Success Re-explained

I just finished Outliers by Malcom Gladwell, a New York Times correspondent, writing his third book. I was not too impressed by his second book, Tipping Point, which I thought was stating the obvious. However, he seems to have matured in his third attempt, and some of his theories found resonance in my experience. A couple of points to illustrate this:

The book starts with the 10,000 hours theory, which states that to be a world class exponent of any art or science, one needs to put in these number of hours. This is a necessary but not a sufficient condition of success. This means that if one puts in 3 hours a day, twenty hours a week, it will take ten years for a person to become adept at his profession. This jells very well, with my theory that it takes ten years of decent work for a person to become a world player in engineering. Of course, he has to take care that he does not repeat his experiences too much, and is willing to grab opportunities, as well as drive himself to work at home to get that extra experience which the office cannot provide. I ran this theory past my colleagues, who agreed with the time frame and the effort level involved reaching a certain stage of faculty.

Besides other interesting points Gladwell makes, another one which piqued my interest was the one on plane crashes. Inability to communicate that he was running out of fuel, an airline pilot crashed his plane. This was attributed to cultural aspect which makes people very reticent when dealing with their perceived social superiors. This aspect is also visible in Indian culture, although not too the extent in some others. This particular peculiarity of Indian culture is a massive hindrance to the way modern organisation run. Although a socially acceptable practice, this illogical deference to superiors needs to be rooted out ruthlessly in professional organisations.

On the whole a well written book, this one throws up a multitude of issues relationg to modern stories of success. I had difficulty in relating to the number of theories, wondering of the author is bit glib on throwing these cards on the table. And then suddenly the chapter on plane crashes turns up, and blows you away.

This book is a strong recommended read for anybody interested in the happenings and causes of events in modern society. It is also up for discussion in our book club, Cognition, which the brave Rohit Marwaha is still organising. I am hoping that the book club continues, but I am pessimistic about it.

Odds and ends

I read with interest the Delhi Bloggers Group heritage walk around Mehrauli, whcich inspired me to visit the Garden of Five Senses (see below). The photos taken by Saad were really good and are up at his blogsite. I must visit Jamali Kamali, a monument recommended to me by my colleague too, and that guy is my guru on places to eat and visit in Delhi.

Delhi Chronicles

The winter has had its truncated say in Delhi this year, and was unusually warm. A cold snap here and there helped us to remind us of its nasty reputation. But now in end January the sun is out, and it is a wonderful time to be going out and visiting the gardens. I decided to visit the Garden of Five Senses at Meharauli. Found it with great difficulty, as the metro construction has despoiled the road leading up to the garden. I lost my cell phone, so obviously the garden did not do enough to awaken my senses. The food at Bauji’s Dhabha was really good, but other than that there was little to write home about. Extended families of mind boggling proportions were out picnicking, and every spot of grass was occupied by people eating away home cooked food transported in huge containers. A dilapidated amphitheatre abuts on a upmarket restaurant, whose clients can roll in their Mercedes into the garden, while the rest of us have to park outside. A “solar bus” powered by solar charged batteries picked up kids from one end, fought its way amongst the cars from the aforementioned restaurant, and then had to have some manual help from a guy with long stick to flip around its electric contactors overhead, to make the trip back. A sad state of affairs. Methinks this garden will soon resemble the ruins it is surrounded by, and will have the honour of reaching the state of dilapidation in one hundredth the time.

Troubled by a book

The White Tiger

This award winner has not been able to rustle up enthusiasm amongst the literati or the critics. I read the book for discussion in a book club, and had to do some speed reading to meet the deadline.

The two big things which I noticed immediately: First, for a Booker award this book reads easy. Amongst the recent winners this is by far the easiest book to read. The narrative is smooth, the storyline captivating and the message apparently simple.

