Family Inc!

Recently I happened to attend a conference where one of the topics debated was “The role of professionals in family run business”. The speakers included select business leaders of ‘Family run’ companies. As expected most of them were first generation businessmen who through hard work and industry had set up and grown their companies to their present position, each one a fairly well established set up in my city. While they made a strong case study of how to start and build a business, it was while explaining the topic and how they saw the role of “Professionals” in their organization that most stumbled. Random high sounding jargons like “marry traditional values to modern trade practices”, “making the Professional a part of the family”, “inculcate a sense of belonging to the professional” etc were spouted. On prodding what these actually meant and how one or they did all the above drew further incoherent bilge. As an ‘expert’ on the subject, I take it upon me to elucidate on this, a subject which will fill a fairly large portion of my autobiography as and when it is written.

What I could make out of the industry leaders in the conference was most that of them thought ‘Professional’ means a suited-booted, laptop lugging, English Medium Type who swore by XL spread sheets and power point presentations! Knowing that I have been blessed with readers who are much more well versed with the term, I refrain from giving my ‘dose’ of gyaan on the same. (Should you still feel lost; a cursory glance into Oxford Dictionary should suffice. Welcome!) If the speakers were confused on the definition of professionals, the audience a few exceptions apart (Ahem! Ahem!!) were confused on what is ‘Family run business’. This needs an explanation as I don’t think Oxford or any other dictionary is capable of getting to the soul of this definition.

Firstly, family run businesses are not necessarily a small mom-n-pop businesses as the word may fool you into believing. Scale is immaterial when it comes to family run businesses. Secondly, most businesses world over are family run businesses. You find my statements incredible? Here you go……Who do you think has succeeded Rupert Murdoch’s Media empire? James Murdoch! Closer home after Ratan Tata who?  Cyrus Pallonji Mistry. Mistry is no Tata you say? Well Mistry is family, extended one through marriage! (Noel Tata lurks in the background) Birlaji’s successors are who else but Birlajis. Then there is one of the oldest family run enterprises in the country which goes by the name of the Indian National Congress!

Tataji & Birlaji

As someone who has worked all his life in family run companies the above mentioned conference was of zilch value to me as it gave me no clue on what the ‘family’ expects from a ‘professional’ that I didn’t know already. I venture into sharing some guru-mantra instead on what ‘professionals’ should expect in a ‘family run business’, a sort of a quickie, self-help ideas to bear in mind while on work.

Please expect and be prepared for a sugar coated variant of feudalism if you want to succeed in such organizations. A little bit of tact and some amount of apple-polishing should be ideal recipe for success. If you agree with “Boss is right” then you should not have any problem with “Lalaji is right” either!

Whatever your qualification or your experience in the business of your organization, please remember you can only make suggestions and not give decisions. That is the exclusive preserve of the ‘Sethji’. The more your suggestions are accepted and you get a go ahead for implementation the better is the likelihood of your Diwali ‘packet’ becoming fatter!

Murdochji

Grow a thick hide! Remember to address the gen-next as ‘Sir’ or ‘Madam’ however dumb, dumber or dumbest they may be. Or even if they are old enough to just about be dating you son or grandson.

Tone down your ambitions. Remember it is always the Yuvraj who succeeds the Maharaj and never the Mantri. And there is no guarantee of Mantri’s progeny succeeding the Mantri either!

Never swallow the bluff of your fancy sounding designation like Business Head or CEO on the business card. You will always be way below in the hierarchy. You will most definitely follow the Lalaji, Lalaji Junior, the family Munshiji and the Lalaji’s driver in the ladder.

Lalaji

If all this sounds scary, relax! Be pragmatic. If there is no parambarai sotthu or zamindari to fall back upon, just follow the herd. After all money in the bank has never hurt anyone that I know of! Remember there is always a lottery waiting to fall into your lap should the Lalaji’s daughter fall for you!

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P.S.: I once worked for a Lalaji whose definition of ‘Vision’ was eye sight! I am sure you are better off!

Glossary:

Gyaan: Knowledge

Guru-Mantra: Tips

 Lalaji/Sethji : Owner of the business

Yuvraj: Prince

Maharaj: King

Munshiji: Family accountant.

Parambarai Sotthu: Ancestral property

Zamindari : Fiefdom.

Gym! Boom!! Baah!!!

Let us start with busting a few myths. Firstly, being lean and lanky is not equivalent to being fit. You don’t believe me? Try sprinting approximately 32 meters to board the last fast local to Virar or a similar distance to jump onto the footboard of that Gandhipuram-Singanallur town bus. You made it? Good! Now do you feel you are about to collapse of a heart attack? Great, first myth busted. Secondly,dear roly-poly, rotund, gol-matol, couch potatoes, “ I go for a walk everyday and eat only two chappaties” is neither an adequate exercise nor appropriate weight reduction formula. Thirdly, when you gen-nexters look up from your laptop, mobile, television screens and gaze into the crystal ball and you do not see yourself in either of the above described scenario you think? BUSTED!

Here is some sane and free advice. Take the plunge now by choice or be condemned to being forced to later by a prescription and a medical bill running into……………..!Or you can also wait for the day when you see your toes only on a mirror because that ombodhu masam blocks your view! Once I munched through all the above, I decided to dive headlong into it. The added incentive was to prove the myth “Life starts at forty” right!

