives for all better by abstaining from petty issues and keeping the focus on bigger goals. I can surely strive to conserve the bests for everyone around me.

From the Mountaineer’s dream I can surely learn to respect the adversaries and prepare myself for them. I can learn to be a great team man and keep my team interest ahead of personal ones. I may not summit, but as a team we must!

From the International Cyclist’s dream I can learn how to lose. Life is not a one way traffic and losses are commonplace. Learning to lose is a great art and being gracious in defeats is the hallmark of the best.

Since you are still with me, let me tell you I do not believe in “Dream Jobs”. Just the way I don’t believe in the fairies and daemons. I think there is nothing as a dream job. Every job has its shares of good and bad, potentials and pitfalls. It is how we absorb them makes it a rich experience. How you will do that is purely onto you.

As far as I am concerned, I see there are numerous avenues to get better. I can never get bored of the wonders and what best I DO sit and write stupid blogs about it. I love my job!

Shop....Shop....Shop....SHOCK!

So, my cousin arrives from a different town to attend a marriage.
She is a vivacious young lady, well read, well dressed, well pedicured-manicured, well mannered and well to do……
So, when she said if I would like to accompany her to the shopping mall for picking a few lipsticks for the marriage function, I said “Ummmmm….AAhhhh…Eeeehhhh….”

Soon I found myself in the parking lot of this uptown mall with my cousin beaming in the co-driver’s seat. I park my car, take the lift and come to this mega shop floor of Spencers.

Before I proceed any further let me make a very honest confession that I am not the kind who enjoys shopping at all. In fact I often fantasize about a great world where you could buy everything online and get them delivered at home. I defer my visit to market places and malls till the time a small trivial need has just started to metamorphose into a full blown panic situation, like if you don’t buy the toothpaste-tomorrow you won’t get to brush your teeth!

Then again, I always find that inside a mall your life seems to go into an algorithm.

Step1: Park your car
Step2: Get frisked and discover hidden wonders in your pockets/jacket linings
Step 3: Take the lift
Step 4: Reach the top floor
Step 5: Loiter around aimlessly at each floor
Step 6: Stop at PlanetM / Musicworld / Book Café etc (probability of a buy is 50%)
Step 7: Force your wife to try a few outfits knowing she won’t buy them
Step 8: Use the escalators for going to lower floors for maximum laze
Step 9: Finally arrive at McDonalds / Subway / Cookie Man / Juice Bar.
Step 10: Eat hastily as if a gun was pointed at your head
Step 11: Take the lift
Step 12: Take you car and go back home with happy memories

Therefore I am a real anti-mall person and my visits to the malls are strictly for three reasons.

Reason 1: Buying ration for the fortnight
Reason 2: Getting a hair cut (blame it on my long hairs which can not be cut in local barber shops)
Reason 3: Watching a movie

In fact none of my last 10 mall visits have been for more than 1 hour. Generally, Mausmi, my wife, and I always fan out at the shopping floor each one with our own agenda of procuring groceries independently. Years’ of experience has taught us about who has an eye for what and therefore we divide the labor and do it in parallel to save time. Thankfully Mausmi is not a mall person herself and we just rush through the ritual in an impressive timeline. So, when I entered the Spencers store with my cousin, I was gearing up for a short brisk stint.

Right at the entrance was this counter of some anti-ageing cream. She stops.

I: “Why stop here. Surely you don’t need these. You are just 26”.
She: “It is for mom.”
I: But we came here for lipstick.”
She: “So, if we buy anything else, will that be a sacrilege?”
I: “But then you can come with your mom. May be she will have a better idea.”
She: “I want to surprise her.”
I: “mmmmm…….”

The lady on the counter was quite attractive, so the 10 minute discussion did not seem too dull! Did we buy it? No.

So, we left that anti-ageing counter and were sucked into appliance section. There was everything on display. Refrigerators, televisions, mp3 players, microwave ovens, dvd players…. She stopped.

I: “Why stop here?”
She: “Are baba, we are in no hurry are we?”
I: “No. not really”
She: “Then let me look na.”

At this moment, a handsome bloke approaches us. He completely ignores me and says: “Good evening ma’am, are you looking for something…..”
She: “Ummmm actually we are looking for….ummmm….”
I: “We are looking for lipsticks”
My cousin turned to me with a look which said “#%$&%*%&*^*(“
The salesman was puzzled. “Ma’am lipsticks are that side.”
I: “Oh thanks a lot.”
Then I tucked at her arm and we left the appliance section.

