Last evening we got back from a three day trip in our car to Dubbo, a town in interior New South Wales, a few hours drive from Sydney. The pictureseque drive winds through the Blue Mountains and across the countryside. With not too much time left in Australia, I try and soak up every remarkable experience. Here, it was the vastness of the countryside – miles and miles of green expanse with no sign of human habitat. Every now and then, we would pass through a settlement – some place with a quaint name and a sign that declared the population of that village/town – usually no more than a few hundred.
Dubbo is best known for the Taronga Western Plains Zoo. We hired cycles (Mohima and Mitaansh on a tandem) and went around the 6 km circuit. The zoo is remarkable not so much for the collection of animals (which you would find in most zoos) but for being well designed and visitor friendly, offering various options for transport – foot, cycle, electric cart and car.
The weather which was cloudy when we arrived, cleared up during the day, giving us an opportunity to witness the starriest nighttime sky at Dubbo. Amid mosquitoes the size of wasps, the local astronomer pointed out constellations, galaxies, Jupiter and its moons, using a neat laser pointer with a sharp focused green beam that pierced through the night sky like a light saber from Star Wars.
On our way back, we visited the Old Dubbo Gaol, where convicts were locked away in the 1800s. It is now a heritage museum with many interesting exhibits, including varieties of a hangman’s noose. The walls have pictures of its inhabitants over the years, locked away for offences ranging from chicken-stealing to murder. The building is very well preserved, and has a solitary confinement cell for visitors to experience the feeling of being alone in a pitch black chamber. We were informed that the prisoners spent the time in those cells tearing the buttons off their shirts, and scattering them around. They would then crawl around the cell looking for the buttons, and resume the game all over again when these were found.
*************************************************************************************It was only recently that I learnt that the word “Gaol” is said the same way as “Jail”. Apparently this is the British form of the word found typically in older books.
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
Friday, November 5, 2010
Job, satisfaction and the six day work-week
If money wasn’t a consideration, I would spend my days in a mix of leisure with family and friends, playing sport, writing, watching movies and travel. None of the jobs I have had so far provided these in significant measure. Some of them did involve writing and traveling, but not of the sort I would happily choose to do. I can’t recall that any of them actively encouraged the pursuit of leisure, sport or cinema.
When people in the corporate workforce profess a great passion for their jobs or satisfaction derived from it, my eyebrows involuntarily rise in skepticism. I can understand a musician, sportsperson or social activist being able to happily combine making a living with living a fuller life, but struggle to see what paper-pushers or sellers of products that people really don’t need find so exciting in their jobs.
Early in my career, I learnt that very few are blessed with jobs that provide the satisfaction one seeks. A job is of course enormously important in that it finances one’s necessities, but it is also vital that one’s job does not leave one “money rich and time poor”. It is only when one is left over with sufficient time to indulge in personally satisfying pursuits, that the drudgery of the everyday office routine seems worthwhile.
How much personal time does one need? At the start of my career, six days of my week i.e. 86% of my waking hours were pledged to my employer. Thankfully, things have progressively improved, or perhaps, I have sub-consciously sought out employers who are less greedy for time. My second and third employers had a five and a half day workweek, while the fourth had half Saturdays with alternate Saturdays off, which was even better. Eleven years and four job changes into my career, I finally found an organization with a genuine five day work week, and none of that “half day” nonsense. Not having to pledge that extra day or half day to one’s employer is literally like getting a fresh lease of life, something that is immeasurable in monetary terms.
Having two out of seven days to oneself is the norm in the Western world, but unfortunately a luxury to many in India. Having tasted blood in the form of the five day work-week, giving up any more of one’s time to the organization seems unthinkable. A positively backward career move.
When people in the corporate workforce profess a great passion for their jobs or satisfaction derived from it, my eyebrows involuntarily rise in skepticism. I can understand a musician, sportsperson or social activist being able to happily combine making a living with living a fuller life, but struggle to see what paper-pushers or sellers of products that people really don’t need find so exciting in their jobs.
Early in my career, I learnt that very few are blessed with jobs that provide the satisfaction one seeks. A job is of course enormously important in that it finances one’s necessities, but it is also vital that one’s job does not leave one “money rich and time poor”. It is only when one is left over with sufficient time to indulge in personally satisfying pursuits, that the drudgery of the everyday office routine seems worthwhile.
How much personal time does one need? At the start of my career, six days of my week i.e. 86% of my waking hours were pledged to my employer. Thankfully, things have progressively improved, or perhaps, I have sub-consciously sought out employers who are less greedy for time. My second and third employers had a five and a half day workweek, while the fourth had half Saturdays with alternate Saturdays off, which was even better. Eleven years and four job changes into my career, I finally found an organization with a genuine five day work week, and none of that “half day” nonsense. Not having to pledge that extra day or half day to one’s employer is literally like getting a fresh lease of life, something that is immeasurable in monetary terms.
Having two out of seven days to oneself is the norm in the Western world, but unfortunately a luxury to many in India. Having tasted blood in the form of the five day work-week, giving up any more of one’s time to the organization seems unthinkable. A positively backward career move.
Sunday, October 17, 2010
R2I: First hurdle cleared
Top of the to-do list on the family’s recent trip to India was finalising a school for the boys for the planned move next summer, an aspect that undoubtedly features among the top 3 worries of prospective “returners”. We had shortlisted a couple of seemingly “low stress” schools over the last year, and at the top of our list was Prakriya Green Wisdom, which we had previously visited and liked. I called Prakriya, and was told that I could bring in Kanishk, the older one, for observation, for three days, but they had no vacancies in Class I, ie. for Mitaansh, unless a vacancy was created by an existing child leaving, in which case they would inform us. Pfffttt…..all the images we nursed over the last several months, of our boys soaking in the earthy environs of Prakriya went up in dust. We were really keen on both of them joining the same school.
Off to a forgettable start, we fixed an appointment for the next school on our list, Greenwood High, the next day. We reached, at 12 noon, spoke to an admissions co-ordinator, looked around, had lunch there, and by 2 pm, our kids had got admission! No tests, interviews, etc – I like it! I re-confirmed with the lady that if we paid the admission fee, we would actually be assured of “seats”. and she confirmed this. I guess being relatively new, they still had vacancies. The fact that I have a friend (Nimish, you have been immortalized on this blog) who has kids who have survived this school for a couple of years provided some comfort. The kids liked the look of the school and I guess the prospect of driving 30 kms from my parents’ house through insane Bangalore traffic for the next 3 days for teachers in Prakriya to put Kanishk through an observation from 8:30 am to 3 pm also contributed to the speed of the decision.
So that was the first major hurdle on our return cleared. Sadly, finding employment will not be as easy!
*******************************************************************************
Cheese is clearly not part of the staple diet in the far north-western reaches of Delhi. Going around shops in Rohini asking for a pack of Amul cheese slices, I was asked by a shopkeeper if I meant Pepsi’s mango “Slice” soft drink. Clearly, Paneer rules here.
Off to a forgettable start, we fixed an appointment for the next school on our list, Greenwood High, the next day. We reached, at 12 noon, spoke to an admissions co-ordinator, looked around, had lunch there, and by 2 pm, our kids had got admission! No tests, interviews, etc – I like it! I re-confirmed with the lady that if we paid the admission fee, we would actually be assured of “seats”. and she confirmed this. I guess being relatively new, they still had vacancies. The fact that I have a friend (Nimish, you have been immortalized on this blog) who has kids who have survived this school for a couple of years provided some comfort. The kids liked the look of the school and I guess the prospect of driving 30 kms from my parents’ house through insane Bangalore traffic for the next 3 days for teachers in Prakriya to put Kanishk through an observation from 8:30 am to 3 pm also contributed to the speed of the decision.
So that was the first major hurdle on our return cleared. Sadly, finding employment will not be as easy!
*******************************************************************************
Cheese is clearly not part of the staple diet in the far north-western reaches of Delhi. Going around shops in Rohini asking for a pack of Amul cheese slices, I was asked by a shopkeeper if I meant Pepsi’s mango “Slice” soft drink. Clearly, Paneer rules here.
Thursday, September 2, 2010
The politics of seat sharing
It isn’t only in politics that seat sharing offers a fascinating study. On most days I board the 7:48 City via Chatswood train at Epping. I make my way to the lower deck in search of a seat. The aisle splits the two rows - 2 seaters on one side and 3 seaters on the other. Usually there are only a few seats available. The choice is between picking an empty seat on a 2 seater or a 3 seater.
As anyone with some experience in seated train travel knows, the worst seat is the middle position in a 3 seater. You are sandwiched between two passengers, shoulders cramped together and no room to manoeuvre. It is very inconvenient to read a newspaper or work on a laptop, as both shoulders are clamped close to the body, but the hands need room to spread out to hold a newspaper or type on a keyboard. The general appearance is of someone frozen midway through a breaststroke, or mimicking a praying mantis.
On the rare occasion when there is a 3 seater occupied by just one person, grabbing this is a no-brainer, because 1.5 seats per person is way better than just 1 seat per person. But so unpopular is the middle seat, that most people, myself included, will stick to the aisle like a leech, and when faced with the prospect of sharing the seat with a third occupant, will either stand and make way or pull back one’s legs to the maximum to allow the newcomer to slide in to the dreaded sandwich position.
Very occasionally, one comes across the do-gooder, who will not stick to his or her aisle seat, but actually slide inwards to the middle seat, and offer the aisle to the newcomer. This is the supreme courtesy in train travel, and I wonder what stuff these altruists are made of. If one followed them around, one may discover extraordinary lives spent on selfless service of humankind.
The one thing I have noticed is that such people are more likely to be female than male, and also more likely to be old than young. Not sure if that says something about decency among humankind in general.
As anyone with some experience in seated train travel knows, the worst seat is the middle position in a 3 seater. You are sandwiched between two passengers, shoulders cramped together and no room to manoeuvre. It is very inconvenient to read a newspaper or work on a laptop, as both shoulders are clamped close to the body, but the hands need room to spread out to hold a newspaper or type on a keyboard. The general appearance is of someone frozen midway through a breaststroke, or mimicking a praying mantis.
