Faces not Friends

I have stopped befriending people. These days, I simply engage in social networking.
Such are the new ties that bind Indian teenagers to 20 somethings to those of us in regression. And boy, do they bind… us to the computer for hours and hours.
I’m not entirely new to this, having been an early Friendster member around the turn of the century, which in Internet history really was quite some time ago. My now-husband and I even changed our “single” status on the site on the exact same autumn day of 2003, unbeknownst to the other: digital, mutual confirmation of true love and commitment really beats “The Talk”.
Then marriage and a baby forced me to forget my Friendster. That’s my excuse, I can’t speak for everyone else who left. I never joined MySpace or Orkut. I signed up for Ryze and LinkedIn because they were professionally oriented—as in, no options for “open marriage” and “hooking up”. Still, I rarely logged on.
But for the last few months, these Facebook fans have been nothing short of relentless. My friends sent invites and instant messages. They discussed bizarre exchanges of “spanks” and “pokes” and spiked collars as gifts. One close friend, an executive at a major multinational, wrote: “You really seem like a Facebook kind of gal. Why aren’t you on?”
I wasn’t sure if I should be flattered or insulted.
My husband, a creative hipster who sticks with times and trends despite the presence of wife, child and grey hair, joined Facebook a few months ago. I didn’t even know it until he started casually dropping updates on my friends: Aseem is coming to India. Roopa said she liked my painting. Your friend Amy is single again.
Never one to be left out, I signed up two weeks ago, the day after my birthday. With its initial base of college students and status options ranging from studying to partying, Facebook felt a good place to begin my return to youth. Besides, my husband is never supposed to know more than I do.
Between May of 2006 and 2007, Facebook saw its largest growth among people like me, those between the ages of 25 and 34; unique visitors in this age group soared 181%, while those above 35 constituted the largest number with nearly 100% growth, according to ComScore, a survey and research company for the digital world.
Like the first week of a new job, my first week as a Facebook user passed with administrative tasks, from sending and fielding requests to “tagging” pictures of myself in other people’s albums. I scrambled to keep up with the all-in-one site, which also asks you for details on each acquaintance. It’s optional, but many names left me stumped. Asha Shah sounds familiar, but how the heck do I know her? Was she in my nursery class or my college roommate’s cousin? When in doubt, the random queries became friends, whatever that means these days. By day three, I had more people in my network than the husband and had discovered lots of people I never would have expected: the board chairman of my previous employer (hey, he reached out to me), for example.
At the end of the first week, someone wrote on my wall that my brother was peeved. I went right to the source and instant messaged the brother, using old-school Google chat. “YRU mad?” I wrote, trying to relate to his 22-year-old ways.
“Because I had to sanitize my Facebook page!” he wrote back in real English. “Why are you on there?”
Whatever.
Week two became even more of a time-sucker, as I devoured other people’s profiles, filled with obscure details, strange assessments of relationships. The wannabe friends, meanwhile, had no qualms interrogating me: When did you get married? Wait, you had a kid? You work in India now?
Clearly, these people are not my friends. They perhaps were a part of my life once upon a time and then we moved onto new chapters, new books even. Why engage, pretend, dishonour true friendship? As I steadily acquired friends, I felt like the more people I know, the less I really knew anybody. Me, with 154 friends, suddenly felt alone. Yet ignoring them seemed rude, so I did something else fitting these tech times: I sent them to my blog.
As of early Thursday morning, Facebook’s India network had 271,566 users and the country ranks ninth on a list of the 55 countries with the most active users, according to an email from a Facebook spokesperson.
“A lot of our growth is happening internationally,” Facebook chief executive Mark Zuckerberg said in an interview with Time magazine last month. “We haven’t translated the site yet, but that’s something we’re working on and it should be done soon.”
Suddenly, I sympathized with my brother. In case Assamese figures anywhere in Facebook’s expansion plans, I have begun sanitizing. And for the real friends who want the real scoop, I hope they still take phone calls.
(Your comments are welcome at widerangle@livemint.com)

