Saturday, July 14, 2018
Saturday, July 25, 2009
The writing on the wall
At 44, and on the threshold of 45, I have spent almost seventy per cent of my active life. However, I feel that I have still not written all that I could have in all these years. My writing has been in patches, inspired by an occasional gust of fresh air or by a thought provoking idea hidden somewhere among the maze of words in a newspaper or magazine.
I do not exactly remember when I wrote my first poem (did I ever write a poem?) or pen my first essay. What I remember,though,is that I was very fond of writing in my early days ----- just as I am today. Anything that made sense and could be expressed in the written form, found their rightful place in the innumerable notebooks and scrapbooks I had. They were letters to relatives and friends, school essays, stories for competitions, and even love letters ----- I wrote them all. What made me write confidently was not my vocabulary or writing skills ------- it was my father’s encouragement.
My father was a scientist; an ichthyologist to be precise. He was a teacher par excellence and a scholar of utmost dedication. While his students revered and adored him, his teachers egged him on in his quest for academic brilliance. My old man was a man of few words. He believed that words should not be wasted and should only be spoken or written when they made sense. Tutored by Englishmen and groomed in proper English medium schools all through his school and college life, my father’s English was impeccable. He knew each and every complex word that my schoolbooks were capable of throwing up. He constructed beautiful sentences with them to make me understand their exact meaning. Later, when I reproduced them, verbatim, his eyes shone with an intensity I had never seen before. The gratifying smile on his face told me that he derived immense satisfaction from all that was happening. The lessons went on and a time came when I had learnt to play around with the words and the syntax. He corrected whatever I wrote, never forgetting to post encouraging comments on my notebook.
Soon, I was doing well in my writing tasks. My spellings were never wrong, I could write proper sentences and tell the difference between croak and creak, neigh and whinny, and bust and burst. Little did I realise, then, that it was all because of that man. Today, as I try to write something worthwhile, his thoughts come pouring in with an unfathomable degree of spontaneity.
When Hamilton, our assistant headmaster’s Dalmatian, died all of a sudden on a
rainy day, he wept uncontrollably in class. We were in the fourth standard then and could not really understand why the Father cried so much. At the end of the class, he asked us to write a small obituary on the poor quadruped. The best essay would occupy its proud place on the school notice board. Although not many were enthused by the idea, I wrote down the name of the topic on my notebook, determined to do something about it. Students from all the classes were asked to write and it was going to be a difficult task to leave an impression. However, the thought of putting pen to paper on such an “important” topic made my heart pound. It was a make or break situation. With assistance from my father, I bid a small but emotional farewell to Hamilton through my 100-word write-up, which ultimately found a place on the board. I was ecstatic.
Subsequently, on numerous occasions, my essays written in class and on examination papers were the topic of discussion among schoolteachers and senior students. However, to my mind, I have never written anything as beautiful as that epitaph on Hamilton,even to this day.
I do not exactly remember when I wrote my first poem (did I ever write a poem?) or pen my first essay. What I remember,though,is that I was very fond of writing in my early days ----- just as I am today. Anything that made sense and could be expressed in the written form, found their rightful place in the innumerable notebooks and scrapbooks I had. They were letters to relatives and friends, school essays, stories for competitions, and even love letters ----- I wrote them all. What made me write confidently was not my vocabulary or writing skills ------- it was my father’s encouragement.
My father was a scientist; an ichthyologist to be precise. He was a teacher par excellence and a scholar of utmost dedication. While his students revered and adored him, his teachers egged him on in his quest for academic brilliance. My old man was a man of few words. He believed that words should not be wasted and should only be spoken or written when they made sense. Tutored by Englishmen and groomed in proper English medium schools all through his school and college life, my father’s English was impeccable. He knew each and every complex word that my schoolbooks were capable of throwing up. He constructed beautiful sentences with them to make me understand their exact meaning. Later, when I reproduced them, verbatim, his eyes shone with an intensity I had never seen before. The gratifying smile on his face told me that he derived immense satisfaction from all that was happening. The lessons went on and a time came when I had learnt to play around with the words and the syntax. He corrected whatever I wrote, never forgetting to post encouraging comments on my notebook.
