Laptop Buddha

The day was hard. Hardly enough time to breathe. Files piling up on the desk. For the first time in my life, I accepted coffee at my desk, instead of performing the usual routine of brewing it myself. Deadlines. People were like wolves, attacking me from all around, biting at whatever they got. They were hungry. For answers, for results.

A few men wilted. They went outside to catch the Delhi's wintry breeze, some men with Marlboro packets in their hands even before they left the building. Even the coffee machine seemed to be running out of energy. People were pacing, trudging, jogging... Beads of sweat on a cold winter day. The pressure was on.

I looked at the files and folders on my desktop, each was a solution. Each was an opportunity. Where would I be without all this data! Where would we be without all its computational power!

The more you give, the more they ask. The job is demanding, and fulfilling. There is happiness in the knowledge that you're an integral part of a system, which together realizes such powerful change. People press you for results; you push others. The computers are running wildly, pulling out figures and simulations. It's magical and devastatingly ugly.

Everything in its place, people dovetailing each other... Cogs. Clocks. Structures and targets. Everyone driving to a common goal at a relentless pace.

That was when my laptop fell down. It fell with a thud, halfway through a simulation, with twenty tabs open on my Chrome browser and half a dozen mail items open. I picked it up in a hurry, hoping not to waste time. Strangely, I wasn't greeted by the cluttered desktop. As I picked up the fallen computer, there was nothing there. Black screen.

Reboot.

Windows never turned on. "Your hard-disk has not been detected". Hyperventilation. More coffee. Sweat. People surrounded me. "IS EVERYTHING ALRIGHT?" It will be, I assured them. Work must not stop.

But what of all the data? How could all this continue if the chain broke down in the middle? People continued asking me questions, but suddenly there were no more answers. I thought the world would implode.

Strangely however, the questions stopped. All of a sudden, what I was doing wasn't important any more. The cogs went on, the clock ticked, the machine ran smoothly. And I continued trying to reboot the stubborn machine. Nothing. I called the IT Help Desk. They couldn't help immediately either.

I apologized to people, afraid I was letting them down. "It's okay," they said happily. "It happens to everyone." And work continued uninterrupted.

The irrelevance of the individual is deeply disturbing. Nothing you do really matters. Nothing in the world matters at all. In the morning, I was worried about all the files, emails, photographs and manuals which I would lose if my hard-disk wasn't revived. Even those things don't matter.

Nothing really does.

Why Entrepreneurs are better than Everybody Else. Not.

"You need to endure, take risks, give up something to attain the vast glories of this world which are yet hidden to you," a friend told me. "What is life without hardwork, courage and risk?" an huge roadside hoarding asked me a few hours later. And in the evening, just before I fell asleep, I read a much hyped article -"If you don't build your dream, someone will hire you to build theirs."

Yes, dreams are important. There's no denying it. And noble, world-changing dreams are even better. There are so many problems seemingly impossible to solve, so many nearly impassable hurdles, and so many unfathomable heights waiting to be conquered. People are often defined by their dreams. Chasing them is a noble pursuit; conquering them is an almighty high.

Sadly though, most people seem to be defining dreams very differently. From what I understand from so many folks I talk to, a man who is a dreamer needs to be an entrepreneur. "What's the point of having dreams if you don't realize them?" I'm asked. Valid question, no? "If you believe in something strongly enough, you won't think twice about quitting your job. Entrepreneurs know sacrifice and they know hard-work. Do you?" Good punchline and another valid question. Through this post, I hope to compensate for all those tongue-tied moments.

Let's start with the definition of dreams: 'dreams' in this context usually identify a void and visualize a world in which such a void is filled. An entrepreneur might see this as a business opportunity, an artist might see it as an existential dilemma and an scientist, simply as an intellectual pursuit. In all these cases, these 'dreams' can be realized, but in very different ways. But self-help books and supposedly inspirational posts usually use a very narrow dream-achievement definition, declaring by fiat that one of these pursuits is nobler. No, realizing a dream needn't mean monetising it.

Let's now move on to the second favourite bastion of our inspirational entrepreneurs: the strength of belief. Frankly, I cannot imagine anyone can strongly believe in setting up retail stores or restaurants. In the good old days, they used to say, "Unkalji has his own business." I don't think unkalji believed too much in his saree shop. In the same way, I don't believe that everyone who proudly boasts his self-employment is a visionary. (But unkaljiis very rich.)

But let us, for a moment, suppose that they are visionaries, who believe strongly in the power of their dreams. If that is too hard, let us consider a subset of these people who pen these inspirational articles. (Surely, they believe in what they're saying? - Or they'd hardly be able to say it this well.)

And now, I'd like to ask them, "What makes you think you are alone in this?" Are the billions of employees around the world people without dreams or people who are unwilling to act upon them? Is there not a possibility that their jobs (oh, such a derogatory word nowadays) allow them to do precisely that? Commonality of dreams and interests - isn't this what all our great organizations (including yours, dear inspirational entrepreneur) thrive upon?

As for the issue of sacrifice, I think it is a deeply human quality, not reserved for a select few. People sacrifice different things: some sacrifice their careers for their family and others, vice-versa. Which sacrifice is greater; which is nobler? Are we even in a position to make this judgement?

Lastly, I'd like to refute two common notions which are making rounds on the internet: (1) entrepreneurs are the sole authorities on creativity, and (2) risk is a measure of how 'big' you have lived. Human beings value creativity greatly and yearn to express themselves through whichever opportunities are available to them. Yes, even those people doing boring, structured day-jobs. It certainly seems more challenging to walk an untrodden path, but creativity is really a choice. You choose how creative you want to be.

As for risk, it's hard to think of reasons that make safety a shameful thing. It is not a potent drug like risk is, but each man chooses his own poison. There are certainly other drugs out there. If risk is the reason someone chooses to start-up an enterprise, he is not too different from a gambler in a casino. There are many reasons to start-up a company; this, sadly, isn't the soundest one.

To conclude, I'd like people to reconsider their "if you don't build your dream, someone will hire you to build theirs" statements, because frankly, it's a nonsensical argument. We are all here to build dreams. That's the purpose of life.

Flashing Lights and Ladies - The Story of Vegas

It isn't every day that you get to live in a pyramid. And not all pyramids fire photon canons into the black sky. A month ago, I stayed on the twenty-seventh floor of the Luxor - with a view of both the magnificent phenomenon that is Vegas and the serene Nevada mountains in the distance, which seemed to be embroiled in a "I'm greater than you" debate with one another.

The World's Best
Everything in Las Vegas is the world's best - the cigars, the women, the music, the spirits, the shameless neon brilliance, the towering replicas of everything Americans consider grand. In fact, in Las Vegas, they will make you believe that their New York is better than the one on the East Coast, and that there is more love in 'Paris' than in the French capital. There is Venice and Rome and Burma and China... Everything is the World's best. The world's best music shows, the world's best strip clubs, the world's best limos - God knows what else.