The preliminary to joining the gym was right up my alley.  Shopping for the right shoes, track pants, tees, sipper, gym bag etc was a breeze. The presence of an up market gym in the locality was a help too. Out came the credit card and the gym fees for the next two years paid in a jiffy, in advance. The night before, all the paraphernalia was neatly laid out on the sofa ( being a considerate type, I didn’t want to wake up the entire household that early in the morning), alarm was set to discreet mode on the mobile which in turn was placed strategically below the pillow (Please re-read the sentence written within the brackets above, welcome!) And self was before the instructor before either the locality dogs or the nearest TASMAC outlet had woken up.

Adrenalin runs high when intention meets enthusiasm. Every instruction of the instructor was followed like an eager beaver; every exercise was indulged in, a few rounds more than what the instructor wanted you to. A wry smile, a sly giggle was directed at ‘uncles’ in the adjacent treadmill or dumbles rack as they huffed and puffed. Every sinew of the body was thoroughly rinsed before I said bye to the instructor. The rest of the day at work and otherwise was spent in trying to somehow build in words like exercise, fitness, health consciousness, gymnasium into every conversation and hopefully get an opportunity to spout gyaan on the same. The preliminary preparation for day two followed the same as day one and hence I decide not to repeat the same.

On day two  the alarm rang, snooze button pressed, repeat, repeat, repeat………..as the body refused simple commands like opening the eyes or getting up from the bed. By now the discrete alarm had woken up the entire household. Amidst the commotion as the eyes finally opened and the torso moved northwards, the legs decided to go on a flash strike. Further pushing, pulling, jostling later (ably supported by the uproarious laughter of the Mrs and appan suppan kind of comments from the kiddos) I managed to reach the gym. There is a premium that I pay for sound education, a respect that is reserved for none or nothing else. The Class III lesson “Perseverance Pays” flashed on my mind as I gingerly mounted the ‘air-walk’. To cut the story short, the Class III lesson won the day and the next and the next…………..

As the days went on, I worked out a formula which helped me to grow beyond the Class III lesson as the only source of motivation. Creaking bones and aching muscles need much more than just the above dictum. The first was to find ‘partners’ with whom you work out. While this may sound rather innocuous, it actually calls for much more thought. I selected a slightly middle aged ‘uncle’ who had been pumping iron for a few months now and a fifteen year old bubbloo who seemed to be a waking-walking advertisement for potato chips. The uncle gave me the enthusiasm to compete with him and the bubbloo gave me the laughs. Secondly I selected a time-band when there were no members of the fairer sex around.  The Gym history is littered with innumerable cases of wannabe Casanovas who pulled iron only to pull out once the neighbourhood nymph broke out into peals of laughter.  Among the other strategies employed was to sing praises of the instructor to other mates in the gym, especially when he was in the hearing zone. Recommending the ‘great’ gym to fellow workers and dragging them to the place irrespective of the fact they joined it or not also made him ‘go slow’ on you.  The clincher was getting the instructor to play a list of your favourite songs during the work out starting with “Gymmy, gymmy, gymmy! Aaaja aaja aaja’!

 It has been a month or so since I have graduated from “aah, the pain” to the “aaha the pain”!

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PS: Always inform the instructor your reason for joining the work out lest you might end up losing weight when your wish was just the opposite or end up looking like the last thing you wanted, an over grown bollywood like orangutan! 

Glossary:

Gol-Matol : Roly poly

Chappati :  Indian Bread

Ombodhu Masam : Literal - Nine Months, Simile - Tummy like that of a pregnant women.

Gyaan - Knowledge, lecture.

Babbloo : Roly poly kid.

Appan Suppan : Daddy is a weakling! 

Stories from Eden Gardens !

As the relic of the Raj days, the good old Ambassador ‘kaala-pila’ taxi huffed and puffed its way on the Red Road enroute to Howrah Station, the silhouette of the iconic Eden Gardens was just about visible. As the rickety beast took a left turn from Nejati’s statue and was about to cross the Akashwani Bhawan , nostalgia stuck. The Temple, the end of the rainbow for the cricket crazed populace of Calcutta, the revered piece of concrete and turf among the Cricketing luminaries, the Garden of Eden was just a arms length away. “Darao! Ban dike jao!” I blurted. The tyres screeched as the driver responding to my cries desperately turned left and halted in a jolt. I looked at him sheepishly and apologetically requested him to take a ride around the stadium. The prospects of a hefty tip apart I could see no reason for the cabbie to accept my request.

My 'Mecca' in Calcutta

As the cabbie did a round and more of the veritable adda of my youth, memories gushed in torrents. Eden Gardens had witnessed epic battles on and off the pitch is well known and even better written about. Surprisingly none of the more famous (notorious?) incidents sprang to my mind. What came to mind first was the day two of the test match between a hurt and hungry for revenge West Indies and ‘World Champion’ India on 11^th Dec, 1983. Day one was off on a sensational note with Malcolm Marshall knocking out Sunil Gavaskar of the first ball of the test and a late fight back by Kapil Dev which saw India bowled out for a modest 241. Day two started on a better note. A friend’s father gave away his tickets for the pavilion stand as he wanted to see only India’s Batting. Yes such people existed back then too, even in Calcutta! Perched upon one the best seats in the house, I was to witness what I rate was the best spell bowled by an India fast bowler ever. The three overs that Kapil Dev bowled , that reduced the best batsman of his era, Sir Vivian Richards to a novice. A series of magic outswingers interspersed with the one coming in, the searing bouncer, slower one and that surprise toe crushing Yorker. Eighteen balls laced with venom and a threat of bodily harm, crafty and canny which made a strokeless wonder out of a master blaster finally ending in the eventual dismissal.