Secondly I am amazed at the authenticity of Delhi life portrayed by the author. For a person who is not a Delhiwallah, the ability to latch on to the nuances of Delhi life is astonishing. A couple of personal instances which mirror the ones in the book are:

I have personally witnessed an incident in which a minor boy driving car causes an accident, and his driver, arriving at the scene some 15 minutes later, promptly takes on the burden of guilt. No kidding- this happened in my colony.

The name of the roads in Delhi keep on changing as Lutyen’s Delhi explodes like a monster, and the politicians replace British name with today’s, mostly Europeon, no American, relevant political personalities. As any Delhiwallah knows, the old name lingers on, and only a tourist will use the newly christened monikers.

The inability of Delhi bureaucrats to keep to a simple logic when numbering streets and blocks is evident. I live on Road No 56, and Road No 55 is half a mile away in an unexpected direction.

Aravind has spent many an observational evening in Delhi, and it shows.

I am surprised that book has left many Delhiwallahs untouched. Have we become immune to the poverty and the social injustice, which is evident everywhere? Or is it that Aravind drags these things out of the sewers , much to the discomfort of the middle class literature reading audience who can dish out Rs. 395 for this book? The apathy of the not so unfortunate people is a telling commentary on our times. This begs the question: Are the middle class, for all their protestations, at all interested in social justice? As we climb up the social and wealth ladder, are we capable of looking back and committing to helping the less fortunate? Do we think that if we contribute a measly amount to some fashionable charity or, donate some money at a temple, it will be good enough for our conscious? Are we bothered by our conscious at all?

Aravind leaves nothing to imagination. His story is straight from the guts, painfully visceral, horrifically detailed, and prods the reader’s sleepy conscious wide awake. The incidents he relates in the book, are unfortunately, all too real. This is not Bollywood’s glamorised poverty, but a in your face, take it or puke kind, which is very uncomfortable to read. One needs to keep an arm’s distance to not get upset with the portrayal of the characters.

The writing style leaves much to be desired. It is a straight journalistic verbiage, with attention to detail and authenticity, but with little creativity. Salman Rushdie would be justifiably upset that his book , The Enchantress of Florence, with all its shortcomings, did not even make it to the Booker short list. His is much better crafted book than The White Tiger. The only reason I see this book as a winner is its ability to keep one constantly uncomfortable with the contradictions of a pluralistic society, and the price one pays to climb the ladder in a developing economy.

Going Greene

In my mania to read Graham Greene, I managed to read The Honorary Counsel, This Gun for Hire, A Burnt Out Case, and the Stamboul Train in rapid succession. Is my obsession over? I hope so.

Anyway, I will take up The Honorary Counsel out of the four books. It epitomises Graham Greene at his best, although it may not be his best book.

I am constantly amazed at how simple, yet how profound Greene can make his writing. The dilemma of a man far away from his home, seeking solace in the trivialities of a small, but deadly town, is narrated in agonising detail.

The story belongs to Dr. Plah, a medical doctor of mixed origin- father is an Englishman, while the mother is an Argentinian. The story is set in a small town outside Buenos Aeries, where Dr. Plah bumps into the honorary English Counsel, and with one other English teacher, constitutes the entire English related population of the town. The trouble starts when the Counsel is mistaken for the American ambassador, and kidnapped for exchange of prisoners by childhood friends of Dr. Plah.

The story then revolves around the kidnappers and the Counsel, with Dr. Plah playing a key role. The evolution of relationships between the Counsel, the kidnapper, Dr. Plah and his lover ( the counsel’s wife) take on almost Kafkaesque proportions. The ebb and tide of relations and the tensions of the situation builds up as Dr. Plah confronts his past in the form of the kidnapper, while his guilty conscious forces him to make amateurish attempts to save the Counsel.

