Drive-thru temple

A young man is navigating through a web of traffic near Kabuthar Khana at Dadar. With exquisite Bombay driving skills, might I add. Not an inch given, not an inch taken. The perfect balance.

As he approaches Hanuman mandir, he slows done, takes both his hands off the wheel, pulls his handbrake, closes his eyes, takes his right hand over his right  cheek, then over his left cheek and repeats this action in rapid succession. Finally, he cups his hands together, says goodbye to Hanumanji, opens his eyes and drives off. The perfect drive through experience. Efficient and fulfilling.

Nothing fazes him while he's carrying out this deeply spiritual procedure. Car horns blaring because of the build up, the policeman wildly gesturing him to move ahead with his arms, a BEST bus driver screaming. Nothing. This is his pious corner, or centre. His own private sanctuary. Would Thyagaraja Swamy have been distracted while singing Bala kanaka maya? Would Gautam Buddha have been distracted while sitting under the tree? Would Mother Teresa have been distracted from serving people?

One must understand that there are different roads to God. And this was his favourite route.

It's about the higher purpose. The intent. In the pursuit of this higher purpose, if a few people face some minor troubles, that's just collateral damage.

Travel and the cell phone

I was travelling by metro to work the other day. I was completely engrossed in reading something on my cell phone. It was then that I heard a voice next to me, "Could you please let me sit? It's a request." And the lady next to me promptly got up.

When I managed to tear myself away from my cell phone, I realized that the voice belonged to an old lady who definitely needed the seat more than any of us.

So, why didn't I offer my seat? One simple reason: I didn't even see the old lady. Chivalry is based on one basic premise: You need to observe that somebody needs your attention. Only then can you expect your better nature to take over and do what is necessary.

We are all so busy catching up with life while travelling that we are not even aware of our surroundings. We are listening to music, reading email, chatting with friends, checking Facebook, consuming news and sometimes preparing for the 9 o'clock meeting. With all this going on, do we even see what our eyes are resting on?

I wonder if we will outsource this activity to travel journalists and read about it on our cell phones on the way to work? I wonder if we will see the slow death of a truly Mumbai phenomenon called 'train friends'? I wonder if the famous words will still remain relevant "Life is a journey, not a destination". I wonder. I wonder.

The (in)valid use cases

There are valid use cases and then there is the overkill. As a product manager, you must be aware of when you are crossing the line. If not, you are made aware. If you have handled the  difficult developer (now come on guys, don't you all go nodding on me), you will be able to appreciate the  supposedly overdone use cases or their close cousins some product managers are likely to have heard in their lifetime:

1. The ECG machine will not monitor heart rates below 20 beats per minute. The performance deterioration far outweighs the  probability of the use case.

2. Air traffic controllers will be able to monitor only up to 20 flights an hour. This is not Heathrow!

3. Bank balances will be stored only till the hundredth decimal place. Who really cares about the chump change?

4. Pages of the eBook will not be reproduced in exact order. What is this? Six sigma? Its a book, for Christ sakes!

5. There  will be no search feature for this fledgling e-commerce site. What is this? Amazon?

I empathise with the developers. If you let us product managers dictate all the requirements, no system would ever work. Let those who do the 'real work' decide. They know their stuff.

The possum syndrome

Have you had the pleasure of meeting Ellie, the mammoth, on the big screen? Or even the little screen? Or even your mobile device? Well, to put it delicately, she has quite a presence. She owns Ice Age 2 with her brothers, the possums. She is the most lovable, fun, mammoth to make a cinematic appearance.

There is something about Ellie that you should know. When she was a little child, she was separated from her herd and was adopted by a possum who had two little possum children of her own. She has a happy childhood growing up among the possums. But, every silver lining has a cloud. And, this happy upbringing caused a slight misunderstanding in little Ellie’s head. Ellie believes she is a possum. She even hangs upside down from trees like her possum brothers. Or at least, she attempts to.

Let me give you some perspective on why this might be construed as a slight problem.

