25-Women at War

(Written as narrated by a 60-year old in a dramatic and blood-curdling war movie)

In the beginning, it was just a hope. A hope to understand the nuances of a science that eluded many a SCMHRDian in their quest for business knowledge. The name of this amazing science was ‘Business Policy’ and the task that one had to accomplish to gain this higher knowledge was to delve through pages and pages of case studies in a bound-copy that had yet to be used by many for its actual purpose.

In the kingdom of the ‘Ladies Hostel B’, some masterminds were already at work. Neha P, Neha M and the inmates of  particular room in the third floor had conspired to achieve this task with a combined force of five minds. But alas, cases like ‘Chemical Additives’ which have supernatural powers of hypnotizing the normal human being to sleep require the combined force of 25(12 active, 10 inactive, 3 asleep) minds. Hence at around 8 30pm on the pitch-black night of the 23rd of October, 25 warriors, all female, descended on the war-preparation zone called ‘Room 214′. A room that had previously been designed to accomodate three beings had now magically expanded to fit 25 laughing, giggling, sleeping, fighting and texting warriors.

“Roomus Expandus!”

Once, the initial greetings had been done with, the important ice-breaking session commenced. As with all female warriors, the topic of debate was the magical experience called ‘Shopping’. Treasures from a land called Greater kailash in New Delhi were shared and debated.

Then, suddenly, a green shroud eclipsed the warriors and the latest menace that hypnotized 14 warriors in the army emerged. It was called ‘Farmville’. Use the magical search mirror called ‘Google’ to learn about it else visit the menace-creating place called ‘Facebook’. And conversations became serious.

Warrior 1: Can you lend me a cow?

Warrior 2: I don’t have enough money. Maybe I should harvest more. Damn this internet connection! Curso Wifi-o!

Warrior 3: O great army, Kindly answer this troubling question of mine. If a pink cow gives strawberry milk, a brown cow gives chocolate milk, what can I expect from the elephant gifted to me by my neighbour?

(This is the point where the author wishes she could vaporize people just by looking at them. Anyways, the story continues.)

Chief Warrior Neha P lets out a war cry every 15 minutes.

“Concentrato idiotso”

But the army has moved on to the next menace. Called ‘Camera Phones’.

A thousand clicks resonate as every warrior struggles to take a picture of the army while the other warriors scream more war cries like ‘Let me check my hair’ and ‘I am wearing such boring clothes!’. Anyways, after considerable efforts, the army finally manages to start on its task and begins reading the first case.

The case involves a distressed soul called Phiroz Poonawalla who is in trouble owing to a bad decision by his father which involved picking a not-so-lucrative business.

Warrior Polo, who had been lost in dreamland, so far decides to spill a few pearls of wisdom.

“Daddy, daddy uncool” she sings.

Efforts are made instantly to shut the ears of all the other warriors, for like the cry of the wailing banshee, any assocation with a disastrous bollywood flick called ‘Daddy cool’ can damage the human neurons for ages.

The army goes into frantic debate and there is pandemonium as 25 voices struggle at the same time to make the same point.

Neha P, wise warrior that she is, devises a plan that could not have been even thought by Julius Caesar to command an unruly army.

“Silenco! Whoever speaks after this is a donkey!”

There is pin drop silence as no one in the army wants to be one. But sign language is not an effective way to discuss cases and there is friendly banter again. Neha P starts devising other techniques.

Meanwhile, warriors Shruti R, Dipti B and Priti R have discovered an age-old tradition to keep themselves busy. They have starte tattooing each other with designs and letterings that are partly offensive. If they keep doing it successfully, it could very well be a good business and they could leave the damned army.

At this point, the author who has lost herself in smirking at the various antics of the army is suddenly hit by the first missile of the enemy. A soft-toy in the shape of a baby-elephant has hit her face. The author is bewildered and looks around for help. But the other warriors are busy tattooing, sleeping or gossiping about Imran Khan that they cannot spare their precious time. Then the author spots the sender of the missile. It is a missed aim from fellow warrior PP.

PP deserves special mention because despite her attempts to get into ‘Hinjewadi Post Office Cricket Team’, she is yet to make a decent throw. The missile aimed at Warrior Priti has hit an innocent being who is now plotting revenge.

Meanwhile Warrior Priti R, best known for watching enlightening movies like ‘Dil Bole Hadippa’ and ‘DDLJ; four times a day is trying to make the toy elephant dance and give a voice-over to it. The author wonders where does one get the magic blessing of patience to bear such atrocities.

After some cases and gossip, half of the army has already succumbed to the hypnotizing effects of the booklet and have started snoring. The army is soon disbanded to prevent the disease from taking epidemic proportions.

But one of the most hard-working warriors aka Shefali finally proved her mettle. After making the army say ‘Cheese’ for a light year, she finally got her camera working. But by then ’ cheese’ had metamorphised into ‘zzzzzzzz’ and a sleeping army had been photographed for posterity.

The moral of the story, my fellas, is simple. 25 women in a room. There will definitely be learning but there will be a zillion other things that stay on your mind more than a bunch of bound cases. Hailo Warriors of Room 214!

Coffee for three

Part One

Room No 312 was still the same. The same musty smell. The enveloping darkness towards the last rows. The same green felt board announcing the latest achievements of the innumerable committees. The front row still had the lame chair which had one of its legs stuck with tape. The curtains to the large windows had changed though. He couldn’t remember what colour they had been though. It probably was the last thing he had noticed in those two years.

“Nostalgia, eh?” said Sara, settling down into the chair beside him.

Rohan nodded. He wondered if nostalgia sometimes had a tinge of heaviness to it.

“You guys still don’t have a proper wi-fi system. For a management institute, isn’t that like a mandatory requirement?”