Whether it was by design or by fate one doesn’t know but Dennis Lillee never played Test Cricket in India.  And the only time he came to India to play cricket was in an innocuous exhibition tourney called the Double Wicket Tournament at, you guessed it, the Eden Gardens.  It was such a sham tournament that we saw Garner bowling to a long retired Sir Garfield Sobers and a rotund Wesley Hall huffing and puffing to complete his run up. The highlight of course was the ‘clash’ between Dennis Lillee and Javed Miandad, their first on Indian soil and their last ever on a cricket pitch. Adrenalin runs high when the irresistible force meets immovable objects. Sparks flew as Miandad cut, pulled, drove Lillee for successive fours. The next from the cunning Aussie was a well directed bouncer. Miandad, playing sans helmet did what most sentimental people of the sub continent do, prefer bravado to discretion. As he shaped to hook, the ball took Miandad right on his head. Miandad took no further part in the tournament or in any other cricket tournament for the next few months. And when he came back, he came suitably dressed for the occasion, sporting a helmet!

The best square cut ever!

Lucky are those who have been blessed enough to witness what I am told is the best square cut ever. And the same I am repeatedly assured belonged to a certain Gundappa Vishwanath. For someone like me who never had the opportunity to watch and test the veracity of the above statement, fate offered a chance in what was G R Vishwanath’s last competitive game, the finals of the now defunct Wills Trophy between Karnataka and Board President’s XI in 1988. The prospects of acquiring bragging rights over having seen the great GRV in action in flesh and blood and in the hope to see that wondrous square cut was enough to lure me to the Eden Gardens. On reaching the ground I was to note that the same prospect had driven fifty thousand fellow Calcuttans to the Eden too! With the BPXI batting first, we endured guys like W V Raman, Riaz Poonawala, Ajay Sharma, Sanjeev Sharma, Robin Singh, good blokes otherwise but on that day they resembled the ‘sorry for the interruption’ notice on Doordarshan. Much worse were the two Karnataka dudes who opened their inning. Prayer for two wickets to fall so that God can bat is soooo passé now a days, seeds of which were sown then! The poor blokes soon enough obliged. Fifty thousand pairs of legs rose in unison, fifty thousand pairs of hands clapped rhythmically in unison, fifty thousand throats roared a war cry in unison too. What you God worshippers saw was the subsequent version of this original. GRV took guard, GRV twirled his bat, GRV took stance. A journeyman called Rashid patel was bowling his dollops. The ball pitched just outside the off stump and moved further away. GRV went back and across, the horizontal blade coming down in an angle, the classic square cut executed, fifty thousand pairs of eyes turned to the boundary for a square cut that never happened, the outside edge taken behind the stumps. Eden Gardens that day set yet another example for the Indian crowds to emulate once a certain No.4 got out, we walked out!

Dhanyavadagalu Annavure!    

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PS: Since that day, most of Sachin’s career has been to me nothing more than a ‘déjà vu’!

Glossary:

Kaala-Pila : Black & yellow Taxis seen in Calcutta.

Darao! Ban Dike Jao: Stop! Turn left!

Adda : Den

The Blood Sucker!

There is an energy in the youth which is very difficult to match in the atmosphere of cynicism once we grow up. The mindset is one of “Do it!” rather than “Not done!”  I go back to the ‘90s when a group of us friends decided to do what was then we thought a gargantuan task for us; organize a blood donation camp. We started off on a breeze given the fact that we had a readymade location available with us in our club auditorium, the club managing committee deciding to encourage us and the help rendered by the Secretary of Indian Red Cross Society, one Mr.Roy Choudhury who took care of the ‘back end’, the entire collection process right from arranging blood bank to collect, doctors, equipment etc.  Our responsibility was confined to the ‘front end’ of the business, arranging the donors. For a bunch that lived in a fairly well connected para, thanks to our club and its close knit members this was like taking candy from a child. The knowledge that there lay a salesman buried inside me was visible for the first time then! A cursory look at the club membership list later, we decided that the we would require more than one blood bank to collect all the units that we would be able to generate! I still practice this  ‘art’ though I call it ‘Sales projection' now, the membership lists being replaced by market research papers and Thomson’s Index. But then I digress!

Armed with the gyaan given by the good people at Red Cross on eligibility of a donor etc we started canvassing for; nay enlisting donors. We covered all the ‘routes’ within three days and reached our ‘Boss’ at The Red Cross office for reporting. Mr.Roy Choudhury was deluged by our ‘requirements’ post sharing the numbers of donors who had ‘committed’. We were then advised to cover the same ‘routes’ for a reminder call to the donors informing them about the dates, timing etc which had been freezed. Our only concern as we left the meeting was that the blood bank should bring sufficient collection units lest we have a ‘stock out’!

For the next few days like committed sales team, we spewed blood whenever we opened out mouth, whoever we met! To the extent we friends were bestowed nomenclatures like ‘The Blood Suckers’, ‘The Blood Thirsty Bandits’ and the lyrical ‘Ratha Kaatteri’ by the locality! The last minute review of the ‘committed’ list revealed that there were a few drop outs due to sudden illnesses, ‘out of station’ etc but still we seemed well on course to a triple century on debut.