This is Ellie:

 This is Ellie with her possum brothers:

As you can see, the family resemblance isn’t exactly striking. Now, there is no need to come down hard on poor little Ellie. It is inevitable for such confusion to arise. Why, I see it every day on the Mumbai roads! Giant trucks seem to have it. Buses have it. Even auto rickshaws seem to be equally confused! Really, it's a ridiculously common phenomenon.

This is what they are:

          Image courtesy of nitinut at FreeDigitalPhotos.net

This is what they think they are:

     Image courtesy of Danilo Rizzuti at FreeDigitalPhotos.net

There must be a reason these slightly larger vehicles do what they do. There must be a reason they think they can weave in and out of traffic in seconds. There must be a reason they think they can fit into that lane that exists to the left of the left most lane. There must be a reason they think they can benefit by prodding you ahead by a few inches with their not so subtle horns.

All those in the medical profession can thank me for an enlightened diagnosis.

The real reason the vehicles do what they do is because they have ‘the possum syndrome’. They think they are a motorbike.

Vroom Vroom….

The Running Age

I am sure this has happened with you. You meet a mother strutting about proudly with her well behaved child. You ask her, 'How old is he?' And she says, 'Five complete, six running'.

I, for one, have never been able to grasp this 'running' concept. Who is running and to where? Why not just offer up 'He's five years old.' Why do we need to educate people that the next milestone in the child's life is turning six?

Does the child have an option really? I mean, can he just skip turning six and get on with being seven already? In which case, I can understand the second bit of the puzzle. He's five today, but come his next birthday, he's gets to be seven because he earned a 'too cool be be six' badge. Then it would be, 'Five complete, seven running'.

Imagine the other end of the spectrum
The little foetus. The poor little child has to say, 'Zero complete, one running' for 21 months! Imagine all the running the little feet must do!

Save the foetus. Stop the running.

The Quarter Bucket Bath

I am going to let you into a clean little secret of mine. I have the unique ability of taking a proper bath in quarter of a bucket of water. This bath comprises of the following steps:
1. Wet myself.
2. Apply soap.
3. Wash the soap off.
4. Play with a little water to end the bath with satisfaction.
As I said, a proper bath.

Now, I am aware that the grapevine about me doesn't remotely suggest that I do anything economically. No, I am woman enough to not look past this. If I need to take a hundred bucks, I will take a hundred and fifty. If I must carry two pairs of clothes, I will carry three. If the journey requires two diapers, I will take four. Be prepared, is always my motto.

To what then, you ask, can we attribute this deviation in character to? In an otherwise undulating landscape, where did this mountain arise? I can see where your curiosity comes from. It is indeed a pertinent question and one which stems from an intellect of the superior nature.

To assuage all your many concerns regarding my general mental well-being, I take you back nine years to the winter of 2005. Fresh out of college, I was embarking upon the great voyage of corporate life. My parents came to settle me into a nice place five minutes from my workplace at Pune. It was a paying guest accommodation in which four of us settled in.

The land lady ran a tight establishment. Must be home by ten, else she'd let the dog loose in the compound. Things of that nature. Harmless really, but effective. We were seldom late.

One of the other things she felt a tad less magnanimous about was water. She'd ration a bucket of hot water each day to each of us. And, like Oliver, we dared not ask for more.

This was all okay on regular days. But, once a week, we needed to wash our hair. It kind of entered the realm of the mandatory. Even this wasn't too much trouble for three of us. The fourth lady though posed a challenge. She had knee length hair and one bucket for her tall self and her locks just wouldn't do. The very thought made us all long for home and unlimited water supply.

In this forlorn state, I came up with a brilliant and communal plan. We each would donate a portion of our allotment to the aggrieved one. Such generosity. Seriously, you need to be born with it. And it worked brilliantly. We learnt a new and useful skill. And, she stopped going all 'Joe from Little Women' on us.

And so, by the end of the two months we spent together, I had perfected the art of making do with just a quarter bucket. Not a drop more. Not a drop less.