On the rare occasion when there is a 3 seater occupied by just one person, grabbing this is a no-brainer, because 1.5 seats per person is way better than just 1 seat per person. But so unpopular is the middle seat, that most people, myself included, will stick to the aisle like a leech, and when faced with the prospect of sharing the seat with a third occupant, will either stand and make way or pull back one’s legs to the maximum to allow the newcomer to slide in to the dreaded sandwich position.
Very occasionally, one comes across the do-gooder, who will not stick to his or her aisle seat, but actually slide inwards to the middle seat, and offer the aisle to the newcomer. This is the supreme courtesy in train travel, and I wonder what stuff these altruists are made of. If one followed them around, one may discover extraordinary lives spent on selfless service of humankind.
The one thing I have noticed is that such people are more likely to be female than male, and also more likely to be old than young. Not sure if that says something about decency among humankind in general.
Thursday, August 19, 2010
The Randiv episode
Cricket, particularly in the sub-continent, is so dreary these days that is has fallen on controversies to generate some excitement. The game got its injection of controversy this week, when Sri Lankan offie, Suraj Randiv, deliberately overstepped the line in a one-day international to seal India’s comfortable victory, while denying Sehwag, then batting on 99, a century. This understandably stirred up passions in the cricketing world. Most have denounced Randiv’s action as unsporting and against the spirit of the game. The act seems pretty indefensible, and one feels sorry for the likeable Sangakkara, who had to come up with something weak like “Sri Lanka does not have sole proprietorship over such incidents.” The last I read in the newspapers, Randiv and Dilshan (apparently his partner-in-crime) had been handed down some penalties by the ICC referee.
On the scale of unsportsmanlike behaviour, Randiv’s act is hardly the worst that has been seen in cricket. As far as cheating goes, it is certainly not worse than a batsman knowing he has nicked the ball, but hanging on to the crease if the umpire has not given him out. Randiv did not intend for his act to alter the course of the match – if anything, it hastened an already inevitable result. Hardly any team in cricket can claim the moral high ground, because at some point or the other, they have all been guilty of bending the rules.
The remarkable aspect of the Randiv episode is the thinking behind the act. In general, unsportsmanlike behaviour such as cheating, delaying tactics, sledging, etc is aimed at winning matches, or at least at avoiding defeat. To indulge in unsporting behaviour to win or save a match is bad enough, but understandable. To indulge in unsporting behaviour to actually accelerate one’s own defeat is bizarre. For an attacking bowler, each delivery is a potential wicket taker. Randiv apparently does not have this confidence in his own ability. So having abandoned all hope of getting Sehwag out, he chose to become the architect of his own team’s moment of defeat! In that moment, Randiv’s surrender to Sehwag’s superiority was absolute. He effectively said, “Look, I know I don’t have a one in a million chance of getting you out, so I won’t even try. But I will give myself the small pleasure of denying you yet another century.”
If I were Randiv’s coach/captain/mentor, I would be pretty worried about this mentality. It is an old cricketing cliché that “the game isn’t won or lost until the last ball is bowled”. Randiv and his masters clearly think that’s a load of crap.
On the scale of unsportsmanlike behaviour, Randiv’s act is hardly the worst that has been seen in cricket. As far as cheating goes, it is certainly not worse than a batsman knowing he has nicked the ball, but hanging on to the crease if the umpire has not given him out. Randiv did not intend for his act to alter the course of the match – if anything, it hastened an already inevitable result. Hardly any team in cricket can claim the moral high ground, because at some point or the other, they have all been guilty of bending the rules.
The remarkable aspect of the Randiv episode is the thinking behind the act. In general, unsportsmanlike behaviour such as cheating, delaying tactics, sledging, etc is aimed at winning matches, or at least at avoiding defeat. To indulge in unsporting behaviour to win or save a match is bad enough, but understandable. To indulge in unsporting behaviour to actually accelerate one’s own defeat is bizarre. For an attacking bowler, each delivery is a potential wicket taker. Randiv apparently does not have this confidence in his own ability. So having abandoned all hope of getting Sehwag out, he chose to become the architect of his own team’s moment of defeat! In that moment, Randiv’s surrender to Sehwag’s superiority was absolute. He effectively said, “Look, I know I don’t have a one in a million chance of getting you out, so I won’t even try. But I will give myself the small pleasure of denying you yet another century.”
If I were Randiv’s coach/captain/mentor, I would be pretty worried about this mentality. It is an old cricketing cliché that “the game isn’t won or lost until the last ball is bowled”. Randiv and his masters clearly think that’s a load of crap.
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
Birthday bashes
We celebrated Kanishk’s ninth birthday last Saturday, inviting his classmates to a tenpin bowling party. This was his fourth birthday in Australia. The first one was a quiet family affair, as we had arrived in Australia only ten days before, and didn’t know anyone in the country apart from close family. The second one was at home and all his classmates were invited. I have a vague recollection of Mum organizing some games for the kids, and little boys in blue uniform bouncing off our walls through the evening. The third party was a series of events - one a Wii party at home with select classmates, another a dinner with close family, followed by yet another dinner with friends and their families. This time around, we had run out of ideas, and simply decided to outsource the party to a bowling alley.
I don’t recall having birthday parties as a child – wonder how I let my parents get away so easily. As I approached teenage, I usually got a set of new clothes and some cash to “treat” my close friends with. On one birthday I remember receiving five rupees for each of my friends, and struggling to arrive at the best combination of treats within that budget. I think I settled on a bhel puri followed by a 500 ml bottle of Thums Up. Halfway through their Thums Up most of my friends looked like they had had enough to last them a lifetime, but they manfully stuck to finishing the bottle’s contents.
The one ritual we did follow on the birthdays (both my brother’s and mine) was to go out for a family dinner. Early June in Calcutta is monsoon time, but no matter how much it rained we would pile into our Ambassador and head out to a restaurant in the Park Street/Chowringhee area.
Many of my friends had proper birthday parties, though, with food and lots of fun & games. “Passing the parcel” was a standard fixture at these parties. I wonder if that is played anymore. I remember parties following a standard structure – hand over presents, play games (passing parcel/tailing donkey), cut cake, eat, play more games (blind man’s buff/quiz), get return gift, say goodbye. I think some parties still follow this process flow, but product differentiation has made its way into social occasions. So theme parties (Dora/pool/bowling/Harry Potter) are much more common nowadays.
I am not quite sure how to approach one’s own birthdays in middle age. Turning eighteen is a sign of maturity and entry into the adult world. Turning seventy is a milestone in a pretty long life. What emotion is turning thirty eight supposed to trigger, other than an acceptance of more grey hair (or less of any type) and one more inch to the waistline? When a college girl wishes you with a “Happy Birthday, Uncle”, you know you’re well and truly over the hill.
I don’t recall having birthday parties as a child – wonder how I let my parents get away so easily. As I approached teenage, I usually got a set of new clothes and some cash to “treat” my close friends with. On one birthday I remember receiving five rupees for each of my friends, and struggling to arrive at the best combination of treats within that budget. I think I settled on a bhel puri followed by a 500 ml bottle of Thums Up. Halfway through their Thums Up most of my friends looked like they had had enough to last them a lifetime, but they manfully stuck to finishing the bottle’s contents.
The one ritual we did follow on the birthdays (both my brother’s and mine) was to go out for a family dinner. Early June in Calcutta is monsoon time, but no matter how much it rained we would pile into our Ambassador and head out to a restaurant in the Park Street/Chowringhee area.
Many of my friends had proper birthday parties, though, with food and lots of fun & games. “Passing the parcel” was a standard fixture at these parties. I wonder if that is played anymore. I remember parties following a standard structure – hand over presents, play games (passing parcel/tailing donkey), cut cake, eat, play more games (blind man’s buff/quiz), get return gift, say goodbye. I think some parties still follow this process flow, but product differentiation has made its way into social occasions. So theme parties (Dora/pool/bowling/Harry Potter) are much more common nowadays.
I am not quite sure how to approach one’s own birthdays in middle age. Turning eighteen is a sign of maturity and entry into the adult world. Turning seventy is a milestone in a pretty long life. What emotion is turning thirty eight supposed to trigger, other than an acceptance of more grey hair (or less of any type) and one more inch to the waistline? When a college girl wishes you with a “Happy Birthday, Uncle”, you know you’re well and truly over the hill.
Monday, July 26, 2010
Is old gold?
It is the last week of July, and I am willing the morning air into reducing its bite. It’s just a matter of another five weeks and it will officially be spring. I am thankful I live in Sydney, and not Melbourne or Adelaide with their more severe winters. Here the lows are typically in the high single digits, and the highs are in the mid teens. Not much worse than Delhi, actually. But it is still cold enough to make one gingerly ease oneself down on the cold toilet seat with a prayer on the lips.
This winter, like the ones before, I have heard complaints about how cold it has been. When I go to India, folks there complain about how this year’s summer has been particularly bad. No doubt climate change has some role to play in this. But I suspect this is also due to the “negative reinforcement of recency” effect.
People tend to highlight the bad more than the good, and when the bad occurs quite recently, it gets amplified. Similarly when something bad fades into distant memory, it seems not so terrible after all. Let a few more years pass, and you are absolutely convinced that while life today isn’t all that bad, it isn’t a patch on that golden period in your life many years ago. Of course, when you were actually living through that period, someone suggesting that it was “golden” would have probably been greeted with a hollow laugh.
During my years in engineering college, I couldn’t wait to get out of it. I was generally uninterested in the lectures I attended, knowing they wouldn’t be of much use in later years, and was keen to get on with life in the “real” world outside. Now I look back on those years with fondness, particularly for the friendships formed, and some character building lessons learnt.
This sentiment was echoed in a recent piece by the ex Finance Minister of Australia, Lindsay Tanner, who recently retired from politics, rather prematurely, to devote time to family. Upon his retirement, the Opposition Leader, Tony Abbott, remarked that Tanner had been one of the “finest ministers” in the Labour Cabinet. Tanner was surprised that Abbott had never so much as hinted at this admiration during the years that he held the ministerial post. Only partly in jest, I presume, Tanner goes on to suggest that in years from now, he and Wayne Swan, whose economic policies have been so vilified by the Liberal Party, will be held out as shining examples of economic management by their opposing political party.