Vegas is bright
In the night, planes get confused. As soon as they cross the dull Rockies and the canyons nearby, they are mesmerized by a city that dances in front of their eyes, in colours and in song. And to make matters worse, there is a hotel (my own) smashing light into the sky.

During the first night, our wanderings took us to the end of the strip, and therefore we were subjected to the immense Fremont Street Experience. The sky isn't real any more. It is fabricated by men, and it does what it is commanded to do. It can burst into flames and calm into the gentlest piano music at the clap of a hand. And all around us, women and alcohol and casinos and movie-star lookalikes.

Our fine Chevy looked hopelessly out of place in a city where people firmly believe that 'bigger is better'. Newer is also better, except when it comes to casinos: because there's not much that can compare with the Caesar's Palace (where a friend lost $300 in half an hour), the Bellagio or the MGM Grand.

The most unchanging city in the world
Vegas is a religion and it is a God. There are conjurers here, unlike anything history has ever produced. I still wonder about certain things I saw during my 'Cirque du Soleil' experience. They cannot be explained except by magic. But I won't question them, because such things happen in Vegas.

There are limousines longer than roads in this city, and planes which fly in at 8pm and out at 4am to entertain their masters. Vegas, which can easily be considered the work of the devil, leaving Dubai far behind, stands unashamed in all its glory as the world looks on. So often, in its dazzling brilliance, it shows the world its shame and asks people to embrace it. Las Vegas might be the future.

In Vegas, they will sink ships, recreate Hawaii, build Rome and make water sing just to entertain you. It's a magical place, soulless as it is. It is full of emptiness, and it proudly stands as a symbol of what might come.

Vegas is so far ahead of everything else that it doesn't change.

Meaning

She glided down the steps which had been cut into the face of the teal mountain, dancing in and out of the mist rhythmically. On her shapely hips, she carried a basket made of the finest cane money could buy. The delicate sound of thunder rung through the clouds, as globulets of rain did form. But they did not fall. They were held in the sky, magically suspended, refracting the beams of light until they formed colours humans could no longer decipher. A melancholy song pervaded the bloody sky, giving meaning to the mountains - speaking of their forgotten past. Boisterous children seemed to be running down the hill, but they were frozen - like a still picture captured from a motion film. And in the distance, a poet cried.

You don't need to understand the paragraph in its entirety to experience the story which is being told to you. In fact, the moment you start asking for explanation, you dilute the overall effect - you trivialize several immortal moments by bringing it down to your level of understanding. You cannot accept the fact that rain can be held in the air, or that children can run and laugh while still stationary. You want everything to conform to rules, and that is the problem. Everything cannot be explained. Well, perhaps it can be, but it's better that it isn't.

Art in its purest form is completely indistinguishable from music. Music in its purest form needs no lyrics. Meaning is something we create to explain experiences. Sometimes, there are just experiences, and no meaning.

Freedom of Drowning

The Skiatook Lake is a short drive away from where I stay, and it was upon a friend's advice that we rented a car and headed over for what promised to be an adrenaline-filled afternoon. Soon, keeping with the American themes of total freedom and "only you are responsible for yourself", four novices were in possession of a powerboat, fully fueled and ready-to-go.

"How does it work?" I asked the sleepy looking moustached man.

He promptly showed me the controls - forward, neutral, reverse and steering. There was an array of other buttons which he didn't care to talk about.

"What about life-jackets?" I queried.

"Ya want 'em, eh?" he asked nonchalantly.

I nodded vigorously. I'm not proud of my swimming prowess, and I certainly didn't want to test them in the unfathomable depths of America's deep blue lakes.

"Alright," he said, checking a box on a sheet he held in his hand. "They're under tha seat rai' here. Please sign this paper sir."

And then he read out an entire list of instructions at breakneck pace. There was something about getting into the water, something about wakes, smoking on the boat, drinking while driving, so on and so forth. These were all instructions, probably critical, which people routinely overlooked.

Fast forward half an hour: one of my friends was in the water. He certainly didn't know how to swim. Another fellow jumped in. This guy was a better swimmer, but clearly pulling someone out of the water was beyond him. We threw ropes into the water, and inflated rubbers, tubes and anything else we could find that floats. There was much splashing and shouting. In the distance, motorboats cut through the water with fluid ease. No one knew or cared about what was happening with us.

We turned the boat around. Herculean efforts and more hyperventilation: finally they were back on board. As they coughed-up all the water they had swallowed, there were only two things on my mind: how deep the lake was, and how stupid the laws were.

I understand the importance of freedom, and the fact that people must be allowed to do what they want to as long as they don't infringe upon the rights of others. But we must remember that such absolute freedom can be realized successfully only in an ideal society where everyone is fully aware of their abilities, strengths and limitations; where they are fully aware of the worst consequences their action or inaction might elicit. Not to have boards warning you about how deep the water is, not to have a coastguard in sight, and handing out speedboats without proper instructions is hardly a very smart thing to do.

All this only brings me to a much bigger debate - one which I'm currently not fully equipped to debate: To what extent, if at all, is the State responsible for its citizens' safety? Should people be allowed to do dangerous, and often stupid, things just because they signed a piece of paper, which exonerates one particular party from all blame?

I think not. People can be allowed to have fun. But sometimes, they die.

New York City

It's late in the night and I'm walking down 6th Avenue towards the Empire State Building, hoping to catch a glimpse of the tricolour lighting up the top of one of America's most recognizable monuments. I'm walking through the chilly air that seems to hang at every turning. A pretty woman, smoking a cigarette, sporting a Gucci bag and wearing a figure-kissing dress walks briskly across the road; the road is a still picture as she walks. Her skirt, split down the side, catches the breeze. These things don't bother New Yorkers. I turn into a Starbucks, as she walks away. "That's three dollars and seventy-five."

Macy's is closed now. That doesn't stop the bustle at its door. Some distance away, an old homeless man sleeps. People walk past him, laughing, singing, and sometimes on the phone. Wrapped in a woolen shawl, he sleeps comfortably on a wooden stool. Mornings are chilly in New York. That's why people wear suits.

I decide to return home after being trapped in Times Square like a deer in headlights. I'm spinning, turning, seeing so many things. Finally I'm asleep.

The next day begins on the same note. Everyday here begins on the same note. I take the tube from Grand Central Station. I'm going to Brooklyn. I want to see what the buzz about the bridge is all about. There's a buzz about everything here. I make a fool of myself trying to buy tickets. How am I to know the machine is smart enough to return change? I'm trying to fish for the exact coins and notes, looking at George Washington's picture, when a beefy guy pushes me out of his way impatiently. Things are fast here, faster perhaps than in Bombay. But everything is structured. There's no uncertainty about anything.