Soon, I was doing well in my writing tasks. My spellings were never wrong, I could write proper sentences and tell the difference between croak and creak, neigh and whinny, and bust and burst. Little did I realise, then, that it was all because of that man. Today, as I try to write something worthwhile, his thoughts come pouring in with an unfathomable degree of spontaneity.
When Hamilton, our assistant headmaster’s Dalmatian, died all of a sudden on a
rainy day, he wept uncontrollably in class. We were in the fourth standard then and could not really understand why the Father cried so much. At the end of the class, he asked us to write a small obituary on the poor quadruped. The best essay would occupy its proud place on the school notice board. Although not many were enthused by the idea, I wrote down the name of the topic on my notebook, determined to do something about it. Students from all the classes were asked to write and it was going to be a difficult task to leave an impression. However, the thought of putting pen to paper on such an “important” topic made my heart pound. It was a make or break situation. With assistance from my father, I bid a small but emotional farewell to Hamilton through my 100-word write-up, which ultimately found a place on the board. I was ecstatic.
Subsequently, on numerous occasions, my essays written in class and on examination papers were the topic of discussion among schoolteachers and senior students. However, to my mind, I have never written anything as beautiful as that epitaph on Hamilton,even to this day.
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
From here to eternity
"Panchlingeshwar"?! asked my colleague one October evening in 2001 as we prepared for an outbound stress management programme which the office had organised. It was the first time that such a programme had been arranged and the two of us felt a little peeved at being chosen as lambs for the slaughter.
Left with no choice and with very little time, we reluctantly completed the required formalities and handed over our papers to our HR department for their doing the needful. The next evening, sharp at six, we reported at the tour organisers’ office for the briefing session.
Run by two enterprising sisters, Sona and Mimi, Oriental Travel Wing specialises in these kind of programmes for corporate houses. Soon, the other participants from various offices across Kolkata, trickled in one by one and the elder of the two sisters Mimi, began telling us what lay in store. "Rock climbing and counselling would comprise the main activities of our programme" she said, "and in between we shall have a few sessions thrown in for relaxation, when you can chat among yourselves or listen to music or do whatever you feel like "Counselling is fine and so is chatting but what about rock climbing"? we asked ourselves, the butterflies already fluttering in our stomachs. She seemed to have read our minds quite well, for she continued "Chandan, here, will be your guide for the next two days as far as rock climbing is concerned. He is an expert mountaineer and along with his assistant Somnath he will take you through the rock climbing sessions smoothly and safely. Our hearts were in our mouths, but the big fellow grinned from side to side as if to say "Got you in my grip, you lazy couchpotatoes". Among other chitchats, Chandan explained to us that we should not forget to take with us a pen knife, a torch, at least two tubes of mosquito repellents, caps, tracksuits, sneakers and sunglasses.
The next morning, the 3rd of October, 2001 we, a group of 16 people, assembled at the Howrah station to board the Dhauli express which would take us to Balasore, the nearest rail station to Panchlingeshwar. As the train chugged out of platform no.13, we settled comfortably in our seats and soon the process of getting introduced and acquainted to each other started. When we reached Balasore at about 1.30 p.m. we had got to know ourselves fairly well, amidst friendly banter and mild doses of leg pulling. Before embarking on our journey, we had been told by the organisers that for the next three days we would be totally cut -off from our family and loved ones as mobile phones were not yet operational in Panchlingeshwar and the nearest STD/ISD booth would be at least 40 kilometre away from the OTDC lodge where we would be putting up. So, as soon as we got down at Balasore station, we dashed for the nearest telephone booth or switched on our soon to-be defunct mobiles to convey home the news of our safe arrival.
The sun was beating down in all its glory and there was not a speck of cloud in the sky; the weather was perfect. A gentle breeze was blowing and there was a whiff of freshness which filled our hearts with peace and serenity. After we were through with our phone calls and snacks and tea we clambered into the Tata Sumos which were to take us to the OTDC guest house in Panchlingeshwar. We left the bustling bazaars of Balasore behind and made our way through the winding metalled roads into the lap of nature. Undulating stretches of paddy fields, coconut trees, quaint little mud houses and dusty village roads were all that we could see around us. Suddenly, our eyes met the green hills looming large in front of us. It seemed to beckon us with a strange kind of friendliness and warmth, ready to welcome us in its huge embrace.