On the D day everything worked with clockwork precision. The auditorium was festooned with banners and promo material. The Red Cross officials, the Doctors, the paramedics, the equipment all ready to receive the donors. The day started slowly like a good test match inning, gradually moved to very slow and finally ended in a stand still. The final score read something like this: Total Walkins – 140, productive customers – 23, Window Shoppers – 117. A fiasco if there was one! And it left us firstly very angry, then disappointed, finally disillusioned. Never again would we indulge in such a venture on the back of such ‘customers’ we thought. A debate ensued as to who among us will take the lead to apologise to Mr.Roy Choudhury , the ‘Boss’! As we were busy discussing it, Mr.RC made it easy by addressing us instead. “Excellent day! 23 first time donors are more than what we get in a ‘club organized ‘camp. Mark the date and organize it again next year. And yes! We will come back next year too!” He said.  This was our first experience of “Boss is out, Mentor is in” moment!

                                                               -----$$$$$$------

We went on to conduct the camp for a few more years till the rat race consumed us. The number of donors steadily grew to hit about 150+ over the years. Most of them went on to become regular blood donors in life. A register mentioning details of the donors was maintained in the club for ‘emergencies’ and on one occasion fourteen of us donated blood to a friend’s sister undergoing an operation. She needless to add is now completely healthy, happily married and a mother of two angels. Other clubs in the adjoining paras were inspired by our efforts to conduct similar camps and many of them still continue organizing them.

                                                               ------$$$$$$-----

For those who came in late:

If you are 18-60 years, 45 kgs or more, have not suffered from illness like malaria, typhoid, other transmissible disease and certified medically fit by the doctor can donate blood.

You cannot donate blood if you have suffered from cold/fever less than a week ago, consumed antibiotics, had a major surgery within the last six months, vaccination less than 24 hours ago, have a history of cardiac problems, hypertension, epilepsy, diabetes, cancer, liver and kidney malfunction or HIV+.

Against an annual requirement of 85 lakh units of blood barely 52 lakh units are collected through voluntary donations in India. Some are collected through family members. And the rest are left helpless and often to die because you could but didn’t donate the life giving liquid! 

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PS: Done with reading this? Good! So which blood bank are you off to now? 

Glossary:

Para: Locality

Gyaan: Information/Knowledge

Ratha Kaatteri : Blood Sucker.

The Lightning Kid!

The game is supposed to have originated in India 1500 years ago around the 6^th century. It was called Chaturangam , Sanskrit for  four organs. In military terminology it meant the four divisions of an army i.e., Horses, Camels, Elephants and the Humans. It subsequently spread to Persia where it was called Shatrez or Shatranj as the Hindi belt in India calls it and Chess as it is known around the modern world. Once the Muslim empire took to the game, it spread to Europe in tandem with the spread of the Empire. If all this gives you an impression that I am some sort of an expert in this game, let me bust the myth. A cursory Google search will tell you this and much more. Precisely what I did before I started writing this note. Suffices to say I am a complete greenhorn as far as this game is concerned.

Chess made a dramatic entry into my life when Viswanathan Anand became India’s youngest National Champion at the age of 12 or some such ridiculous number. While glancing through the newspaper announcing the occasion my old man looked at me with utter contempt and said that a kid of my age or thereabouts was already a National Champion and here I was, a virtual wastrel or words to that effect. (The typical Tam Bram parents when they look beyond an Engineer or a ‘medical’ as a career option for their children look at ‘intelligent’ sports like chess, Cricket or Football being rather pagan. But then I digress) Stung by the dressing down from the Pater, I jumped headlong into mastering chess. To cut the story short I managed a whole of ninety minutes before rightly concluding that Chess was not for me. Being a hyperactive and restless brat, I could not even visualize a life spent sitting quietly on one seat and pouring over a board of 64 squares till eternity. Gosh Maan! This was almost like studying! If I could do this for Chess then I might as well spend it better by employing the time over my lessons. (My teachers in school always washed their hand off me by giving me the mandatory 40 marks and promoting me to the next standard. 40 marks out of what you ask? Out of pity! But then I digress again)

As I grew up in a country which was then the perennial underachiever of the world, sports gave me one outlet where I could possibly bask in the reflected glory of ‘national pride’. I followed all the games, a Vijay Amritraj and a Ramesh Krishnan here, a Prakash Padukone or a P T Usha there. Post India’s triumph in the ’83 World cup I too along with the rest of India became a single sport fan. For the rest of the disciplines I was part of the multitude whose only contribution to Indian sport was “For a country of 80 crore people, shameful that we can’t win even one medal at the Olympics!” kind of helpless lamentation. It was in such a scenario that chess made a dramatic re-entry into my life. Rather Viswanathan Anand did!

 

Once a Champion, always a champion

Multiple things made me take notice of Viswanathan Anand. First among them was a sense of bitchiness hoping he wouldn’t do too well thereby giving my old man an excuse to renew his favourite hobby of giving me the ‘dose’. As Anand started moving up the Chess ladder, India’s youngest International Master here, first Indian to win the World Junior title there and the resultant India’s first Grand Master, admiration cloaked with a sense of helplessness took over. “How can this guy attain so much, so fast? Bloody Lightning Kid!” As victories over Karpovs and Kasparovs and Kamskys and Kramniks started coming along regularly I became a convert. Parochialism deep in slumber within me woke up. This man was after all ‘our man,a fellow ‘madrasi!’ IPL came much later or I would have ‘Whistlepodu’ for the original Chennai Super King! As I sang hosannahs about Sachin and ilk most of the time, one part of my mind surreptitiously kept track of what this wizard was upto. And finally when the pre ordained World Title came once, twice, five times, ‘Vishy’ Anand for me graduated from being the ‘Magician of Madras’ to become India’s best sportsman ever. I still can’t understand one single technique of this highly nuanced sport, the e4s and c5s, the Sicilian Defence, the Queen's Gambit   but the sheer weight of Anand’s five World Crowns in a highly competitive and truly global sport forced me to acknowledge that no sportsman has served this country more than this now portly, bespectacled professor look alike who took his first step towards greatness by beating his mother fair and square on the board. Humongousness personified.

