My clients sometimes ask: Our sales have dropped. What do we do?
I tell them: Go and sell.
This gets them edgy. They don’t know what to say. They think I’m being sarcastic. And, condescending. But, I’m not. I’m dead serious.
What do you do when you’re hungry? You look for food. If you don’t have it nearby, you find a way to get it. Or, you starve. It’s as simple as that.
People are motivated by the basic things, the basic emotions, in life. It’s these things, and emotions, which force us to challenge ourselves, take risks, innovate, adapt, and grow. It’s as true in business as it is in a personal context.
Necessity is the mother of invention. A great motivator. This fact has never changed.
29 April 2007
27 April 2007
Travelling through Bandipur
Evening sky in forest
Vanishing tiger
Chital 
Rogue elephant
Elephant mother with baby 26 April 2007
As magically as they appeared, they vanished
We were going to drive through Bandipur National Park, on our return to Calicut from Mysore. And, I had been told to lookout for elephants as we were expected to encounter them on the way. I had disbelieved this, mentioning that I had not seen any on my way to Bangalore a couple of days before. But, I was assured that, this evening (that was yesterday), our timing was perfect for an elephant encounter.
So we drove at a lazy pace, my two business colleagues and I. The sun was setting just as lazily and we needed to kill a few moments before getting inside the forest as it grew dark. I kept a constant eye on the sky, taking one or two pot shots above the trees with my mobilephone camera, chuckling to myself at the disappointing results. My Nokia mobilephone camera was no good in low light.
Then suddenly it happened. A chital appeared on the left of our winding road, as if to cross it, and upon seeing or sensing our car, simply turned and vanished. It was like magic. We stopped and exclaimed in unison, “Did you see that?” But only in vain. The chital was nowhere to be seen. Nevertheless, we became alert, and I was assured again that this was a lucky evening. So, we proceeded in a slow drive, windows wound down for a better view.
A few kilometers ahead the magic happened once more. This time, it was the sight of a lifetime. Twenty feet away, a mighty tiger stood majestically on our left, its front legs resting on a raised portion of the road, observing, its yellow striped coat looking pale like a ghost’s. We stopped immediately and tried to reverse the car in order to take a photograph. Perhaps that was a mistake. Sensing a disturbance, the tiger turned and walked off, just like the chital, vanishing into the forest in seconds.
A colleague of mine, armed with a SONY cybershot, did manage to take a photo, but the result is not a true representation of the excitement we felt at that moment. Our pulse was racing and we needed a moment to capture it all in. It took us a while for the moment to sink in and we sat in the car for a few minutes without speaking a word.
The next part of the journey was exciting, though none of us could get over sighting the tiger. We saw several chitals and many elephants (so, the prophesy came true, after all!), most of which remained hidden in the dark of the forest. Or, as magically as they appeared, they vanished again. But, on one occasion, a mother elephant and her baby crossed the highway before us, giving us ample time to enjoy the wondrous view.
So we drove at a lazy pace, my two business colleagues and I. The sun was setting just as lazily and we needed to kill a few moments before getting inside the forest as it grew dark. I kept a constant eye on the sky, taking one or two pot shots above the trees with my mobilephone camera, chuckling to myself at the disappointing results. My Nokia mobilephone camera was no good in low light.
Then suddenly it happened. A chital appeared on the left of our winding road, as if to cross it, and upon seeing or sensing our car, simply turned and vanished. It was like magic. We stopped and exclaimed in unison, “Did you see that?” But only in vain. The chital was nowhere to be seen. Nevertheless, we became alert, and I was assured again that this was a lucky evening. So, we proceeded in a slow drive, windows wound down for a better view.
A few kilometers ahead the magic happened once more. This time, it was the sight of a lifetime. Twenty feet away, a mighty tiger stood majestically on our left, its front legs resting on a raised portion of the road, observing, its yellow striped coat looking pale like a ghost’s. We stopped immediately and tried to reverse the car in order to take a photograph. Perhaps that was a mistake. Sensing a disturbance, the tiger turned and walked off, just like the chital, vanishing into the forest in seconds.
A colleague of mine, armed with a SONY cybershot, did manage to take a photo, but the result is not a true representation of the excitement we felt at that moment. Our pulse was racing and we needed a moment to capture it all in. It took us a while for the moment to sink in and we sat in the car for a few minutes without speaking a word.