It is election season in Australia, and everyone is talking about how boring the leaders of the two main political parties are, how alike their policies are, and generally how disappointing the whole political scenario is. “Where are the visionaries?”, they lament. ”Where are the big ideas that will take Australia forward?”, is their plaintive cry. Presumably they are talking of people like Bob Hawke and Paul Keating, the icons of modern Australian politics. Somehow, it’s hard to imagine that when Bob Hawke was running his election campaigns twenty-thirty years ago, people would have been screaming out in delight “What a visionary! What brilliant ideas to move Australia forward!”
Earlier this year, we had a wonderfully mild summer. Temperatures were significantly moderated in relation to previous years, and there weren’t more than a couple of days (and I do stay at home on weekends, even if I spend the week in an air-conditioned office), when I felt the absence of an AC at home. Not surprisingly, I didn’t hear too many people say, “What a nice summer it’s been. So much better than last year.”
This winter, like the ones before, I have heard complaints about how cold it has been. When I go to India, folks there complain about how this year’s summer has been particularly bad. No doubt climate change has some role to play in this. But I suspect this is also due to the “negative reinforcement of recency” effect.
People tend to highlight the bad more than the good, and when the bad occurs quite recently, it gets amplified. Similarly when something bad fades into distant memory, it seems not so terrible after all. Let a few more years pass, and you are absolutely convinced that while life today isn’t all that bad, it isn’t a patch on that golden period in your life many years ago. Of course, when you were actually living through that period, someone suggesting that it was “golden” would have probably been greeted with a hollow laugh.
During my years in engineering college, I couldn’t wait to get out of it. I was generally uninterested in the lectures I attended, knowing they wouldn’t be of much use in later years, and was keen to get on with life in the “real” world outside. Now I look back on those years with fondness, particularly for the friendships formed, and some character building lessons learnt.
This sentiment was echoed in a recent piece by the ex Finance Minister of Australia, Lindsay Tanner, who recently retired from politics, rather prematurely, to devote time to family. Upon his retirement, the Opposition Leader, Tony Abbott, remarked that Tanner had been one of the “finest ministers” in the Labour Cabinet. Tanner was surprised that Abbott had never so much as hinted at this admiration during the years that he held the ministerial post. Only partly in jest, I presume, Tanner goes on to suggest that in years from now, he and Wayne Swan, whose economic policies have been so vilified by the Liberal Party, will be held out as shining examples of economic management by their opposing political party.
It is election season in Australia, and everyone is talking about how boring the leaders of the two main political parties are, how alike their policies are, and generally how disappointing the whole political scenario is. “Where are the visionaries?”, they lament. ”Where are the big ideas that will take Australia forward?”, is their plaintive cry. Presumably they are talking of people like Bob Hawke and Paul Keating, the icons of modern Australian politics. Somehow, it’s hard to imagine that when Bob Hawke was running his election campaigns twenty-thirty years ago, people would have been screaming out in delight “What a visionary! What brilliant ideas to move Australia forward!”
Earlier this year, we had a wonderfully mild summer. Temperatures were significantly moderated in relation to previous years, and there weren’t more than a couple of days (and I do stay at home on weekends, even if I spend the week in an air-conditioned office), when I felt the absence of an AC at home. Not surprisingly, I didn’t hear too many people say, “What a nice summer it’s been. So much better than last year.”
Sunday, July 11, 2010
Curse of the psychic octopus
The eight legged egghead did it again. It predicted correctly that Spain would beat Germany in the world cup semi-final. I got this one wrong, leaving me in second position in the office tipping competition. I expect most will tip Spain to win the final. I have the dilemma of safely choosing the favourites Spain, and maintaining my second place, or risking my second position by choosing Netherlands. If Netherlands win, I can end up in joint first position (assuming of course, that the person who is now first tips Spain, which I think she will).
The struggle with institutional juggernauts and their inefficiencies continues. The other day I was at the office of MBF, my health insurance provider, to put in a claim. A representative at the door informed me that I should expect delays as they were implementing a new system which would improve service levels for customers, and the staff were still coming to grips with it. [Inadequate training before go live]
My turn came shortly after, and the woman at the counter who had obviously seen better days, took my claims, struggled with her new system for a few minutes, muttered something a couple of times, and then apparently decided it was all too hard. She looked at me and said, “I am sorry. I can’t do these here – as per our new policy, we have stopped paying Overseas Visitors claims over the counter. I will need to send this to Queensland.” [New policy- yeah sure. You just think this system is too hard, and you avoid as much work as you can, and you think I just look like a pushover who will walk away without questions].
I walked away without questions towards the exit. On my way out, I thought I would give it one more shot, and asked the MBF representative standing near the entrance if this was really the case. If it was, this new system upgrade seemed to be making things worse, rather than better, for customers. He seemed as puzzled as I was at what the lady at the counter had said about this new procedure. He asked me to wait, disappeared for a couple of minutes, reappeared, and told me to go back to the same counter, and that it would be done. On my way out, mission accomplished, this kind soul gave me a shake of the head, a knowing smile, and a thumbs up sign.
Nothing ventured, nothing gained. I am tipping Netherlands for the final.
The struggle with institutional juggernauts and their inefficiencies continues. The other day I was at the office of MBF, my health insurance provider, to put in a claim. A representative at the door informed me that I should expect delays as they were implementing a new system which would improve service levels for customers, and the staff were still coming to grips with it. [Inadequate training before go live]
My turn came shortly after, and the woman at the counter who had obviously seen better days, took my claims, struggled with her new system for a few minutes, muttered something a couple of times, and then apparently decided it was all too hard. She looked at me and said, “I am sorry. I can’t do these here – as per our new policy, we have stopped paying Overseas Visitors claims over the counter. I will need to send this to Queensland.” [New policy- yeah sure. You just think this system is too hard, and you avoid as much work as you can, and you think I just look like a pushover who will walk away without questions].
I walked away without questions towards the exit. On my way out, I thought I would give it one more shot, and asked the MBF representative standing near the entrance if this was really the case. If it was, this new system upgrade seemed to be making things worse, rather than better, for customers. He seemed as puzzled as I was at what the lady at the counter had said about this new procedure. He asked me to wait, disappeared for a couple of minutes, reappeared, and told me to go back to the same counter, and that it would be done. On my way out, mission accomplished, this kind soul gave me a shake of the head, a knowing smile, and a thumbs up sign.
Nothing ventured, nothing gained. I am tipping Netherlands for the final.
Friday, June 25, 2010
Dis-service sector
Episode 1
A few days ago, my CEO threw a dinner party for all staff. I decided to take the wife along, and arrange a babysitter for the boys. I called up one of Sydney’s best known babysitting companies, and reserved a sitter for the night. It was expensive (120 bucks), but I had little choice. A few days later, we learnt that someone known to us through a friend would be available to babysit the kids. Apart from this being much cheaper, it was a great comfort to not to have to leave the kids with a complete stranger.
So I called up the babysitting company to cancel my reservation, one week prior to the actual date. They sweetly informed me that they would cancel, but there would be a 50% cancellation fee. I thought this was really steep, and unacceptable because I hadn’t been informed about any such cancellation charges at the time of reservation. Upon my protest, I was told that as an “exception”, they were willing to waive the cancellation charges this once. It was that simple.
Episode 2
I needed to send my mother in law some documents urgently. I used Australia Post’s most expensive service, Express Courier International, and was assured of delivery within 3 business days. Even after 4 business days, the documents were not delivered, and the much vaunted “tracking” facility obviously wasn’t updated very frequently, because the information on it was at least 2-3 days old. Finally,I somehow managed to track down the documents to a post office in Delhi, and my mother in law had to go there to collect them personally. Certainly not the level of premium service that I had paid for.
Episode 3
This is still ongoing. I lodged a claim with my healthcare insurance provider on May 31st, and was told that the normal processing time is 14 working days. It is now 16 working days since then, and the claim hasn’t been paid. When I call up the insurance company, they can’t tell me very much other than that the claim “is in processing”. Amazingly, this is one of the largest health insurers in Australia and its website does not provide an email address that one can send complaints to. There is only a postal address provided, surely a sinister tactic to discourage any sort of feedback/complaints. Who in this day and age will bother to write letters, for God’s sake?
All these experiences, coinciding over the last 3 weeks have convinced me that on the whole, service companies only pay lip service to the mantra “under-promise and over-deliver”. It’s actually the other way round. Sign up for their services, and as long as your requirements stick to the straight and narrow, things will be fine. The day you need something a little bit out of the ordinary, you are screwed.
A few days ago, my CEO threw a dinner party for all staff. I decided to take the wife along, and arrange a babysitter for the boys. I called up one of Sydney’s best known babysitting companies, and reserved a sitter for the night. It was expensive (120 bucks), but I had little choice. A few days later, we learnt that someone known to us through a friend would be available to babysit the kids. Apart from this being much cheaper, it was a great comfort to not to have to leave the kids with a complete stranger.
So I called up the babysitting company to cancel my reservation, one week prior to the actual date. They sweetly informed me that they would cancel, but there would be a 50% cancellation fee. I thought this was really steep, and unacceptable because I hadn’t been informed about any such cancellation charges at the time of reservation. Upon my protest, I was told that as an “exception”, they were willing to waive the cancellation charges this once. It was that simple.
Episode 2
I needed to send my mother in law some documents urgently. I used Australia Post’s most expensive service, Express Courier International, and was assured of delivery within 3 business days. Even after 4 business days, the documents were not delivered, and the much vaunted “tracking” facility obviously wasn’t updated very frequently, because the information on it was at least 2-3 days old. Finally,I somehow managed to track down the documents to a post office in Delhi, and my mother in law had to go there to collect them personally. Certainly not the level of premium service that I had paid for.