They say a scorned woman is worth a thousand foes. And I was to learn that.
We stopped at the luggage section.
Soon there were three salesmen enthusiastically demonstrating the various sized trolley cases to her.

“No no no no…. this is not the right size.”
“That will never fit my jackets without folding them.”
“Who carries a black suitcase?”
“This handle will surely break in no time.”
“This will never get inside the trunk of my car…..”

Soon the three salesmen are panting as if they have been fielding the whole day without any success of catching a cricket ball.

Next victim was the grocery help.
She picked up a chocolate doughnut and demanded:” How many calories are in this?”
The saleswoman looked as if you had asked her the capital of Djbouti.

After repeatedly making mince meat of the utensils’ section, food section and clothes section, we finally arrived at the make up desk.

I: (trying to extend an olive branch) “I think this dark brown shade will look good on you; after all you are a fair lady.”
She: (curtly) “I am wearing a pink saree in the function. Brown with pink, how juvenile.”
I: ?????

She turned to the ladies in the counter (who were Northeastern girls) and said “Show me the pink shades please”.
In moments the counter was filled with all kinds of pink.
“Too light”
“Too dark”
“Not glowing”
“It is not water proof”

Then she turned to me and asked; “Dada, what do you say about this one? Isn’t it better than that one?”
To me, this one and that one and the one previous and the one next, all looked just pink and with every passing minute I could sense that I was not in the pink of my health despite being mobbed by chinks showing pinks (no racial abuse intended). I was about to sink.

I: “Ummmm yes it is nice, you know this pink.” I said with a wink.
She: “No, I don’t think so.”
She went back again to the ladies.

I excused myself and went to the men’s room and splashed my face with some water. The mirror reflection looked like a pale replica of my usual upbeat self.
So, finally I started my journey back to the lipstick counter hoping she has picked “her kind of pink”.

50 feet from the counter, my cousin saw me and started waving and king of jumping up and down.
I was relieved. “Looks like we got the stuff.”
I reached with a genuine broad smile.

She: “You know dada, I picked an amazing shade. This is just going to be fabulous. No one in the marriage function is ever going to come close to me…..”
I: “Wonderful.”
She: “Yes, this one has glitters on it, is water resistant, topped with moisturizing elements and the best part is that it offers sunscreen too.” She showed me the lipstick encased in a black sleek looking case.
I: “Wow that’s great. So what shade of pink is that?”
She: “Oh no, this is not pink. This is magenta. See…” She showed me the color.

By now I had started to get scared. A nagging doubt, a chilling suspicion was creeping up my spine.
I: “But your saree is pink right? Will this match?”
She: “Of course not. Are you crazy?”
I: “Then?”
She: “Now we need to pick a magenta saree.”
I: “*##^%*%&^(&^*&&()***&%%&^$”

“Manasij” vs “Monosheej”

Tintin was one my favorite cartoon characters during my childhood days.
I absolutely loved them and enjoyed flipping through the pictures much before I could actually read the English and comprehend the storylines.

Tintin’s talking dog Snowy was a very loveable character and time and again a situation would arrive when Snowy would have a critical choice to make.
Like the picture above, Snowy gets torn between two choices; one delivering the letter to Tintin and two enjoy nibbling the bone…..

The “good” Snowy (as denoted by the white fairy) and the “bad” Snowy (as denoted by the red devil) would wage a battle till one emerged as winner.
And, just in life, so in the comics, the battle of alter egos was really interesting.

This blog is dedicated to the battle of two identities within me.
“Manasij” is a cosmopolitan youth who believes sky is the limit where as the alter ego “Monosheej” (the real Bengali pronunciation of Manasij) is a more anchored to traditions guy- a little fastidious to accept new things, a little frightened of changes and wants to weigh down his alter ego “Manasij”.

Let the battle begin………….

I was born in Kolkata, brought up in Patna, did my engineering from BITS Mesra Ranchi, worked in Trivandrum, Kolkata, Delhi NCR and Indore. Being born as a bong, it was just a matter of time when I started speaking absolutely hilarious and sometimes outrageous Bengal-ised Hindi, like Mamta Bannerjee and Pranab Mukherjee do all the time.