The next part of the journey was exciting, though none of us could get over sighting the tiger. We saw several chitals and many elephants (so, the prophesy came true, after all!), most of which remained hidden in the dark of the forest. Or, as magically as they appeared, they vanished again. But, on one occasion, a mother elephant and her baby crossed the highway before us, giving us ample time to enjoy the wondrous view.
22 April 2007
Domestic masculinity
Shoes lined up against the wall, in pairs, equally spaced. A shirt on a chair, creased like a sunburnt man, sleeves still rolled up in indifference. Books on the coffee table, pushed to one side. Books on the dining table, magazines and mobilephones, wristwatch and wallet, and a handkerchief neatly folded with a toothpick laid upon it diagonally.
Pots and pans washed and stacked bottoms-up. A coffee mug languishing in the wash basin. Plates and cutlery lined up on display. Bottles and jars on shelves, half empty, half full. Packaged food, unopened, flaunting colourful brands. The refrigerator gurgling quietly in a corner. The gas stove still ticking from its recent exploits.
Painting on the wall, staring at the uncovered bed. The pillow vulnerable, like an open book. Ironed shirts in a multicoloured stack, next to the folded blanket, left there from a week before. The TV, dead to the world, balancing the remote on its head. A duffel bag at its feet, unzipped but unpacked, its contents hidden from view.
The toilet seat up. Soap, shaving foam and razor, untouched in their containers. Hand-towel draped on cool stainless steel, biding time.
Pots and pans washed and stacked bottoms-up. A coffee mug languishing in the wash basin. Plates and cutlery lined up on display. Bottles and jars on shelves, half empty, half full. Packaged food, unopened, flaunting colourful brands. The refrigerator gurgling quietly in a corner. The gas stove still ticking from its recent exploits.
Painting on the wall, staring at the uncovered bed. The pillow vulnerable, like an open book. Ironed shirts in a multicoloured stack, next to the folded blanket, left there from a week before. The TV, dead to the world, balancing the remote on its head. A duffel bag at its feet, unzipped but unpacked, its contents hidden from view.
The toilet seat up. Soap, shaving foam and razor, untouched in their containers. Hand-towel draped on cool stainless steel, biding time.
20 April 2007
Efficiency and ethics
This evening, while concluding the 2-day celebration of Akshaya Trithiya (according to Hindus, the time of the year when the Sun and the Moon are most radiant), my client fumbled over a small speech to a gathering of our office staff. He didn’t seem very comfortable in making speeches.
We had done well, twice as well as last year, and my client congratulated everyone, welcoming the efficiency with which our team had laboured and come out successful. But, he reminded us, no business can be successful in the long run without ethics. He said, ‘efficiency and ethics’ is what we must all strive for.
It was a short speech. I was quite impressed.
We had done well, twice as well as last year, and my client congratulated everyone, welcoming the efficiency with which our team had laboured and come out successful. But, he reminded us, no business can be successful in the long run without ethics. He said, ‘efficiency and ethics’ is what we must all strive for.
It was a short speech. I was quite impressed.
19 April 2007
The poverty of language
Whenever I receive emails, or read comments on various websites, written in abbreviated and truncated English language, a gala of misspelled words forming sentences without punctuation, I am fairly certain the text is written by an Indian below 25 years of age.
That makes me wonder at the poverty of language in India’s youth today. Why do they have a disregard for English spelling, grammar, punctuation and usage? Why is there a lack of emotional depth and intelligence in their writing in English? Why do they have such contempt for their readers?
I’m not critical of the youth of my country per se, but bad writing in English bothers me. When I read perfectly good English written by young men and women from other countries, I wonder what makes India’s youth so special that they can blatantly overthrow the courtesies of good English and good communication.
Are we, as elders, not teaching them well?
That makes me wonder at the poverty of language in India’s youth today. Why do they have a disregard for English spelling, grammar, punctuation and usage? Why is there a lack of emotional depth and intelligence in their writing in English? Why do they have such contempt for their readers?
I’m not critical of the youth of my country per se, but bad writing in English bothers me. When I read perfectly good English written by young men and women from other countries, I wonder what makes India’s youth so special that they can blatantly overthrow the courtesies of good English and good communication.
Are we, as elders, not teaching them well?