I reach Brooklyn and naturally, I'm engrossed in the Manhattan skyline. I miss out on what is happening directly in front of me. A newly married couple heads for the Pier straight from the church. They're surrounded by bridesmaids, best-men - the whole entourage. They kiss for a long time. Camera-shutters sound. It doesn't matter. Smart-ass Mexican guy standing next to me shouts, "Game over, man!", which the groom smilingly acknowledges. "Keep the bridesmaids too," yells another voice.

Before heading back to 42nd Street, I stop at Wall Street. All the big banks are here, and all the fancy TV channels which tell you 'Mutual Funds are subject to market risks'. I see a man outside The Trump Building, dressed impeccably in a costly suit. But he's sitting on the sidewalk and smoking a cigarette. Not exactly what you'd expect. Then again, people here hardly do things which are commonly expected.

Midtown again. There are photographers everywhere. It's pretty mad. On top of towers and in the subway. I'm one of them. I don't think people in New York City go to work without their fancy cameras. I need coffee again. Three dollars and seventy-five cents.

As I exit the shop, the same things greet me. Everything greets me. In fact, in all its overbearing diversity, New York looks mundane. The whole world is here, dressed in suits, vests, baggy caps and panama hats, shorts with ties, shirtless with trousers on, dresses that end over the navel, dresses that start over the neckline... Everything.

And then, I see a woman - Caucasian, fairly large-boned, and completely naked. She's standing in the middle of Times Square, outside a Broadway Theatre. She's campaigning for something, covered only in paint. And nothing else. She doesn't seem to mind, but no one else does either. People are walking past her casually. People don't have the time for naked women on Times Square.

I take another picture of Adriana Lima, who is smiling from a huge billboard far above our heads. She's looking rather stunning in her single piece swimsuit, but then there are women prettier than her on the NYC roads perhaps. They all mostly end up heading into one of those stores with large hoardings on top of them.

I think I need coffee. The usual: $3.75.

I walk out and sit down on a park-bench, to drink my coffee and read 'Kafka on the Shore'. I turning to page two-hundred-and-forty when I realize I'm sitting next to a couple who are visiting New York just like me. But they're smiling, talking and laughing. Their faces are very close, like in the moments just before you kiss someone. But they don't. I get up and walk.

I have not even finished the coffee yet when the antithesis of romance sets itself upon me. "Throw the ring away, Jane, and walk out of the house!" yells a man on top of his voice. "I don't care." I throw my coffee cup away and watch the man disappear around the bend. According to the movies, he ought to be heading to a Gentlemen's Club now, no? Anyway, I'm at Madisson Square Garden. I take out my camera.

I try to enter a busy souvenir shop. It's run by a large African-American lady. She treats me like some autistic child who is incapable of normal understanding. I feel a little discriminated against. I look up at the board which says 'NY Penn Station' and smile at America's history. Oh, the irony of it all!

I think I've had enough for the day. I've seen more, heard more, felt more and eaten more than I ought to have. I feel like the New York Times already, with omniscient eyes and all. The NY Times covers theatre just the way they cover the world, they claim. I have to see that for myself. I'll go watch  'Phantom of the Opera' tomorrow, I think.

But now, I need some coffee.

Chapter I: The Boy Who Endured (2)

Part 2 of 4: The boy still endures. After Part 1, that is. Read on, folks. And do share if you like what you read. Hope you enjoy the beginning of "The Steadfast Tin Soldier?", which will be out in the online market soon. Cheers!

A summer coming to an end leaves you with a lot of unpleasant feelings, even if it will be remembered for all the wrong reasons. That inevitable dread and those all-but-continuous Monday-morning blues… But however boring the holidays may have been, the new term is always unwelcome; this time all the more so. Albeit the recent happenings (or must I say mis-happenings) would suggest the contrary, let me assure you that the new term was as unwelcome as ever. A broken right forearm, for a right-hander, is quite unasked for and I definitely didn't summon the chickenpox home; but when both arrive with such unsolicited punctuality just a week after your 10^th standard boards, it’s definitely not your day! A dangerous beginning? – Wait till you hear the rest.

I’ve been fortunate enough to experience most of the maladies known to mankind at present, as well as a couple the docs are not yet familiar with. Malaria, dengue, jaundice, flu, measles… the list goes on. I will not burden you here by completing the list as that will take a few pages at least – which the publisher is unwilling to give me. But the point remains that – even though I’m a veteran, an old war-horse when it comes to facing these minor setbacks to the immune system, this was definitely something else. A potent combo.

With one arm jabbed with a Butterfly needle and the other still suffering the after-effects of a previous jab (I had, by now, named them ‘Batterfly needles’), all I could do is pray and hope that things get better… and soon. You see needles and nurses have a way. Your vein is apparently good for only that much time and then it begins to swell up and do funny things of that sort. It no longer takes in the IV fluid and you are in great trouble. That’s when the nurse apparates to the spot looking like one of those creatures with a halo on their heads… It’s definitely not that they look terrific; just that their white overalls and your dreary state combine to make you think along such lines – such is the phantasmagoria. Definitely, they don’t look great. I might have enjoyed my time in the hospital a lot more had they made nurses the way they appear in movies. So these people appear and then begins the story of ‘Clamp down his hand and search for the vein’ – the more attempts, the more your agony. Such things happen when you are at the docs’.

Ten days into my misery, the docs relieved me and I was free to go home. Too bad mom didn't as she grounded me for another fortnight; ergo I lay there in my bedroom, staring at the bare ceiling, studying the various patterns in the new cracks that were developing in the plaster. This went on day after day (or was that a month) occasionally with friends coming over trying to look as sympathetic as they could, and those ‘not-so-good-pals’ not trying too hard to suppress their glee. Why they went through all the trouble to visit someone they didn't want to see, I will probably never understand but they all did come. And they all looked smug. A few, I must mention however, did look pretty sad – but this was because they thought I was recovering too fast. But all this didn't really hurt. It was those questions which inflicted the greatest pain…

Monday, 15^th May – 1500 hrs: Ramesh entered the scene. Attached to his behind was this gargantuan creature, reminding me very much of the Cyclops of the Hellenic Republic, much less due to his size than his stupid looks. In fact, had someone stuck a club into one of his hands, I’d have believed that the one-eyed monster was right there! I’ll just refer to him here as the unknown stupid looking guy (USLG); I know I mustn't be prejudiced, but if that protruding lower lip and dazed smile weren't enough, with the ‘My name is… du..uh…,’ he was taking the meaning of the word ‘stupid’ to a whole new dimension.