Episode 3
This is still ongoing. I lodged a claim with my healthcare insurance provider on May 31st, and was told that the normal processing time is 14 working days. It is now 16 working days since then, and the claim hasn’t been paid. When I call up the insurance company, they can’t tell me very much other than that the claim “is in processing”. Amazingly, this is one of the largest health insurers in Australia and its website does not provide an email address that one can send complaints to. There is only a postal address provided, surely a sinister tactic to discourage any sort of feedback/complaints. Who in this day and age will bother to write letters, for God’s sake?
All these experiences, coinciding over the last 3 weeks have convinced me that on the whole, service companies only pay lip service to the mantra “under-promise and over-deliver”. It’s actually the other way round. Sign up for their services, and as long as your requirements stick to the straight and narrow, things will be fine. The day you need something a little bit out of the ordinary, you are screwed.
Thursday, June 17, 2010
Underwater in Fiji
Laid out on a massage table in Fiji, my face poking through a hole looking down at four red hibiscuses in a wicker flower basket, I close my eyes to soak in the gentle kneading of my back, and flash back over this holiday.
Fiji, a country of 300 islands in the Pacific, is a four hour flight from Sydney. The main cities of Nadi (airport) and Suva are on the largest island, Viti Levu. Sigatoka, where we stayed, is also on this island and about 90 minutes drive from Nadi.
Considering our choice of a resort was based on deal shopping over the Internet and checking reviews on tripadvisor.com, the quality of the Rydges Hideaway Resort has been a little better than expected. The main attraction for families with kids is the Kids Club, which runs supervised activities for the kids through the day, allowing ample quiet time for parents. Our boys were thrilled to be rid of us as well, and by the 2nd day, were quite happy to be off on their own to the main dining hall which has table tennis and pool, and the cinema room, which puts on kids movies at 6 pm. Other than that, the resort has a pool, a beachfront where one can wade far into the sea at low tide tiptoeing around brilliant blue starfish and coral, and generally offers enough to make one reluctant to venture outside, and hang around and soak in the laziness, in Fiji time.
Almost half of Fiji's population is of Indian descent - we met 3-4 taxi drivers, all fourth-fifth generation Indians, who seemed to have assimilated very well into the local scene. They all spoke Hindi, but with their own peculiar accent, which made it hard to trace them back to any particular part of India, and they do not seem to have any physical links now to the country of their ancestry, although are still deeply influenced by its culture (temples, radios playing the latest film songs, etc).
This was not one of those holidays where we got up purposefully each morning with a checklist in hand, and measured our success by how many things we had ticked off. On Day 2, I unknowingly found myself in the deep part of the swimming pool and was flailing about underwater for what must have been a good minute or so, before I attracted enough attention for some bystander (bless him) to help pull me out. It was a rather unpleasant experience that left me sick in the stomach for the next couple of days, and I haven't yet fully recovered my appetite.
So, we just decided to take it easy this holiday, sit back and let the kids enjoy themselves at the Kids club.
It's back to Sydney tomorrow, and a ten degree drop in temperature.
Fiji, a country of 300 islands in the Pacific, is a four hour flight from Sydney. The main cities of Nadi (airport) and Suva are on the largest island, Viti Levu. Sigatoka, where we stayed, is also on this island and about 90 minutes drive from Nadi.
Considering our choice of a resort was based on deal shopping over the Internet and checking reviews on tripadvisor.com, the quality of the Rydges Hideaway Resort has been a little better than expected. The main attraction for families with kids is the Kids Club, which runs supervised activities for the kids through the day, allowing ample quiet time for parents. Our boys were thrilled to be rid of us as well, and by the 2nd day, were quite happy to be off on their own to the main dining hall which has table tennis and pool, and the cinema room, which puts on kids movies at 6 pm. Other than that, the resort has a pool, a beachfront where one can wade far into the sea at low tide tiptoeing around brilliant blue starfish and coral, and generally offers enough to make one reluctant to venture outside, and hang around and soak in the laziness, in Fiji time.
Almost half of Fiji's population is of Indian descent - we met 3-4 taxi drivers, all fourth-fifth generation Indians, who seemed to have assimilated very well into the local scene. They all spoke Hindi, but with their own peculiar accent, which made it hard to trace them back to any particular part of India, and they do not seem to have any physical links now to the country of their ancestry, although are still deeply influenced by its culture (temples, radios playing the latest film songs, etc).
This was not one of those holidays where we got up purposefully each morning with a checklist in hand, and measured our success by how many things we had ticked off. On Day 2, I unknowingly found myself in the deep part of the swimming pool and was flailing about underwater for what must have been a good minute or so, before I attracted enough attention for some bystander (bless him) to help pull me out. It was a rather unpleasant experience that left me sick in the stomach for the next couple of days, and I haven't yet fully recovered my appetite.
So, we just decided to take it easy this holiday, sit back and let the kids enjoy themselves at the Kids club.
It's back to Sydney tomorrow, and a ten degree drop in temperature.
Monday, May 31, 2010
Thoughts on terror
The word terrorism was part of one’s consciousness growing up in Delhi in the eighties. It was the height of the pro-Khalistan movement. Every now and then, the terrorists would strike, usually described as a couple of “bearded, turbaned youths on a scooter” who opened gunfire in one of South Delhi’s residential colonies killing innocent citizens. Within a couple of days, life would return to normal. How long could one’s daily routine be dictated by these happenings? It was something one took in one’s stride and moved on.
Khalistan faded away, but terrorism has not. Bomb blasts happen every now and then. Tens, and sometimes, hundreds of people die. Ordinary people grieve for the victims, let the news linger for a day or two and move on. Those who have experienced personal loss live with the grief for the rest of their lives. Some things haven’t changed, but the extent of destruction in these attacks has. Bombs seem to have become deadlier, and the number of victims per attack has increased. The worst of them have extinguished more than a couple of hundred lives.
What motivates those who carry out these one attacks, one wonders? Are they really close to the “causes” that they supposedly are fighting for, or are they just clueless souls with a twisted desire to kill and maim? If they are indeed pursuing a cause, the correlation between the “success” of these acts and the achievement of their goals is far from obvious.
While they do create a concern about public places and crowded modes of transport, economic and social need dwarfs the niggling threat to self-preservation. So people will still go to work and travel because it is in human nature as well as a necessity to do so. It is delusional for anyone to believe otherwise. For the terrorist to imagine that his act will bring the community at large to a standstill, is like a mosquito believing its bite will permanently cripple a human body.
The “terrorist” label is also applied curiously and selectively. Last week, a hundred and fifty people died in India, from alleged sabotage of rail tracks leading to a terrible collision between two trains. The authorities say that a Maoist group is responsible for the act.
If that is the case, isn’t this as deserving as the “terrorist” label as 26/11 and similar incidents? Why term this differently and deny the evil inherent in the act?
Khalistan faded away, but terrorism has not. Bomb blasts happen every now and then. Tens, and sometimes, hundreds of people die. Ordinary people grieve for the victims, let the news linger for a day or two and move on. Those who have experienced personal loss live with the grief for the rest of their lives. Some things haven’t changed, but the extent of destruction in these attacks has. Bombs seem to have become deadlier, and the number of victims per attack has increased. The worst of them have extinguished more than a couple of hundred lives.
What motivates those who carry out these one attacks, one wonders? Are they really close to the “causes” that they supposedly are fighting for, or are they just clueless souls with a twisted desire to kill and maim? If they are indeed pursuing a cause, the correlation between the “success” of these acts and the achievement of their goals is far from obvious.
While they do create a concern about public places and crowded modes of transport, economic and social need dwarfs the niggling threat to self-preservation. So people will still go to work and travel because it is in human nature as well as a necessity to do so. It is delusional for anyone to believe otherwise. For the terrorist to imagine that his act will bring the community at large to a standstill, is like a mosquito believing its bite will permanently cripple a human body.
The “terrorist” label is also applied curiously and selectively. Last week, a hundred and fifty people died in India, from alleged sabotage of rail tracks leading to a terrible collision between two trains. The authorities say that a Maoist group is responsible for the act.
If that is the case, isn’t this as deserving as the “terrorist” label as 26/11 and similar incidents? Why term this differently and deny the evil inherent in the act?
Friday, May 14, 2010
The passing of homes
Homes bring a measure of permanence to our ever-changing lives. Our favourite memories are built around 2 Ps: people and places (often homes). They release their dwellers into the world each day, and draw them back in for rest and repast, in a never ending cycle. Lives are begun, lived and ended in homes. They are our own personal space, providing shelter, privacy and an escape from the chaos outside.
Living in, or even simply being associated with, a house over several years makes it an inseparable part of one’s existence. The years of association with a particular house become a reference point for memories from a period in one’s life. I can think of two or three houses in my time that evoke strong emotions. One of them is at 14/4 Shakti Nagar, Delhi.
My first visit to that house was nineteen years ago. My classmates and I had finished school, and were in the Delhi University area, filling up admission forms for various colleges. I dropped in to my friend’s house, and received some career counselling from her school teacher mother. I recall feeling an easy comfort in that house almost instantly.
There was a constant buzz, with students of my friend’s mom flitting in and out, and a general atmosphere of sharing and community living. Sizewise, the house wasn’t much, with a little doorway flanked by two rooms, opening out into a small open courtyard with a round dining table where the family (and it seemed the constant stream of visitors) had meals and conversation.
On the other side of the courtyard was a wall, which separated my friends’ part of the house from their neighbours’ almost identical portion. The two sides were connected by a doorway that remained open at all times. Another family occupied the first floor of this two storey building – but the general impression was of one large household rather than three independent ones, with banter being traded across walls and floors.
What the house lacked in size, it more than made up for in character. The little courtyard was ringed by the kitchen, bathroom, toilet and washing area, and there was a little ladder that led up to an attic that was too small to stand upright in, where a cat and her new born litter lived. My friend’s family had moved in there in the early 70s, and that was the only house she had ever lived in.
As the years rolled on, and my friend became more than just that, I found myself making more and more frequent trips to that house, and even while I was in college in another city, I found ways to make at least an annual trip there. It was my home away from home. More than a home, it was an eco-system. It was as though the building was the focal point of many people's lives, not just those who slept under its roof. Sweeper, electrician, cook, students, adopted children, all found a place there, and were, I daresay, the better for it.