For those of you like me who are raised on an overdose of Cricket and who find it difficult to agree with the above lines, let me just say this. Roll your tongue like you are licking the softest chocolate ever made, salivate and slowly say “Five time World Champion, FIVE TIME WORLD CHAMPION!” I rest my case. The runner up medal at the just concluded World Title round notwithstanding, Anand has done more than enough to be a Legend of the game and I dare say The Legend of Indian sports.  By a quirk of fate he is not the first sportsman recipient of India’s highest civilian honour the Bharat Ratna, circumstances colluding in such a way for Sachin Tendulkar to be bestowed with that record, richly deserved if I may add but I hope the country honours Viswanathan Anand with the same, sooner rather than later. Not doing so would be a travesty of Himalayan proportions.

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PS: Apart from his skills in Chess, one more reason for the Father to have a grouse with me was……………you guessed it right! The name!  

It is in my blood!

Calcutta, 16^th August, 1980: Eden Gardens was jam packed. One felt that the greedy organizers had as usual let in more people than the capacity of the stadium. The atmosphere was electric, the tension palpable. And why not? After all it was a grudge match between sworn rivals. Their last meeting between the two had resulted in a virtual fisticuff on the field. As tempers rose along with the tempo of the game, the dreaded moment arrived! As the match referee flashed a few cards of multiple hues, all hell broke loose in the stands. Till then the exclusive preserve of the English fans, Football hooliganism made its presence felt in an Indian stadium. Once the mayhem ended the score was match abandoned, 16 dead, countless injured.  A few days later the marquee clubs, Mohun Bagan and East Bengal were suspended from the game.

Bridgetown, Barbados, 1962:  During the Indian cricket tour to the West Indies, Nari Contractor the Indian Captain was at the crease. Bowling thunderbolts at him was the fiery West Indian fast bowler Charlie Griffith. This as you would have rightly guessed was the pre-helmet days. As the contest increased in its keenness, yet another blinder from Griffith found its mark, right on the batsman’s head. Nari Contractor collapsed on the pitch in a pool of blood. The game was stopped and Contractor was rushed to the hospital fighting for his life. So severe was the injury and so critical was contractor that a surgeon had to be flown in from US for an emergency operation. Nari contractor survived but never played test Cricket again.

Two different stories, two different countries, two different sports, two different set of people; two different tragedies resulted in one similar but wonderful result. Mythologies suggest that from destruction geminates new life. How true!  Every year on 16^th August since that tragic day at Eden Gardens, Indian Football Association (WB) has been inviting fans to pay homage to the lives lost by organizing a voluntary blood donation camp. Dubbed the ‘Football Lovers Day’, thousands have been donating blood on this day in the camp generally organized at the sprawling Netaji Indoor Stadium.

Sir Frank Worrell

Nari Contractor’s surgery was about to be underway when the hitch was noticed. The surgery needed a lot of blood. It was then that Sir Frank Worrell, one among the famous ‘3Ws’, the holy trinity of the pantheon of West Indian batsmanship collected the players from both the teams and donated blood to save Contractor’s life. Since 1981, the Cricket Association of Bengal has been calling its faithful to the hallowed Eden Gardens to celebrate Sir Frank Worrell’s Day by organizing a voluntary blood donation camp.  Thousands turn up to mark the occasion which is also CAB’s Foundation Day and carry back a small band-aid patch on their hands and a certificate signed by a Cricketing Legend in lieu of a bottle of their blood. The goose bumps moment was when Nari Contractor was himself one of the donors during the inaugural edition of the Sir Frank Worrell’s Day blood donation camp!

 

Nari Contractor donating blood

Sports are such an integral part of our lives. I don’t think we live even one day without our daily dose of an update about our favourite game or sportsperson. In a land where sportsmen are elevated to rival Gods it is but natural that we share such passion for our stars. Our association with our star does not end with just what he/she does on the field. We expect our stars to be a paragon of virtue off the field too. And once they hang in their boots, we expect them to give back to the game what it gave to them. There are numerous instances of players post their retirement setting up academies, conduct coaching classes and some have joined the administration of the sport they were earlier part of as a player. Where all this eventually takes me to is this: While the sportsmen are doing their two bits for us, what is it that we fans are doing? Beyond filling up the stadiums or being a couch potato I mean!

During my years in Calcutta, I unfailingly marked my attendance at these two venues which had seen many a sporting clash. And every year I proudly came back with the band-aid patch on my hand and with a feeling that my life was not a wasted effort after all. The two days are even today marked on my schedule though it has been years since I left Calcutta. A reminder set on my ‘to-do-list’, alarm set on my phone. Irrespective of where I am and what I am doing, I make it a point twice a year, on the said dates to walk into the nearest blood bank to renew my association with the band-aid patch. At the cost to sounding pompous, I have been doing it ever since the age of eighteen when one becomes medically eligible to donate 250CC of the life giving liquid. There have been other occasions, some emergencies too but these two are days when I connect directly with that sphere of human activity which has given me so much joy, Sports! This is my tribute to the game that I love, homage to the stars who have shed their sweat, tears and blood for my team on the pitch, my payback as a fan.