A Year Gone By

It's been a year. They say time heals.  I guess it’s not time yet. We still wince with the what-ifs. We still say, 'Oh, wouldn't he have loved this!' We still remember the day like it was yesterday. My father died one year ago on this day. Life was never the same again.

He was something to everybody. My mother misses her wonderful husband and dear friend. I miss my unabashedly loving father. The extended family misses a guiding light. His friends miss his amiable self. And so many others miss so much else. But, most of all, we miss his sparkling wit and engaging company. 

And so I'd like to remember him with some of the anecdotes he told and retold and regaled us with.

One of my favourites was how he played big brother to my uncle whom he called Chamy. I will try to say it in his voice. "So, I remember this time when we were kids. A kid from the opposite cottage had roughed up Chamy. So, I taught him a lesson. In the evening, the boy came with his entire gang and identified me. The cottage kids were not the kindest lot. At that particular time, I happened to be batting in an all-important game of cricket. My team captain proclaimed to the boys, "You will not touch him till he gets out." Such dedication to the sport! I held onto my bat and played the innings of my life! I have never batted the way again! Literally, for dear life!“

My father dabbled in a bit of magic in his college days. This one was from his days at Bombay College of Pharmacy. "My friend trained hard and long for a magic show. His chief act was one where he would eat glass. He trained by starting slowly with a small piece each day and over the course of six months, he could eat an entire glass tumbler. So, at the show, he broke a glass tumbler and started eating it and finished the act with élan. Then, as is customary, he invited someone from the audience to attempt it. And this chap, a really eccentric fellow from our class, started walking up. This chap was nuts! Our man started sweating. He got really nervous. The guy from the audience walked up and calmly ate the remaining glass and walked off. Much ado about nothing!"

This other one was of a time when we were travelling in the US with my father’s uncle Nachu mama.  "Travelling with Nachu mama has its own charm. You are guaranteed to have fun all the time. We were trying to get from New York to Washington Narayan's house in Washington and we were lost as usual. We stopped at a light and rolled down our glasses to ask the next car for directions. Do you know the way to Lee Highway? The Chinese couple replied, "We are also looking for Lee Highway." Nachu mama paused and asked the couple very seriously, "Are you also going to Narayan's house?" And the whole car erupted and shook and the poor couple in the neighbouring car had no idea what was so funny!"
Another one was when we did finally reach Washington Narayan's house. "So, we finally reached his house. The man had a bread maker in his house. He made his own bread. He carefully put the ingredients in and waited faithfully for over two hours. In the two hours, he enlightened us about how he locked himself in a room and the positive vibrations of the room helped him levitate. And, finally the bread was baked and ready. We took it out and devoured his fruit of hard labour in all of two minutes! Next meal- after two hours!”

Ofcourse, I can’t complete this without replaying a joke that he would tell and tell and tell. I really think SMSes and Whatsapps of this world may have led to the demise of good joke telling. My father was really good at it. He’d build the suspense well and deliver the punch brilliantly! Here’s one of the jokes I practically grew up with! “So, Santa Singh was at the cricket ground watching a cricket match. It was Mumbai vs Karnataka and he was supporting Mumbai. Mumbai was bowling and was doing rather well. The bowler pitched a delivery and just as the ball was about to land into the fielder’s hands, somebody called from behind, “Oh Santa Singh!” Santa looked back and missed the action! In the next over, the bowler yet again pitched a delivery and just as the ball was about to land into the fielder’s hands, somebody called from behind, “Arre! Oh! Santa Singh!”. Santa looked back and missed the action! He cursed and turned his attention to the field again. This rigmarole repeated another three times. Just as the fielder was about to take yet another catch, somebody called from behind, “Arre! Oh! Santa Singh!” Finally, our man gets frustrated and yells back “Arre! Mera naam Santa Singh nahi hain!”

We miss the conversation. We miss the wisdom. We miss the words. We miss the voice.

It is easier to think of death as a continuum to life after which life happens again. The alternative is hard. Very hard. Hope the years make it easier. Amen.