There was no shortage of people to converse with, and there was always someone around to put some tea on the boil and serve up some munchies for hours of chitchat late into the night. I got to know the house and its residents better, and was fascinated by the many stories, both bitter and joyful, that it had witnessed over the decades.
The feeling of belonging to that house was formalised, seven years after my first visit, when the lady of the house became my mother-in-law. Since then, that has been my home address in Delhi. The kids have also got to know the house, and come to love it as I do. They have climbed the ladder and discovered the attic, played cricket in the lane, and Uno/Snakes&Ladders with my mum-in-law’s students.
Forty years after my family first started renting that house, the owners have decided to sell. My mother-in-law will probably have to move out sometime later this year. I look forward to one last stay at 14/4 this October, to pay my heart’s arrears.
Living in, or even simply being associated with, a house over several years makes it an inseparable part of one’s existence. The years of association with a particular house become a reference point for memories from a period in one’s life. I can think of two or three houses in my time that evoke strong emotions. One of them is at 14/4 Shakti Nagar, Delhi.
My first visit to that house was nineteen years ago. My classmates and I had finished school, and were in the Delhi University area, filling up admission forms for various colleges. I dropped in to my friend’s house, and received some career counselling from her school teacher mother. I recall feeling an easy comfort in that house almost instantly.
There was a constant buzz, with students of my friend’s mom flitting in and out, and a general atmosphere of sharing and community living. Sizewise, the house wasn’t much, with a little doorway flanked by two rooms, opening out into a small open courtyard with a round dining table where the family (and it seemed the constant stream of visitors) had meals and conversation.
On the other side of the courtyard was a wall, which separated my friends’ part of the house from their neighbours’ almost identical portion. The two sides were connected by a doorway that remained open at all times. Another family occupied the first floor of this two storey building – but the general impression was of one large household rather than three independent ones, with banter being traded across walls and floors.
What the house lacked in size, it more than made up for in character. The little courtyard was ringed by the kitchen, bathroom, toilet and washing area, and there was a little ladder that led up to an attic that was too small to stand upright in, where a cat and her new born litter lived. My friend’s family had moved in there in the early 70s, and that was the only house she had ever lived in.
As the years rolled on, and my friend became more than just that, I found myself making more and more frequent trips to that house, and even while I was in college in another city, I found ways to make at least an annual trip there. It was my home away from home. More than a home, it was an eco-system. It was as though the building was the focal point of many people's lives, not just those who slept under its roof. Sweeper, electrician, cook, students, adopted children, all found a place there, and were, I daresay, the better for it.
There was no shortage of people to converse with, and there was always someone around to put some tea on the boil and serve up some munchies for hours of chitchat late into the night. I got to know the house and its residents better, and was fascinated by the many stories, both bitter and joyful, that it had witnessed over the decades.
The feeling of belonging to that house was formalised, seven years after my first visit, when the lady of the house became my mother-in-law. Since then, that has been my home address in Delhi. The kids have also got to know the house, and come to love it as I do. They have climbed the ladder and discovered the attic, played cricket in the lane, and Uno/Snakes&Ladders with my mum-in-law’s students.
Forty years after my family first started renting that house, the owners have decided to sell. My mother-in-law will probably have to move out sometime later this year. I look forward to one last stay at 14/4 this October, to pay my heart’s arrears.
Sunday, May 2, 2010
Canberra and fairness cream
We liked Canberra. It has a typical capital city atmosphere. Capital in the administrative, and not commercial, sense. Rows of low rise administrative buildings. Impressive monuments and stately buildings such as Parliament House, large traffic roundabouts, and quiet in the weekends.
We were there over the last weekend in April – it was a long weekend with Monday being a holiday and the drive from Sydney is beautiful. They say Canberra is at its prettiest in spring, with the flowers in full bloom, but late autumn is also a feast for the eyes. In India, autumn is an alien concept, and my earliest recollections of that term are from references in Archie comics, where the teenagers’ parents are perpetually shoveling snow in the driveway (winter) or sweeping leaves in the yard (autumn). So with this trip to Canberra, I can confirm that the trees actually do turn various shades of orange and red, and present a rather splendid sight.
One of the high points of the trip was the visit to National Science and Technology Centre, better known as Questacon. As a healthy entertainment option for kids, there are few things to beat a museum full of working models and gadgets that invite children to press buttons and watch things happen. I remember from my childhood, the great fun we had on trips to the Nehru Children’s Museum and Birla Industrial & Technological Museum in Calcutta. I wonder if those facilities are still in good repair or have degenerated with time. With more stimulating (though not necessarily healthy) sources of kid’s entertainment now available, places like these seem to have sadly waned in popularity.
*********************
How cynical can a celebrity get, in peddling his personality to get even richer? I always thought of Shah Rukh Khan as an intelligent, cultured sort of chap based on his interviews. All that was shattered last week, when I saw him in a TV commercial, peddling a fairness cream. I think that is totally unacceptable in a country like India with its deep-rooted prejudice against dark skin. These celebrities need to use their power to impress young minds more responsibly, rather than exploit weaknesses in our countrymen’s psyche for their financial gain.
Aamir, please don’t disappoint me.
We were there over the last weekend in April – it was a long weekend with Monday being a holiday and the drive from Sydney is beautiful. They say Canberra is at its prettiest in spring, with the flowers in full bloom, but late autumn is also a feast for the eyes. In India, autumn is an alien concept, and my earliest recollections of that term are from references in Archie comics, where the teenagers’ parents are perpetually shoveling snow in the driveway (winter) or sweeping leaves in the yard (autumn). So with this trip to Canberra, I can confirm that the trees actually do turn various shades of orange and red, and present a rather splendid sight.
One of the high points of the trip was the visit to National Science and Technology Centre, better known as Questacon. As a healthy entertainment option for kids, there are few things to beat a museum full of working models and gadgets that invite children to press buttons and watch things happen. I remember from my childhood, the great fun we had on trips to the Nehru Children’s Museum and Birla Industrial & Technological Museum in Calcutta. I wonder if those facilities are still in good repair or have degenerated with time. With more stimulating (though not necessarily healthy) sources of kid’s entertainment now available, places like these seem to have sadly waned in popularity.
*********************
How cynical can a celebrity get, in peddling his personality to get even richer? I always thought of Shah Rukh Khan as an intelligent, cultured sort of chap based on his interviews. All that was shattered last week, when I saw him in a TV commercial, peddling a fairness cream. I think that is totally unacceptable in a country like India with its deep-rooted prejudice against dark skin. These celebrities need to use their power to impress young minds more responsibly, rather than exploit weaknesses in our countrymen’s psyche for their financial gain.
Aamir, please don’t disappoint me.
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Bolly good time
Last night, the wife and I watched “Ishqiya”. Last week, we saw “Wake up, Sid” and “LSD”. All three are very good movies. Two are made by debutant directors, and the director of the third, Dibakar Banerjee, is only three films old. Will this period in history be looked back on as a golden age in Hindi cinema, I wonder? There have been so many good movies in the recent past, many of them by new film makers. “A Wednesday” and “Jaane Tu Ya Jaane Na”, released last year, are other impressive movies made by first time directors.
What has changed since the time I was growing up? Why do so many more movies appeal to me now, than, say, ten years ago?
The language of our cinema has changed, and is more appealing to the young urban Indian – more everyday conversation and “underplay” rather than “overplay”. Filmy melodrama has been given the boot. Note that even tearful scenes nowadays very often end up with a twist of humour. Perhaps we have become apologetic about having a good unadulterated cry. Having a self deprecating laugh at the end of an emotional scene somehow makes the melodrama more acceptable. “Dil Chahta Hai” was a significant milestone in this journey. No one seems to say “Kutte Kameene! Tera khoon pee jaaoonga!” any more in our movies.
There is a rush of young directors, who have brought with them a much needed freshness to the business. When I was growing up, directors were men in their forties and fifties in safari suits. Now they are, quite often, men and women in their twenties and thirties in t-shirt and jeans. The younger generation no longer wants to spend a decade assisting someone before they strike out on their own. We no longer wait until middle age to buy a home, or make a movie.
While the average quality of movies has certainly gone up a notch, what I do miss a little bit is the “epic” movie with strong emotional content. Granted, the movie industry churned out a lot of crap in the seventies and eighties. But occasionally, there also came along a mind-blowing piece of emotionally charged cinema capable of producing goose-bumps and making the heart pump faster, even on repeat viewing. Are we capable of producing a “Shakti” or “Deewar” today, I wonder?
This minor point aside, I think it’s a great time for Hindi movie lovers.
What has changed since the time I was growing up? Why do so many more movies appeal to me now, than, say, ten years ago?
The language of our cinema has changed, and is more appealing to the young urban Indian – more everyday conversation and “underplay” rather than “overplay”. Filmy melodrama has been given the boot. Note that even tearful scenes nowadays very often end up with a twist of humour. Perhaps we have become apologetic about having a good unadulterated cry. Having a self deprecating laugh at the end of an emotional scene somehow makes the melodrama more acceptable. “Dil Chahta Hai” was a significant milestone in this journey. No one seems to say “Kutte Kameene! Tera khoon pee jaaoonga!” any more in our movies.
There is a rush of young directors, who have brought with them a much needed freshness to the business. When I was growing up, directors were men in their forties and fifties in safari suits. Now they are, quite often, men and women in their twenties and thirties in t-shirt and jeans. The younger generation no longer wants to spend a decade assisting someone before they strike out on their own. We no longer wait until middle age to buy a home, or make a movie.
While the average quality of movies has certainly gone up a notch, what I do miss a little bit is the “epic” movie with strong emotional content. Granted, the movie industry churned out a lot of crap in the seventies and eighties. But occasionally, there also came along a mind-blowing piece of emotionally charged cinema capable of producing goose-bumps and making the heart pump faster, even on repeat viewing. Are we capable of producing a “Shakti” or “Deewar” today, I wonder?
This minor point aside, I think it’s a great time for Hindi movie lovers.
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Back home
The multi-coloured lights of the skyscrapers in Sydney's CBD adorn the night sky, as my train crosses the Harbour Bridge. In half an hour, I will be re-united with family after my week long India trip.