Rohan wished Cheran had come instead of Sara. But his colleague at GTL foods was away on another of his country trips to ‘study the pulse of the market’. Rohan Khanna still did not understand the reason why even after nine years in an FMCG major, arguably the biggest in India, Cheran Nair still chose to behave like a Sales trainee. He still insisted on roaming the bazaars whilst his colleagus simply read the reports made by their juniors. Both of them had joined at the same time nine years ago and they had risen to the ranks of the General Managers. Rohan looked after drinks and beverages while Cheran was in charge of confectionery.

And being good friends, he wished he could have brought Cheran to show him his alma mater today which wasn’t so ‘Tier II’ after all. His thoughts were interrupted by Sara’s loud typing skills. Sara John was his colleague in GTL Foods. Throughout the flight from Delhi to Mumbai, she had incessantly conveyed her opinion on the food, the delayed flight, the uncomfortable seats and a zillion other things that he had perfected the art of tuning out and yet looking interested.

There was a knock on the door. A smartly dressed young woman peeked in.

“Would you like to have some tea, Sir? And you, Madam”

Rashmi had hated hospitality duty. But she would grudgingly do it everytime she was asked to do it. And cribbed about having to wear the uniform. One of Rashmi’s strongest views were against the imposition of an uniform on MBA students. She always said that an individual must have the right to wear whatever he chose. And, then Firdaus would counter the argument by saying how professional it made the students look. And they would argue on and on in their ‘Coffee for three’ sessions.

“Sir?”, The girl was still standing at the door.

“Yeah, one black coffee, please.”

Soon, the students from the ‘Placement Committee’ had come over to present him with the list of short-listed students for the interviews. Rohan was constantly reminded of himself when he saw Annamalai, one of the students in the Placement Committee. But, he was also reminded of Firdaus. And he forced himself to think of other things.

“Why do you behave like being in placements  is like serving a brotherhood?”

“How can you say that? And I had never committed to this plan, Firdaus! I had only supported you throughout. I can’t think how I have betrayed you!”

Rohan and Sara began the interviews. Rohan  had expected a more brash and confident batch now that he felt ‘older’ at 33. But, there were the same old jitters in the students. The same nervous smiles.  And the same silly mistakes. But then, there were a few good candidates too. After four interviews, Rohan decided to take a break for lunch. While Sara chatted constantly with one of the students on the recession after lunch, he decided to take a walk around the campus.

As he got to the elevator, Annamalai approached him.

“Excuse me, Sir. Can I assist you? Are you searching for something?”

“Not really. I thought I would take a look at the campus.”

“Sure, sir. I can guide you. Would you like to start with the auditorium?”

Rohan smiled.

“Young man, I graduated from this same B-School nine years ago. You must be kidding if you are telling me that the ‘auditorium’ is the best place to start my nostalgia trip.”

Annamalai smiled nervously.

“Sir, we can go anywhere you like. Just give me a minute.” He took out his walkie-talkie and began punching it furiously.

“No, thanks. But I would really like to go alone.”

As the doors of the elevator closed, Rohan saw Annamalai talk furiously into the walkie-talkie and run towards the ‘Placements nerve center’.

Part Two

Rohan walked into D-Block. D-Block had housed the Boys Hostel and had a huge tennis court. The giant tree of jackfruit still stood there.

“Rohan,  where have you been? Firdaus has passed out near the park!”

“What?”

“Yeah, come on, run!”

“How can he be so stupid, Rashmi ? Why can’t he drink in the room? Has anyone seen him yet?”

“ No, I was calling him and then, I happened to see him from the window of my room. It was a huge task sneaking out of the hostel at such an unearthly hour! If the warden comes to know, I am dead ”

A walkie-talkie suddenly crackled behind him. Annamalai stood behind him, smiling sheepishly.

“Sir….er…Our director would like to meet with you. Could you kindly accompany me to the Director’s Office?”

Rohan smiled. He could remember all the times he had ‘accompanied’ Firdaus to the Director’s Office. At least two times, the reason had been to save him from rustication. And that one time when Firdaus had saved him by lying about the twenty-seven packets of Nurofen Plus packets lying in the room. Rohan had been addicted to the painkillers ever since he had been advised them as a solution to the frequent and blinding migraines that havocked his nights.

“Sir?”

“Yeah, I am on my way. Give me two minutes.” He looked at the small pond behind the park. “Is this still the red zone?”

The ‘red zone’ had comprised of two chairs near the pond where a lot of love had been found or lost `on the campus. It had been a hit with his batch and most gossip emanated from incidents in the ‘red zone’.

“Er….yes sir…” said Annamalai sheepishly.

They began to walk to the academic block. As they approached the mini-auditorium on the way, he saw that there was a crowd of people and there were students milling around dressed in formals. Rohan smirked. Of course, there was another company in campus. There had never been a Day-minus with just one company on campus. Having been in the Placements committee himself, he had often tried to isolate one company from the other. The processes were held in separate areas and usually at different times of the day. If the timings tended to coincide, the walkie-talkies provided to the Student Committee members crackled incessantly and both the companies were kept unaware of the other’s presence. Somehow, companies recruiting from B-schools always wanted to be the first on campus so that they could select from the cream of the batch. And, hence all the drama.

Suddenly, Rohan had an idea as he thought about all the pranks that he had played on his unsuspecting batchmates in Firdaus’s company. He decided that he would give Annamalai something to worry about. He began to walk quickly towards the mini-auditorium where he realized the other company was. He planned to walk till the entrance and then turn back, just to see Annamalai worry that the ‘conspiracy theory’ of keeping the companies unaware was endangered.

“Sir, sir….this way”, said Annamalai and ran after him.