Green’s literary style is used effectively to act as the society’s mirror, and his keen observations on man’s dilemmas and anxiety brings one to reflect on one’s lifestyle. He is as relevant today as he was in the last century. It is this enduring quality which spans generations, makes him very relevant today. It is a shame he missed the Nobel Prize. I do wish that his books were not so highly priced by Vintage. He deserves a much wider audience


Odds and Ends

Now that the Olympics in China is behind us, it may interesting to see if we remember anything. I do remember that nobody at home sat through the opening ceremony. It was all jazz and glitter, but without a soul. Controlled societies like China will tend to ignore the human aspect, while in search of materialistic gains. The attempt to fool everybody by having a playback singer for the little girl sticks to one’s mind. Phelps gold medals and a middle aged mother attempting a gold medal in swimming are other notables.

My mother brushed off the whole show as a soap opera, and I cannot say I disagree.

Delhi Chronicles

Now that the winter is truly here, and the warm clothes are out of the boxes smelling of mothballs, one has started enjoying the sun again. Shelling peanuts and struggling to break off pieces of gajak (peanuts embedded in jaggery) from the big cake, and soaking in the sun sitting on a charpoy while reading a book is the thing to do during winters. The sun sets at at about 5:30 p.m. nowadays, so going for THE walk in the dark is cold and troubling. Listening to an audio book is the only thing making this worthwhile. This year the winter seems to be normal, and the temperature did fall a little bit in end November, but has climbed back again to make Delhi the best destination for tourists this side of the Suez canal, the carnage in Mumbai notwithstanding.

The fog is coming in nowadays and that makes the Delhi winters what they are. The air travellers get hit by delays, but hey, the smell of winter, the chillness of the fog, the warmth of that cuppa tea, and the fuzzy good feeling of a Sunday wandering on Janpath is what Delhi winters is all about. Enjoy while it lasts guys.

A simple journey

The Kalahari typing school for men, ( Alexander McCall Smith) is another story of women seeking independence. This is the first book I have read in the No 1 Ladies Detective Agency series, and unfortunately it is the book no 4. I believe the series is now on to the eigth or tenth in the series. But the book did not leave one clutching at straws, trying to guess the origins of the story. Unusually, it stands on its own feet, quietly independent. The story is narrated very simply, which is the book’s main attraction.

The main protagonist, Botswana’s only woman detective, Precious Ramotswe, gets some competition from a man, and also gets an unusual case. Somebody wants to her to dig into his own past in an attempt to correct some mistakes. This part really did get my attention. How many of us introvert and attempt to even think about our past? The regrets and broken relationships which need not have happened, and then try to undo it? Can the past be undone? Probably not, which is why, I think, most people do not even try. It takes one of unusual courage to even attempt this.

Unfortunately this attempt to compensate for the past turns out to be the most disappointing part of the book. This subject is not explored to its full potential, and one is left with a feeling that the author was in a hurry to bring matters to a highly unsatisfactory conclusion.

The book’s writing style is a bit colonial, which has its attractions. I doubt if Botswana is a paradise it is made out to be. A relative of mine is posted in Botswana, and I must check out the locale with him. He is in the army.

Odds and Ends

I just read the lead article in the guardian, prominently advertising the fate of girls in India. Delhi had quite a few honourable mentions for a dismal girl to boy ratio. The problem is endemic amongst the poor and the rich. And this problem continues till the social fabric changes to support the girl child’s education and economic independence

Delhi Chronicles

It is interesting to note the number of places of worship in Delhi. If we count all the religions then the number is satisfactory. The significant ones add up to quite a total. Start with the Jama Masjid in the walled city, and take in the Darga of Nizamuddin Auliya, the sufi saint, in the south of Delhi. The Sikh gurdwaras in Central Delhi; the Gururdwara Rakabganj and Bangla Sahib. The Hindus have their Akshardham Mandir in the east, Hanuman’s temple in central Delhi and the Lotus temple in the south. The Churches include Sacred Heart and the Cathedral Church of Redemption in central Delhi.
This tells you that Delhi is very much cosmopolitan, and one can easily spend a day or two in visiting the religious places

Atonement

Ian McEwan’s Atonement is a mesmerizing narrative, and it is difficult to put the book down. The strings of three lives intertwine and rub abrasively against each other. Each seeks a goal, a small portion of heaven on earth, and is thwarted by circumstances and fate. Ian McEwan is a master story teller, and as he spins his web, the characters spring to life. One cannot but help get caught up in the ebb of things, as a coming of age story evolves into a tragedy of sorts.