Departing

Brussels.
There’s something that must be handed down from Indian mother to daughter in how to handle these trips home. I found our last day in Delhi before heading to the US for three weeks to be so reminiscent of when we did the reverse pilgrimage to Assam as kids.
First, there’s the obligatory shopping. You always say you won’t give anyone anything and then it becomes clear that’s impossible –especially if staying at people’s houses. So as a kid, while my mother and I scoured malls to find good deals on anything that symbolized Americana – flags, broche pins, perfumes, lipsticks. Even cinnamon sticks one year—I headed to Dilli Haat and other markets for kische-y Indian, cushion covers, little Ambassador cars, auto rickshaw models, tea.
Before we used to leave the US for India, my mom used to make us pray for a safe flight in the mandir area at home. With no mandir in our flat (don’t gasp, haven’t gotten around to it), I grabbed a Ganesh my mother-in-law gave us and Nitin and Naya prayed to that. It was funny because when Naya left Felicia, she also clasped her hands together as if in prayer. I think she was torn between touching Felicia’s feet and giving her a hug so she just prayed (?).
There was the mad scramble for sure, the yelling, the “we won’t make it”. To make matters worse, we took a new Jet flight that is marked by clueless staff so we showed up at the international airport only to be told to go to domestic. Then they said we wouldn’t have to deplane in Brussels. As I write this, we are in the Brussels airport—deplaned for a two-hour layover.
It’s the closest we have come to the other part of our India that defined the journey – the journey itself. Consider Romanian airlines’ route from JFK to London to Bucharest to somewhere in the Gulf to Bombay to Kolkata and then finally to Guwahati. Here we have come Delhi to Bombay to Brussels to Newark. It’s comparable, trust me.
Irony of the trip: As we waited to leave Brussels, I looked with Naya out the window and saw a big plane that said TAROM. That would be Romania’s airline.
“That’s the airline Mommy used to take to save money,” I said to Naya.

A flat moment

I had a Tom Friedman moment just now, which you know is rare in my India.
I was going through my wallet in search of my links to the US - Costco, Bally and Safeway cards. And then I finally found my credit cards -- all except my AmEx are expired. I remembered I had a big phat credit on the card (I know, shocking, given our poor bookkeeping between the two countries). Anyway I called the 800 number and got an obvious Indian call centre.

Her: Please ma'am, can you spell your name for me?
Me: S-A-N-G... (you know)
Her: Oh lovely, that was my best friend's name in school!
Me: Cool. (I'm playing it cool, cuz I know she's Indian and right up the road.)
Her: Now for verification, can you give me your mother's birthday?
Me: She has two, but I think it's XXX. (I'm not giving it to you, dear blog reader:)
Her: Two burdaes -- you must be Indian!
Me: Yes.
Her: When was the last time you were in India?
Me: Right now.
Her: Oh, so you're visiting.
Me: No, I'm about to go visit the States.
Her: (She acts normal and gets back to business.) Your address, please?
Me: I have a few and I forget what I put on this card. Let's start with 9 Rosewood Court in New Jersey.
Her: No, sorry, ma'am.
Me: Oh then 1404 Otis St NE in DC.
Her: Yes, by the way, where in India are you from?
Me: Assam.
Her: Oh! I am from Shillong!!
Me: Wowsers, my father went to Anthony's.
Her: Oh my mother went to Loretto Convent (I think it's a sister school)
Me: Amazing. Are you in the Gurgaon office?
Her: Yes, we just shifted to a new office yesterday in DLF Phase V and the new place is just awesome.
Me: Ahh, sounds nice. I was just there recently.
Her: So how long will you be in India?
Me: I live here. (And then remembering it's a US-based credit card, issued by The Washington Post, no less.) Well, sometimes. I also live at 1404 Otis St NE.... I go back and forth.

Indeed. I bet she knew exactly what I meant.

Leaving again

150 pieces of kaju barfi. 100 pieces of milk cake. Herbal flavour toothpaste. 25-30 Indian children's books. 10 versions of Ludo and Snakes and Ladders as gifts. Rakhi band. Indian trickets desperately needed. Taxes. Bills. Rent. Expenses. Fuel receipts. And Nitin, of course, is deejaying tonight. Will we ever get out of here?

Cheer on the new underdogs

For women in India, athletics represents a way out and up
Wider Angle S.Mitra Kalita

There’s nothing like a good game to make you root for a nation. You could be the least patriotic person, but the sight of country brethren sweating and grunting and paining their way to victory has to tug even at your taut heartstrings.
And so I found myself swelling with pride at being Indian for the first time in a while as I watched Chak De!India, the film about a female field hockey team’s journey to the World Cup. It was a much-needed moment, coming after nine months to the day of my arrival from the US and at a time I’m awash with doubt over whether this nation will really envelope all in this tide of prosperity.
Young athletes from ‘backward’ areas crave legitimacy and recognition, as much as fame and fortune
For a change, escapist Bollywood offers an answer, albeit a slim-chanced one, a place where such a playing field can be level and accessible—and that is the field itself. For women in India, especially, who might have been born into households where their arrivals were not cheered, athletics represents more than a pastime but a way out and up. That has been the case for the last three decades or so, but the regions from which these women hail are becoming increasingly far-flung —with a notably high number coming from the North-East.
Grateful for this point’s subtle inclusion in Chak De!India, my favourite scene begins with two males whistling at two young women, one from Manipur, the other from Mizoram, at a McDonald’s. Common enough, especially in New Delhi. But what ensues is rare: a rough-and-tumble battle of the sexes ending with the allegedly weaker side victorious. A team is built, not just united against injustices from men, but also in sticking up for each other.
This legitimacy and recognition is craved by young athletes from the so-called backward areas, perhaps as much as fame and fortune. Consider another scene where the north-eastern duo arrives at the training camp only to be greeted by a registration official as “guests”. The athletes sarcastically thank him for welcoming them to their own country.
To make sure real life imitated the reel, I turned to Manipur native and award-winning boxer Mangte Chungneijang Merykom, now known as Mary Kom, to understand the desperation and determination that defines athletes in the region.
In 2002, she won the gold medal for India at the Women’s World Boxing Championship and went on to receive the Arjuna Award in 2004. I got a sense of her before we even began speaking; her mobile’s ring tone is Billy Joel’s She’s Always a Woman to Me, with lyrics like “She can take you or leave you …she takes care of herself… she’s ahead of her time … She can do as she pleases, she’s nobody’s fool.”
Speaking from Imphal in halting English, she told me her father had been a rice farmer, her mother a housewife. “Many players in the North-East, we come from poor families. That’s why we can do hard work,” she says. “Now it’s really different. I’ve gotten many awards.”
Her success is remarkable in spite of her background, yet also because of it. She says she used to save up money to buy gloves and looked up to boxing great Muhammad Ali. “From different part of India, states like UP and Delhi, when we come out of the North-East, some people think we are like foreigners,” she says. “Representing India is a big success for me.”
Her husband, a footballer himself, notes the irony of women from the North-East excelling in areas such as judo, weightlifting, boxing, even as lawlessness marks their home villages. He said many hope to land jobs by playing sports for corporate or public sector teams. “Young generations don’t have a chance to get employment in our own states,” said K. Onler.
In the 1960s and 1970s, Punjabi women took up sports as a way of uplifting themselves, says Kamaljit Sandhu Kooner, the first Indian woman to win gold in the 1970 Asian Games. Then, after 1975, South Indian women began making a mark. Now, it is the North-East’s turn.
“Competitive sports today is all about pain,” said Sandhu Kooner, who serves as the director at the National Institute of Sports in Patiala. “They are naturally suited because of the lives they have led. The greatest motivations are monetary effects and social acceptance. Suddenly, overnight, you become a great hero.”
Indeed, the recent heroes in patriotic films have fought enemies outside India, from Britain to Pakistan. Chak De!India cleverly suggests the real dividing force lurks within—and luckily can be conquered. Its appeal and message matters more than ever, especially as the fabric of this nation frays and rips into the countless Indias of cliché: rich and poor, urban and rural, Hindu and Muslim, on and on.
So it has come to be that young women from the new areas that make not even a mention in our national anthem—Jharkand, Manipur, Mizoram and many more—are the ones who embody its meaning strongest as they take to the field.
Your comments are welcome at widerangle@livemint.com

Today was my independence day

Five days later, my independence day was saved by a movie about field hockey.

It started with the national anthem, required to be performed before movies. Unlike the Star Spangled Banner, the Indian counterpart of Jana Gana Mana has generally given me chills and sort of a sense of being a part. Of course, Assam is not mentioned so I also feel apart. In later years, I would intellectualize this to wonder why I fell for any Indian nationalism at all. BUT today right there in PVR Cinemas in Saket, I tingled and goosebumped as I watched and listened to Asha and Lata and Jagjit singing Tagore's lyrics about what it means to be Indian. And then all of a sudden Bhupen Hazarika's face came onscreen and I grinned widely, truly feeling represented for the first time in a long time in India. Sure, for most of my time in the US, he and his music were a tatste, a semblance of home; and since he is friends with my parents, it was an even deeper connection and familiarity to wake up to his songs blaring on weekend mornings and even now when I hear him I think of the smell and sound of a kerahi popping with oil. But this sighting was unexpected, not sought after -- yet so needed. After his voice subsided, I whispered to Naya, "He's Assamese, like us."

And then SRK's latest hit, "Chak De" went onto debunk my parochialism, make me a part of something even bigger. A group of girls come together, from different socioeconomic backgrounds, regions, languages, religions and values for a common purpose. They also beat up a bunch of boys who harassed two girls from the Northeast in a McDonald's. It was the first time I felt Indian --and good about that -- in a long long long time. Chak de, indeed.

(I think you can see what I mean here)

Naya-isms

She just did something I am unsure how I feel about... The groceries came and since she loves paying the delivery guy, she ran to me and said, "Paise." (That means money.) But then I noticed she was putting her hands to her mouth as she asked -- like the beggar kids do in the streets.

Quitting India? Go gracefully

Quitting, India? be graceful
In the process of letting go, some companies act instead like jilted, jealous lovers
Wider Angle S.Mitra Kalita

Six jobs down in his 33 years, it’s the bookends to each one that Vipul Malviya dreads: his first day of work —and the last.
“You’re a mess in terms of what you need to say,” says the Delhi-based manager for an advertising company. “The farewells are embarrassing.”
Companies need mechanisms, exit interviews to guarantees of final pay, to keep the door open for departing workers
Perhaps never before in India’s 60-year history have so many workers had so many last days. Yet, so delicate is the issue that quitting our jobs often boils down to euphemism. Giving notice. Moving on. Taking leave.
What we don’t have are enough mechanisms to make sure the end goes smoothly, from exit interviews to assurance of a final pay cheque. That strikes me as both ironic and unproductive in an economy and workplace increasingly defined by attrition and a labour shortage.
In the high-technology sector, last quarter’s attrition rates were so bad that several companies said they would award bonuses early as incentive to keep people around. According to a report by industry body National Association of Software and Service Companies, attrition in India spans 12% to a whopping 70%, depending on the subsector.
Generally, notice periods in India are two months prior to the actual last day, although some companies go as high as six months and as little as one day. In the US, quitting usually means telling the boss two weeks before.
Indian managers are rightfully rethinking the notice period, trying to adopt individualized scenarios, depending on why the worker has quit. This shift is critical in our acceptance of a candidates’ market—and to keep the door open.
Given this hunger for talent, human resources managers themselves concede they have been reacting to the quitters in exactly the wrong way.
If exiting employees want to serve the notice period, their company wants them to leave quickly. If they don’t want to, employers try to hang on, observed Vinod Nair, vice-president for operations at Artech Infosystems Pvt. Ltd.
“We make him a total alien in the notice period,” Nair said at a recent workplace summit. “Maybe he’s very happy in the organization, but we’re shutting all doors for him to come back. There’s so much damage done that he can’t even think about it.”
Especially in sectors such as technology and consulting, where employees are essentially playing career checkers—TCS to Wipro to Accenture, then maybe back again—and former colleagues tend to resurface at work, wouldn’t it make sense for everyone to just make the last few weeks short and sweet? Shouldn’t a manager being given notice simply say, “Is there anything we can do to keep you?” and wish the candidate luck if there isn’t?
In the process of letting go, some companies act instead like jilted, jealous lovers. They practise silent treatments and withhold final salaries; this latter act is of great annoyance to candidates (and their new employers) who waste countless hours and energies for that last cheque, time that should be devoted to the new role.
Some human resources firms are practising what they preach. The newly launched Helix HR, a design and resources company, has asked departees for a month’s notice. Although director Nidhi Kalra admits she is still having a hard time extracting herself from her last job. Her previous employer, a research firm, wouldn’t allow vacation to be counted as part of the period and won’t release final pay.
“They don’t want everybody to get an impression it’s easy to leave,” said Kalra, 26, who has had three jobs. “Sometimes you start thinking that you should just collect the last pay cheque and say ‘bye’.”
Managers, of course, point out that notice periods serve to avoid exactly that situation, that workers certainly have their share of flaws in the equation. Nearly everyone recounted a story of an employee who just didn’t show up for work one day—and never did again. Calls to mobiles go unanswered. A friend of a friend hears he’s got a new job. Someone else hears a mysterious aunt died.
“Unfortunately, the culture that has been built in the India market is that jobs are so plentiful that prospective employees are indifferent to the phrase ‘what goes around, comes around’,” said Reggie Aggarwal, the chief executive officer of Cvent Inc., an online events manager with offices in Gurgaon. “I wish they would just be straightforward and tell us the truth. It is okay to change your mind. It is not okay to not communicate it.”
Candidates say they often don’t even know the leave policy until, well, it’s time to leave. Malviya, who has just started a new job, says he hasn’t bothered to find out. “When you’re joining an organization, to ask what the leave policy is just doesn’t make a good impression,” he said.
True, you never get a second chance to make a first impression, the saying goes. But in this tight labour market, it’s time for employers and employees to focus just as much on their last.
Your comments are welcome at widerangle@livemint.com

Naya on the laptop

Here's what she just typed. When I said, "Stop!" she responded with "I'm making letters, Mommy!"

gracefulgggggggvgvffffffffdffffdddddddddsxszzxxtttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnjjhjjjhnjjmjmgwewsqasd,,,,,

Jana Gana Money

We were so excited for Naya's independence day assembly. She dressed in her pink lehenga that makes her look like a Bollywood starlet... Unfortunately, most of the morning was one big commercial interruption. A UK-based bank representative stood before us to remind us of the need to save for our children's futures. With black-suited men and women milling about, he directed us to a table outside for more information. He bumbled through a speech that lasted about 10 minutes. And then came the Vande Mataram and some other song Naya's class sang -- done in five minutes flat. It was hurried, contrived, a farce, albeit very cute when the focus was on the kids. We waited for family pictures, even though we knew exactly what would happen in the next few days: a bank representative will likely call us, saying he has the pic and can he drop it off at a time we are also free to talk about investments. That's what happened with the awful picture we have of Naya with Santa Claus--and the delivery came after New Year's!

I left feeling so sad that Naya's first independence day in India was nothing like that we celebrated in New York as kids--a parade down Madison Avenue, floats from all the different regions (once my mother danced on the Assam one), scrambles to lick our kulfis before they ruined our clothes. I understand that there's no need to celebrate in such an ABCD way here, but must consumption now define everything we do, even the sanctum of a children's school? Last week, Nitin warned the teacher to stop giving Naya toffees. On the way home today, we wondered if it was time to look for another school that fit into our style of parenting. At the morning meeting, my boss said, "That's what you get for sending your kid to such a fancy school." Another friend told me of another that is really wonderful but there's no air conditioning. I'll conveniently ignore that the India we spent summers in was never air-conditioned (and that was only for a few months at a time).