However, my parents sent me to a Hindi medium school, for they wanted me to speak fluent Hindi and appreciate the linguistic richness of Hindi. I grew up reading Nagarjun, Nirala, Premchand, Dinkar and loved them. We used to get the Hindi literature magazine “Hans” at our home each month and that kept me glued to the new age Hindi writers like Azgar Wazahat, Rajendra Yadav et al.

Side by side, my mom was extremely particular about me learning Bengali. So I read all the contemporary and classical Bengali writers ranging from Ravindranath to Satyajeet Roy. And of course, I was reading Enid Blyton and Agatha Christie even before majority of my schoolmates ever new their names; blame it on the Hindi only medium of teaching and thanks to my mom’s English lessons at home.

This exposure to multiple languages paved way for the appreciation and respect for every language and their identities. Advantage to the cosmopolitan “Manasij”!

My childhood days saw the biggest shame of the free India enacted right in front of my eyes. On Dec 6th 1992, we pulled down the Babri Masjid. My family was politically aligned to the left ideology and therefore naturally I disliked it, as a direct result of home grown political beliefs. I would have long debates with my mates, who would defend the destruction and that would bewilder me. The fact that I was brought up in Patna, a deeply casteist society and equally fanatic and that I was swimming against the current, made me appreciate the “different” religions and their customs. Another advantage to “Manasij”.

I ended up marrying a girl after a long standing affair in Dec 2004. She is neither my caste, nor speaks Bengali. But I know you don’t need a linguistic pretext to connect to someone. Advantage “Manasij” once again.

By now, it seemed as “Manasij” was winning all battles hands down. But then on June 10th 2002, I entered a new phase of my life. I joined the beeline of the worker ants of the Indian Software market.

I had entered the software sector dreaming of creating bold software products hitherto unheard off. Soon, I realized that Indian software services scene is a tragedy than a heroic tale of success. Mediocre mundane tasks dominated the scene with ferocity. For the first 4 years of the journey, I largely surrendered to it. I quickly learned about the charms of going abroad, owning flat, driving cars, craving appraisals, anticipating hikes…… “Monosheej” was getting back on track.

If not for an unanticipated governmental dictum of January 2006, may be “Monosheej” would have crushed “Manasij” under its wheels. In Jan 2006, I did a land deal and “Monosheej” was smiling, for finally “Manasij” had succumbed to the peer pressure of buying a land/house/flat. However, a governmental decree sublimated that victory. A six lane highway was to be constructed where “Monosheej’s” kitchen would have been erected.

I don’t know why, but I was gripped by euphoria about this cancellation of the land allotment. I suddenly felt free and save one botched attempt of buying a flat- never again treaded the path!

By then I had moved to a new company, which made software products. Innovation, striving for inspiring ideas became a way of life. The next 3 years, I did some of my best works in the office and met people who seemed very satisfied. As the CTO of the company said: “the pull towards making more money is real, but not at the cost of sacrificing the innovation”. “Monosheej” was in trouble again!

Then, by a quirk of fate, I happen to pick up a mountain bike one day in Oct 2008. That changed the game for “Monosheej” for ever. Now “Manasij” was travelling all over the mountains on his mountain bike and meeting people who turned a mild infection of “zest for life” to a full blown pandemic. I met people who were travelling round the world, meeting people- seeing places- seeking diverse experiences- building friendships- not worrying about an uncertain future but living the present to its best.

Risks exist in life and surely exist in the future. But, the fear psychosis of risk is more paralyzing. Status quo is seductive and always attempts to capsize the voyage to the unknown. As far as I am concerned, “Monosheej” is dead for all he does is psyche “Manasij” about the uncertain future and pulls the strings to walk the path treaded by almost everyone.

Now, a career break for 3 months does not sound scary at all. It appears as an option to pursue an interest with vigor and return to work with more intensity. Neither does a decision that I will not buy a house puts me under any duress. The fascinations of going onsite are long dead and promotions and appraisals have started to look just as mundane as shaving and shampooing.

Life is a great journey and I am surely a very late starter. The fact that it took me so long to embark on it is itself atrocious but then when you have so many “Monosheejs” around you, it was just an imbibed pathogen.

So who wins the trophy “Manasij” or “Monosheej”?
My answer is simple.
I am “Manasij”.