After some time our cars pulled up in front of what was supposed to be our home for the next few days ---the OTDC guest house A gravelled roadway with well manicured lawns and clump of mango trees on both sides led to a cluster of comfortable looking little single storeyed cottages nestled at the foot of green mountains. The setting was absolutely perfect for a group of weary city-dwellers like us and we began to soak in the sweet sunshine, the intoxicating scent of fresh flowers and the cool breeze coming down from the hills to our hearts 'content.
We freshened ourselves up and over cups of steaming hot tea and mouth-watering snacks got friendly with Brendon Maccarthaigh, an Irish Father, who was to take us through the counselling sessions. Brendon is a professional counsellor and he was there to take us to a level of mental fitness which would stand us in good stead once we went back to where we belonged. By late afternoon, the counselling session for the day was over and Chandan took over from where Brendon had left. He was to introduce us to the green mountains and unravel the mystery which lay inside it. Chandan had been to this part of the country many times over and knew the rocks as closely and minutely as he knew the back of his hand. He could tell the difference between the gradient of one rock and the other, suggest the shortest distance and mark the easiest way which could take us to the top of each boulder or rock. As we floundered our way through the dense scrub and thorny vegetation that covered the base of the rocks, trying to move up, Chandan was way ahead of us manouevering his way like a skilled ballet dancer. When we had reached the top of the designated boulders, we could no longer stand on our feet and squatted on the flat rock surface, panting heavily. By now, the sun had mellowed down and we could feel the coolness in the air. It was time to go down, Chandan told us, as the sun was setting. Darkness would soon envelop the hills in its mysterious veil and life would come to an absolute standstill in this quaint little hamlet.
Back in the guest house, our evening counselling session began under the canopy of a star studded sky. Mats were spread out on the sprawling verandahs and we lay prostrate on our backs trying to get rid of the aches and cramps which we had acquired thanks to the gruelling rock climbing session. Soothing music played in the background and Brendon asked us to close our eyes and count backwards from 100 to 1 forgetting our very existence and trying to be one with nature ------ with the skies above and the darkness all around.He called it the ‘star gazing’ session. When I had finished counting up to 1, I opened my eyes to realize that all the pain and cramps had gone and the mind was as refreshed as ever. I was game for another rock climbing session.
The next morning would be our real encounter with the rocks and we were all getting familiarised with the technical terms of mountaineering. Rappelling is one such term I distinctly remember. The morning of 4th October, 2001 dawned on Panchlingeshwar in all its brightness and glory. A sense of excitement hung in the air and the rocks in the background waited in anticipation, eager to have a close look at its guests. As we trudged our way through the dusty road and in between the paddy fields to the foothills, we could see Chandan at a distance, on top of one of the huge boulders. He was hitting the rock hard with a hammer like equipment, trying to fix huge iron hooks to which would be tied thick sturdy ropes. On the rock just opposite, Chandan’s assistant was doing just the same thing, putting in place our ropeway ( or death-way?) from the top of one boulder to the top of another. Rock climbing is fun and so is rappelling as we realised later on when the session ended. The rock climbing session gave us lessons in physical endurance, skill, stamina and will power. It also showed us from very close quarters that, when faced with the ruggedness and challenges of nature, we pale into insignificance, surrendering our bloated egos and false sense of superiority.
After another evening spent in the company of stars, gentle breeze, song of the crickets and the reassuring presence of the green mountains, we entered the last day of our programme. We had set this day aside for visiting the temple from which this place has got its name – the Panchlingeshwar Temple. The temple is located a little distance away from the OTDC guest house and it took us quite some time to reach the place because we walked it all through. On our way, we observed Panchlingeshwar, in all its simplicity and untainted beauty.