Today, I miss the parades and kulfis, for sure. And I definitely miss the options when it comes to schooling...

Happy Burdae

So now I am 30+, 31 running, completed 30--or one of these Indian concepts of age I never really quite understand. We had I think one of the more memorable parties of my short life last night and crawled into bed at 4 a.m. so a good time was had by all...

RECAP: We had a lunch at Swagath with Naya, Nitin and a friend visiting from NYC. She looks at us and pronounces, "This is NOT a party. I want to go to Mommy's party."

With perhaps the biggest wave of Mommy Guilt ever washed over me, I called Seema from work and begged she and her 3-year-old to join us for an impromptu pre-party. Seema, who will go down in history as the best mom and best colleague ever, entered our flat and said, "We are sooo excited for the party." Her darling Anusha was even in a fancy salwar kameez and only later Seema told me her sister was in the hospital with a dislocated shoulder but she really wanted to be part of our scam for a fake burdae party for Naya's sake. We hurriedly had tea and cake and Naya got a cool skirt from them so she was thrilled and I went onto get dressed in a hurry. She whimpered a little saying she wanted to come, too, but then calmed down (she hadn't really napped so I knew she'd sleep soon). We left peacefully... Onto @LIVE, my brother-in-law's new lounge in Connaught Place, where we had the upstairs and offered heavy appetizers and drinks. A wonderfully eclectic group of people from previous reporting trips to India, work, family, other journos, cousins' friends, etc. By midnight, word was that the excise cops were prowling around so we wound down and headed to a party in Vasant Vihar... We had Google guys in tow and the one who had just been in town for four days seemed to value my take on marriage so let me repeat some of the gems here (partly to remind myself next time I am mad at Nit)

Aasking about finding the "one," he asked, "How did you know?"

I said, "Because I didn't have to think about it. I think you know when you can finally be yourself."

And then he asked me the best part of marriage... I responded, "It can't be explained. Marriage is filled with moments where only two people 'get' it. That's the coolest part."

So thanks, Nit, for organizing a great 31st burdae.

Black breeds green

http://www.livemint.com/2007/08/10002111/Black-money-breeds-green.html

Black money breeds green

My peers flush with cash inspire envy. What splits our worlds: a salary slip, lots of taxes and a little bit of integrity

Wider Angle | S.Mitra Kalita

I, too, would like some black money.

There, I said it.

Such a statement is not politically correct for people like me: advocates of honesty, integrity, transparency, doing the right thing. But lately, something else has been washing over me, something really dangerous in these inflated times.

Envy.

It started at the jeweller a few months ago while running an errand for my mother-in-law. Another woman walked in, saw a multi-tiered ruby necklace, didn’t bargain and threw down a few lakh rupees—in cash. As she left, the man behind the counter answered my incredulous expression: “Happens all the time and is happening more. Her husband works in real estate. She doesn’t even ask me the price half the time.”

I didn’t buy a coveted pair of earrings—too expensive.

Bling fever struck again in April in Guwahati, where my parents, still living in the US, own a second home. My mother has been after me to buy a proper signboard with their name and address. Less than a kilometre from the house, I chanced upon a beautiful one, etched in silver to match a silver gate. I looked in awe at the bungalow it guarded. “Wow. Maybe something like that.”

“You definitely can’t afford a sterling silver sign!” my cousin said, bringing me back to reality. “This house belongs to a motor vehicle inspector.”

The last straw was last week when my husband and I finally found a flat we could buy, fix up and turn into a home in this India we are trying to make our own. We asked an architect to take a look.

The broker called as we were on our way. “It’s gone,” he said. “The buyers already put money down.”

“Is there anything we can do now?”

“Half in black,” he said curtly. “You can’t compete with that.”

Oh yes, I can, I thought. I move in the same circles, shop in the same malls, vacation in the same places. Our children are educated side by side in the same fancy private schools. Bring them on.

Yet, every month comes the fundamental reality and dividing line: my salary slip and a long column of deductions for taxes. I bitterly thought of “them” last week while scrambling to find receipts for my accountant showing proof of payment for a refrigerator, overseas student loans and tuition fees for my daughter’s preschool.