The two leg return flight via Singapore passed smoothly. I slept on the five hour night shift from Mumbai to Sing, having finally learnt that the handset has a Do not Disturb button.
The last day of the India trip was spent in Mumbai/Thane, to attend to some property matters. The work part completed, I treated myself to a head massage at a local haircutting saloon. Those who have experienced this with a barber in India may know that there comes a time in the routine, when the vibrating massage pad is held to one's ear, and a finger stuck inside it. The sensation that follows is simultaneously ticklish and very pleasurable. Not all barbers include this extra in their routine, but from my experience, most in Mumbai do. This barber, to my delight, was not an exception.
On the return flight, I managed to add two more movies to my previous tally of four notched up on the onward journey - "Blood Diamond" and "Sherlock Holmes". I was halfway through "Nine" and a sizzling hot number by Penelope Cruz when the crew announced our descent into Sydney.
*********************************
I don't know if it's parenthood or advancing years, but for a few years now, I find myself choking up during emotional moments in movies, which I saw through with a yawn and a smirk in the past. Must be finally getting in touch with my sensitive side.
The two leg return flight via Singapore passed smoothly. I slept on the five hour night shift from Mumbai to Sing, having finally learnt that the handset has a Do not Disturb button.
The last day of the India trip was spent in Mumbai/Thane, to attend to some property matters. The work part completed, I treated myself to a head massage at a local haircutting saloon. Those who have experienced this with a barber in India may know that there comes a time in the routine, when the vibrating massage pad is held to one's ear, and a finger stuck inside it. The sensation that follows is simultaneously ticklish and very pleasurable. Not all barbers include this extra in their routine, but from my experience, most in Mumbai do. This barber, to my delight, was not an exception.
On the return flight, I managed to add two more movies to my previous tally of four notched up on the onward journey - "Blood Diamond" and "Sherlock Holmes". I was halfway through "Nine" and a sizzling hot number by Penelope Cruz when the crew announced our descent into Sydney.
*********************************
I don't know if it's parenthood or advancing years, but for a few years now, I find myself choking up during emotional moments in movies, which I saw through with a yawn and a smirk in the past. Must be finally getting in touch with my sensitive side.
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
In Bangalore
I am in the middle of a week long India trip, and am writing this at a little photocopying/internet browsing outlet (Rs. 10 only for 30 minutes) near my parents' home in Malleswaram.
Four days into my trip, I have ticked off the must dos (pani puri at Gangotri, some book and hindi movie DVD purchases, a bit of shopping for the kids, etc). Today we are off to visit some relatives, and will round off the day with dinner at a highly recommended restaurant with parents and mum in law.
The highlight of this Bangalore trip has been the newly built Mantri Square mall (claims to be India's largest mall - hmm...to be taken with a pinch of salt, I think) close to home in Malleswaram. It is a bit of a culture shock to see this new hip face of old Bangalore. It has most of the happening names in Indian retailing: Lifestyle, Shoppers Stop, an exclusive Tissot store, Taco Bell (I didn't know this existed here), Pantaloons, etc. Going by the crowds, the local residents seem to love it. Given the price tags, I am not sure how many people actually enter the place with an aim to buy, but at least it's a great place to spend a couple of hours on a hot summer afternoon.
Tomorrow, I am off to Mumbai to spend a day there, before getting back to Sydney on Friday night.
*****************************
I managed to catch up on a bit of recent Oscar fare on the flight to India: Hurt Locker, Blind Side, Up in the Air, and It's Complicated. Enjoyed Blind Side - sucker for predictable cinema about human goodness that I am.
Four days into my trip, I have ticked off the must dos (pani puri at Gangotri, some book and hindi movie DVD purchases, a bit of shopping for the kids, etc). Today we are off to visit some relatives, and will round off the day with dinner at a highly recommended restaurant with parents and mum in law.
The highlight of this Bangalore trip has been the newly built Mantri Square mall (claims to be India's largest mall - hmm...to be taken with a pinch of salt, I think) close to home in Malleswaram. It is a bit of a culture shock to see this new hip face of old Bangalore. It has most of the happening names in Indian retailing: Lifestyle, Shoppers Stop, an exclusive Tissot store, Taco Bell (I didn't know this existed here), Pantaloons, etc. Going by the crowds, the local residents seem to love it. Given the price tags, I am not sure how many people actually enter the place with an aim to buy, but at least it's a great place to spend a couple of hours on a hot summer afternoon.
Tomorrow, I am off to Mumbai to spend a day there, before getting back to Sydney on Friday night.
*****************************
I managed to catch up on a bit of recent Oscar fare on the flight to India: Hurt Locker, Blind Side, Up in the Air, and It's Complicated. Enjoyed Blind Side - sucker for predictable cinema about human goodness that I am.
Monday, March 29, 2010
Money, Maslow and me
It is only morning
but doesn’t seem that.
Can we forward to night?
My cola’s gone flat.
Considering that life’s primary pursuit is happiness, it doesn’t seem I am making a spectacular success of it. At the moment, life seems a series of humdrum days and nights rolling on relentlessly. It is an age old river maintaining its steady course towards the sea, the still surface interrupted only briefly by little fish bobbing to the surface.
There was a time when I thought money would bring joy. An uncle, who is now no more, summed it pretty well when he once said to me, “Upto a point, money is the most important thing in life. Beyond that point, it is the least important thing.” I guess I am beyond the Point. I am neither the Monk who sold his Ferrari nor anywhere near being a millionaire. It is just that I know enough about money and myself to realise that having a million bucks land in my account overnight will not fundamentally alter my state of happiness.
In college, Behavioural Science was a subject hardly anyone took seriously, and generally considered a bit of gas providing relief amid tougher subjects. Looking back, I think it offered at least one powerful tool to understand motivation – the Maslow hierarchy. I don’t recall the finer detail, but Maslow basically said that man is motivated by a hierarchy of needs, starting from basic physical needs such as food and drink. Once these are satisfied, one progresses to creature comforts like a nice car and comfortable house, and then onto the emotional affiliation needs such as love and affection of family and friends, recognition of the community, and so on. Once all these are satisfied, one reaches the apex of motivational needs – the need for self actualization ie. the ability to fully realise one’s inherent potential.
Flashing back to the recent past, I review recent moments of satisfaction. Visit from close family friends (affiliation), playing with kids (same), progressing from being a non-swimmer to doing a few strokes in the pool (actualization?), resolving a somewhat complex problem at work (ditto), writing a piece for this blog (ditto). Hmmm…maybe Maslow had something there.
Hail Abraham Maslow, facilitator of introspection. Long may his memory live.
but doesn’t seem that.
Can we forward to night?
My cola’s gone flat.
Considering that life’s primary pursuit is happiness, it doesn’t seem I am making a spectacular success of it. At the moment, life seems a series of humdrum days and nights rolling on relentlessly. It is an age old river maintaining its steady course towards the sea, the still surface interrupted only briefly by little fish bobbing to the surface.
There was a time when I thought money would bring joy. An uncle, who is now no more, summed it pretty well when he once said to me, “Upto a point, money is the most important thing in life. Beyond that point, it is the least important thing.” I guess I am beyond the Point. I am neither the Monk who sold his Ferrari nor anywhere near being a millionaire. It is just that I know enough about money and myself to realise that having a million bucks land in my account overnight will not fundamentally alter my state of happiness.
In college, Behavioural Science was a subject hardly anyone took seriously, and generally considered a bit of gas providing relief amid tougher subjects. Looking back, I think it offered at least one powerful tool to understand motivation – the Maslow hierarchy. I don’t recall the finer detail, but Maslow basically said that man is motivated by a hierarchy of needs, starting from basic physical needs such as food and drink. Once these are satisfied, one progresses to creature comforts like a nice car and comfortable house, and then onto the emotional affiliation needs such as love and affection of family and friends, recognition of the community, and so on. Once all these are satisfied, one reaches the apex of motivational needs – the need for self actualization ie. the ability to fully realise one’s inherent potential.
Flashing back to the recent past, I review recent moments of satisfaction. Visit from close family friends (affiliation), playing with kids (same), progressing from being a non-swimmer to doing a few strokes in the pool (actualization?), resolving a somewhat complex problem at work (ditto), writing a piece for this blog (ditto). Hmmm…maybe Maslow had something there.
Hail Abraham Maslow, facilitator of introspection. Long may his memory live.
Sunday, March 14, 2010
To believe or not to believe
An interesting discussion about religion on ABC’s Q&A show last week stoked my thoughts on the subject.
I do not have a relationship with God. When at a temple or a religious occasion, I bow my head and fold hands, more to blend in with the crowd than for anything else. Just in case God actually exists and listens to prayers, I occasionally ask for something, usually quite general and relating to the world at large, rather than to a specific individual.
I do not scoff at the possibility of God’s existence, for people far better than I are convinced of it. It is just that I do not find his existence necessary to explain anything that I have experienced to date.
The general tendency to externalize our problems, instead of looking for solutions within, has always been a bit puzzling to me. Isn’t one better of spending more time studying to clear an exam rather than visiting a temple to pray for a successful result?
Many people I know approach God to ask for favours – “please let me pass this exam”, “please let me get through this job”, “please let me win the lottery”, etc. Occasionally, they even offer God a bribe. “If you get me through this exam, I will break a coconut”. “If I get selected for this job, I will donate my first salary to the temple, etc”.
If God does exist, and these offers do work, I am not sure what to make of Him. In a normal human being, this would attract corruption charges.
God shows himself in mysterious ways. When I was an MBA student, idols of the Lord Ganesha started sucking up milk offered by devotees over a few days, unleashing a wave of religious hysteria across India. The country was divided in its explanations of the phenomenon, ranging from scientific theories such as capillary action, to sheer divine magic.
I wish He would show himself in some more obvious way, like a giant vision seen worldwide, putting all argument to rest and enabling people to get on with at least one big question in their lives resolved.
If God does not exist, he must surely be by far the most humungous scam perpetrated on mankind. Imagine the enormity of time and money spent on this fabrication over the ages.