Racially Fair and Lovely

My sister in law was supposed to be married and we were beginning the process of considering prospective grooms.
I was in charge of creating the “marriageable resume”; in English of course.
I thought I did a good job till the time my father in law (henceforth denoted as FIL) happened to review it.
My FIL went ballistic for the resume had a fatal flaw.
Following is the snapshot of the exchanges we had:

FIL (with a loud chuckle): What have you done? This is pathetic.

I (puzzled): What is wrong with it?

FIL: See you have put all statistics correct, except the complexion one.

I: Why? I have put “fair” as her complexion. (FYI, Rashmi, my sister in law, is quite fair for Indian standards)

FIL: You do not understand. Fair means, she is dusky and make up will make her fair.

I: Then do you want me to change it to “very fair”?

FIL (frustrated) : This is not an English grammar class, very fair and fair means the same. You write “gori” in the complexion.

I (flipping out) : “Gori”?

FIL (as if explaining elementary geometry to middle school kids) : Yes write “gori”. Fair, very fair, milky white these things do not convey the fact that she is fair. It is “gori” that would appeal to the imagination of people better.

I (speechless) : ???????

So, Rashmi’s marriage resume said her complexion was “gori”!
“Gori” when translated to English roughly means “Fair Caucasian female”.
Which means, without the façade of make up and beauty products’ induced effects, Rashmi is as fair as a Caucasian female.
Calling her fairness “fair” would be fairly unfair and would not fare well for the welfare of her marriageable prospects.

Alright, so why everyone seeking marriage alliances is looking for gori-s? Why it is a natural logic that “gora-pan” (fairness) is the panacea of all beauty? Isn’t it ironic that the country with one of the richest reserves of circulating black money, black market, black magic still holds everyone sway with its maniac quest of fairness in complexion? This deep, insightful, intelligent blog would uncover why. So sit back and enjoy the ride and for better understanding keep a tube of “Fair and Lovely” handy.

My thesis is very simple. We, the Indians are definitely a racist community as a whole. Therefore, we react to fairness of the skin in a nakedly racist manner. Whether the fascination of the fair skin is something we imbibed in a century of colonial rule or not is immaterial, what is for sure true that we have this fascination deeply etched into our culture. We are indeed racist.

I know we like to believe that Indians are not racist and we have always fought apartheid with passion, stood behind the nations suffering from racial discrimination, voiced our concern with fervor over ill treatments meted out to native settlers in the hands of imperialistic/colonialist iron fisted rules and blah blah…. I agree, when it comes to taking international stands, we have a reasonably respectable track record. But, when it comes to putting matters straight at home, we look the other way.

For generations, we have treated racism as a celebrated exponent of our culture. “Oh no, we just practice casteism, untouchability, communalism, marginalization, alienation….but when did we become racist?” This is what we say in our defense of not being racist. The truth is we are worse, as a society, than the ones adhering to apartheid. After all the color of the skin is on your face and you can distinguish between a fair skinned and a dark skinned. But the mass scale discrimination we show to each other as part our cultural excess baggage makes us the most racial community in the world. And, we have been quick to learn the apartheid as well.

I was married in Patna. The marriage venue was on a road which was called Gardener Road during the British Raj. It was an Indian free zone with markers erected that warned “Dogs and Indians” not allowed. The years of oppressive British rule left India its scars. Most important was the psychological scarring.

India was ruled by foreign forces in the past as well, but no community left an impact as lasting as the British. The Moghuls and Turks conquered by force and ruled by force. It never made the people have this awed image of Moghuls and Turks because they had nothing much to dazzle the natives except for their superior military might. British on the other hand, not only had that military might but captured the imagination because of their superlative administration, economics, advances in science and technology, education, governance and vision. Result was simple. The colonial India did believe that British were a better race. And then, as a by product of this inferior psyche germinated the fascination for the white skin.

So, today how big is this fascination?
According to latest reports the brand “Fair and Lovely” grossed some 500 crores (100 million USD) last year and the total Indian market for fairness products is nearly three times this value, which is a whopping 1500 crores (300 million USD). So, it is fair to assume that fairness is big buck business. So it is indeed a million dollar question!

The corporate India, which sells these “whitening” products have cashed in to this psychosis. In fact it has at times deliberately flamed it to sell more units and made more money.