I continued to study the strange species in my bedroom and it was Ramesh who broke the silence; “So dude, how are you? It has been over two weeks now… And by the way, this – my cuz,” he pointed. I assumed ‘cuz’ stood for ‘cousin.’

So that’s what it is!

“So you broke your hand…” the USLG observed. He seemed compelled to make a statement – that statement – at that point.

No I just fancy having my hand in a cast and getting people to sign it.

“Yeah! How did you know about that?” I asked, not really trying to hide the sarcasm.

“I noticed your hand, you know… And the cast told me everything,” he said looking smug. Elementary, my dear Watson.

“Oh, I never really thought it would be so obvious!”

Ramesh cut in, perhaps sensing that his cousin’s deducing capabilities didn’t really appeal to me. “So how did that happen?” he asked pointing at the bandaged forearm.

“Oh you don’t know!” Now came the hard part – the well thought up lie.

“It was in that football match we played in the beach,” I said, “It ended in a two each impasse. And we had the penalty shootout. I, as usual, was their shot-stopper…” I gloated.

I had a gulp of the tender-coconut water kept beside me. The mouth always goes dry when I try to pass off lies, making me the most unconvincing liar in the history of the art.

“That first shot curling into the top right… I didn't let it past… though I did land on my hand a bit later. And the rest is history.”

“Just as I thought it would be: Football. You know Arvind,” said Ramesh, turning to face the thing which now had a name. “He’s the school’s goalkeeper… And a bloody good one too!”

I smiled back sheepishly. Normally, it would have been a well accepted complement but not when I was trying to conceal the truth. Who would believe that I would slip over a stationary football and end up like this?! Stumble over an innocuous football and fracture an arm! I’d be the laughing stock of the society. “Our regular goalkeeper, Ashwin Ramachandran, succumbs to the stationary football” – Never.

The story of the chickenpox was a more interesting one.

Two days into my gloom, Anuj, a close bud, came home to pay homage to the felled veteran. The conversation went on for an hour, give or take a half, with me doing most of the talking (as I realized that bed-ridden people are more the ‘talkers’ than the ‘talkees’). It ended pretty abruptly when Anuj, with whom my conversations usually never cease, said that he felt a bit sick and wanted to go home and hit the sack. He left and I resumed watching TV and on it, the story of the Tamil hero who fired 30 rounds from a six-shooter pistol while he stopped a few super-fast trains with his other hand.

Later that evening, the phone buzzed and Anuj’s voice emanated from it.

“Dude, I’m sick… The doctors have diagnosed me with chickenpox…”

Yes. It was too late.

Many visitors-who-kept-their-distances later, the arm did heal. So did the pox. But the experience had left behind some deeply etched scars though, not as much on the face as on the mind. Nevertheless, I had managed to rid myself of all the ailments which had plagued me! Here I must mention that it wasn't long before the local elderly diagnosed that I was finally at large, free from house-arrest, especially when my fluid cover drive – off Anuj’s left-arm fast-medium crashed into Mr Shaanthram’s window. Not very surprisingly, ‘A NO BALL GAMES PLEASE’ was found on the compound walls of my apartment complex the very next morning, inked in brilliant red.

Chennai’s never really short of playgrounds, or maybe the boys are incredibly innovative. Soon, our next Chepauk Stadium was the neighbouring block car park with the pacers running in from the side lane. And the game went on. Even Brother was back, but only for a week! He had some sort of working experience to go to – it was called an ‘intern’ or something like that. Abhinav studies in the Indian Institute of Technology – only crème-de-la-crème get into IITs, people say. But bro says that IITs have their share of dullards too. Wonder how they get in? Anyway, bro’s a decent leg–spinner, so that added to the excitement. Brother-versus-brother is always a nice sight and it was an even better sight when I hit his googly clean and straight for a six when it was 5 to win off one ball! Who would realize that the mirth would die so young?

The next chapter, called 'Normandy', will be up on this blog in a week's time. Stay tuned, by subscribing to this blog or by following me on Facebook here.

Do visit Leadstart Publishing's website, where you should soon be able to find my book listed. The book will be available on major online portals such as Flipkart & Amazon in 7-10 days, and in bookstores, a little while after that.

The Collector Of Broken Things

I remember my days as a child - a time of brightly coloured walls - through fading memories in sepia.

I'm a collector. It's not a hobby as much as a neurotic disorder. Throughout life, I've been a victim of overflowing cupboards and jam-packed drawers, simply because I cannot throw stuff away. I think it's because I cannot completely dissociate an object from the memory it is linked to. If I throw something away, it feels like I'm throwing away an event of my past; like I'm allowing it to be forgotten. And that is very depressing indeed.

Today I was rummaging through my almirah grimly, preparing to, in the worst case, empty it out, having submitted to the latest ultimatum that mom issued. A bittersweet search ensued, as I tried salvaging memories which were so desperately trying to run away from me forever.

I performed my usual trick of shifting stuff from one drawer to the next, from one unreachable crevice of the shelf to another spot where it would stay hidden for a few more months. The reasoning behind my absurd actions is something which eludes me - as the need to look at these objects and reminisce about the past never arises, unless I'm told to throw them away.

But every time I look at lucky pencils from historical examinations, torn-up tickets and broken relics of first-dates, certificates which will never be useful to me anymore, drawings and sketches from kindergarten, nearly-unidentifiable faded photographs, and birthday presents from the last decade, I am filled with a sadness - a sadness which tells me that these times will never come again; that these useless objects are the only things which preserve these spectacular memories.

And when I look at the wall, just behind the fridge, I notice the spot where I once used to stand-up upright as my brother measured my height with his Nataraj HB pencil. This was done ceremoniously week-after-week until I finally stopped growing, or perhaps until that one-week when we forgot. And then, I remember that corner of the wall where he squirted pomegranate juice, because the fruit amused him.

Even the thought of leaving this home alarms me, for it is not just a home, but a cauldron of memories.

Because without these objects, I will only be left with brightly coloured memories of fading walls in sepia.

Chapter I: The Boy Who Endured (1)

Part 1 of 4: Because long blog-posts are not my thing.

Ladies and gentlemen, this is the first in a series of four blog-posts which will cover the first two chapters of my debut novel "The Steadfast Tin Soldier?", published by Leadstart Publishing and releasing in July 2013. Once you reach the end, do let me know what you think in the comments section. And if you enjoy what you read or if you just want to do your good-deed for the day, don't forget to share the post!

Underlining the most important points in my essay, I glanced up at the clock only to realize that there were only two more minutes left to tick away. After the fiasco that was the Mathematics exam, I knew it couldn’t get worse. But this was better than what I had bargained for! CBSE’s English board exam was proving to be a stroll in the park. A blind cat could top this exam, I thought to myself.