But Rohan was quick. Years of jogging had always kept him quick on his toes. As he neared the entrance, however he froze. The banner hung inside the auditorium belonged to RovingEye International.

“Dude, RovingEye is a cool name! It totally captures the essence of our company.”

“Yeah, I am glad that you came up with this business plan, Firdaus.”

“Don’t kid me, man! It was your idea to participate  in that business plan contest.”

“So, fair and square, huh?”

“Yeah, fair and square!”

It was the same logo. A periscope with an eye on top. In blue. Just like he had drawn it sitting in the cafe outside the college.

As he stood there frozen, he saw the one person he had successfully and wilfully avoided for nine years since that day in March when he had graduated. Firdaus Daruwalla, CEO, RovingEye International, also his best friend through two years of B-school was standing in front of him. Instantly, Rohan averted his eyes and began to walk towards the academic block, Annamalai in hot pursuit with a crackling walkie-talkie.

Nine years ago :

As Rohan looked at the message on his mobile, his heart swelled with pride.

‘They quoted a figure of twenty lakhs per annum. You are the only person selected. Congratulations and LET’S PARTY!!!’

Prakrit, the placements coordinator had messaged him the good news. Rohan looked outside the window of his room. He was immensely happy. His father would be very proud of him and so would his sister. He knew that his father would treat his colleagues from the Indian Railways to a big party at their house in Bhopal. Rohan would now be able to pay off his education loan with ease and in a year. He had been flooded with congratulatory calls since afternoon. Being in a Tier-II B-school had turned out to be a blessing after all. In a year, when the economy had worsened, GTL Foods had recruited from this campus just because the Vice-President, HR of the company and an alumnus, had convinced the recruitment team that this B-School was a good shot as the quality of the students was good and they could cut down the pay usually given to a Tier-I B-School student by quite a few lakhs.

He turned to look at the messed-up bed in the corner of the room. Firdaus would be back soon. And he felt a little scared and then a little depressed. The initial euphoria had now faded and he realised that there was going to be a fight. A bad one.

But it was three in the night when Firdaus entered the room. He smelt of cheap liquor and cigarettes. Rohan had been asleep but was awoken by the huge banging of suitcases against the floor. Firdaus was packing his clothes. Haphazardly. With shivering hands.

Rohan stared at him for sometime. Then it all came to him. Thirty Lakhs. GTL Foods. RovingEye. Partners. Then, he decided to apologize.

“Firdaus…”

“Shut up…Don’t you dare to speak to me!”

And then he spewed a lot of expletives.

“Hey, stop that right now! You don’t have the right to abuse me! I never was a part of your business plan. I only helped you whenever you can. It was you who assumed that I was a part of it…”

“Why didn’t you ever make it clear then, you fool! Didn’t you know that I had designed it to incorporate both of our strengths. You know I trusted your technical expertise, Rohan. You know I cannot do this without someone who has a fair knowledge of robotics. And you have betrayed me, you…”

“What was I supposed to do? I don’t come from a family that owns buildings in almost every city in this country! Besides, your venture is not even funded.  And I have a family to support. You know that! How can you expect me to leave all that and blindly follow you into a venture that I know will never succeed?”

“Rohan, drop it. You promised me that this was a good venture. You said we could succeed. You said you would drop out of placements. You knew that this was the one thing that I have ever been passionate about! And the day I think we have finally made a start, I realise that the one person who was going to be a vital part of this venture has left and when I need you the most, you turn out to be a selfish dimwit.Where am I going to find a partner now? By the way, congratulations on the huge salary. Well done!”

And with that, Firdaus had picked up his bags, clothes spilling out of polythene covers and left. The only things left on his table were two sheets of paper and a paper napkin containing the sketch for RovingEye Ltd.

RovingEye was the name of the venture that Firdaus and Rohan had hit upon during the first year of their business education. It was primarily Firdaus’ idea but he had often depended on Rohan’s technical inputs and business acumen to fine-tune the business plan. RovingEye was a business idea on sensor technology. It was to be a company that would manufacture small circular tracking dots and a tracker device. The dots could be stuck on any surface and the tracker device was portable. So, it could be used in any domestic or office space. All you had to do was to key in the name of the object you were searching for and the tracker would communicate with the small dot stuck to the object and the tracker would display the area coordinates of the object you were looking for. Rohan had also worked with some of his friends on generating a GUI that would display the room you were in and the location of the sensor dot.

RovingEye as a business idea had been quite successful at  business plan competitions  and Rohan and Firdaus had grown increasingly confident about it. It was the pricing of the device that was its main USP. By sourcing the cheapest yet the most reliable materials, Firdaus had succeeded in making the product affordable. Yet, the biggest hurdle was when they met investors to convince them about their idea. Most of them thought that India was not yet ready for such technology.Or that it was too expensice. Or that it was not a scalable product. Or that it required too much investment in technology which had the chance of becoming obsolete. And thus, Rohan became increasingly worrie about this venture d as they neared the end of the fourth semester. And on that day, he had been coordinating the placement process for GTL foods when suddenly, it occurred to him that he could try his luck in this company. Of course, he wouldn’t get through. Or so he thought. But then he had. And then he had changed his mind.

Rohan looked at the sheets of paper lying on Firdaus’ table . Firdaus had flung them when he was leaving.  He picked them up. It was a meeting appointment with the  senior management of Blueline investors. It was a Stage-II meeting. Which meant that in three out of five chances, the management would give a go-ahead for the business idea. Which meant that RovingEye would no longer be just on paper. It stood the chances of becoming an in-operation company.

Rohan went over to the window. He could see the entrance of the hostel. Firdaus was arguing with the guard. Muttering expletives and pushing the guard away, he began to walk away into the night. And that was the last time that Rohan had seen Firdaus.