Robbie and Cecilia, two young people, in rural England, fall in sudden love. The younger sister of Cecilia, Briony, sees them in an inappropriate position. Out of this simple background and childish petulance starts a chain of events which cumulates in a tragedy of almost epic proportions. The background shifts to the Second World War, at the retreat of Dunkirk, out of which come the most remarkable scenes of the novel. In a way the long march to the beaches of Dunkirk increases the tension , as the novel captures the desolation and hopelessness of the defeat, both personal and on the battle field, vividly. The third act, so to say, is with Briony again as she grows up, realizes her mistakes and decides to atone for them.

The atonement really does not happen, as things done cannot be undone. The novel reinforces concepts like karma, where things go beyond one’s control, and one flows with the ebb of time and events. Can the characters find fulfillment in their short and maybe, meaningless, lives? The grand scheme of things overwhelms individuals. It is left to the novelists to bring out pathos and the tragedies of individual lives.

On the whole I would definitely recommend this book for a rainy day(s). Beautifully sculptured, wonderfully sensitive and a novel of beauty. I have not seen the movie, but I suspect it will not live up to the novel. Movie’s rarely do.

Except the next one.

Odds and Ends

I commented on The Third Man in an earlier blog, and I was pleasantly surprised to see an article on it in the September OPEC bulletin. The film apparently was a cult hit when it was released. OPEC is headquartered in Vienna, where the movie was also shot.

The haunting music from the film was composed by Anton Karas. He is seen in this youtube video playing the theme on the zither and a lovely composition by an orchestra here. Wonderful moving stuff.



Delhi Chronicles

Raise the Flag

I attended a book launch of a book on the Nation flag, written by Arundhati Virmani. A scholarly work was introduced lucidly by the author at the India International Centre. Arundhati was a reader at the Delhi University’s history department, and then married and left for France where she presently resides. She has written two books in French, and this is her third book. Today she teaches at the Ecole des Hautes Etudes en Sciences Sociales Marseille. Her publications include an essay in Past and Present, as well as two books: India 1900–1947. Un Britannique au cœur du Raj (Paris, Autrement, 2002), and Inde. Une Puissance en mutation (Paris, Documentation Française, 200)

It is unfortunate that such gathering attract so little attention in Delhi. A healthy discussion on this topic would really interest me, but alas. Apart from a host of history professors, very little evidence of the aam public was in view.

It was interesting to note the evolution which the flag has been through. Surprisingly, the flag under which the first freedom movement of 1857 took place, has no resonance in the present design. The design of the national flag looks more like a compromise of sorts, but heavily influenced by Mahatma Gandhi.

Arundhati also spoke of recent events, where a PIL was needed to break the shackles the bureaucracy had on the flag. In words of one of the participants, the flag was hijacked by the bureaucracy. Even the present liberal regime of the flag act, to my mind, is unsatisfactory. If I can wear a T-shirt with the Union Jack , why can’t I wear the tri-colour?

Business as usual

My mother

While the rest of the world is watching the financial markets collapse with horror and dismay, my mother is ecstatic. Her long cherished worst-case scenario has come true. Her doomsday prediction, which she has been tom-toming for as long as I remember, has finally happened.

The last major depression she witnessed was in 1929, and she has been longing for another ever since. We have been constantly reminded of those fateful years, when things were ‘not good’. Not that she, or for that matter anybody within a hundred miles of her house, held a solitary share on the NYSE, but we have not been allowed to forget that calamity. The troubled times have been made more woeful with every account. “ There were no jobs” she intoned, “and those times will come again. This is what happens when the market disintegrates. There will be no Plan B”.

She came close to realising her prophecy during the Enron crisis or the Asian currency collapse, but much to her disappointment, the markets recovered. She clucked as she watched the recovery, and continued to repeat her judgement day divination. But this crash is fulfilling her every dream. Our patronizing smiles whenever she launched into one of her horror stories have been wiped out, and replaced with an exasperated look. “ I told you so” has not been uttered, but one can see it lingering on her lips. “ The rupee will also collapse…like a sack of flour” is her next bet. I am not in a betting mood, so I gave it a pass.

Unfortunately her foretelling powers do not extend to alternate means of investment. Whenever she is asked that question, she simply shrugs and refuses to be drawn into the discussion. According to her even the FD in a safe-as-houses public sector bank is not safe enough. One would think she lost a fortune when the “Bank of Lahore” collapsed, but I know for a fact that nothing of that sort happened. I mean, the Bank may have foreclosed, but there was never any of my mum’s money in that bank. Else I would have seen some of it.

Odds and Ends

Aravind Adiga wins the Booker for The White Tiger

Delhi Chronicles

The Forgetful City

I normally do not like to write on current affairs as the events are too close for me to offer any dispassionate comments. But I realised that if I wait for too long, the city just forgets.

The bombing of Delhi market place in late September is stale news already. The newspapers and the media are now busy with the latest flavour of the month- the financial meltdown. For the city this may be good and bad.

In a time honoured tradition Delhi seems to forget its dead sooner than most other cities. Going back to Babur , when the plunder of Delhi seemed a routine affair, today’s disasters too, sink quietly into history. After a few days of hullabaloo, people are back to their mundane lives. The fear of the terrorists seems to have a longer affect on my wife though; she is still adamantly refusing to give permission to the girls to see a movie in a hall. Well, she will get over it soon enough.

Is the same true about other cities like New York or London? It seems not. London still remembers 7 September, and nobody is allowed to forget 9/11. The residents there have ceremony on the day; which is very poignant to watch, even over the telly.

There are no such ceremonies for the dead in Delhi though. Last time a bomb attack in Sarojini Nagar market took many innocent lives, and a memorial was put up in the victims’ memory. But I do not see that day being remembered by the media any longer. It is business as usual in the market.

On the other hand, this leads one to seek closure and carry on with life rapidly. The huge mass of people and the timeless memories of the city, absorb such tribulations, which barely cause a ripple. In a way this is a blessing, because living in this city can be trying. The efforts of making a living can be hard. So, sooner one accepts and gets along with it, the easier it is. In any case the walls of the Red Fort have been witness to much such carnage, and another one will not make its colour fade, even slightly.

Tea Break

For a change I picked up a book of short stories- Saki’s. I had never read short stories seriously, and was pleasantly surprised with this form of writing. Saki writes delightfully, and the stories refuse to have a tight plot or a schedule. Some of the stories wander around comfortably, while others have a bizarre twist. They all have a comfortable, untroubled, young men with money feel about them, and remind me of similar characters and plots, as in P.G. Woodhouse books or Three Men in a Boat. The stories belong to the times when young men of means stories were popular.

Surprisingly they still strike a chord today. Is it nostalgia for “better”, less troubled times? Or is it Saki’s satirical look at the high and the mighty resonates well with today’s social milieu? In that sense they do a better job of escapism than some of the modern story tellers. The modern novelist’s uncomfortable plots do impinge harshly at times, and Zoe Heller pontificates, “If you want to be comfortable go to a cocktail party”. The language Saki uses is not easy though. A formidable vocabulary and dramatic sentences snuggle easily with smooth narratives to make a compelling read.

Saki (real name Hector Hugh Munro) apparently derives his pseudonym from the Arabic word for the “the cup bearer”. Of course, we are well aware of the use of this word in many Bollywood dramas.