Nevertheless, one must never be overconfident, and I rechecked some answers in the Literature section. Soon, the only loose string left to tie up was the one which would ensure that my answer booklet didn’t fall apart. So, with great composure, I did precisely that. Then I deposited my booklet in the invigilator’s arms and walked out in gladiatorial fashion.

This great big flourish was precisely the boost I needed before my last board exam, Science, which was the only thing which now stood between me and a wonderfully languid vacation. I walked out of the examination centre with my chest puffed out and my head held high. There was a spring in my stride, a smile on my lips and a song in the air. I laughed at stupid things all the way home and as soon as I stepped through the doorway, I threw my bag to one corner of the room and stripped myself off my shirt. Throwing it lazily into the washing machine, I proceeded to turn on my computer and play round after round of ‘Counter-Strike’- a much needed post-exam stress buster.

The next day, my preparations for the last exam of the summer commenced. Everything went as planned and I familiarized myself with all aspects of the sciences. If I wasn’t this modest, I’d say that I was bloody good at it. So, as expected, I was in high spirits on examination day.

Whistling a tune I know not from where, I pranced about the house slipping into my uniform. Mom stared at me as if I was a strange species from the Pacific depths and Dad gave me one of those looks which he normally reserves for the mentally unfortunate. None of this deterred me as I picked off my Idlis one after the other.

Checking my pockets for appropriate stationery – pen, pencil, eraser and all – I smiled a contented smile. A few more hours and I’d be free – as free as a frikkin’ bird!

I finished the routine check by opening the compartment of my bag where I normally kept the hall ticket. Not finding it there, I sedately walked up to my drawer and rummaged through its contents, careful not to hurt sheets of white which bore resemblance to the ticket. It wasn’t there either. Sensing a slight jolt in my diaphragm, I jogged to my bedroom and checked the study table. No hall ticket. Feeling faint, nauseated and numb, I collapsed on my bed. And then I ran around the house, tossing aside cushions and ransacking desks and tables. Still ‘no’… Bloody hell, I thought, this is the end.

I did what any normal fellow would do under such dire circumstances – I told my parents. And then I did what routine guys did, again – I regretted telling them. It was quite apparent that they couldn’t help me in any way whatsoever, apart from rummaging spaces I had already rummaged and running about flustered as I was myself. But the worst part: the questions – “WHERE DID YOU KEEP IT?” they asked, as though I had hidden it somewhere and had challenged them to a scavenger hunt.

My head was swimming the way unfortunate ants swim in your tea as I sat beside dad while he negotiated the Chennai roads. We said nothing to each other and I was choking on the silence. At every traffic signal, he’d look at his cell-phone one more time as if it would tell him something. My head was entirely blank. Even if I wrote the exam, I wondered if much good would come off it!

As I alighted from the car, I told dad that he needn’t join me on my way to the exam-hall. Nothing good can come off it, I thought. But parents seldom listen to logic, do they? So, ignoring my rationale, Dad got out of the car and walked me towards the open ground where we were supposed to gather. The closer we moved to the crowd, the more wary I became – I didn’t want dad having to explain how and why I lost my hall-ticket! So, begging him to stay where he was, I proceeded to attempt solving the problem myself.

He wished me luck as I walked away and told me to do well in the exam, even though I knew he was actually hoping that I get to write it in the first place!

The crowd was getting itself into order, in the form of sections and lines, as I approached them trying to look as unfazed as possible. “Breathe deeply,” I said to myself. I joined the assembly of students in the ground; friends waved and I waved back as if nothing was wrong. I decided to confront my teachers at the first opportunity possible and tell them the entire story.

Having said the prayer and sung the National Anthem- as was the routine before every exam -- I walked up to my Principal. I had an elaborate speech prepared, but watching my classmates disappear into the exam halls, all I could manage was – “Help.”

They made me relate the story to them, again and again – first to my principal, then to my teachers, then to the principal of the school where the examination was being held and then to some CBSE authority who couldn’t care less. Feeling like a convict whose story wasn’t being believed, I heard them discuss the various nuances of educational laws and ethics – the CBSE is apparently very thorough.

“How can we be sure he’s the boy he claims he is?” asked one elderly man.

“It’s not ethical to allow him write an exam like this… It will set a precedent,” said a rather fat lady with a mole on her nose.

More people joined the discussion, even as the preliminary bell rang, which meant the exam would commence in less than five minutes. And here I was, in the school ground, staring at a group of teachers who seemed to be in a team-huddle. All the time, I saw dad standing a fair distance away nibbling away at his nails.

A few long minutes (and what seemed like two-thirds majority) later, a teacher walked towards me and threw me a smile of pity. “It’s all right,” she said. “We will permit it this one time, if you promise not to do it again.”

“I promise,” I said, feeling rather foolish.

“What we’re doing today might well be against the law,” she said conspiratorially. “But anyway, we have decided to allow you this time. Off you go!”

I didn’t understand why someone would want to impersonate me during something as trivial as a board exam, but there’s no point pondering about these things. I waved at dad and ran like hell.

The exam was relatively easy; the most difficult question I faced was when I was asked my hall-ticket number. I managed to pull out the digits from the crevasses of my memory. Throughout the exam, I prayed the exam would never get over, as I didn’t want to face the firing squad once this was over. I didn’t want the holidays to begin. What an anticlimax, I thought.

Alas, the exam did end. And I was left to face the music. Dad blasted me for an hour-and-a-half and said that he hadn’t seen a lad as irresponsible as I in his entire life! Mom didn’t talk to me properly for a day; when she did, she blamed herself for bringing me up the way she did. If that wasn’t all, my grandparents forced me to go to the temple and wash away some evil-eyes. If my brother, Abhinav, was at home I’d have got a few mouthfuls from him as well.

I tried defending myself, of course: I told them that someone ought to have flicked it from my bag on my way home in a crowded bus. Unfortunately, since nothing else was missing- What kind thief opens your bag, flicks your hall-ticket and leaves everything else, they asked me.

And then it got worse, thanks to grandma. While folding my shirt, she discovered a rather fibrous lump in my pocket – one which broke even as she tried unrolling it. The fragments would have been dismissed as unimportant scrap had it not been for a portion of a very familiar seal which was still visible. And only then did it strike me.

I hoped no one else identified the seal, but alas, more evidence came into existence. A rather soiled passport-sized photograph of mine was discovered, and with it was signed my death warrant. Nothing can be more blasphemous than tossing your hall-ticket into the washing machine.

As the book is finally running its final lap on its own in the offices of my publisher in Bandra, I am unable to provide you the links to the book immediately. It shall be put up as soon as it is made available to me, as a late edit (in this space) and in subsequent posts. Stay tuned!

Coming Up Next!

The arduous climb - that is publishing of a novel - is nearing completion, and I'm afraid of heaving too great a sigh of relief, lest the hard-work done so far comes apart in unforeseen ways. But barring Acts of God or a complete collapse of human society, "The Steadfast Tin Soldier?" should be up for grabs very soon, both in bookstores and online.