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PS: Do you know the most common reason quoted for not donating blood? A survey says it is the fear of the pain caused by the prick of a needle! What is your excuse?

My Sachin Story - 2

Recently I came across a story which suggested a possible scenario had Sachin Tendulkar not played Cricket for India! A generation for whom Sachin in India colours was as routine as the sun rising in the east, the article produced a chuckle. In my youth I might have actually dashed off an outraged envelope to be considered for publication under ‘Letters to the Editor’ column. Sachin’s is not just a career of a cricket player; Sachin’s is a story of tumultuous changes in the story of Indian Cricket. Correction! A 24+ year career is not just a story but a substantial chunk of history of Indian Cricket!

One among the many dramatic changes I have noticed in Indian Cricket from the time I started following it is the influx of money in the game. Money and Cricket is a done to death subject. The hows, whens, whys of the riches coming in and hence we will leave the same aside except for a small information to put things in perspective. Kapil Dev received a princely sum of Rs.25000.00 on winning the Man of the series award against the West Indies in the 83-84 season! This was the backdrop when the late Mark Mascarenhas made what was considered an insane offer of Rs.100 crores over 5 years to manage Sachin Tendulkar’s endorsement portfolio. If it is quite routine for Indians to feature in Forbes list of highest earning sportspersons today the seeds were sown then! If you assume this note is about the riches that Sachin has earned from the game, every paisa well deserved if I may add, then I must disappoint you. One of the recurring regrets of the young fans of today is that they were not born 10 years or so earlier to see Sachin at the start of his career. History they say lies buried in a library or the archives of a media company. While enough has been written about Sachin the Cricketer, here I attempt to present Sachin the larger than life super star. And in doing so hopefully we will also traverse the journey of the man who from a squeaky 14 year old went on to be anointed the God of Indian cricket and the one who reached the pinnacle of the endorsement gravy train.

 

The baby of the team takes his baby step in the world of endorsements. Sachin’s first commercial for Band Aid before he even started shaving. As with his cricket so with his endorsements.

The evolution of brand Sachin runs parallel to the evolution of Sachin the Cricketer. One brand which captures this metamorphosis is Pepsi for whom Sachin played a long inning.

http://youtu.be/bqsBuXAvWxY

As a ‘rookie’ finding his feet in the Indian Team. Marked out for future stardom but still a ‘chotu’ of the team under Azharuddin Sir! (Yes the same Azharuddin! The MP from Moradabad). The film also features a certain Vinod Kambli, the man who once famously said that while Sachin took the elevator, he had to take the stairs. We now know that Kambli in his ignorance took the stairs to the basement instead of the penthouse.

Every boy wants to be Sachin! Every child through the length and breadth of the country spoke with stars in their eyes.  Mala Sachin vahaycha aahe!

And soon even Superstars wanted to become Sachin. Need I say more?

The other brand to encode the remarkable journey of Indian Cricket and Sachin Tendulkar was Boost.

Boost announces the arrival of the new Indian star! The baton passes from the old to the new, from Kapil Dev to Sachin……………………

                                                           http://youtu.be/3cIWu37nwYU 

Carrying the burden of being the sole energizer of a nation starved for success. The lone warrior!

As Indian Cricket evolved from a one man team to Team India it was but natural for Boost to reflect it.  Virender  Sehwag joins the game……….

The man’s consistency and longevity in the game is unparalleled. Sehwag loses his way. Mahi Dhoni makes the entry. Our man carries on…………………..

As the fickle form deserted him, so did many of his regular MNC brands. No offence meant to the brand here but Sachin and Ujala white? Doesn’t sound right!

As he closes on to write the epilogue of a wonderful journey, the last mile will be on BMW! Once a star, always a star!   

As you noticed, the fortunes of Sachin  the player, Team India and Sachin the brand ambassador has moved togather in unison. Sachin brought the Cricketers at par with the stars of silver screen in the endorsement business. Future generations can thank him. The best way to do that would be to bring the same passion, hunger and drive and win for India. The endorsements and the resultant prosperity will follow!

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PS: Hope my hard task master is satisfied. Right Senor @RFed1? Thank you @Ket25 for the Marathi.

Glossary:

Chotu: Kid, Child.

Mala Sachin vahaycha aahe : I want to become Sachin

My Sachin story!

Let me confess! This note is most likely to be greeted with a “Oh no! Not again! Not one more!" But then everyone has a Sachin Tendulkar story which is unique in its own right. With a unique feeling, a unique emotion, a unique flavor. I venture into this exercise on the hope that the multitude of Cricket fans will continue to show an insatiable hunger for the ‘Little Master’. And anyway, like it or not our hero is likely to be the staple diet for a few months to come!

Old folks like me, the 80s generation relate to Sachin in a way which is difficult for the gen-nexts to comprehend fully. To give you just a peep, men of my time consider Sachin the Great Liberator of Indian Cricket at par with the Great Liberalization of the Indian Economy in ’91, just two years after Sachin made his international debut. His fearless approach to batting cloaked with a right amount of technical expertise was at par with recovering the family gold that was pledged by the then Government of India to bail out the floundering Indian Economy. I hope the enormity of the shadow of Sachin’s persona on our lives is established for your understanding, in its entirety.