On the last evening of our short trip, Brendon said that he would take us to that part of Panchlingeshwar which he had fondly named ‘Table Mountain’. He said that the cluster of rocks here were a miniature replica of the original Table Mountain of Cape Town, South Africa. Since none of us had been to Cape Town, we were pretty much interested and so followed him like obedient pupils. Through broken paths, narrow creeks and dense foliage, Brendon, assisted by Chandan and Somnath, led us on the way to the Table Mountains. We could never have believed that such a place existed in this otherwise nondescript village, if we had not seen it with our own eyes. The ‘Table Mountain’ is set in a breathtakingly beautiful surrounding and no words would be apt to describe its grandeur and magnificence. The broken path that we had been following suddenly led us into a valley of a thick and velvety carpet of green grass. And on that patch of grassland, were strewn sand coloured boulders of all shapes and sizes. The biggest of these boulders was lying almost at the centre, its flat surface resembling a table top. We now knew why Brendon had called it the Table Mountain
We collected twigs and dry leaves and made them into heaps – four, five, six of them- I don’t exactly remember. We then burnt each one of these heaps and as the fire began to leap into flames and the dry leaves and the twigs crackled, Brendon asked each one of us to recount a memorable incident from our lives. We sat in groups on the boulders and did as he told us, one after the other, with the hope of coming back to this enchanting place, once again. Dusk descended on the Table Mountains, the sky assumed a purple and crimson hue and the fire burned ………. the fire, in the glow of which we saw the majesty and the aura of the Table Mountain all over again.
Saturday, June 20, 2009
Over a cup of coffee
A Cafe Coffee Day advertisement says " You can say a lot over coffee......". On being googled, "coffee" yields 206,000,000 results, which establishes the fact that a lot has indeed been said about coffee, if not over it.
The search also downloads a page on my screen which informs me that Cafe Coffee Day has 789 outlets in 105 cities and has been adjudged the "Best Exclusive Brand Retailer". What is it in a cup of coffee, I wonder, which makes it such a hot topic for discussion? Intrigued, I continue my search.
The National Geographic website tells me that coffee was discovered in Ethiopia by a goatherd named Kaldi in ca. 800 A.D. Once, while on a round with his goats, Kaldi noticed his animals hopping from one shrub to another and picking on some unfamiliar red berries. Their unusual excitement at the fag end of the day told Kaldi that something was up. As soon as he realised this, Kaldi plucked a few of these fruits and gobbled them up. And lo! in a while, he too was jumping around the bush with his flock. That is the story behind the effect of caffeine on a goatherd and his goats.
Caffeine is an alkaloid which acts as a stimulant on the human Central Nervous System. It is bitter to taste and white in colour. As a psychoactive substance, caffeine keeps our brain alert and prevents drowsiness. It can change the way our brain functions and alter our moods, perceptions, consciousness and behaviour. That is why we crave for a cup of coffee when we are down and out.
The most expensive coffee comes from the island of Indonesia and is known as Kopi Luwak. Kopi Luwak is made from coffee beans eaten, partly digested and excreted by the common palm civet, an animal which resembles the weasel. "Kopi" is coffee for the Indonesians and "Luwak" is the local name of the civet. The unique flavour of Kopi Luwak and its not-so-bitter taste fetches it a price of up to $600 a pound and up to $50 per cup.
No discussion on coffee would perhaps be complete without Starbucks. The Starbucks Coffee Company was born in 1971, with the first store opening in Pike Place Market, Chicago. Named after the first mate in Herman Melville's Moby Dick, Starbucks is the world's leading retailer and roaster of branded coffee. On its current menu board, Starbucks displays names such as Arabian Mocha Sanani, Bella Vista F.W. Tres Rios Costa, Rica, Brazil Ipanema Bourbon and a host of others. I wonder what it would cost me to say a lot over coffee.
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
The bolt from the blue
When the West Indies beat India by seven wickets in the Super 8 match that evening at Lords, I had a gut feeling that it was the beginning of the end. And so it happened; first England and then South Africa. Although the South Africa game was inconsequential, India could have salvaged some pride by winning the game. But, it was not to be. What we saw instead was abject surrender in the face of some professional all-round display by the Proteas.
And, so, the once-mighty Indians are back home with the wooden spoon. Angry and irate cricket crazy fans would now pounce upon the men in blue and the media will, in right earnest, try to analyse what really went wrong. What really went wrong is anybody's guess; however, some theories doing the rounds are (1) Sehwag's injury (2) the IPL tournament (3) Dhoni's captaincy and last but not the least (4) Dhoni's stars.
While Sehwag's injury may have seriously dented India's prospects, it was not absolutely impossible for the team to put up a good show without him. India has, in the past, prospered even when Sehwag has failed. What really mattered was that the Indian batsmen had Sehwag's absence at the back of their minds everytime they went out to bat. Dhoni promoted himself up the order in the first few matches trying to prove to the world that he was not daunted by the fact. However, his poor form from the IPL continued and team India went on the backfoot at crucial stages. Rohit Sharma tried to do his bit valiantly at the top of the order, but failed. He needs a bit of luck and experience. The only batsman who looked to be in any sort of touch was Yuvraj Singh but Dhoni decided to send him lower down the order, preferring the likes of Suresh Raina and Ravindra Jadeja instead.
The IPL tournament is not a valid excuse; especially from a professional like Gary Kirsten. Long before India landed on Old Blighty, did Kirsten know what lay in store. Was he expecting a fresh and rearing-to-go Indian team? Hardly ever. When a team like India, and that too a defending champion, fails to reach a decent stage in an international competition like the World Cup, all hell is bound to break loose. People like Kirsten can only run for cover at a time like this. And, he has done just that. Fair enough!
All this while Dhoni was the darling of the media. He was the "captain cool", a man with the Midas touch. Nothing that he did could go wrong. Commentators, ex-cricketers, club cricketers, the man on the street, Boycott's mom and everybody else marvelled at the head that this flamboyant cricketer carried on his shoulders. All good things must come to an end and so it has.
And this brings us to the theory of Dhoni's stars. It is Saturn which is causing all the problem says an astrologer. The bad phase will last for about two years, he adds. If MSD (that is what he is lovingly called by the press) is able to tide over this period, he will rise again like the phoenix from the ashes. Otherwise, Mahendra Singh Dhoni will only be a forgotten hero in the annals of Indian cricket, referred to by cricket historians and statisticians.
For someone like me, it doesn't matter at all. For, just like other sports, cricket is a game where you lose some and you win some. In an unpredictable format like T20, a bad phase of half-an-hour on the field may ruin your chances of winning, as the margin of error is too thin. England lost to the Netherlands, the Australians didn't even make it to the Super 8 and New Zealand flattered to deceive. There will always be another day when a Ravinder Jadeja or a Pragyan Ojha or a Rohit Sharma will do us proud. Till then, let us allow our cricketers to do some soul searching. They are a pampered lot.
And, so, the once-mighty Indians are back home with the wooden spoon. Angry and irate cricket crazy fans would now pounce upon the men in blue and the media will, in right earnest, try to analyse what really went wrong. What really went wrong is anybody's guess; however, some theories doing the rounds are (1) Sehwag's injury (2) the IPL tournament (3) Dhoni's captaincy and last but not the least (4) Dhoni's stars.
While Sehwag's injury may have seriously dented India's prospects, it was not absolutely impossible for the team to put up a good show without him. India has, in the past, prospered even when Sehwag has failed. What really mattered was that the Indian batsmen had Sehwag's absence at the back of their minds everytime they went out to bat. Dhoni promoted himself up the order in the first few matches trying to prove to the world that he was not daunted by the fact. However, his poor form from the IPL continued and team India went on the backfoot at crucial stages. Rohit Sharma tried to do his bit valiantly at the top of the order, but failed. He needs a bit of luck and experience. The only batsman who looked to be in any sort of touch was Yuvraj Singh but Dhoni decided to send him lower down the order, preferring the likes of Suresh Raina and Ravindra Jadeja instead.
The IPL tournament is not a valid excuse; especially from a professional like Gary Kirsten. Long before India landed on Old Blighty, did Kirsten know what lay in store. Was he expecting a fresh and rearing-to-go Indian team? Hardly ever. When a team like India, and that too a defending champion, fails to reach a decent stage in an international competition like the World Cup, all hell is bound to break loose. People like Kirsten can only run for cover at a time like this. And, he has done just that. Fair enough!