It is with great delight that I tell you folks that I will soon be putting up a few chapters of my novel on this very blog. Do stick around and be among the first people to read the story of the steadfast tin soldier.

To stay updated, you can subscribe for updates from this blog (which, I assure you, will not spam) or like my Facebook page. Actually, you can do both!

Thanks a lot for your support folks. Hope you enjoy the novel as much as I enjoyed penning it. Cheers!

Collapse of an Arabic Dream

"We envision a great empire extending from Morocco in the west to Pakistan in the East, from Turkey in the North to Zanzibar in the South, encompassing of the Mediterranean, the Arab peninsula and even Persia among other lands. Together, we will form a power-block which will change the world," said an Arab friend a few months ago, sending chills down my spine.

With the saturation of American power, owing to their reluctance to intervene and over-commit their resources, and with the rise of the Chinese, the reinvention of the erstwhile caliphate, only more powerful than before, could well expedite World War III, I thought at the time. But it was clear what this idea, preached from the towers of several masjids, meant to many residents of the Arab states - safety, strength and power.

Too many times have the forces of from all over the world taken middle east Asia and Africa for granted owing to their relatively weak status on the international front. And so, it is true that a block comprising of so many nations might finally accomplish something the GCC is still failing at - having a voice. But what such a block might actually do is a complicated question with possibly dangerous answers.

It is, however, becoming increasingly difficult, day-after-day, to realize such an ambitious dream. The flight of fancy crashes and burns even before taking-off, even as the world looks on in awe and moderate amusement. Everyone turns towards the US of A and Europe with questions, suspecting that they have played a sneaky hand in the collapse of several nations in the region, but with no tangible proof available, answers are not a guarantee.

It is rather stunning how the political scenario has changed in this region over the last two decades, with almost every country undergoing incredible change in viewpoints, government and policy. And no change has really cemented relationships and gone too far in realizing the dream of a pan-Arab block.

Iraq

Everyone says that the US of A blundered as usual when they supplied the "defender of Arabia" with information, technology and weapons during his war with Iran, although they were only doing what they do best to protect themselves and their allies - to destabilize a rising enemy. They didn't gain much from the campaign, of course, which only helped create a far more dangerous enemy and reunite the Arab Peninsula with Iraq.

But what was a direct consequence of the campaign was an intensification of a then simmering hatred between the Shias and the Sunnis. This has, over the past decades, corrupted the fabric of society north of the Arabian peninsula. In fact, a few days ago, I was shocked to hear a devout muslim say, "I'm a Shia first, and then a Muslim!"

Egypt

Gamal Abdel Nassar was one of the first people to dream of such a great union of states. With the union of Syria and Egypt, the idea of Arab nationalism rose powerfully in the hearts of the Egyptians, rivaling the rampant rise of Zionism in Al Misr's northern neighbour. The pan-Arab dream faced a setback when Egypt was defeated by Israel in 1967. The Egyptians who saw themselves as culturally distinct and superior to their Arab brethren grew in number and in stature.

And it stayed this way until very recently. Hosni Mubarak positioned himself as a diplomat who was willing to converse with Israel and who was even welcoming to America. By embracing a rather secular approach, he distanced himself from Islamic fundamentalism, much to the dismay of several Arab states. Egypt couldn't have been any further from Nassar's dream when Tahrir Square happened. Egyptians wanted a country with more transparency, lesser corruption and more distanced from Israel.

Two years since then, the shape that the movement has taken has rendered it farcical. Mubarak keeps getting tried every now and again, with Egyptians wishing for his blood, but the man with declining health manages to live to die another day. Meanwhile, in Cairo, power has been handed to Mohammed Morsi who, in the opposition's words, is Egypt's new pharaoh - much like his predecessor. The post-Mubarak constitution hangs ineffectually in the air, warlords continue to thrive in upper Egypt and the country is far too busy in setting itself straight to even think about a pan-Arab goal.

Libya-Tunisia

It was in Tunisia where everything started. Bradley Manning, charged by the United states for aiding the enemy among other 'crimes', gave proof to the peoples' latent suspicions that Ben Ali was, in fact, corrupt. Ben Ali stepped down soon, bolstering the Arab spring, and fled to Saudi Arabia. For the first time in history, Islamic parties in Tunisia would not be illegal. But what has ensued is a period of perpetual confusion and turmoil.

In stark contrast to Tunisia which voted against a corrupt but liberal 'dictator', neighbouring Libya fought for the downfall of Islamist, pan-Africanist and pan-Arabist leader Muammar Gaddafi. While he fought the opposition, much like Bashar al-Assad, his forces eventually caved and he was killed in the most morbid manner. The only thing that seems to have come out of this revolution, however, is the public display of his corpse in a Libyan marketplace for one and all to see. And referendum, of course.

Arab Peninsula

The leaders of prosperous lands of oil were under threat, albeit temporarily, by the Arab Spring which panned across several nations in Asia and Africa. The repercussions are still being felt across nations in the region, as the sheikhs are aware about the mortality of their positions in society. 'Democracy' seemed to be the buzz-word in different parts of the Gulf; although what the people, who have never experienced it, understand from the term is questionable. 'Do they really need democracy?' people asked, citing examples of Qatar, United Arab Emirates, Kuwait and other prosperous Arab states.

The Arab Spring no longer exists. The revolution was nipped at the bud, but what about the idea? Does it still exist? Only time will tell.

Syria-Lebanon-Jordan-Palestine

The League of Nations, the British and the French will be in wonder as to how their policies of divisive politics still thrive in the region and continue to call the shots. The last time these states were together was during the Ottoman rule. But with the fall of the Turks, the Europeans seized their opportunity to irrevocably divide the people and confuse the region.

The only thing that holds these nations together is their culture and more significantly, their common hatred and fear of despotic Israel. The yearning for a greater Syria, which aims for the consolidation of these states and Iraq, is still alive in some believers. But that's what it will remain - a yearning.

Bashar Assad, with his reckless politics, has thrown Syria into an insane civil war which seems to have no end. If the rebels had won quickly, as in Libya, there might have been some justification for so many deaths, but now, it is a pointless war that rages on in Damascus, Aleppo, Homs and Qusair. By not losing the war, the Government thinks it is winning. And the rebels no longer know if they are fighting Bashar Assad or Shia Islam.

Iran further complicated the issue by supplying the government with more armaments, and the Lebanese  outfit, the Hezbollah, has joined a war which isn't its own. The Arab countries, vanguards of sunniism didn't want to be left behind as they promptly began supporting a motley collection of shooting men calling themselves the Free Syrian Army.