17 April 2007
Kurt Vonnegut
“Mr. Vonnegut used humor to tackle the basic questions of human existence: Why are we in this world? Is there a presiding figure to make sense of all this, a god who in the end, despite making people suffer, wishes them well?”
– Dinitia Smith writing on Kurt Vonnegut in the New York Times, 11 April 2007. Kurt Vonnegut died on 11 April 2007 at the age of 84.
– Dinitia Smith writing on Kurt Vonnegut in the New York Times, 11 April 2007. Kurt Vonnegut died on 11 April 2007 at the age of 84.
15 April 2007
A provincial way of doing business
My client here in Calicut is a jeweller – a traditional Kerala gold jeweller with a heritage that can be traced back to 1890. They are well-known in Calicut and in its neighbouring towns. So much so that, no matter where I am in the city, I just get into an auto-rickshaw and mention the jewellery store’s name, and I’m taken there without hesitation. The store and the jeweller’s family name are landmarks here.
Mind you, they are not the richest people here. Nor is their store or their business in gold jewellery the largest in Calicut. In fact, compared to the grandeur of some of the other jewellery stores in the city, my client is modest. But what makes my client special is their way of doing business.
For instance, when you enter my client’s store, you’ll find a large number of women among the staff members. You’ll find them attired in traditional Kerala sarees, perhaps flowers in their hair, attending to you in the soft courteous style of old India. Yet, the store is equipped with all the facilities and furnishings of a modern store. When I first experienced this, I was mildly surprised.
I was the big-city marketing professional working with leading Indian and international brands, many of which were in the hospitality and service industries. I believed these leading brands and the organisations which marketed them were the role models. They set the standards across India… and, some, internationally. They were the perfect local-global combine that management gurus were talking about. I believed, besides these brands, everything else was provincial.
My client’s business in Calicut, and their stores in the neighbouring towns, opened my eyes to a new world of marketing. They had managed to remain traditional, and yet incorporate modern values and systems in their business. These included providing equal employment opportunities for both genders, nurturing a culture of honesty and humility, inspiring a passion for creativity, preserving tradition and heritage, and giving back to society (social service through a temple and a trust) some of the learning and profits from their business. These were as important to my client’s business as air-conditioned showrooms, electronic doors, information technology and modern manufacturing.
My client doesn’t make a big fuss over this like large big-city corporations do. They know what their brand stands for. For many years, they have practised preserving local traditions while adopting global business practices. They believe it is important to preserve one’s tradition and dignity, no matter how important it is to grow and make profits in business. If that means a provincial way of doing business, then so be it.
Mind you, they are not the richest people here. Nor is their store or their business in gold jewellery the largest in Calicut. In fact, compared to the grandeur of some of the other jewellery stores in the city, my client is modest. But what makes my client special is their way of doing business.
For instance, when you enter my client’s store, you’ll find a large number of women among the staff members. You’ll find them attired in traditional Kerala sarees, perhaps flowers in their hair, attending to you in the soft courteous style of old India. Yet, the store is equipped with all the facilities and furnishings of a modern store. When I first experienced this, I was mildly surprised.
I was the big-city marketing professional working with leading Indian and international brands, many of which were in the hospitality and service industries. I believed these leading brands and the organisations which marketed them were the role models. They set the standards across India… and, some, internationally. They were the perfect local-global combine that management gurus were talking about. I believed, besides these brands, everything else was provincial.
My client’s business in Calicut, and their stores in the neighbouring towns, opened my eyes to a new world of marketing. They had managed to remain traditional, and yet incorporate modern values and systems in their business. These included providing equal employment opportunities for both genders, nurturing a culture of honesty and humility, inspiring a passion for creativity, preserving tradition and heritage, and giving back to society (social service through a temple and a trust) some of the learning and profits from their business. These were as important to my client’s business as air-conditioned showrooms, electronic doors, information technology and modern manufacturing.
My client doesn’t make a big fuss over this like large big-city corporations do. They know what their brand stands for. For many years, they have practised preserving local traditions while adopting global business practices. They believe it is important to preserve one’s tradition and dignity, no matter how important it is to grow and make profits in business. If that means a provincial way of doing business, then so be it.