If he exists, I am sorry for the skepticism, and wish to say Hello.
I do not have a relationship with God. When at a temple or a religious occasion, I bow my head and fold hands, more to blend in with the crowd than for anything else. Just in case God actually exists and listens to prayers, I occasionally ask for something, usually quite general and relating to the world at large, rather than to a specific individual.
I do not scoff at the possibility of God’s existence, for people far better than I are convinced of it. It is just that I do not find his existence necessary to explain anything that I have experienced to date.
The general tendency to externalize our problems, instead of looking for solutions within, has always been a bit puzzling to me. Isn’t one better of spending more time studying to clear an exam rather than visiting a temple to pray for a successful result?
Many people I know approach God to ask for favours – “please let me pass this exam”, “please let me get through this job”, “please let me win the lottery”, etc. Occasionally, they even offer God a bribe. “If you get me through this exam, I will break a coconut”. “If I get selected for this job, I will donate my first salary to the temple, etc”.
If God does exist, and these offers do work, I am not sure what to make of Him. In a normal human being, this would attract corruption charges.
God shows himself in mysterious ways. When I was an MBA student, idols of the Lord Ganesha started sucking up milk offered by devotees over a few days, unleashing a wave of religious hysteria across India. The country was divided in its explanations of the phenomenon, ranging from scientific theories such as capillary action, to sheer divine magic.
I wish He would show himself in some more obvious way, like a giant vision seen worldwide, putting all argument to rest and enabling people to get on with at least one big question in their lives resolved.
If God does not exist, he must surely be by far the most humungous scam perpetrated on mankind. Imagine the enormity of time and money spent on this fabrication over the ages.
If he exists, I am sorry for the skepticism, and wish to say Hello.
Monday, March 1, 2010
Naked Truth
Early this morning, 5000 men and women posed naked for photographer Spencer Tunick at Sydney’s Opera House. They braved the dawn chill, standing in their birthday suits, obediently following the photographer’s every command. Imagine 5000 people with their clothes off, doing as you please. Wicked! All in the name of art, of course. The photo-shoot was commissioned by the committee in charge of the ongoing gay and lesbian festival, Mardi Gras.
More noteworthy than the event itself, was the public reaction to it. This ranged from some quiet chuckles with a couple of risqué jokes thrown in, to genuine appreciation for this expression of individual freedom and choice. In general, Sydneysiders took this in their stride as something completely acceptable, even if not everyone’s cup of tea.
I have been trying to imagine the scene if someone attempted a similar project in India. What a logistical nightmare it would be! The five thousand people in the picture would be completely outnumbered by another twenty thousand trying to get a look in. Actually, things would not even get that far. The moment word got around, a couple of political parties would see a ticket to extracting their mileage for the month. They would cry hoarse about the insult to Indian culture and vow to prevent the event. They would do this without any debate on the subject or even considering the possibility that there may be nothing sexual about it. The police machinery would have to be brought into play in full force, for the event to go ahead.
There will be debates on TV about freedom of expression and how much is too much. I can just visualize Barkha Dutt moderating an animated discussion with someone like Shabana Azmi on one side and some stuffy cleric on the other. The cleric would say in a huff. “If you want to take off your clothes and do mujra in this studio, go ahead – who am I stop you?”
If a bunch of people want to get their clothes off and pose for a picture in a peaceful manner in a matter of half an hour, why waste so much airtime on it? Just get it over with and move on.
* * * * *
It’s not just the traffic in the western world that is more orderly. Even the weather-gods seems to follow a strict timetable. March 1 is officially the end of summer and the onset of autumn. True to form, overnight, the nights have become nippy, and darkness hangs around much longer in the morning.
More noteworthy than the event itself, was the public reaction to it. This ranged from some quiet chuckles with a couple of risqué jokes thrown in, to genuine appreciation for this expression of individual freedom and choice. In general, Sydneysiders took this in their stride as something completely acceptable, even if not everyone’s cup of tea.
I have been trying to imagine the scene if someone attempted a similar project in India. What a logistical nightmare it would be! The five thousand people in the picture would be completely outnumbered by another twenty thousand trying to get a look in. Actually, things would not even get that far. The moment word got around, a couple of political parties would see a ticket to extracting their mileage for the month. They would cry hoarse about the insult to Indian culture and vow to prevent the event. They would do this without any debate on the subject or even considering the possibility that there may be nothing sexual about it. The police machinery would have to be brought into play in full force, for the event to go ahead.
There will be debates on TV about freedom of expression and how much is too much. I can just visualize Barkha Dutt moderating an animated discussion with someone like Shabana Azmi on one side and some stuffy cleric on the other. The cleric would say in a huff. “If you want to take off your clothes and do mujra in this studio, go ahead – who am I stop you?”
If a bunch of people want to get their clothes off and pose for a picture in a peaceful manner in a matter of half an hour, why waste so much airtime on it? Just get it over with and move on.
* * * * *
It’s not just the traffic in the western world that is more orderly. Even the weather-gods seems to follow a strict timetable. March 1 is officially the end of summer and the onset of autumn. True to form, overnight, the nights have become nippy, and darkness hangs around much longer in the morning.
Monday, February 15, 2010
Just another weekday
It is just another weekday, drawing to a close. It was one of those lazy days at the office, involving nothing more demanding than a couple of conversations and a few emails.
I am on the train, which is only 70% full giving its passengers the option of spreading their limbs around. A rather manly lady sharing my seat is talking loudly on her cellphone. About half the people aboard, myself included are busy with some electronic toy or the other – cellphone, laptop, iPod, etc. A few are reading books/newspapers, and a minority is engaged in actual conversation. Some are simply looking out of the window, and others staring at the seat in front.
In half an hour, I will be home, to the noise of two kids, and complaints about their behavior. Their mum will be distraught about one of them, and deeply concerned about his (lack of) future. The same boy, who was a source of great joy when born and later as a toddler, is now a cause for stress. This, I suppose, is the norm in families with growing kids.
After a hearty dinner, the boys and I settle down to the routine bedtime reading session. A story about an alligator who cannot get himself to eat a duck he befriends, and for the older one, two chapters from Enid Blyton’s Secret Seven series. My eight year old son points out the word “awkward” in a sentence, and remarks that if someone had the name Dr Awkward, one could spell his name backwards. I nod my head impatiently, wanting to get on with the story. My heart soars. Someone with such perception cannot have a doomed future.
One of the boys nods off, and I say goodnight to the other and ease out of the room. It is quiet time – I check email, and settle down on a sofa with a glass of red wine. My thoughts drift back to the swimming lesson earlier in the day.
I manage the front glide, and the paddling all right. I actually feel I am getting somewhere with my aquatic skills. Then we attempt to do the back float. This is a disaster. My backside just sinks towards the floor, as thought it has weights attached. The natural tendency of my body in the water while attempting to face up is to form a V with my bum as the vertex, and floating horizontally is impossible. The sinking bum gradually drags down the rest of the body with it, and water gets into my nostrils. I flail my arms and somehow, struggling, get back to a standing position, with my feet on the floor. I doubt whether I will ever be able to do this. “You are too stiff”, my trainer tells me. “Make your arms floppy”. I try again, with similar results. My trainer decides this will take me a while, and saying “You are a sinker. Fill your lungs with as much air as you can”, moves on to the next person. I must lick this. Perhaps some practice over the weekend will help.
I down the last sip of wine, and make my way upstairs to bed.
As always, my eyes beat the alarm. I play my routine time guessing game. What will it be – 6:12 or 6:13, something tells me. I glance at the clock – 6:12 it is. I retain my horizontal position, cherishing those last three minutes before the beeping of the alarm. When it beeps, I shall rise, and walk into the bathroom and just another weekday.
I am on the train, which is only 70% full giving its passengers the option of spreading their limbs around. A rather manly lady sharing my seat is talking loudly on her cellphone. About half the people aboard, myself included are busy with some electronic toy or the other – cellphone, laptop, iPod, etc. A few are reading books/newspapers, and a minority is engaged in actual conversation. Some are simply looking out of the window, and others staring at the seat in front.
In half an hour, I will be home, to the noise of two kids, and complaints about their behavior. Their mum will be distraught about one of them, and deeply concerned about his (lack of) future. The same boy, who was a source of great joy when born and later as a toddler, is now a cause for stress. This, I suppose, is the norm in families with growing kids.
After a hearty dinner, the boys and I settle down to the routine bedtime reading session. A story about an alligator who cannot get himself to eat a duck he befriends, and for the older one, two chapters from Enid Blyton’s Secret Seven series. My eight year old son points out the word “awkward” in a sentence, and remarks that if someone had the name Dr Awkward, one could spell his name backwards. I nod my head impatiently, wanting to get on with the story. My heart soars. Someone with such perception cannot have a doomed future.
One of the boys nods off, and I say goodnight to the other and ease out of the room. It is quiet time – I check email, and settle down on a sofa with a glass of red wine. My thoughts drift back to the swimming lesson earlier in the day.
I manage the front glide, and the paddling all right. I actually feel I am getting somewhere with my aquatic skills. Then we attempt to do the back float. This is a disaster. My backside just sinks towards the floor, as thought it has weights attached. The natural tendency of my body in the water while attempting to face up is to form a V with my bum as the vertex, and floating horizontally is impossible. The sinking bum gradually drags down the rest of the body with it, and water gets into my nostrils. I flail my arms and somehow, struggling, get back to a standing position, with my feet on the floor. I doubt whether I will ever be able to do this. “You are too stiff”, my trainer tells me. “Make your arms floppy”. I try again, with similar results. My trainer decides this will take me a while, and saying “You are a sinker. Fill your lungs with as much air as you can”, moves on to the next person. I must lick this. Perhaps some practice over the weekend will help.
I down the last sip of wine, and make my way upstairs to bed.
As always, my eyes beat the alarm. I play my routine time guessing game. What will it be – 6:12 or 6:13, something tells me. I glance at the clock – 6:12 it is. I retain my horizontal position, cherishing those last three minutes before the beeping of the alarm. When it beeps, I shall rise, and walk into the bathroom and just another weekday.