So, as long as we are ready to accept “gori” brides only and dream of someday landing in the land of the “goras”, poor SRK will appear for Fair and Handsome and we continue to have this unreasonable fascination. If you ask me, it is not going to end soon as I believe that we are truly a racial community.

Let me end this blog with another real life experience.

One day, I got a call from an ex schoolmate of mine. I am not naming him so let’s call him A. Following is the excerpt of our call:

A: Hey Manasij. I am getting married.

I: Congrats A. That’s great news. So, what does the lucky one do?

A: She works in my office. So it is a love marriage.

I: Great. So where is she from?

A: She is a South Indian.

I: Great. I think you ………

A (cuts me in the middle hastily) : lekin wo kali nahi hai. (She is not dark).

I (speechless) : ??????

I Won't Go Onsite..............

I am a frequenter on the various social networks.
Yesterday, I happened to open my friend list which displays the friend’s name and their location.

Pages after pages were people with locations like Richmond, Akron, London, San Jose, NY, Irving, Sydney, Bonn, Cambridgeshire…….
In fact my resident Indian friends are right now a numeric minority.
There are more friends in Texas than in Tamilnadu!

When I joined TCS after my stint at engineering, the first reaction I got from my mates was “You lucky guy, you will be abroad in no time”.
Yet after almost 8 years of work in the sunshine software sector, my passport has no stamps. I have worked in Trivandrum, Kolkata, Delhi NCR and Indore but never out of India.

The interesting part is, when I say this to any of my colleagues that “I have never been onsite”, I get comments that range from hilarious to outrageous, crazy to disgusting, hurtful to astonished. Here is a small assortment:

“Oh you poor thing, try harder the next time and your manager will surely send you abroad”.
“It is not easy, there are many with no capabilities languishing in India and dreaming about it. You need to put your act together.”
“This is unbelievable….are you telling the truth?”
“Threaten your manager with resignation and ask him/her that only way you stay back is if they send you out.”
Blah…blah….blah…………

Then of course there is the “uncle” kinds; you know the landlords, your fathers’ friends etc - I mean the kind with grey hairs and therefore the bearers of profound wisdom who feel the moral obligation to enthusiastically hard sell their advice to you irrespective of the fact the you have no need for them. They give you even better reactions:
“You know my son ABC, the moment he joined the company XYZ, they realized his potential and he was beseeched to join the workforce at US. I tell you, these multinationals have an eye for talent.” (Which means, you are a complete idiot and such a loser that no one thinks you have any potential).

Yes, I guess I am definitely a loser. Otherwise how do you explain that being in the software business for as long as 8 years, I could never go onsite? Everyone is sure that I regularly have wet dreams of landing at the Heathrow or at JFK with a bag full of rice, dal, papad, pickle, Indian spices, chavanprash etc and a eye full of dreams of getting myself clicked at the Times Square, Niagara Falls, Vegas, Big Ben and put them for public consumption on the social networks.

Social networks are great places for advertising your “oh you know what, I have been there” image with aplomb.
In fact a friend of mine had put a traffic ticket’s scanned image that he had “earned” while driving in Nevada! Beat this for creativity.

At workplace I see so many colleagues squabbling regularly for the coveted onsite posting. Political plottings, cajoling managers, dire threatening, massaging client’s egos, citing amazing and sometimes jaw dropping excuses to earn the prized ticket seems a way of life. Some of the really amazing but true excuses are:

The beseeching the manager kind: “I have a huge loan owing to my sister’s marriage; I need to make some bucks.”
The threatening kind: “I have worked in this project for 2 years; I think it should be me this time or release me.”
The jaw dropping kind: “I am finding marriage proposals turned down for my lack of onsite experience, so……”

So, what is this collective mania of going onsite/abroad which grips almost everyone at our workplaces? Why is it so that going abroad is an “objective” that has to be achieved, rather than it being a natural by product of working in the globalized environs?

I believe, we have this incredible racial notion of considering the fair skinned world a better place which may have been implanted generations before as a result of the indelible hangover of colonial slavery and later on passed on to us. That’s why I see people eager to travel to US, Europe and Australia (all fair skinned worlds) whereas very little interest is available in travelling to say Brazil (which is far ahead of India but of course not as much as say Belgium). Trips to Africa are certainly humiliating, akin to a proud bellicose Delhite’s transfer to Chennai.