Part Three

Rohan finished his tea. The interviews were over. They had shortlisted three students. As Sara and the hospitality team chatted endlessly, he kept thinking about Firdaus. Should he meet him? What was the use of carefully avoiding him these nine years?

As he got into the car, Rohan turned to Annamalai.

“Has the other company left?”

“Yes sir. They left an hour ago. But of course, their shortlist will be considered only after yours.”

But Rohan was not listening. He was thinking that it was wise of him not having approached Firdaus. The man still had a lot of pride left in him after all these years.

He was thankful that it was a lonely ride to the airport. Sara had taken off to meet some relatives. It gave him time to gather his thoughts. To shake off nostalgia. To plan the week ahead.

The flight was delayed. Rohan  sat sipping his black coffee in the lounge. He never really liked these business lounges. They were too silent. Interrupted only by the ruffling of the pink papers. Or the beeps of the Blackberrys. He decided to go buy a pack of chocolates for Rashmi. She would have returned from her convention when he got home.

As usual, the variety of chocolates was huge. He pondered which one to pick.

“Pick the most expensive ones. You can afford them now.”

Rohan instantly recognized the mocking tone. He turned around to see Firdaus smiling at him.

He continued to stare at him, undecided on what to say…

The atmosphere seemed heavier than usual in the business lounge as Rohan fidgeted with the edge of his Mont Blanc. Firdaus sat across him, sipping tea.

“It is funny you should talk to me after all these years.”  Said Rohan.

Firdaus sipped his tea and stared at him.

“But I am happy for you, Firdaus. And proud. Like I always was. You never let me explain. And you hurt my ego. Besides, at that age, you had everything that I wanted. I just thought that it was unfair of you to blame me for taking that job.”

Firdaus continued to stare at him.

“But you had a big ego too. You did not even bother to find when I and Rashmi got married. I have a son, by the way. His name is Hriday. Well, can you atleast say something now?”

Firdaus smiled.

“Do you still have that European side cabinet in your bedroom?”

Rohan was puzzled.

“Yes  but how do you…..?”

Rohan realized that it must have come as a gift from Firdaus afterall. Rashmi had said that one of her uncles from Europe had passed it on as wedding gift. She had said that it was just a coincidence that Rohan was a collector of antique furniture.

“And I hope Hriday likes his blue dolphin toy.”

Rohan continued to look on as Firdaus started laughing.

“I always watched out for you, Rohan. I had made Rashmi promise that she would never reveal the identity of the sender of the mysterious gifts. It was not only you who had a big ego, mine was bloated beyond recognition. I agree I have always had it easy. But you must realize that RovingEye was my only dream. It was a passion. And when you left abruptly, it suddenly seemed like it would always remain a dream.”

Rohan watched as Firdaus took a sip of his tea and continued.

“But as I began my venture without the support of my family, I realized how it felt to live life on a stringent budget and strive to make ends meet. I understood why you opted for surety than adventure. But I also felt that you had missed out on the excitement of seeing for yourself the evolution of your own idea. And that is when I wanted to reconcile. But you see, this ego is something that is hard to fight once it has invaded your thoughts. I always thought you would speak to me first. I didn’t want you to apologize or anything. I just wanted you to take that initiative. But today, after all these years, when I saw you outside the auditorium, I realised that it is really stupid of us to pretend to be indifferent.”

—–

Rashmi had finally convinced Hriday to sleep when her Blackberry beeped. She dreaded another message from any speakers of the convention she had been to. New York had been great but she had longed to be home.

She rose from the couch and went up to the table. It was a message from Rohan.

Make it coffee for three. The mysterious gift-sender of the European cabinet is on his way.

The ‘Bong’ conspiracy

Somehow this blog is becoming very regionalistic …er…there is no word like that, so what I meant was I tend to write about the various regions that my batchmates belong to and their sweet quirkiness (this is to ensure I am not on any hit list). Well, anyways, the Mallus have made their peace with me. So here come the Bongs.

One of the important learning in all this research of festival-hopping, good-food-hogging and freebies-hoarding is that it has provided impetus to my new theory. It concerns the clan of the ‘psuedo-belongers’ . Now, the pseudo-belongers encompass those individuals who pretend to belong to a region or a state and claim fervently that they are the only people on this earth who can take the culture forward. Now, Pseudo-Mallu Shruti who claimed plenty of blogspace in my previous post is one of the forerunner for the Presidency of this clan. Alas, she now faces competition from a very strongly-built conternder. Ladies and Gentlemen, put your hands together for Priti – PseudoBong!

For my international readers from regions of the street behind Hinjewadi and the Paan-shop owner in a region as far as Pune Railway stations, I would like to elucidate what  a Bong is. Though my seven year old neighbour back home insists it is the sound of the doorbell (Bing Bong) and some South Indians tend to think it is the surname of the next revered Chinese Martial arts sensation, a Bong is of course, a Bengali. Bangaali, shout my Bengali friends. Well, all the same. My jaws are still aching from trying to pronounce ‘Raashogholla’ after a couple of them made their way to my stomach.

Psuedo-Bong Priti, firebong Polo, DemureBong Bidisha and SeriousBong Pramit were the leaders of the gang that made its way to the Pandaals. The Bong women looked beautiful in saris and with their poetic ‘O re baba’ and ‘Ki korchish’.

Anyways, after the Mallus in the college created enough hype and hoopla around ‘Onam’ by offering a sumptuous lunch, shouting Mallu slogans generally and creating a great Pookkalam, it awakened the great Bong spirit. And before we could say ‘Kolkatta Knight Riders’, coupons bearing the face of Goddess Durga had been thrust into our hands and a trip to one of the Durga Pooja Pandaals had been announced.