Monday, January 25, 2010
Taking Stock
For someone in the financial services sector, I can be accused of being rather lazy in regard to personal finances. My savings largely languish in the public provident fund and bank fixed deposits, struggling to keep pace with inflation. Thanks to peer pressure, I invested, with the aid of a housing loan, in an apartment in a multi-storeyed complex in Thane three years ago. That has been ‘nearing completion’ for an year now. But the price for this apartment-in-making has apparently risen significantly over this period, as prices for most things tend to do. It creates the illusion of a tidy profit, albeit on paper, which is a nice feeling to have.
My relationship with the stock market has been more of an occasional dalliance than an enduring romance. A couple of years into my working life, I decided it was time to get into this exciting area. I had no grand ambitions of quadrupling my original investment. Being fundamentally risk averse and having read the appropriate literature on the pitfalls of putting eggs in one basket, I decided that a mutual fund was the way to go. I think it was sometime in April 2000. I put a reasonable chunk of my modest savings into two mutual funds.
I could not have timed it worse. It was as though the stock market had carefully laid out an ambush for me. Almost from the day of my investment, the Sensex went into a spectacular dive, taking my mutual funds with it. I began taking a masochistic pleasure in seeing the erosion of my money in the daily papers. After a bloodbath lasting a year or so, my mutual funds seemed to have hit rock bottom, and lay there without heading in any particular direction, licking their wounds. My experience left me wanting to have nothing to do with this sort of crazy market. I sold pretty near the bottom, and exited.
Lesson1: It does not matter if your eggs are in one basket or many, when the whole damn cart carrying the baskets turns over.
Lesson2: At the moment of investment you don’t know whether you are near a trough or a peak, so unless you have the stomach for a wild ride, its best to spread your investments over time.
Time is a great healer, and sometime in 2005 I decided to re-enter the stock market, with the view that I was now financially better able to withstand shocks. The last episode had taught me the benefit of staggering investments over time rather than doing it in lump sums, and armed with this knowledge, I started investing small investments each month into a few select mutual funds. The concept of rupee cost averaging seemed to work, and this time, when the value of my holdings fell, I did not panic. The Global Financial Crisis happened in 2008, stocks/mutual funds got ravaged, and yet I did not exit. Now, the GFC has passed and the value of the funds is back to where it was and a little better.
Lesson 3: Although it may seem counter-intuitive, when all is crashing around you, it is time not to exit, but to get in deeper.
It was not until 2006-7 that I decided to put money directly into stocks. I chose five companies to own – four were either names that I had known to be good from prior personal experience, or just respectable companies that the man on the street would recognize. The fifth was a rank outsider, an obscure cotton yarn manufacturer in the deep south, which I was informed by a colleague, was sure to at least double in a few months. The first four in the whole made some modest gains over the course of 6 months. The cotton yarn manufacturer dropped value by half, and threatened to go lower, when I decided I had enough and dumped it. I sold all my shares before leaving India, thinking I would have a fair bit on my mind with having to settle down in a new country, and lack the time or inclination to follow the Indian market on a regular basis.
Lesson 4: Don’t buy on tips, especially if you never knew of the company’s existence before.
It is now two and a half years since I owned any shares, and just last week, I decided it was time to renew the sporadic affair. The approach, even now, is not rocket scientific, and simply to shortlist “enduring, solid” companies which have been in business for years, and offer no reason to believe that they will not do well in the foreseeable future. From these, identify those which appear to be going cheap i.e. trading nearer a low than a high, based on their stock price over the last few years. I have placed my chips on the table, fastened the seat belt, and leaned back to enjoy the ride.
My relationship with the stock market has been more of an occasional dalliance than an enduring romance. A couple of years into my working life, I decided it was time to get into this exciting area. I had no grand ambitions of quadrupling my original investment. Being fundamentally risk averse and having read the appropriate literature on the pitfalls of putting eggs in one basket, I decided that a mutual fund was the way to go. I think it was sometime in April 2000. I put a reasonable chunk of my modest savings into two mutual funds.
I could not have timed it worse. It was as though the stock market had carefully laid out an ambush for me. Almost from the day of my investment, the Sensex went into a spectacular dive, taking my mutual funds with it. I began taking a masochistic pleasure in seeing the erosion of my money in the daily papers. After a bloodbath lasting a year or so, my mutual funds seemed to have hit rock bottom, and lay there without heading in any particular direction, licking their wounds. My experience left me wanting to have nothing to do with this sort of crazy market. I sold pretty near the bottom, and exited.
Lesson1: It does not matter if your eggs are in one basket or many, when the whole damn cart carrying the baskets turns over.
Lesson2: At the moment of investment you don’t know whether you are near a trough or a peak, so unless you have the stomach for a wild ride, its best to spread your investments over time.
Time is a great healer, and sometime in 2005 I decided to re-enter the stock market, with the view that I was now financially better able to withstand shocks. The last episode had taught me the benefit of staggering investments over time rather than doing it in lump sums, and armed with this knowledge, I started investing small investments each month into a few select mutual funds. The concept of rupee cost averaging seemed to work, and this time, when the value of my holdings fell, I did not panic. The Global Financial Crisis happened in 2008, stocks/mutual funds got ravaged, and yet I did not exit. Now, the GFC has passed and the value of the funds is back to where it was and a little better.
Lesson 3: Although it may seem counter-intuitive, when all is crashing around you, it is time not to exit, but to get in deeper.
It was not until 2006-7 that I decided to put money directly into stocks. I chose five companies to own – four were either names that I had known to be good from prior personal experience, or just respectable companies that the man on the street would recognize. The fifth was a rank outsider, an obscure cotton yarn manufacturer in the deep south, which I was informed by a colleague, was sure to at least double in a few months. The first four in the whole made some modest gains over the course of 6 months. The cotton yarn manufacturer dropped value by half, and threatened to go lower, when I decided I had enough and dumped it. I sold all my shares before leaving India, thinking I would have a fair bit on my mind with having to settle down in a new country, and lack the time or inclination to follow the Indian market on a regular basis.
Lesson 4: Don’t buy on tips, especially if you never knew of the company’s existence before.
It is now two and a half years since I owned any shares, and just last week, I decided it was time to renew the sporadic affair. The approach, even now, is not rocket scientific, and simply to shortlist “enduring, solid” companies which have been in business for years, and offer no reason to believe that they will not do well in the foreseeable future. From these, identify those which appear to be going cheap i.e. trading nearer a low than a high, based on their stock price over the last few years. I have placed my chips on the table, fastened the seat belt, and leaned back to enjoy the ride.
Saturday, January 9, 2010
Bondi and New Year
Thanks to our visiting friends from Mumbai, the Jalans, we got to dip our toes in the water of Sydney’s iconic Bondi Beach a couple of weeks back. After a two hour long journey using three modes of public transport, the family and our visitors arrived at the famous destination.
There is no denying the atmosphere. There is something about milling crowds exhibiting generally friendly behaviour that adds to the charm of a place. Add to this the clear bluish green water, surf, cafes and shopping in the vicinity, and it is not hard to see why it is the city’s favourite beach destination, for serious surfers and casual picnickers.
The beach itself is a ten minute walk long crescent of sand, flanked by a rocky cliff at one end and a similar shelf on the other. The water was rather cold, as it tends to be in this part of the world, particularly for those looking for nothing more adventurous than a quick toe dip. However that did not seem to deter surfing and swimming enthusiasts. Mr Jalan though, was possibly a tad disappointed, as we did not come across anyone who was not at least slightly clothed.
It was a rather active end to the year, from a sight seeing perspective. In the space of two weeks we covered what we might normally do in 6 months – Gold Coast, Bondi, Jenolan Caves, and New Year’s Eve at Sydney Harbour. Hosting visitors who are committed to ticking off as many places as possible in a compressed timeframe shakes people out of their travel inertia.
For anyone who is planning a visit to Australia/Sydney, do not leave without a visit to the Jenolan Caves which is a 2.5 hour drive from Sydney. An overview of the wonders on offer is available on their website. The place is awesome and highly recommended.
2009 was the year in which I
• Saw the coral in the Great Barrier Reef
• Snorkeled for the first time
• Went on the insane Jet Rescue ride in Seaworld
• Experienced the acoustics of the Cathedral Chamber in Lucas Cave, Jenolan
• Had a palm reader in Jaipur tell me I will go back to India
• Truly got addicted to dark chocolate and acquired a liking for red wine
• Went on Facebook
• Started writing this blog
Have a great 2010.
There is no denying the atmosphere. There is something about milling crowds exhibiting generally friendly behaviour that adds to the charm of a place. Add to this the clear bluish green water, surf, cafes and shopping in the vicinity, and it is not hard to see why it is the city’s favourite beach destination, for serious surfers and casual picnickers.
The beach itself is a ten minute walk long crescent of sand, flanked by a rocky cliff at one end and a similar shelf on the other. The water was rather cold, as it tends to be in this part of the world, particularly for those looking for nothing more adventurous than a quick toe dip. However that did not seem to deter surfing and swimming enthusiasts. Mr Jalan though, was possibly a tad disappointed, as we did not come across anyone who was not at least slightly clothed.
It was a rather active end to the year, from a sight seeing perspective. In the space of two weeks we covered what we might normally do in 6 months – Gold Coast, Bondi, Jenolan Caves, and New Year’s Eve at Sydney Harbour. Hosting visitors who are committed to ticking off as many places as possible in a compressed timeframe shakes people out of their travel inertia.
For anyone who is planning a visit to Australia/Sydney, do not leave without a visit to the Jenolan Caves which is a 2.5 hour drive from Sydney. An overview of the wonders on offer is available on their website. The place is awesome and highly recommended.
2009 was the year in which I
• Saw the coral in the Great Barrier Reef
• Snorkeled for the first time
• Went on the insane Jet Rescue ride in Seaworld
• Experienced the acoustics of the Cathedral Chamber in Lucas Cave, Jenolan
• Had a palm reader in Jaipur tell me I will go back to India
• Truly got addicted to dark chocolate and acquired a liking for red wine
• Went on Facebook
• Started writing this blog
Have a great 2010.
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