All this while Dhoni was the darling of the media. He was the "captain cool", a man with the Midas touch. Nothing that he did could go wrong. Commentators, ex-cricketers, club cricketers, the man on the street, Boycott's mom and everybody else marvelled at the head that this flamboyant cricketer carried on his shoulders. All good things must come to an end and so it has.
And this brings us to the theory of Dhoni's stars. It is Saturn which is causing all the problem says an astrologer. The bad phase will last for about two years, he adds. If MSD (that is what he is lovingly called by the press) is able to tide over this period, he will rise again like the phoenix from the ashes. Otherwise, Mahendra Singh Dhoni will only be a forgotten hero in the annals of Indian cricket, referred to by cricket historians and statisticians.
For someone like me, it doesn't matter at all. For, just like other sports, cricket is a game where you lose some and you win some. In an unpredictable format like T20, a bad phase of half-an-hour on the field may ruin your chances of winning, as the margin of error is too thin. England lost to the Netherlands, the Australians didn't even make it to the Super 8 and New Zealand flattered to deceive. There will always be another day when a Ravinder Jadeja or a Pragyan Ojha or a Rohit Sharma will do us proud. Till then, let us allow our cricketers to do some soul searching. They are a pampered lot.
Friday, June 12, 2009
Corporate chatter
If you thought this blog would be by a battle-hardened soldier or a T20 cricketer playing in the IPL, you are mistaken. For I am an insignificant financial editor trying to make a living out of the little English and Economics that I know. At times I also have to delve deep into the bagful of wisdom I have gathered in my sixteen years of struggle through the deceitful and murky office life in the organised Indian private sector, fondly called the corporate world.
It is perhaps a shame that even with my education and background, I have not yet made a significant difference to the society I am a part of. For, once you enter the rat race you just cannot do anything else but run. The corporate world teaches you how not to become a human being.
If you have been a truthful, honest soul and have always called a spade a spade, you are in for a rude shock. For, India's private sector is littered with slippery, shady characters who want to climb up the corporate ladder, come what may. On their way, they will trample on unsuspecting colleagues, waylay a couple of youngsters, harass a few female secretaries, molest others and brag about their achievements in office to wife and family and friends and in-laws and in-laws of in-laws. Oh! What an achievement!
In a series of blogs, which are real-life experiences, I will tell you about some corporate nincompoops whom I have had the privilege of working with. Their names, designations and organisations will, for obvious reasons, be kept secret. Decide, after reading these, dear reader whether you would like to change things by becoming a part or stay away hoping that some day things will become better. Watch this space for some interesting anecdotes. You never know--- the protagonist may be your next-door neighbour. It has been five years since I started writing this piece. Strangely, nothing seems to have changed.Except that I have aged by five years and have ushered in hypertension.In the interim I have picked up some more nuggets of wisdom on the way.
It is perhaps a shame that even with my education and background, I have not yet made a significant difference to the society I am a part of. For, once you enter the rat race you just cannot do anything else but run. The corporate world teaches you how not to become a human being.
If you have been a truthful, honest soul and have always called a spade a spade, you are in for a rude shock. For, India's private sector is littered with slippery, shady characters who want to climb up the corporate ladder, come what may. On their way, they will trample on unsuspecting colleagues, waylay a couple of youngsters, harass a few female secretaries, molest others and brag about their achievements in office to wife and family and friends and in-laws and in-laws of in-laws. Oh! What an achievement!
In a series of blogs, which are real-life experiences, I will tell you about some corporate nincompoops whom I have had the privilege of working with. Their names, designations and organisations will, for obvious reasons, be kept secret. Decide, after reading these, dear reader whether you would like to change things by becoming a part or stay away hoping that some day things will become better. Watch this space for some interesting anecdotes. You never know--- the protagonist may be your next-door neighbour. It has been five years since I started writing this piece. Strangely, nothing seems to have changed.Except that I have aged by five years and have ushered in hypertension.In the interim I have picked up some more nuggets of wisdom on the way.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)