And so, on a sunny morning, after writing an exam on another Human Resource subject, 13 warriors (note the unlucky number) set out on a bus ride to pray and of course, eat some good Macher-Jhol. All was well until the group had to split to take autos to the Pandaal venue. God decided to have some fun and hence a Mallu, a Psuedo-Bong and a Punjaban ended up being in the same auto. Now, the address specified in clear crisp language to this myriad gang was ‘Congress Bhavan’. However, I tend to think it was the fault of the Mallu that the auto landed up in ‘Vishwa Bhawan’. It is not an unfair assault considering that one of the Mallus had sent a waiter to ICU after communicating or trying to communicate to him in Hindi a while ago.

Waiter : Sir, what would you like to have?

Mallu peers down at the elegant menu from left to right and then right to left. Then, he decides to finally use the weapon called ‘half-baked Hindi’ at the waiter.

Mallu (with a serious face) : Kebaab mein kaun hai?

Waiter is rushed to the hospital while the Mallu hunts for his Hindi dictionary to figure what exactly went wrong.

Anyways when this quarrelsome gang finally reached the venue, I must have heard constant chanting from the autodriver. Now that every one was on venue, we decided to proceed towards the main stage where the idol was placed. Or atleast, we tried to proceed. The only impediment was Arun Kumar, fellow tamilian and mad statistics freak.

Arun Kumar deserves special mention for two things. One for his love for statistics and another for his ability to single-handedly cause the extinction of all fowl, mutton and beef on this planet. We have often wondered whether the ragged jet black hair actually hides signs of being a carnivore. Hence, when Arun landed on this Pandaal and at once, his carnivore instincts were switched on and all the Bengali food stall owners began to stock up with trepidation. Finally, we left any hope of convincing Arun to pray and prostrate as he went from stall to stall, emptying ‘Chicken Laalipaps’, ‘Maacher Jhol’ and the likes.

After a bit of praying and trying to block images of tempting Rasgollas, we joined Arun on a sweet expedition. All of us took different sweets and tried to compare which one was better. Here is when Arun and Hazel, a firebrand from Punjab debate on the wars similar sounding words can create.

(Rasgollas are passed. See, if you have a problem with me not calling them Roshogollas, I really can’t do anything about it as this is the closest I can get to anglicized Bangaali. Anyways, the group is trying various types of rasgollas.)

Hazel : Hmm….

Arun : Hmm….

Group : Hmmm…

(Everyone enjoys the sweet moment. Then the war begins.)

Hazel : This is gud. (Note ‘gud’ is not a spelling mistake.)

Arun : No..no…mine is good.

Hazel : No, yours is sugar. Mine is gud.

Arun : Arre, everything is sugar in this sweet. But mine is definitely good!

There is a war between the tamilian and punjaban and when there is an impending war, one of us intervenes to tell them that the ‘gud’ Hazel is referring to is  ’jaggery’ in Hindi while Arun with his miniscule vocabulary of Hindi interprets it as ‘good’ as in ‘good and bad’.

Anyways, there is a lot of chortling and giggling, and peace prevails.

After the customary ‘anjali’ that was offered to the goddess, we returned to the college. One the bus ride way back home, we discussed the various traits of various sun signs and sang meaningful songs like ‘Chandni Chowk to China’ and ‘Yeh Kya ho raha hai’ from ‘Hum Kisise Kum Nahin’. The bus driver honked deliberately to drown our voices out but when you have ‘thunderbird’ Michelle on the team, it does give a sonorous effect.

P.S. Why is the post called ‘The Bong Conspiracy’. Because while we were returning to college, the Bongs had conspired and made their way to the next pandaal. Last, we heard, there were screams of ‘Get the B-School Bongs back to campus’ coming our way. Believe us, we are trying!

Special mention goes to Meera for entertaining the overtures of a hot-blooded Bengali Male who kept looking her way and finally hugged her. Alas, the five-year old was called back  by his doting father.

Neeraj was very happy to receive a notice from ‘The Bangaali Marriage Bureau’ that was distributed free. I heard he had collected quite a few of them and he even posed for a picture with them. Our best wishes are with him. But alas, Bipasha is away in Mumbai.

The story of the song that vanished…(or was cursed to vanish)

Ours is a residential B-School. Actually the ‘finest residential B-School, if I were to refer to the prospectus. Anyways, concentrate on the word ‘residential’. It means you reside on the campus. In a single room. With two other people.

Anyways, the point of the post is to condone the sad demise of one on my favourite songs. Sigh! To tell a long story short, here goes…

Not long ago, a tamilian (Me), a Bong (Roomie 1) and a Rajasthani (Roomie 2) lived in peaceful coexistence and the only source of debate centered around whether Wentworth Miller should grow some hair. But alas, a day came when the Tamilian’s playlist on her laptop chose to play a tamil track. It was ‘Munbe Vaa’  from the movie ‘Sillunu Oru Kadhal’. Anyways, for the non-tamil folks, this is a melodious track by A R Rahman. So Roomie 1 and Roomie 2 freeze and are mersmerized by the song. If luck would have had its way, the tamilian should have ensured that the track never played again and continued to reside in her playlist forever. But that was not to be.

Roomie 1 and 2 started humming the track in regular intervals. There is a particular line in the song which goes ‘Sundara Maligai’ meaning ‘beautiful jasmine’. But Roomie 1, true to her Bong roots, starts screaming ‘Sunderbani, Sunderbani’ instead. When the tamilian tries to convince her that it is not ‘Sunderbani’ or any other region in West Bengal, she screams back that it does sound exactly like that.