13 April 2007
Anger
Anger was my motivation. Everything I did, I did out of anger. I did them with such intensity that deep dark emotions radiated from my mind and enveloped everything around me in a cloud of shadows. Dark grey masses of absolute nothing, they captured and consumed everything that came in their path. Until everything and everyone was devoured… or withdrew out of fear, frustration, disgust. Leaving me in my own reclusive world.
There was peace for a while. Soon it, too, was preyed upon by my emotions.
There was peace for a while. Soon it, too, was preyed upon by my emotions.
12 April 2007
Entertainment
Do we have to watch reality TV shows? Aren’t our lives ordinary enough and miserable enough? Aren’t our lives sentimental enough and bitter enough? Do we have to fuel and construct narratives of mock heroes and heroines, and watch them enact their miseries in full view of the world? And seek entertainment from it?
10 April 2007
Helpless
In the face of the larger order of things, we are helpless. This helplessness, though faced by many, sometimes collectively, is something personal. Sometimes we feel it is deeply heart-wrenchingly personal. We cannot express it, although we understand it privately.
07 April 2007
Scraps
Yesterday, I visited the site of the day before’s blast behind my client’s office. Not much is left of the buildings there; just scraps.
At noon they dug out the seventh body. He was one of the workers buried in the rubble.
Later, I checked on my colleagues who were injured by the blast and are still at the hospital: a peon and a security guard. They were doing well and being looked after. Their family members were happy to see a senior person come and visit them. They huddled to one side, making room for me. I couldn’t express myself well.
On the way back to work (a makeshift office in a hotel room) I thought: If I could speak Malayalam I could have done a better job of expressing myself. Then again, maybe not.
Is it always the poor and down-the-line people who are hurt the most?
At noon they dug out the seventh body. He was one of the workers buried in the rubble.
Later, I checked on my colleagues who were injured by the blast and are still at the hospital: a peon and a security guard. They were doing well and being looked after. Their family members were happy to see a senior person come and visit them. They huddled to one side, making room for me. I couldn’t express myself well.
On the way back to work (a makeshift office in a hotel room) I thought: If I could speak Malayalam I could have done a better job of expressing myself. Then again, maybe not.
Is it always the poor and down-the-line people who are hurt the most?
05 April 2007
The spice of life, with God’s blessing
Ever since I arrived here in Calicut, I’ve been trying out the local cuisine, enjoying every possible item of Kerala’s spicy mouth-watering recipes. After two months, as the spiciness of the recipes started creating havoc with my digestive system, the novelty of my experiments with Kerala’s cuisine started to wear off. I even complained on a couple of occasions about how dangerous it is to live continuously on such spicy food.
Last night, however, while dining out with a business associate, I relented and indulged in a previously-untried recipe of tamarind fish. Although delicious, it was so spicy that I imagined the Devil himself had cooked it for me. Soon, my mouth was on fire and I had to douse it quickly with a chilled strawberry milk shake. All through the night, my mouth and my stomach simmered, and I had a foreboding of what would happen in the morning.
I woke up this morning with a heavy head and a queasy feeling in my stomach. I expected it wasn’t going to be a good day for me. Everything was happening in slow motion and I decided to go to work – to my client’s office – an hour later. I reasoned, I’ve always been on time, at 10 a.m., even earlier, so one day’s aberration of reaching office late wouldn’t hurt anyone.
On the way, I encountered a lot of traffic. In some places the roads were blocked off, with masses of people gathered in groups or walking aimlessly. There was traffic police everywhere. Something was wrong, but, since I was unable to speak the local language, I decided to carry on unperturbed. Kerala being a Communist State with frequent strikes and political rallies, I didn’t give the situation another thought. I continued, along with thousands of others, on my journey to work.
After a few detours, I decided to get off my auto-rickshaw and walk down to my client’s office. As I approached my destination, I found more people, more police and thick black smoke billowing from a source right behind my client’s office. When I reached the office building, I found total pandemonium. There were people, police, fire engines and ambulances. Something was very wrong. I had a bad feeling that I had arrived at the site of some disaster.
In the crowd, an office colleague who sits two desks away from me, spotted me and came forward. He was in a disheveled state, sweat pouring from his body. He narrated what had happened, shaking off tiny pieces of glass from his hair and neck: At 10 a.m., a firecracker warehouse behind our office building had caught fire and exploded in every direction, destroying everything near it. Several people had died. No one knew how many. Part of our office building had been destroyed, injuring many of our colleagues. A few were in hospital. By God’s blessing, he said, he had been spared.