Gaddaffi Stadium, Lahore in ’89 was the scene where my first memory of the Sachin Impact in my life and on the world of Cricket is sourced from. Sanjay Manjrekar was batting well and was on his way to his first and only double century in Tests. As the Pakistani bowlers struggled to dislodge the Indians, it appeared that the wily Pakistani Captain, Imran Khan was allowing things to drift. For a team loaded with fast bowlers, there was a strange reluctance on Imran’s part to take the new ball which was due eons ago. The equally cheeky and cunning, Javed Miandad’s questioning of the decision brought no response from the captain. Finally fed up with the drift, Miandad confronted Imran on his strange tactics and demanded an answer. From here I will let the reporter covering the game for The Sportstar take over. “Sanjay is already nearing his double and will be out sooner than later. I am reserving the new ball for the chotu who is due to come in next!” No points for guessing who the ‘chotu’ was! And the Imran retort is supposed to have shut up the usual motor mouth Javed Miandad for good!  For the record the ‘chotu’ braved the new ball and finally fell to Abdul Qadir for a modest but well made forty one.

A few years ago I had to take the Mrs to a Bone & Joint clinic in Bangalore as she was complaining of a constant and seething pain in her elbow which no pain killer seemed to cure. After mandatory tests, X-Rays etc, the sagely specialist came to the diagnosis. “She is suffering from Tennis Elbow. The same injury as……..SACHIN TENDULKAR!” The last two words were spoken by him and me in tandem. From that moment the Specialist and I traded places. “I know she must not pick heavy objects like Sachin picks his bat. She should not strain the hand with sudden and swift movements like Sachin does to play the copy book cover drive. She has to give the elbow a lot of rest for nature to cure it in due course unlike Sachin who rushed it!” Post my monologue the specialist nodded in agreement and presented the bill!

The setting was the Eden Gardens in 93/94 for the Hero Cup Semis against South Africa. Self was perched upon the student’s stand. (To the uninitiated the stand for whose tickets you have to queue up at the box office for at least 24-36 hours in those days. Welcome!) Batting first India finished with a less than respectable 193, our man contributing a sedate 15 of 31 balls batting in the middle order.  Post the effort, Sachin disappeared from our collective conscious till his dramatic re-entry in last over of the match. With SA needing 6 runs to win we in the gallery were wondering who would turn out to be India’s match-ka-mujrim. As expected the on field think tank lead by Captain Azharuddin and everyone else were involved in a meeting which would rival an India-Pakistan dialogue over nuclear disarmament. The student’s stand was rife with rumours that the senior bowlers Kapil Dev, Manoj Prabhakar and Javagal Srinath were looking at plausible excuses to not bowl that critical over. You know how we young rumour mongers are! Craning our necks to try and catch the meeting, we presumed or assumed that Sachin had jumped into the middle, snatched the ball and is supposed to have said “main dalega!” Irrespective of whether there was any substance in the rumour or not, Sachin bowled and India won! Eden Gardens those days had cement benches for seats which needless to add were covered with layers of dust. The practice among Eden regulars was to carry loads of newspaper which were laid on the benches and you then sat on it. Same was the story that evening. Post the war cry which announced India’s win, Eden Gardens paid tribute to Sachin that night in a very unique manner. The newspapers were rolled and converted into makeshift torches which were lit up, across all the stands!  I know you are wondering how Sachin would have said those immortal words, “main dalega”. Well, we will not disappoint you! In fact we will let Rahul Dravid tell you how!

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PS:  Dear @ThankUAchrekar/@IndianMourinho: You asked for it Mate! Hope this didn’t give you too much torture! 

Glossary:

Chotu: Kid, Baby

Match ka Mujrim: Culprit who lost the match.
Main Dalega : I will bowl.

Be aware of your blind side!

“Be aware of your blind side” said the young instructor during my driving classes a few years ago. Now saying it is of course a lot easier than doing it. On probing on how to be ‘aware’ the instructor came out with a gem.  “Don’t worry, your subconscious will take care of it!” he said. Takes us to the question, then why be ‘aware’ of something which your subconscious will anyway take care off?  To be honest I became ‘aware’ about my blind side only after being reminded of it and nearly ran my car into another. This triggered a few more thoughts on certain routine instances with regards to be or not to be conscious.

One is often faced with such dilemmas in our everyday life when we are not sure how to react. I pen down a few which has often bothered me and how I went about overcoming the same. It has happened to almost all of us when you come across a random acquaintance while going about our activities. An acquaintance whom you have seen many times in the locality or market or bus stand etc without actually knowing him/her. You recognise the person, want to smile at him/her but pull back in the last moment wondering what if the same is not reciprocated. My solution to this is just go ahead and smile irrespective of the end result. If the person smiles back, great. I no smiles result, no loss. After all an oft repeated but frightful chestnut says ‘a smile doesn’t cost you anything but adds highly to your face value’!

The other routine occurrence which many of us would have gone through is a feeling that someone just called you from behind. This happens especially in places where we least expect it to happen. My suggestion is turn back, check and make sure whether somebody is indeed calling you or not. If yes, touch base. If not, go right ahead to wherever you were going.

It must have definitely happened to you some time or the other when you hear a conversation on an adjacent table in a restaurant or on a train compartment or any such random places. The people involved in the conversation are either unaware or are wrong regarding the subject under discussion which incidentally you are familiar with. The impulse is to interrupt/interject and set the record straight. However you hold back because you might be treated as an unwelcome addition or worse still an eavesdropper or a nosey parker. My suggestion is to approach this in a civil manner.  Ask the parties concerned and volunteer to explain. If welcomed, go ahead and do it. If not, thank and make way!