Meanwhile, Roomie 2 who is known for her eccentric music taste ‘read love-songs of any type’, has decided to follow Roomie 1 and has gone ‘Sunderbani, Sunderbani’ too. The tamilian gives up in vain.

And that is how the song started to lose its charm to the tamilian. For at unearthly times, from the eeriest of places, both her roomies would chant ‘Sunderbani, Sunderbani’ at the top of their voices while humming the song so out of tune that Rahman would consider moving out of India.

In a last attempt to salvage the pride of the song, the tamilian scours the internet for the english lyrics of the song and mails them to the roomies. UNESCO’s help is also sought to maintain and retail lyrical culture. But of course, they have better things to do.

The anxious tamilian looks at her roomies in anticipation as they read the mail.

Roomie 1: No….

Roomie 2 : I don’t think so….

Tamilian : What?

Roomie 1: These are not the actual lyrics. They don’t sound like that to me.

(Roomie 1 tries singing her distorted version again. Of course they don’t match with the actual lyrics. Why? Because Roomie 1’s version is NOT tamil, it is gobbledygook.)

Roomie 2 : Yeah, I like what I sing…It matches to what I understand of it.

Tamilian : Of course it doesn’t! You don’t know Tamil!

But no amount of despair or agitation works. And the song breathes its last sigh in the playlist of the tamilian as she decides to give it a miss after listening to the distorted version by her roomies.

And that is how, the song has gone missing from my playlist. Meanwhile my roomies are planning to acquaint me with some of their favourite songs like ‘Tuuuu’ by Sonu Nigam and ‘Ay hay Ay hay hay’ from ‘God tussi great ho!’. Hmm…where are those earplugs now?

Marketing blogs : Elusive search for a honest view from a reader

I don’t know why but of late I have had a lot of random conversations that seem to be inane and of no use to anyone on this planet. Well, why am I blogging about it? Well, the onam post generated quite a bit of hype because the people mentioned in the post think it is their rakhi-sawant-moment-of publicity in the online world. I herewith declare that my blogging rises above useless, sensational and exaggerated blogging. My good friend, Priti ,who I think is not so good anymore after this post, thinks this blog is plainly useless. Yet, all this has strangely motivated me to write more.

Me : Priti, do you think I should promote this blog incessantly? Look at this blogger, his blog is all over the place.

Priti doesn’t reply for she is frowning at why she hasn’t yet received her file via bluetooth. After a while of pretending like Bill Gates working on the first Windows problem, she realizes that the bluetooth device has not been switched on. I, meanwhile, wait patiently for an answer.

Me: Er…Priti, what do you think?

Priti: Haan? What?

Me : (My ears are burning out of anger. But I am praying that all the ’shavaasana’ that I did during the first semester has given me higher powers of endurance.) About the promotion of blogs? Or marketing them well?

Priti is considered to be marketing-wise in the batch owing to her high-energy yapping skills and her ability to talk 3% of sense in every monologue that she delivers. By MBA standards, that is an achievement.

Priti : Er….

Me : Hey! You can be frank and tell me if it is desperate.

Priti giggles. This is a signal of more guffaws to come as the next fifteen minutes are going to be interspersed with spasms of maniac laughter which is Priti’s way of indicating that the humour she is spewing is earth-shattering funny.

Priti : He he…..you know!!!  Ha Ha Ha…..I really don’t care. How do I care how you market your blog? I can’t read my study material properly. Do you think  I will read your blog? Ho Ho Ho…..Arre, if you write well, then congratulations to you, why do you have to force them on the poor public ? Ho..Ho..Ho…(This is the point where I develop a dislike for Santa Claus)….Ho…Ho…Ho…Like it is going to make me more intelligent? Gawk!….

This is the point where maniacal laughter fills the room. I sit in deep thought for sometime and look at the chortling apparition in front of me. I decide to go somewhere else where talking about blogs doesn’t incite laughing bouts or atleast not scary laughing bouts.

Why is it so difficult to find good honest views from blog readers?

Parallel Universes in Chaos…

It is 2:00pm and a drowsy batch of 40 marketing students are fighting to stay awake in yet another lecture of SAP. Those who are awake are trying to figure the sense of pricing and customer orders. The SAP Professor is meanwhile, lecturing on ways to supply the right material to the vendors.

SAP Prof: We are now going to talk about an important topic.

Unidentified voice on microphone :We shall talk about gtalk.

Class wakes up instantly. Cause they know that an unidentified voice has just permeated the lab. The SAP Prof looks equally confused. He continues nevertheless.

SAP Prof: Now we are going to create an order.

Unidentified Voice : aaaah!

As everyone starts giggling, it dawns on us that there is a cross-connection between the sound receivers of the SAP lab and the adjacent computer lab. The speakers here are relaying the voice of the very-entertaining marketing professor who is teaching the executive batch about marketing research in the computer lab not very far away.

SAP Prof (Confused) : I think that there is a cross-connection.

UV: Is that okay?

SAP Prof (continues, oblivious to the roaring class) : We pay 100 euros to the customer through this process.

UV : Acha chalo, 50 rupees for toothpaste. Are we alright?

SAP Prof : Can we do something about this?

UV : We shall not move out of the lab. Hope you have come prepared with the material?

SAP Prof : Anways, let us revise what we have done…

UV: What is the central tendency of the toothpaste used by students in this class? Nominal or Ordinal?

One student finally gets up and goes to the computer lab to inform the other Professor that his voice has permeated walls.

We suddenly hear an astonished exclaim on speakers as realization dawns on the marketing professor.

UV:Is it? How does it happen like that? I hope it doesnt get in way of your placement preparation!

The class roars with laughter. Things are done to fix the problem but they dont work. So throughout Purchase orders, cutomer numbers and goods issues, we keep hearing the story of how Colgate, Babool and Meswak can be slotted into quadrants.

An afternoon well spent, I must say!

Onaashamsakal-Part 2

I thought that certain earth-shattering events that happened yesterday needed a worthy mention for the benefit of the global society. Hence this post.

Jagadish, Vandana and Michelle are the ‘original’ SCMHRD organizers for the Onam celebrations this year. Well, Michelle can’t stop talking, the only time she didnt speak was probably when the admissions team drugged her to maintain a one-minute silence for some cause. Or so I think. When Vandana speaks, it is a culmination of Mallu land meets American Idol, its musical. Well, Jagadish thinks speaking is below his dignity. It is a nod for yes, two nods for no and a grunt for a long answer. Herewith, I am going to be officially banned from the Gulf countries for anti-mallu sarcasm.

Anyways, the Pookkalam or the floral decorations were a hit. Almost anybody and everybody was in the atrium either chopping flowers and leaves or simply learning malayalam to give us moral support. Even the canteen guys were asking who Manmooty was.

Getting non-mallus to say ‘Pookalam’ is a great game. Catch hold of one of them and ask them to say it right. If they say it in three chances, then they get one more banana for lunch. We try.

Non-mallu 1: Poolokam?

We reject.

Non-Mallu 2 : Pooka lamb?

We think she might be related to Minisha Lamba. Yet we reject.

Non-Mallu 3 : Poo….uff just let me go.

We give him a clap for being honest.

But there is a problem with the fact that India has more than twenty states. People in states below Mumbai call all the states down south  ’South India’ and vice verca all South Indians think Bengalis, Gujaratis and North-eastern people are ‘North Indians’. So, you hear comments like ‘Is this floral decoration a hit in Hyderabad?’ or ‘How come people dont wear these white and golden border saris in Bangalore?’. Despite four states warring down south over Cauvery, Namitha and Rajinikanth, all the South Indians decided to get together and hold a class on the topic ‘South India is made of four different states’.

The best part of Onam, appart from the beautiful black-eyed women (according to one of my male friends) is the food. So there was the Sadhya, the traditional Onam lunch that was served from 12:30pm in the mess.

Here, a special mention goes to Shruti, a pseudo-mallu. Now, psuedo-mallus are a clan that are as mallu as french fries are french. They are bred in states other than Kerala and appam is probably the ony word in their dictionary. Somehow this clan just has Shruti as its top member at the moment though I am identifying potential candidates. We shall come to Shruti later.

As the zillion dishes were laid on the banana leaves, all the non-mallus started questioning on what everything was. Invariably, most questions were directed at Shruti who happened to be serving.

Question to Shruti : Can I get more of this brown sweet liquid?

Of course, Shruti doesnt know the name of the sweet brown liquid, hence she runs about frantically for the person serving the same. By the time, the name of the delicacy is identified, we have resigned ourselves to plain water. But Shruti is successful and comes running with it. Then, we ask her for the ‘dish which tastes like pineapple jelly’. And blink! she’s gone again.

Meanwhile, the mallus are at their roaring best, shouting ‘Payasam! Rasam! Sambar!’ as other veshti and mundu-donned mallus scurry serving them to a hungry batch. Incidentally, rice is called ‘choru’ in malayalam. Why is this important? Read on.

We are in the midst of the meal when a burly mallu next to us starts screaming ‘choru, choru’. Of course, lucky south indians we are, we realize he is asking for rice to be served.

The non-mallus however have started sweating. One of my non-mallu asks me if stealing of food is a part of tradition and starts to eat hurriedly just in case his food disappears. He thinks ‘choru’ is the mallu version of ‘chori’.

I don’t bother to answer. For he has lost himself in the payasam and I dont have the energy after such a sedating meal.

Jagadish, Vandana and Michelle are the warriors in the forefront and are talking, serving and glaring at you to finish your food at the same time.

All in all, it was a wonderful celebration and we had loads of fun. Long live malluland and all the SCMHRD mallus!!

P.S. Next morning, post-onam celebrations, I meet Shruti.

Shruti : Why did’nt you come for the Malayalam movie screening?

Me: I had class. Who starred in it?

Shruti : Manmohan…

Me: I know Manmooty. Who is Manmohan?

Shruti : Arre, the other famous actor. How come you dont know Manmohan? He has starred in tamil movies also. Sad…

Me: Er…sorry (I rack my brains furiously in the meantime for Manmohan. I can only remember the blue-turban prime minister.)

Shruti : Oh! Sorry his name is Mohanlal. I get confused with these names.

Me: (I can’t say anything as I am thinking of the Pseudo-Mallu Nobel Prize. We have a contender here.)

Onaashamsakal!!

It is 6:30 in the morning. I and Neha are in the atrium in the academic block, eyes half open, cutting flower petals and leaves. It is Onam and we are making the pookalam. There are 3 mallus around us, in various stages of sprightliness. I think they are enough to invade another gulf country. We ask them to sing some Onam songs. A techno mallu plays them on iTunes instead.
Meanwhile Neha and I are deciding on ways to keep awake. Both of us have slept 8 hours between us, she had four and I had four.

There has been a lot of silence since we started the preparations. I try my hand at conversation.

Me: How was your business policy class presentation?

She : It went well…..(long pause as she makes effort to speak.) How was yours?

Me: Good.

We continue to do our job. It is a while before Neha speaks.

She : We were in the same group , right?

I realise that we were. The swine flu prevalent in Pune must have some memory-related side effects.

We continue to make the flower rangoli.  Aah….Happy Onam!!

Marathon mazza!

There is a marathon being organized in Bangalore and it is officially a ‘10km’ marathon. I happened to discuss this with the other summer interns during coffee and Abby went mad.

Abby : Officially, marathons are supposed to be for 42.195 km. (and he glares)
Me: Well, There is no long-stay make-up that lasts for such a distance!

Abby bends his head down and goes into his pensive moods. I think these are just pretensions to hide his snoring away to glory.

Meanwhile Sud has his own reasons for refusing to run.

“Don’t expect me to grace the occasion unless I see Piggy Chops gracing the occasion.” He says and starts looking morose.

I inform him that Deepika Padukone is going to be there but it ain’t enough for Mr-I-admire-piggy-chops.
Abby however seems to have woken up and has already proclaimed that Deepika is a kannadiga. Hey, I want Rajnikanth, too!

Rekha has her own reasons but I refrain from asking her. For I know that if she runs, the number of ambulances called to the spot must be multiplied. Extra security personnel will have to be called in and the Indian army might have to descend in a million choppers. For history has winced every time Rekha has moved, spilling coffee(others’, not hers, mind you) tumbled over children and increased the heart attack rates among the elderly. I think they must put a clause under the hoarding of the banners reading ‘Rekha not allowed’. (The filmy Rekha, can however be allowed. I think she might just make it to the awards ceremony after she has applied her lipstick)

Cutting to the gyaan, Marathon is actually named after legend of the Greek messenger Pheidippides, who burst into the assembly of Athens to announce that the ‘Battle of Marathon’ had been won against the Persians. Lucian of Samosata (2nd century AD) also gives the story but names the runner Philippides (not Pheidippides). (Samosata?? I knew Indian snacks had a long and great history.)

The distance of the marathon was never fixed. So if you were a organizer before the 1996 Olympics, any distance covered by foot was considered a marathon. I humbly declare that I was a winner of a million such marathons when I beat my neighbor’s toddler, Montu in ‘marathons’ from his door to the elevator. But sadly, Montu soon grew up to waddle faster than me and the official distance of a marathon was fixed at 42.195 kms in 1996.

Ah well, I think it is not long before we have a short and glamorous version of the Marathon called IPM or the Indians pramanit Marathon. It shall cover the distance from a coffee pub to a spa as runners need pampering after the ordeal from the flash bulbs of the paparazzi. I vote for Lalit Modi to organize the sport. Anyone is welcome to bid for the runners who shall specifically be hot young Miss-India hopefuls and Manisha Koirala. Manisha Koirala just for her belief that ‘Aaj mein aage, duniya hai peeche’. ‘Khamoshi’ chayi rahe! The Miss-India hopefuls because they can get more participation in the form of the young lads, producers and the general crowd chasing them.

Young hot Indian men with any resemblance to John Abraham or Abhishek Bachan are also welcome. Bidding for these runners will can only be done by anyone who has a chopper to spare, has acted in 2 hit and 6 flop bollywood movies or has bawled and won an international reality show.

As I propose this idea as my latest business plan, my friends think I should look at another majors than marketing except one guy. But he is willing to support me only if I support his idea of ‘India pramanit fishing league’ where players shall catch the only remaining two fishes in Chowpatty beach. I am thinking of a revamp of my idea and some more campaigning for the same.

Working in a frigid summer…

It is the fag end of April and I am wearing a sweater and am rubbing my hands in anticipation of heat while I swear my teeth are chattering to a tune from ‘Apocalypse Now’. No, I haven’t flown down to Antartica nor have I started vacationing in the Artic. I am just three weeks into my internship and half of my blood has already turned cold. Because the AC is in full blast and I am in office!

Meanwhile the green city of Bangalore is getting hotter by the day. So once you step out of office, suddenly you have stepped on to the equatorial line. While the radio keeps screaming ‘Mast Majaa Maadi’, you wonder what are the options for ‘Majaa’ when you are in a hot bus and there are about a lakh vehicles in front of you moving at the speed of 1 inch per 30 minutes.

There are four more guys along with me on my floor who are interns. Thus the grand total makes it five souls trying to learn the ropes of the IT industry. I wonder how they respond to publicity and hence we shall call them Him, Sud, Abby and Annie(LOL, this one rocks!).

The one major thing that my internship has taught me apart from the IT knowledge is when in the company of hungry lads, eat at the pace of one idli per minute. Cause if you don’t they would have finished their food, looked at all the sights in the vicinity and start fretting and sulking that it would make you want to renounce food for the rest of your life.

Now Annie is an HR whiz and spouts gyaan and gyaan only whenever he opens his mouth. Also, very enchanted by his work, he has actually learnt the art of apparating and disapparating, potter style. If you are having breakfast in the cafeteria in the morning, there would be a flash of light as a being would descend in the chair in front of you, there would be a flurry of food disappearing from a plate and whoosh, the appartition has gone. You would have heard ‘I have some work. Let me take your leave’ echoing in the background.

Him has an affinity to cheese and cheesy things. He also professes a deep liking for cheesy songs from bollywood of the 80s-90s. Thus he belongs to a dying breed or a breed whose leaders may include Reshamiya and the likes. When we are really happy, he sings ‘Neela Dupatta, Peela Suit’ to remind us of the brutal realities of life. Also, he can lecture on any topic under the sun. You wonder at the amount of gyaan one can give on a carelessly uttered word.

Sud and Abby are a ‘couple’ of conversations above us. They talk to each other while we go to lunch, while we come back from lunch, while they go for coffee, while we are in the elevator….er….you get the drift. Sometimes you have to look into the walls of the elevator to know if your presence is visible or pinch yourself. (You’d rather pinch one of them, though). They also say great things like male bonding is the best and other nice things.

Then there is Krupa and the newest member, Rekha….but yet to know them to well enough or they don’t have enough quirks. More to come….while I do some work for now..