I stood there like an idiot, listening.
Last night, however, while dining out with a business associate, I relented and indulged in a previously-untried recipe of tamarind fish. Although delicious, it was so spicy that I imagined the Devil himself had cooked it for me. Soon, my mouth was on fire and I had to douse it quickly with a chilled strawberry milk shake. All through the night, my mouth and my stomach simmered, and I had a foreboding of what would happen in the morning.
I woke up this morning with a heavy head and a queasy feeling in my stomach. I expected it wasn’t going to be a good day for me. Everything was happening in slow motion and I decided to go to work – to my client’s office – an hour later. I reasoned, I’ve always been on time, at 10 a.m., even earlier, so one day’s aberration of reaching office late wouldn’t hurt anyone.
On the way, I encountered a lot of traffic. In some places the roads were blocked off, with masses of people gathered in groups or walking aimlessly. There was traffic police everywhere. Something was wrong, but, since I was unable to speak the local language, I decided to carry on unperturbed. Kerala being a Communist State with frequent strikes and political rallies, I didn’t give the situation another thought. I continued, along with thousands of others, on my journey to work.
After a few detours, I decided to get off my auto-rickshaw and walk down to my client’s office. As I approached my destination, I found more people, more police and thick black smoke billowing from a source right behind my client’s office. When I reached the office building, I found total pandemonium. There were people, police, fire engines and ambulances. Something was very wrong. I had a bad feeling that I had arrived at the site of some disaster.
In the crowd, an office colleague who sits two desks away from me, spotted me and came forward. He was in a disheveled state, sweat pouring from his body. He narrated what had happened, shaking off tiny pieces of glass from his hair and neck: At 10 a.m., a firecracker warehouse behind our office building had caught fire and exploded in every direction, destroying everything near it. Several people had died. No one knew how many. Part of our office building had been destroyed, injuring many of our colleagues. A few were in hospital. By God’s blessing, he said, he had been spared.
I stood there like an idiot, listening.
04 April 2007
Paranoia, a personal episode
Have you noticed how we get paranoid over small things? Believe me, we do. In my case, it happened last night.
Upon returning home from work around 9:30 pm, I found the windows of my bedroom open and the curtains drawn out. Since that wasn’t how I had left them in the morning when I had gone to work, I was alarmed. More so, because, the way my flat is constructed, anyone can reach in from the window and open the latch to the door connecting my bedroom to the verandah. Then, it’s ‘open sesame’. It’s a perfect entry/getaway for thieves.
I checked to see if anything of value was missing. Nothing was. So, I closed the windows and drew the curtains. As a precaution, in order to avoid future mishaps, I called on my neighbour across the landing to inform him of the situation. He’s also the president of the building society – and overseeing the painting of the building which is currently in process – and the only person with whom I’ve interacted so far in the one-and-a-half months that I’ve been here.
Where I expected a sympathetic ear, I got an earful. When I narrated my story of the open window, and my alarm, he asked me to show him what had happened. I explained that I couldn’t since I had already closed the window and drawn the curtains. He got irritated, saying, “You can’t even show me what had happened. How do you expect me to respond?”
I took another tack. I said I suspected the painters who were painting the building may have done it. That they shouldn’t go around opening windows of people’s homes without seeking the homeowner’s permission first.
This got the gentleman’s goat. He started shouting that “the painters probably opened the windows to get a foothold while painting. Since nothing was missing from your flat, there’s nothing wrong in that.” I insisted, suggesting that informing me and taking my permission was imperative. Since I did not give permission, the painters had no right to open the windows to my flat.
This made him angry. He started shouting,
1. “Ok, we’ll stop the painting of the building because of you.”
2. “Let the painters fall down and die.”
3. “You’ve just been here for a few months. We’ve waited 10 years for this building to be painted and now you’re stopping it.”
By this time, all the neighbours were listening in. It was getting late and embarrassing. I told him that he was needlessly jumping to extreme conclusions. I only wanted him to caution the painters since he was supervising their work. That I was not to be held responsible for the building not being painted for 10 years. To which he responded, “So, it’s my fault. You’re accusing me of not supervising the painters properly.”
Before I could answer, he walked off in a huff, only to return with another gentleman, who turned out to be the secretary of the building society. The second gentleman came with his wife and called up my landlord. My landlord, who happens to be my client as well, thankfully, laughed it off. He told me to cool off and get a good night’s rest. That, tomorrow it’ll be a forgotten matter. That, this was too small an issue to get paranoid about. I guess he was right.
Upon returning home from work around 9:30 pm, I found the windows of my bedroom open and the curtains drawn out. Since that wasn’t how I had left them in the morning when I had gone to work, I was alarmed. More so, because, the way my flat is constructed, anyone can reach in from the window and open the latch to the door connecting my bedroom to the verandah. Then, it’s ‘open sesame’. It’s a perfect entry/getaway for thieves.
I checked to see if anything of value was missing. Nothing was. So, I closed the windows and drew the curtains. As a precaution, in order to avoid future mishaps, I called on my neighbour across the landing to inform him of the situation. He’s also the president of the building society – and overseeing the painting of the building which is currently in process – and the only person with whom I’ve interacted so far in the one-and-a-half months that I’ve been here.
Where I expected a sympathetic ear, I got an earful. When I narrated my story of the open window, and my alarm, he asked me to show him what had happened. I explained that I couldn’t since I had already closed the window and drawn the curtains. He got irritated, saying, “You can’t even show me what had happened. How do you expect me to respond?”
I took another tack. I said I suspected the painters who were painting the building may have done it. That they shouldn’t go around opening windows of people’s homes without seeking the homeowner’s permission first.
This got the gentleman’s goat. He started shouting that “the painters probably opened the windows to get a foothold while painting. Since nothing was missing from your flat, there’s nothing wrong in that.” I insisted, suggesting that informing me and taking my permission was imperative. Since I did not give permission, the painters had no right to open the windows to my flat.
This made him angry. He started shouting,
1. “Ok, we’ll stop the painting of the building because of you.”
2. “Let the painters fall down and die.”
3. “You’ve just been here for a few months. We’ve waited 10 years for this building to be painted and now you’re stopping it.”
By this time, all the neighbours were listening in. It was getting late and embarrassing. I told him that he was needlessly jumping to extreme conclusions. I only wanted him to caution the painters since he was supervising their work. That I was not to be held responsible for the building not being painted for 10 years. To which he responded, “So, it’s my fault. You’re accusing me of not supervising the painters properly.”
Before I could answer, he walked off in a huff, only to return with another gentleman, who turned out to be the secretary of the building society. The second gentleman came with his wife and called up my landlord. My landlord, who happens to be my client as well, thankfully, laughed it off. He told me to cool off and get a good night’s rest. That, tomorrow it’ll be a forgotten matter. That, this was too small an issue to get paranoid about. I guess he was right.
02 April 2007
Myth
Athenian statesman and poet Solon – also known as one of the Seven Wise Men of Greece – once said, “Myth is not about something that never happened. It is about something that happens over and over again.”
01 April 2007
Nomad
I’ve been a nomad, an expatriate of my own creation, a restless soul, unsettled, unable to stay in one place for long. Change has been my shadow, my companion. And yet, I’ve not been a good friend to it. Some strange twist of fate has intervened, and I’ve been unfaithful.
I’ve desired a settled life, craved for it at times, especially when I’ve been in love with a beautiful woman (a few times that has been, not very many), wanting to put down my roots, didn’t matter where, build a homestead rather than wander all over. But a twist of fate has changed that too.
I’ve been impulsive, living life on immediate decisions, no contingency plan, not caring for repercussions. It has been an adventure, defying status quo, free-wheeling to new (and sometimes unknown) destinations, intoxicating. I’ve lived my life as an explorer, a geographer, a series of ‘what ifs’ charting my path.
Who knows where I will be tomorrow.
I’ve desired a settled life, craved for it at times, especially when I’ve been in love with a beautiful woman (a few times that has been, not very many), wanting to put down my roots, didn’t matter where, build a homestead rather than wander all over. But a twist of fate has changed that too.
I’ve been impulsive, living life on immediate decisions, no contingency plan, not caring for repercussions. It has been an adventure, defying status quo, free-wheeling to new (and sometimes unknown) destinations, intoxicating. I’ve lived my life as an explorer, a geographer, a series of ‘what ifs’ charting my path.
Who knows where I will be tomorrow.
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