Of course, those of us in this middle class are much more fortunate than so many Indians, inspiring begrudgement ourselves; the reminders of what I can’t have are rare. In some places, such as Assam, the pay for civil servants is such a pittance that breadwinners’ insistence that they bribe to survive is almost warranted. I say almost because even that admission comes after decades of debate with family members. “You don’t live here,” one distant cousin said years ago. “For us, it’s not so black and white.”

But now I do live here. And I scarily see how the white moneyed move into the tainted zone.

This confession of my own hunger for cold cash comes just days before the whole world will celebrate on 15 August the success story India has become. Lesser known is that 1947 also happens to be the 60th anniversary of the Prevention of Corruption Act.

Consider the government’s own words back then in explaining the measure: “Opportunities for corrupt practice will remain for considerable time to come. …There will be for years… extensive schemes of post-war reconstruction involving the disbursement of very large sums of government money. All these activities offer wide scope for corruption and seriousness of the evil and possibility of its continuance or extension in future are such as to justify immediate and drastic action to stamp it out.”

On this issue, little has changed in 60 years, perhaps even worsened as the government rolls out funds to bridge the two Indias and devises ways to inspect (read: cash in on) the rush of new entrepreneurs and their ventures. Those businesses then practise similarly innovative methods of bookkeeping. We have entered a sad state of acceptance, possibly defeat.

As we revel in India’s freedom next week, it would not be hyperbole to suggest that British imperialism has been replaced by something just as disturbing and powerful, reeking of the abuse of privilege and a sense of entitlement. Even as an economy hungers to open up, those who stand to lose the most from a consumer’s right to choose are holding back a nation and its potential, driving up prices and making the climb quite arduous for the rest of us.

Thankfully, supposedly, the government is getting stricter on tracking just where our money goes. Soon, finance ministry officials pledge, it will be hard to dump large amounts of cash unnoticed into my favourite things, ruby necklaces to three-bedroom flats. I welcome that—and the day that envy gets replaced by another raw and not-so-nice human desire: revenge.

(Your comments are welcome at widerangle@livemint.com)

Naya-isms

In bed, after stories and books and she's almost asleep.

"Do you like India?"
"What India?" (That's her latest, to say 'what' followed by the concept.)
"You know, where we live. Mommy, Papa, Felicia, Naya... And then there's America, where Ata Toko, Aita, Rahul Mama, Dadi and all live."
"Oh India," she says, understandingly. Pause and the punch line: "It smells, nah?"

Cream cheesy

My uncle can get cream cheese for Rs150. I haven't been able to find it for under Rs190.

I got into a fight the other day with a store manager about this (the same place my uncle got his) and after racking up a Rs1147 bill, I was furious that they wouldn't take 1100. I literally threw down the bag and walked away in tears. And then I prowled through INA market, a stinky, smelly, cracked-sidewalk-kinda joint, and couldn't find cream cheese for under Rs250. Finally, I just bought the Amul brand for Rs35 and felt better about life.

Naya saw her second movie in a theater in her short little life -- The Simpsons. She liked it but she said she liked Cheeni Kum and Amitabh Bachchan better. Her first movie, incidentally, was Born into Brothels. I took her when she was about four months old and in a stroller.

Ghats

Ghats, 20"x24", oil and acrylic on canvas, 2007

Drowning by Numbers

Drowning by Numbers, 48"x36", oil and acrylic on canvas, 2007

Sociodermis

Due to no demand whatsoever (hee hee), I'm attaching one of the new paintings I've done here. I would welcome any feedback/speculations so please feel free to comment!