This inferiority is so deeply ingrained that when I see the pics posted by many of my friends, I always find them with the known circle of Indian friends. Despite being in a macrocosm of cosmopolitan plurality very few of us seem to inculcate the same in their lifestyle. After all, the must achieve “objective” was to land in the white skinned land, not to mix with them or the least adopt the cosmopolitan outlook.

Yes, I have been a loser; been not clever enough that any management would think that without me functioning from the West the company would just fall apart; been a non-cosmopolitan desi who is too scared to go off limits; and now a sure candidate to be labeled a racist after having written such a blog, but whatever may I seem, I simply don’t want to go onsite.

Let’s end this blog with another real life case. I was getting a transfer from TCS Kolkata to TCS Delhi (which is a big deal mind you, because of the geopolitics). A colleague of mine from TCS Kolkata was onsite. His father met me and gave me an authentic Bengali K C Paul umbrella (FYI, generations in Bengal have shielded themselves from rain using K C Paul’s legendary umbrella) and a sealed tiffin box.
I was supposed to give it to a guy in Delhi who was also supposed to fly to the same location where my friend was. I could never understand the rationale of shipping an umbrella to London (a city where rains are everyday phenomenon) but then I thought may be it was his favorite brand that was not available there. But, guess what was shipped in the sealed tiffin box? His favorite brand of underwear!

No Sports Please….We are Indians!

Let’s begin with a local proverb from my motherland, Bihar: “Padhoge-likhoge to banoge nawab, kheloge-kudoge to banoge kharab”….. (Study and become the respected best, but play if you want to waste).

The reason why I chose this as my opening line for this blog was to argue that we, the Indians, are generally apathetic towards sports. Any average Indian would struggle to name ten international sports’ names, let alone the names of sportspersons. Our International sporting identity hinges only on cricket, a sport only a handful nations play and which was until last week an unrecognized sports by the IOC (International Olympic Committee). So, technically speaking, cricket and “Chor-Sipahi” (thief and the police running game), were of the same league in IOC’s reckoning! Bottom-line, we are ignorant of the term called International sports. So much so, that the Vancouver Winter Olympics, which is happening right now, finds no place in newspapers.

The question is how and where this ignorance set in and then hardened into a total apathy towards sports? The answer, to my belief, lies not in our years’ of lackluster display on the field but in our education system.

I did my schooling from a respected institute run by the Jesuit missionaries of charity. It had a huge library, a great computer facility, big colonial styled class rooms and two huge playing fields. It also had a leased facility in another sports ground just a stone throw away. We had all the different balls (no pun intended) like the football, volleyball, basket ball, the cricket ball (of course) and also we had a big swimming pool. So, technically speaking, the school was well equipped to nurture sporting ambitions.

However, I could never understand, that despite all the facilities and equipments why we had just one 40 minute “period” of sports in the entire week’s schedule. Mind you there were 5 days of schooling, each day divided in 8 periods of 40 minutes each. There was a games teacher, who was all too interested in queuing up kids and teaching some mindless calisthenics and yoga. And during the rainy seasons, it would inevitably rain the day we had the sports period. Seemed like the heavens were also against our sports period.

Finally, by the time I went to high school (Standard 9 and 10) it was decreed that we had too much knowledge to acquire for the upcoming board examinations and it would be in the best interest of the students to sacrifice the sports period. That was the end of sports for many of my friends.

Yes, there was the legendary “Sports Day” when suddenly four houses would spring back to life after almost a year’s hibernation and compete in some 20 odd disciplines with one house emerging the victor. But then by that time, the unsuspecting hapless kids, who had no reason to doubt the education system, were made to believe that all that the sports may get you is a medal and nothing else. I think the only better way this message could have been hammered home would have been: if our principal would have thundered in the daily assembly everyday that “Sports is injurious to career building” and had this profound wisdom goldplated and kept at a prominent place so that all can see it and assimilate it.

After school, came college where an even stiffer climb to engineering/medical/accounting/management was awaiting and at that time indulging in sports suddenly seemed like a sin. Every minute was to be spent in the pursuit of the career. We were comprehensively browbeaten to believe about the negative impact of Sports in our prospective career. Sports would not figure in the top ten of the list of priorities. One evening of after exam cricket was the only dosage of sports available.