The Syrian war could well be the culmination of decades of festering hatred between Shias and Sunnis, and this is being proven by the fact that men from East Africa are being sent to fight the war against Bashar al-Assad!

And recently an Imam of an Arab state issued the following decree - "Women of our states must be sent to Syria to entertain and boost the morale of the dying soldiers."

Strangely enough, this was not decried as inhuman and obscene. Instead, men sent their daughters and even divorced their wives so that they could enter this newest holy war. It might be prudent to question who the bigger enemy is - Israel or the Syrian Government? Because as the war rages on, Israel is the only winner, crushing the hapless Palestines further, as the world laments gross human rights violations.

Iran

Iran, the perpetual on-the-brink-nuclear power, is a threat to itself more than it is to the world. The only reason I include them in the pan-Arab dream is because several Arabs still think that Iran can be bullied into accepting their ways. They have failed for many centuries and there is no reason they should succeed now.

It is strange how their differences range from petty squabbles (should it be called 'Persian Gulf' or 'Arabian Gulf') to major international disputes (Iran-Iraq War of Saddam Hussein). Persians are a proud people who will not give in to their western neighbours. This fact is being exploited by certain despotic leaders who say that 'suicide is a route to heaven'. But with the major chunk of fighting happening further west, in Iraq, Iran seems to have found other troubles in the region.

The narrow stretch of sea between Qatar and Iran has the largest reservoir of natural gas in the world; South Pars-North Dome holds 50 billion barrels of natural gas condensates and 51 trillion cubic metres of gas. Add to this the fact that Qatar aided and abetted Saddam in his war with the Persians.

Turkey

Taksim became Tahrir a few days ago, with people reeling with a sense of deja-vu. What started as a peaceful gathering of people who wanted to save a park in Istanbul rapidly accelerated into a pan-Turk movement, aiming for the ouster of Prime Minister Erdogan.

Incidentally, Erdogan is the first PM after a series of ministers who has leaned both ways - towards Europe and towards Arabia. Although a pro-Islamist, his secular and moderate government was being viewed as a template for several Arab states. His gradual integration with the Arab people was not being viewed favourably by some, but he could have gone a lot further had he not committed political suicide by attacking a peaceful gathering.

Although religious institutions were beginning to be viewed more favourably in an increasingly European Turkey, and even though symbols like the head-scarf were being brought back slowly and steadily, his latest move seems to be a setback to years of hard labour in Turkey's Islamic and Arab integration.

             In fact we are further away from the Arab dream today than we were in any period in the past few centuries. It will soon no longer be a dream, but a distant memory.

Engineer, Okay. Author, Why?

Okay, we have one more IITian author in this world. How fabulous! How fantastic! How absolutely uninteresting. Here's another fellow who worked his way into, and out of, one of India's premier institutions only to render his education a pointless waste of time. If these are the thoughts running through your head right now,  I don't blame you. If this isn't what you're thinking, then you're being irrational. I don't see any reason why boys who grew up saying they love the sciences should end up becoming men who want nothing to do with them.

This is the point when I should start cribbing about the 'system' and how it failed me. But I've done enough of that already, so I'll talk about how I failed the system instead. Much like everyone else. I shall unabashedly admit that I believe I can live a far more fulfilling life by letting my hobby define me, rather than what I chose for a career. It's probably because you can choose your hobby; not so much your career.

But I'd be deemed a heinous liar if I said "I'm over engineering." That's the thing with relationships - you never really get over them. So, at least some part of me will remain an engineer forever. There were reasons why I chose to become a Chemical Engineer, and I still believe in them. Firmly.

So why writing? Why try straddling two professions, one of which makes it difficult to comprehend Randall Monroe's jokes? I can tell you the same thing I tell everyone - that writing is the only thing that I truly love - but I feel like telling you the truth. It's about opinions. It's about saying things that matter in memorable ways. Can I do that? I don't know. But I'll try. You can judge.

The point of this endeavour isn't to make some "quick bucks on the side" selling entertaining fiction, but to say stuff worth saying. It doesn't matter if you hate me, because that would mean I still have a point. But the moment you feel indifferent about the things I say - that's the day I'll stop writing.

And in order to decide, here is where you go. "The Steadfast Tin Soldier?", out in stores in July 2013, will be listed on the website soon. I will keep you posted here and on Facebook.

Thought Provenance

Three or four years ago, I adjudicated my first Parliamentary Debate, sitting on the Senate Steps of IIT Roorkee. The teams, comprising mainly of freshers and sophomores, battled each other on some topic which we thought was important back in those days. It wasn't the greatest of debates of course, but it was the first time I had tangible proof about how fickle the mind is.

First the Prime Minister, then the Leader of the Opposition, then the DPM... Each time a speaker left the floor, I found myself agreeing with him / her. It may sound stupid, but it wasn't until I looked at my notes later on that I realized I wasn't allowed to agree with both sides as they were logical converses of one another. So I began crossing out points and assigning them points until I knew where I stood on the issue. And then I decided who won. A few years hence, I'm probably only slightly better as an adjudicator, but I'm thoroughly aware of how easily influenced we all are. 

In the past, politicians used methods of mass propaganda to get into your head - to help you decide what you wanted. But in today's complicated world, things are worse. We no longer know what propaganda is and what isn't. Especially with the advent of social media, you are no longer entitled to an opinion of your own!

"Too often we enjoy the comfort of opinion without the discomfort of thought" - John F Kennedy

There are laugh-tracks in Sitcoms which tell me when to laugh, extensive pre-match and post-match analyses of all kinds of games to tell me who plays well and who doesn't, and a few thousand websites which tell me who is the most important member of each band. In fact, I am entirely certain that several people who rave about Page and Plant cannot differentiate between bass and drums.

When it comes to reading, Goodreads ensures that I open every book with prejudice. I already know what I need to think about a book, and I read only to confirm this predisposition. When it comes to movies, it is difficult to say that one doesn't think much of Inglourious Basterds. It is important to like whatever Tarantino makes. And it is wrong to say Sachin must retire. In short, Social Media has implemented perfect thought control: Self-regulated thought control!

When I see a status message with 200 likes, I'm tempted to 'like' it myself without even reading. Answers of Quora with a certain number of up-votes will fare well independent of their quality. People who are famous can say just about anything and get away with it.

"I actually worry a lot that as I get "popular", I'll be able to get away with saying stupider stuff that I would have dared say before. This sort of thing happens to a lot of people, and I would really like to avoid it" - Paul Graham

The other day Amitabh Bachchan said something like "laughter is the best medicine" on Twitter and it got re-tweeted fifty thousand times. The more number of re-tweets, the more the temptation becomes to re-tweet. Opinions get further reinforced. This ensures that whatever little originality you once had is ably quashed. And you ensure this happens to others, until the world cannot think any more.

This is all certainly not a new phenomenon, but the process has definitely been expedited in this shrinking world. I think I need to get away from all this for a while. I need solitude.

"Most people are other people. Their thoughts are someone else's opinions, their lives a mimicry, their passions a quotation" - Oscar Wilde

Choice

Coal eyes. Black, unruly hair. Glowing red cheeks. I almost bundled over the child in one of D-Mart's grocery aisles. Not over four feet tall, the little boy scampered back to his parents, perhaps scared that I'd try to run him over again. Laughing at his antics, I continued to the next aisle searching for the perfect soap.

Fiddling around with three-for-the-price-of-two packs, I was moving a few racks to my right when the kid appeared again at the corner of the aisle. His mother bent down to match his height and whispered some instructions in his left ear. She seemed to point at the dental-care shelves as she said something in a hurry before returning to her husband.

The child was rooted to the spot for a moment, eyes wide, in the big scary supermarket. Then, gathering some courage, he walked up to the toothpaste rack and looked up at it carefully. I smiled at the kid and tried to identify which paste he was looking at. It wasn't clear; so I let him be and returned to searching for my soap.

I picked out a few things I thought I needed, and a few more things which I knew I didn't. And then, I turned to look at the kid again. He still stood there, only looking at a different toothpaste now. He then walked around to the other side of the shelf, as if looking at things from a different angle would help him. By now, I saw frustration getting to him and I decided to help him.

"What do you want?" I asked.

"Toothpaste," he said quietly. Simple enough.

"Colgate, Pepsodent, Close-up or Sensodyne?"

He didn't respond. He looked scared. I had just uttered some meaningless words.

"Okay, I'll make it simple for you. What do you use at home - do you know what it looks like?"

"No," he said. "It looks red. And it looks blue and green." He was confused. And now, he was confusing me.

"Does it taste sweet? Or sour? Or cold?" I asked, prodding patiently.

"How does it matter?" he asked. I was trying to get him toothpaste. And he was asking me existential questions.

"Dammit kid, do you want cooling crystals in your paste?" I said losing my temper.

I quickly corrected myself realizing that he was nearly in tears. "Don't cry," I said. "Just tell me if you want salt in your toothpaste."

He turned away from me as tears came to his eyes. He ran to his mom rubbing his face. I exited the aisle quietly before they came back.

"Choice. Humbug."

Cricket, You Beauty!

I think Cricket is a highly underrated sport across the world. Come to think of it - it's spectacular really, eerie even, how closely Test Cricket reflects real-life! Victories and losses in life aren't decided by stand-alone moments. And usually, we know the outcome of events even before they actually conspire, which is the greatest criticism people have about cricket. "It's not dramatic enough," they say.

But neither is real life. You normally know what is in store for you - either victory or defeat, but you still have to play the game. You may need five runs in as many overs, but you don't say you're work is done and walk away. You still have to play and get those runs. Similarly, when things seem hopeless, as they did to the Delhi Daredevils a few minutes ago, you still have to play. You can feel the match going away from you, but you play with hope. You pray for magic, but magic in cricket isn't a sudden thing. Even magic is gradual.

No other sport can show you the depth of despair as well as cricket can. Neither can any other sport produce such gritty turn-arounds. But most importantly, no other sport gives you a second innings.

Creating Value

For any company to run, you need two kinds of people - Men-of-action and Men-of-the-mind. In other words, you need those who do and those who plan. People who can do both - constantly, effectively and modestly - are difficult to find  don't exist.

There are people who start off implementing their thoughts energetically, but like a Coke bottle, their effervescence dies out after the first few moments - there is no constancy. Most people think of themselves as both good thinkers and great doers, but sadly they are effective at only one of these, at best. And finally, there is the small issue of 'modesty' - a word which seems misplaced in the context - which usually proves to be the biggest stumbling block for people. Human beings and their insatiable egos yearn to 'rise' continuously in the eyes of others. Somehow, this prevents people from doing the things they did themselves a few years back - not because they no longer have the time to do them, but because they think it is 'below' them.

Think of the last time you asked a subordinate to prepare a presentation for you, or better still, think of the last time you asked the office-clerk to bring you coffee from the machine which is ten feet away. Surely, you have the time for that little walk down the aisle? You can jog if you want to save time, but certainly, you can do it yourself. But you don't. Not because you can't, but because you think you have graduated out of that stage in life when you had to get your own coffee.

If all this was only a matter of coffee, I wouldn't waste any time on it. But sadly, the coffee example is just that - an example. Our lives are replete with thousands of such incidents that we choose to overlook them completely. In fact, we have integrated ourselves so beautifully into the system that most of the value we 'create' during our entire lives are during the initial years of our careers. Most human beings in this world  start off as Men-of-action, and then make constant choices and career decisions which transform them into Men-of-the-mind. We all want to stop doing things so that we can start to plan on doing things.

You look at any career path and it gives you the same result: the formative years are hard when value is being created in the world, at the grass-root level: the postman delivers posts, the mechanic fixes the radiator, the software engineer creates actual code and the farmer grows wheat. As years go by, people gain experience; they grow older and wiser. Soon, the middle-aged postmaster is responsible for assigning young postmen to different circles, the chief-mechanic conjectures as to what problems radiators normally face, the manager of the software firm is busy streamlining the process of recruitment in the company and farmer lies back as his sons toil in the sun.

What is common in all these cases is that your net productivity as the years go by is declining. You will make more money and you will earn more respect, but your usefulness in absolute terms hasn't really increased, has it? Of course, the world needs planners to prevent absolute chaos from setting in, but these planners are not creators of value. They merely manipulate value which is produced.

And that is the absolute truth: everyone's ultimate goal is to move as far away from the creation stage as possible, to a point from where you can abstractly manipulate value. Highly respected professions such as Law serve to uphold a certain system which is there only to support other systems, which in turn produce actual goods and services. Politicians discuss policy and make legislation which enable other industries to perform. And then there is the vast and convoluted world of Finance, where people redefine the meaning of 'manipulation' on an everyday basis. These are people who sell concepts such as futures and options, rather than tangible real-world objects. How much money can I make from the fall of that share? How much can be gained from A acquiring B? How to I boost returns for this given estimate of risk?

These systems and professions have distanced themselves from the actual world of value, and have housed themselves in their own comfortable cocoon on the roof of the penthouse. No wonder then that almost 10% of the World's Billionaires derived significant portions of their incomes from hedge funds!

It's funny, but it's true. The farther you are from the job of actually creating something directly useful to the people around you, the richer and more powerful you are. And today, you don't even have to work your way to those positions. Education offers a lazier route for those who think the path is too tough. Education catapults you to one of those high places from where you can use great words and plan greater actions.

You end up with a larger phone-bill. But who complains about that? The company foots the bill, doesn't it?