Sociodermis, 48"x36", oil on canvas, 2007

Column on Innovation

Due to popular demand, am going to start posting links to the columns. Here goes today's:

http://www.livemint.com/2007/08/03000254/Too-much-of-a-good-think.html

Too much of a good think

The whole world is innovating over how to make you and me more innovative.
No pressure, though, the next big thing doesn’t actually have to be big, not like Google or anything. Obvious ideas—say, the iPhone—will do fine.
Every other day, we read headlines and studies saying innovation remains India’s biggest challenge, a characteristic its workforce lacks. At the office, we open emails filled with dares to be innovative, rewards and prizes dangled for thought.
What is it about India and its workplaces that’s causing a lack of innovation, a sudden dearth of good ideas?
This surprises me because Indians are the most innovative people I have ever encountered. As a child visiting my father’s village, I marvelled at systems used to create, construct, preserve, to keep foods hot, then cold. And no toymaker can beat the genius of aunts and uncles who entertained us listless kids with home-made inventions and natural discoveries, such as the bubbles made by splitting the stems of certain leaves. Looking back, you can say it was survival, but the innovative behaviour clearly carries on in India’s diaspora. My father, now in New Jersey, is notorious for never throwing anything out, and linking incongruous items and ideas to make life easier—old fencing covers his garden to filter light and support vines, for example. You might call him cheap; I call him innovative.
“One could take a random Indian of practically any background or social class, and put him or her in another country, and he or she would be successful very quickly,” says Uday Karmarkar, an Anderson School of Management professor at the University of California-Los Angeles.
So what is it about this country and its workplaces that’s causing the panic, the sudden dearth of good ideas?
The answer is complicated, beginning with an education system that stresses the “right” answer to increased demands on workers to run more than a back office. Those challenges will take some time to surmount. Still, there’s an even bigger problem, thankfully one easier to fix: Workers are afraid.
They’re afraid of speaking up in meetings that seem scripted. They’re afraid of the manager who ridicules and looks good at their expense. And they’re afraid of being told no.
Consider the scene in a Bangalore classroom earlier this month when Indian Institute of Management professor Ramnath Narayanswamy asked how many of the 70 students before him had work experience. Nearly all raised their hands. More than two years? Still the hands stayed up.
“How many enjoyed your jobs?”
Just two hands remained.
“We feel disempowered.”
“We feel victimized.”
“We have bad bosses.”
The students’ stories came tumbling out, Narayanswamy recounted, speaking this week at a conference in New Delhi on great places to work.
Little sincere creativity can occur in the environments his students described. Instead of formalizing innovation, we need to go back to our roots a bit more. Managers should encourage doses of messiness, disorder, chaos, even lots of mistakes—circumstances that lend themselves to more ideating.
Of course, that risks confusing innovation with a clichéd predecessor: “thinking outside the box”. When I started reporting in India in 2001, a decade after that golden summer kicking off economic reforms, workplace after workplace boasted of kicking employees outside this box, encouraging them to challenge authority and convention. One call centre showed me a jar; each person who addressed a superior as “sir” or “ma’am” had to put in Rs10. The abolition of the word “sir” became the standby when I asked for examples of open, un-boxed workplaces. Six years later, despite improvement, hierarchies are nowhere as flat as they could be. Our bosses might not be called “sir” but we still think of them that way.
To be sure, Narayanswamy warns workers to stop playing the victim game. Tweaking Gandhian philosophy, he says we ought to be the change we want to see at work. But, he also advises, managers’ “most time and effort should be spent at the lower levels of the pyramid”.
I fear the workplace is becoming wooed by fads and not effectively marrying best practices. “Caught up in the innovation hype, the desire to appear innovative is perhaps overshadowing the need to become innovative,” Rajdeep Sahrawat, vice-president of the National Association of Software and Services Companies, wrote in Mint on 12 June. “Moving a water dispenser closer to the staff to save time for drinking water gets cited as an example of breakthrough innovation.”
Having seen some of my relatives’ innovations with water—like collecting rain in barrels before it was environmentally in vogue—I know Indians can do better.
So go ahead. Think. Speak up. Stop worrying about making mistakes and looking foolish. This country’s future is in your head—or at the very least, your boss’ next innovation award.
Your comments are welcome at widerangle@livemint.com

All clear

Angiogram is all clear - thanks to all of you for your checking in and your concerns. Apparently, he was asking for books to read during the procedure. Whew...