Then I entered the work-life and all of sudden sports were permanently out of life. I do not blame the employers for the lack of sporting interest and the overall miserable fitness level of young Indians let alone the pathetic showing of team spirit and sportsmanship, so rampant in the workplaces. I blame it on our education system which believes the Hindi proverb at the beginning of this write up.

Our educations system considers each individual as an island. You plant books, you grow marks. You reap degrees, you get jobs. There is no place for sports. Since the formative childhood days never receive a dosage of sports, we happily ignore them as if they never existed and pursue the career with great zeal. However, does this make us great professionals?

At workplaces, I see people with no concept of team spirit, a pivotal quality required to produce great results. Every office is awash with scenarios elucidating utter lack of sportsmanship in conflict scenarios. Then again, you can add the un-sportsmanlike behavior of politicizing the workplace and all the dark arts of gaming wizardry which we despise, yet carry out and even encourage. And lastly, add the misplaced concept of weighing competition ahead of co-operation.

Could this be prevented? I like to believe, it can be.

You don’t need to have a Harvard MBA to understand that a game of football is won by the team with best on field skill and team spirit. The objective of sports is to rely on your partners and help them so that all of you reach the common goal of victory. Team first, is a must have quality should you need to win. High performance teams co-operate more than compete within its own boundaries. Weaving sports tightly in the fabric of education imparts this valuable lesson which people badly need to carve out a meaningful and happy work life with colleagues.

Sports teach a great concept of being fair. Not many instances are available where prolonged sporting success is achieved compromising the fairness. Later on, this helps a great deal in respecting others’ qualities at workplace and also by recognizing solicitations of unfair nature and swiftly dousing them.

Sports are a great teacher of pursuit of excellence. A singles tennis player or a boxer has to train extremely hard to get to a level of repute. The road to progress is solitary but requires a lot of focus and determination let alone the dedication.

Lastly, sports teach the most important lesson of respecting others. All sportspersons reach a pinnacle and then the inevitable physical decay makes way for a new champion. You learn the most important art of losing yet not losing it all. As a sportsman, you take to this transition with grace and not like a greedy politician who tries to stick to the power by indulging in unfair means. Extrapolate it to workplace and you will respect your juniors and would credit them and believe them and let them grow.

If, we the Indians, had more sports in our curriculum and they were pursued with a little more earnestness or with as much as seriousness as trigonometry was pursued with, I would put my money in seeing a better generation of workers and professionals. The places to work would probably be a tad fairer and of course I would not see so many unfit, obese and physically weak individuals in their twenties and thirties.

So, tomorrow I am off riding my mountain bike for my daily 40 km ride and hope I see a change in the attitude of my in-laws who are almost sure that I have lost my mind, for no real reason exists which explains to them why would their son in law wants to cycle the whole Himalayas when one can as well drive. However, one small problem persists, my in laws are Indians and we do not believe in sports as a way of life. No sports please, we are Indians!

The “I" of the 3 Idiots

It was August 1988 when the whole of North India was jolted by a severe earthquake. I remember being woken up by the severe tremors in the middle of the night. I was a kid studying in standard 3 and it was my first experience of this intriguing natural phenomenon.

I was a curious kid, the kind who had a lot of questions and wanted answers for all. So, when my dad explained me the tectonic origins of the killer quakes, it was fascinating. I remember I was so excited to have gotten a reason for the last night’s nightmare that I blurted the plate tectonic stuff in the science class the next day.

What ensued was a complete downer. I was ridiculed and laughed upon not only by my classmates but also by my science teacher. The lesson was loud and clear; in standard 3, you are not taught about plate tectonics, so don’t try to be a smart jackass.

Fast forward to 1993. I was in standard 8 now and a few strands of moustaches were visible on my face. As a student, I was always the last minute kind; the one who would guess his way around as I never had enough time to complete the entire syllabus. So, I guessed that the Pie Charts were not important and went into the examination hall leaving it aside. And guess what, there was a 15 marks’ numerical staring at me in the question paper.

I finished my other questions and had some time in my hand. So it got me thinking. All I knew was: a Pie Chart meant representing the data in a circle, period. I had to represent a household budget of Rs. 250 in rent, 500 in groceries and 250 in miscellaneous expenses, a grand total of Rs. 1000 in a circle. The traditional style is to figure out the angles and draw them. So, the rent would subtend 250/1000 * 360 = 90 degrees and so on for others. Then you draw the angles and shade the regions and pocket the 15 marks! The problem was I did not know this.

So, instead I drew a circle with 7 cm radius. This meant that the circle’s perimeter was 2*pi*7 = 44 cm. So, I argued that these 1000 rupees were distributed in 44 cm. Then I used unitary method to figure out that the rent would need to cover 250/1000 * 44 = 11 cm and so on for others. I used the string supplied to us by the school to tie the answer sheets to measure the 11 cm on the circle’s perimeter and shaded them. Once I finished I felt like a crossbreed of Newton and Einstein. After all I had solved the problem without reading it in the book!

However, the day the answer sheets were distributed, I was shocked. I got a ZERO for my indigenous solution. By that time, I had learnt the traditional solution and also I knew my solution was absolutely correct. But, Mr. Sudhir Seraphim, our mathematics teacher gave me a zero, a dismissive look and the most clinching argument. “This solution is not in the book”. Lesson was again loud and clear: what is not in the book is a matter of a crook.

By now you may be having a smile on your face and the thought “The bast**d wants to pose as the Rancho of the 3 Idiots”. Well, I confess that my intention of writing this piece is to tell you that I do identify myself with one character of the movie 3 Idiots. But that is surely not of Aamir Khan’s Rancho.

No, I don’t have even a single patent in my name, leave aside Rancho’s 400. I do not have a high altitude laboratory in Ladakh though I have been there many times for tourism/trekking/cycling. I am neither like Chatur, though I would love to own his Lamborghini. I am not the Sharman Joshi/Virus/Madhavan… blah blah…. The character I identify with is Joy Fernandez, the kid who tried to invent the flying contraption with camera and then later on committed suicide. The only difference is I am still alive. So, why do I identify with Joy Fernandez? It is because I completely agree with his last words: I QUIT.

It is a good thing to quit at many places. Especially it is better to call it quits in the various race conditions that life subjects us to. When many of my friends were burning midnight oil to crack the IIT entrance chasing the dream of getting into the most premier engineering college, I was busy falling in love and called quits to the race. Result was expected. I did not get an engineering degree from IITs but from BITS Mesra, but ended up marrying my long time girlfriend. Would an IIT degree be more satisfying than spending the life with the woman you just could not be without, is for you to decide.

In my engineering college, the first mid-semester marks put me into the top 10 of my college. But when most of us were gearing for a long 4 year race, mine had ended. I spent my time as the “last minute kid” and making friends and polishing my hobbies and by sheer dumb luck passed out of my batch with 3^rd rank.

The engineering college proved to be just the tip of the iceberg of the many races that were to surface in the work life. There were races all around me. Race to get to the onsite/abroad. Race to own a flat. Race to drive the suave cars. Race to get the best appraisal. Race to become successful, a big corporate honcho or something like that. Silently your value was measured by the strangest numbers, like the square footage of your flat, the cubic capacity of your car, number of stamps on your passport, your CTC……. I have no medallions for any of these races.

In standard 3, a few months before the quake, our school curriculum added computers and quickly I realized I was good at it. By the time I had got a ZERO for my indigenous solution of pie chart, I had made up my mind to be a computer engineer and that’s what I am today. I like my job and that’s all I ever want from it; the fun at work. So, I silently slipped into the Olympics’ motto of “participation is more important than winning.” Races are not my cup of tea. Till date the only sports medal that I have won are for high jump/table tennis, not for races. I have quit them.

Now, this piece may well seem like a resignation of a loser trying to save his face from the damning indignation of defeats. Or it may seem like the case of the sour grapes. Well, I can’t help if it seems that way, but I guess all I have understood so far is that the life seems like an algorithm. You can forever be a part of the tailor made ones or you can break free and chart your own path. I guess I am just breaking free. I rate a cycling trip to Ladakh higher than a flat’s EMI. A half marathon run more rewarding than an eternity of servitude in dire bid for a promotion to the cabin in the corner of the office.

Life is not a spectator sports. But it is not a desperate race either. Before I commit to any race, any uneven comparisons, I would call it quits as I guess any gains elicited out of pawning the quality of life is a bad business deal.

I guess, I have said what I wanted to say. So, what do I do now? Simple, I quit!