My favourite story is The Unrest Cure, and though it seems to be a bit on the slap stick side, I thoroughly enjoyed it. A story of an old couple who express a need of some excitement in their life, get dollops of it when Clovis, a Bertie Wooster (remember P.G. Woodhouse Jeeves stories?) kind of character, decides to do them a favour. A laugh a sentence kind of story- right up my street.

Other stories are more sombre, and Sredini Vastar, is in that genre. A story about a boy and his pet polecat, where the bad aunt gets her just dues. A riveting read, but at the end I was a little disgusted by it. It supposedly appeals to Englishmen, as it is rated as “one of the best in English Literature”; but I was kind of put off.

The rest of the stories did their job of keeping me well entertained, and I would definitely recommend this book for a rainy day, or when you need more courage to plunge into a serious read.

So, thanks Saki, for a nice teatime break.

Odds and Ends

Dear Mr/Mrs/Ms ,

I know it is a surprise that you are hearing from me. But I assure you that you have never been far away from my mind. I have constantly thought about you when I was dying, and till my last breath I kept you in my mind.

( Note that this e-mail is NOT written from Heaven, but was composed just before I popped it. Please do not reply to this e-mail as I will not be there to read it. Unless you have my new e-mail address, of course)

Now that I have departed for the world beyond, you must be thinking did I care for you. I assure you that my caring goes way beyond your expectations. I have a large sum of money which I have left for the person I loved the most. Yes, you.

I insist that you should be the full owner of my estate and LARGE sum of money which I have stashed away in Nigeria. This LARGE sum of money ( $/UK Pounds/ Rs, 10,000,000) is now YOURS. YOU must accept this LARGE sum of money to show how much you love me.

I have instructed my lawyer Mr. John Smith, who is a leading Liar in London to make arrangements to send you this money. He will need a few details as listed below, before he can transfer this LARGE sum of money to you.

Your Name:
Sex:
Age
Full Address
Phone numbers
Credit Card no
CVV ( Secret number)
Credit Card PIN
Bank Account No
ATM Card No
ATM PIN
Internet user name and password.

Mr. Smith will take immediate action after you have e-mailed these details to his e-mail : Justforlarks@yohaoo.co.ac.


Please also note that you also have to send Mr. Smith has to be paid a nominal sum for his efforts. So it would be very nice if you send him a bank order worth $ 100 to his Bank Account in Nigeria.

Remembering you from Heaven

Mr. Greg Norman.

Delhi Chronicles

Reading James Wood, a columnist with the New Yorker, led me to bemoan the lack of any intelligent or worthwhile issues addressed by our politicians. Not that McCain or Obama stretch one’s intellectual capabilities, but at least, they address today’s issues, and not get stuck in rhetoric. Our political parties are constantly jostling for limited space mostly around caste and religion. I am just sick of this. As a city boy such distinctions seem trivial to me. That they become matters of life and death for some seems really obtuse.

While the US politicians place the economy and foreign affairs in the centre and debate about it, in the Indian elections all one gets is vitriolic attacks on meaningless issues. At this point I expect some good citizen to stand up and say that we are ignoring the poor and the downtrodden, and they are the real issues. With respect I disagree. Don’t get me wrong. The problem exists; my objection is to how we address it. With a corrupt bureaucracy and singular lack of governance capability, the government and its myriad arms are the wrong people to address this issue. They should just get out of the way.

If one looks at the infrastructure problems in Delhi, the private sector seems to have done much better in solving them. Look at the successes:- telecom, electricity distribution, NH8 expressway and the NOIDA toll way. The metro seems to be the only success in the government’s basket, but only because the management was with a bureaucrat with an entrepreneur’s mindset. A list of area where the government seriously needs to get out is transport (despite the Green Line disaster which I attribute to the corrupt bureaucrat’s handing out limited licenses), water treating and distribution, police and electricity generation. The development of the roads needs to be given to local authorities like the resident welfare associations.

We need better politicians and bureaucrats, and not some manipulating ignoramuses who twist the system to meet their narrow interests. We need people with vision which matches today’s needs.