One of the other things I have noticed is the effect of music on as mundane an act as walking. During the days when I did most of my commuting by walk with a mandatory walkman attached to my person, I realized I walk faster when the music was peppy and fast paced while I seem to drag my feet when some soulful number was being played. My steps synchronizing perfectly with the beats of the song. The other walking related syndrome I have noticed is that one has a tendency to inadvertently get into a ‘race’ when one sees a passerby walking besides you, faster than you. Nobody likes to lose me thinks, even in an non competitive ‘race’. The marvel is that the other person in question in most cases reacts similarly.

Psychiatrist or students of this Science may have fancy names for such phenomenon and I hope someone among those of you reading this will someday explain me the same in depth. Till such time all I can say is “be aware of your blind side’!

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PS: Hope @FatimaJAX has the answer to one of her queries!

The Brat!

“A daughter is more attached to the father and the son to the mother” is the oft repeated phrase in the family circles in India. I don’t know if this has any scientific basis or is a regular entry to the ‘Paatti sonna kadhaigal’ sort of books. Whatever it might be, I am happy to announce it doesn’t hold true in my case. The kids, both the D and the S being Papa’s children. More so in the case of my son.

Though one would like our children to set the bar higher when it comes to choosing their idols, I am also told that the first heros of one’s life are often our parents. So is the case with my son and this let me confess, gives me immense pleasure. The oft and unexpected hugs, the smiles, the kisses that are bestowed on you. Well priceless! And when you see him advertising ‘Dad is my Hero’ on his T shirt, it gives you a joy which belies words. You will be correct if you assume that I am extremely happy with the scenario described above. But with some *conditions apply as they say in advertising parlance.

While this ‘Dad is right’ slogan is fine the difficulty starts when this is taken beyond normal standards. Like when while on a shopping trip the junior goes straight to the apparel brand store which I patronize. While the choice of brand is fine, the difficulty is when you notice that these brands price their children’s range almost at par with those of their menswear collection. I mean such an expensive wardrobe when you know the dude will outgrow the cloths in less than six months. Any amount of convincing is useless and surrender inevitable.

                                                                     The Brat!

We live in an information age. We have lot more avenues to update our knowledge base. Thanks to the internet and burgeoning television channels children are far more aware of things to aspire for. Courtesy the film ‘Cars’ one of the earliest fancies to catch my son was well, Cars. Initially models of cars from the movie and as time went on cars, cars and more cars. He could virtually name every model of every car brand on the roads and possessed a ‘bucketful’ of their miniatures too. It was all so pretty when friends found it very impressive that a three year old could recognize so many models. This was to take a dramatic turn during a weekend ride for a family gathering. While driving through Embassy Road in Bangalore, we noticed a new BMW store that had opened. As expected the son wanted a new BMW car. And as usual I agreed, a visit to a departmental store to pick up a miniature of the same being the routine. Imagine my shock when he said that we go to the BMW store and pick up one then and there! “Let us give them our car (a poor old hatchback) and take a BMW” being his irrefutable logic!

                                                      Roaring for Team India WC'2011

His initiation to the game I love, Cricket was thanks to that massive six hit by a certain M S Dhoni on 2^nd April, 2011 at Wankhade stadium. Since then I have been forced to buy more bats and balls than maybe even BCCI! Add the beast called IPL and add the multiple CSK jerseys (“I want it with No.7 and Dhoni written on it only”!) that I have invested on. It was fine till then. But then things reach ridiculous levels when you are dragged out of your bed early in the morning on a weekend for bowling to him. The dude who would need to be literally picked and plonked into the washroom on weekdays before going to school is up before Lord Surya to play cricket. One can accept the ‘punishment’ to this extent but what takes this to torturous levels is that you keep bowling! The rules of the game keep changing as he bats and bats. The Imaginary stumps keep moving away from the areas the ball goes through. The number of overs to be bowled keeps increasing as does the number of balls per over.  Rules pertaining to modes of dismissal like LBW, out to a catch, run out and even clean bowled were replaced with one simple rule: “I will only bat”! You might guffaw at my predicament but try bowling 25352 balls everyday from 5 AM till late into the night, with the venues changing from the drawing room to parking lot to parks to terrace and back to drawing room, and all this on a weekend. I am sure I have your sympathy. I mean even if it is a game vs your son, everybody wants to bat too yaar! And sooner than later your enthusiasm gives way to irritation, anger, frustration and finally resignation! But My Lord will keep batting!

                                                         

                                                             WhistlePodu

 And finally the day ends and you thank your stars and massage your aching, creaking bones.  But one final duty still beckons. The brat refuses to sleep unless you give him company. And you yet again sacrifice your favourite TV show to take an unscheduled trip to the bed. A mini wrestling bout on the bed and tight hugs later, peace finally reigns. Before switching off the lights you have one last look at the child, sleeping without a worry in the world, with a smile on the face, and all your creaking bones, aching muscles recover miraculously.  You smile at the peaceful look as if it is saying to you “My Dad is my hero”!

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PS: I am sure every father reading this will have a similar story to tell. And everyone reading this knows of a loveable brat or two!

Glossary:

Paatti Sonna Kadhaigal: Grandma’s tales.

The Brat's Recent: