1. Two posts in two days! You must be kidding! well, for a change, it's the lack of the writer's block. Or, to be honest, it's this timeless love for Simon and Garfunkel! They've been my favorite group since I dont know when. My introduction to their world was typical: a legacy passed down by young aunt to elder sister, and by an "overly enthusiastic to develop some semblance of a taste for good music in lil' sis" sister to me.

    The first number to endear itself was the evergreen Mrs Robinson. The Enid Blyton smitten twelve year old in me found it easy to conjure up pretty, regular, images of a rotund, rosy cheeked Mrs Robinson content in her good smelling world of brownies and cookies, somewhat like Mrs Quentin, from the Famous Five. Ok all ye S&G die-hards. Don't kill me with those looks. I was but an impressionable twelve year old.

    Soon, a family friend's visit shifted the focus to Scarborough Fair. As Suresh Anna continued to elaborate on wife Mary Akka's ability to play the song most flawlessly on the piano, I was convinced this was the perfect dream. Imagine this young lass sitting gracefully and playing those haunting notes from Scarborugh Fair on the grand old piano as the young man leaned onto the shining ebony surface. It painted too pretty a picture to not become an immediate favorite.

    Over the years, I moved from the rebellious "I am a rock" to the confusing "I'd rather be a ...this and that" to the extremely different "Cecilia"...At eighteen, armed with a single tape of S&G's best, I set off to chase my engineering dreams, to college, and suddenly 'Homeward Bound' seemed that much more relevant. "At the zoo" was a piece I thoroughly enjoyed with a good friend who was equally crazy, if not more, about the group.

    On the solitary walks with my walkman, at BITS, "Sound of Silence" was a constant companion. To be honest, I took a long time to even get the lyrics of the song. Yours truly wasnt savvy enough just yet, to look up the net. But there was something about the music. Haunting...drifting...into another time and space...an underlying plea...I don't know for what. But it sure struck a chord.

    My current favorite, and it's been one for a long long time now, is Dangling Converstaion. It's as poetic as a song can be. The words are simply awesome, and are impossible to forget, once you have heard the song. Most of it is as if it was always meant to be. And it seems as if it was written, keeping a very specific picture in mind. I'll be damned if you don't find yourself painting the scene as you listen to the song. It's quite exquisite. Paul Simon and Art Garfunkel were truly gifted.

    Imagine my delight, when I stumbled across a couple of old Simon and Garfunkel gramaphone records, while shopping for a play's props three years back, in good old Pilani. An equally thrilled friend picked up some unforgettable Survivor and Floyd records, while I grabbed three old, old S&G plates. One even had a letter from Art Garfunkel to Paul Simon. I knew it was just a reproduced print. Yet, as I held that record, a tingling thrill ran through me. And I am sure my friends felt that way too, when I gave them the record for keeps, as a good luck charm, before their play began. It's just something you'd have felt too, that evening, if you were a true blue S&G fan. Love you guys!

    And, as I sign off, how can I not leave you with these words...

    It’s a still life water color,
    Of a now late afternoon,
    As the sun shines through the curtained lace
    And shadows wash the room.
    And we sit and drink our coffee
    Couched in our indifference
    Like shells upon the shore
    You can hear the ocean roar
    In the dangling conversation
    And the superficial sighs
    Are the borders of our lives
    And you read your emily dickinson,
    And I my robert frost,
    And we note our place with bookmarkers
    That measure what we’ve lost.
    Like a poem poorly written
    We are verses out of rhythm
    Couplets out of rhyme
    In syncopated time
    Lost in the dangling conversation
    And the superficial sighs,
    Are the borders of our lives.
    Yes, we speak of things that matter,
    With words that must be said,
    Can analysis be worthwhile?
    Is the theater really dead?
    And how the room is softly faded
    And I only kiss your shadow,
    I cannot feel your hand,
    You’re a stranger now unto me
    Lost in the dangling conversation.
    And the superficial sighs,
    In the borders of our lives.
    - Dangling Conversation, Simon and Garfunkel
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  2. Finally, I managed to take advantage of being in Delhi – I did a quick weekend trip, into the beautiful countryside, in the adjoining states. Two girl friends and I went to Unchagaon, a little over a 100 km away, in the district of Bulandshahr, east of Delhi, yesterday.

    After a laborious drive through Delhi and Ghaziabad, we were briefly on good roads till, the road got expectedly monstrous for a 45 min stretch. A quick right off the Delhi-Moradabad NH24, and we were along a picturesque canal, 20 km away from Fort Unchagaon.

    Driving along the canal was exactly the rural India experience you would imagine. A narrow lane, struggling to stay pakka, healthy buffalos barely visible as they lazily let a part of the head stay above muddy water, beautiful women in the brightest sarees, and bullock carts that defined snail’s pace.

    Just when we thought this fort was nowhere in sight, bang!, and there it appeared right in the middle of the colourful Saturday bazaar! Having dodged potato carts, tilted cycles, precariously placed large brass turrets, and a few scurrying animals, we were finally within the gates, and sipping into some refreshing lemonade.

    The village and adjoining areas were actually a separate kingdom, whose Raja’s abode is today’s heritage resort. A quick tour reveals a large room with the heads of 17 tigers, shot down by the bade sahib. Bade sahib is now over a 100 years old, and lives a lavish life in GK-I. Other royal splendour on display includes swords, silverware and antique furniture. A little dramatic perhaps, but you begin to understand better what they mean when they say India continues to be plundered through the ages.

    After a lazy afternoon, we stepped out and drove the 5 km to the Ganga, that flows calmly by the village. It was a beautiful sight – a few villagers sitting on the banks, after a hard day’s work, a boat ferrying people across the breadth of the river, and the sun beginning to show a lovely orange tinge.

    In a few minutes, we were aboard the simple wooden boat, being steered by a long pole, into the waters of the Ganga, or Gangaji, as the boatman fondly referred to it. Shots of a beautiful sunset, lame attempts at trying to steer the boat, and some dolphin spotting later, we are back on shore, knowing we have lived the moment of the weekend. There is something calming about the river, and the its harmony with the empty skies, and how the people of the village fit in beautifully. Perhaps, only we stuck out as sore thumbs.

    On our way back, we stop at a ganna field, and lick hot gur off our fingers. Also pick up some ganna sticks to rip off later. Our next stop is at a potter’s house, even as he is about to wrap up for the day. Unsuccessful attempts at the wheel are quickly put away, and we end up playing with the most adorable goat kids ever born.

    Back at the fort, we indulge in some happy badminton after many years, and I thoroughly enjoy it all. Soon, the evening’s lok geet karyakram begins – 3 men, a harmonium and a dholak regale with local folk songs and some hindi film music from many years back. They end with an extremely insightful song on how Godess Parvati urges Lord Shiva to move with the new fashion. And what defines the change then – wearing baggy pants, buying a maruti car, drinking campa cola, and becoming the new Devanand.

    It’s striking. Being in a business which advocates an entry into the Indian market to tap the gold mine so often, and attempting to articulate how customer segments are different, and how rural India is another ball game, I feel like this 1 min song did it so much better.

    The other memory that will stay with me forever, is the concept of the ‘Jugaad’. The most common means of transportation in these parts is the Jugaad, and it is literally just that – a vehicle put together from abandoned parts of other vehicles. It is a little like a tractor in the front, with a carriage to seat humans on the back that is pulled. Of course, most times you can hardly see the vehicle, beneath the layers of human beings for whom it is an indispensable lifeline. It is innovative, necessity born, and striking proof of the average Indian’s penchant for the sub-optimal. Jugaad se sab chal jaata hai.

    We are back in Delhi, after a relatively quicker drive back, and sign off with Chinese lunch at 3 pm, Sunday afternoon, at a posh restaurant. Guess they don’t make ‘em campa colas no more, in these parts.

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  3. When I began my journey at a start-up last May, I always thought I would maintain a daily log, and have many insights to share. Somehow, the indiscipline in me never let that come alive. And I really regret it, more than 1 year down the line. However, today, while working on something, it struck me that I surely would have my top 10 lessons to share, from the past year. How about penning those? And perhaps, I would find it in me to document learnings on a more regular basis. So here goes -

    My top XX lessons starting up a brick and mortar business from scratch in India

    1. Right People - Spend time hiring the right ones; get rid of the errors in judgment quickly
    2. No matter how fast you grow, and how soon you add people and process, Stay Nimble. It will be your only shot at survival in the first few years.
    3. There will be days that are oh so low, you really think you're not turning up for work the next day. And it's rarely because you ran out of money. Keep the faith.
    4. Sell vs. deliver - One of 2 things will happen - You will either under-promise constantly, because there is always a mountain of things to set right. Or you will always over-promise, because you cannot discern the effort required. Mistakes are going to happen either way. The important thing is to step back and not allow a repeat. And when in doubt, choose Sell over Deliver.
    5. Quick decisions - A start-up environment is great because it allows you to make decisions purely guided by intuition. However, this means you will also have to give up your love for adequate information. Thinking on your feet is the most important thing.
    6. No place for democracy - As a young founder, the temptation is high to take the team along, build consensus, and all those nice things. But really, it's your company. Your blood and sweat. Feel free to be prescriptive. What's important is that we get moving.
    7. Brand You - Very early I discovered that with employees and customers, your brand equity is way higher than the company you set up. People take a leap of faith in you, not the company you founded yesterday. Be careful to preserve your identity, and what you stand for. Do not waver.
    8. Things will always take longer than you originally planned. Always assume a delay, and make your peace with it. Rome was not built in a day.
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  4. It’s been 18 years since the first series of bomb blasts in Mumbai. An entire generation has been born, grown up and earned the right to vote, since. And yet, nothing has changed as a result of that. I just read a quote by filmmaker Anand Patwardhan, in Outlook, which speaks about long term change. Take a quiet moment to read it –
    “The only real solution to terrorism is addressing communal divisions over the long term. Not AK-47s for cops.”

    It makes you think about what, if anything have we done with a long term view in mind in these 18 years. It makes me think immediately of what these bomb blasts have meant to me, if anything at all, since the first ones I can recollect. From 18 years ago.

    What I recollect about the 1993 episode, when I was all of 9 years old, is something immediately preceding it – watching on TV the Babri Masjid being torn down, and Lal Krishna Advani on a chariot. I remember spewing to my Dad what had somehow crept into my conscience, perhaps from neighbours, family, TV – ‘Break the mosque, build a temple’. I can never forget that cold, all conveying tone in which my Dad told me I was wrong and should shut up right then. That there was zero tolerance for such nonsense in his house. I am sure now I did not understand what I wrote or what Dad told me. But looking back, I couldn’t be more ashamed.

    Anyway, my next memory from the time around the 1993 blasts is that a famous movie, in which Manisha Koirala had the most beautiful skin and danced and sang like a dream was made. Bombay. By Mani Ratnam. I caught it in patches, for I was too busy watching DDLJ multiple times.  And then, we moved on.

    My next brush with terrorism, apart from a vague sense of violence in Kashmir, while growing up, was in Pilani. In the year 2000, all of 18 years old, even as I dealt with social awkwardness and a new discovery of how hopelessly inadequate I was academically as well, my one engaging interest in making sense of the world around me was beginning to take form and shape.

    The naïve idealist in me was taking shape, being born in a sense. My various identities were coming together, and starting to mean something, even as I informed them, from various conversations, lots of reading, and some very naïve thinking – I am an Indian, a Hindu, a Tamilian who’s essentially a Hyderabadi, a girl-woman, an urban-dweller, an individual.

    I distinctly remember a conversation with a Kashmiri friend one evening, even as we solved 3D engineering drawing diagrams (by now, I knew, the engineer in me would struggle to be born and die very soon). It was my first tough conversation, from memory. In my inexperience and thanks to my conditioning, I couldn’t quite fathom how someone would want to separate from India. What Azadi could possibly mean, when we were already Azad. I was furious with the very thought, and didnt really internalise the violence she spoke of as a daily routine. But somewhere in the middle of this, when she casually mentioned that in her life in Srinagar, it was so normal to run into a shop when a bomb went off in the middle of a market, and take cover, till things were ok, I was unsettled. “People help each other, if possible, and move on. Till the next one. We are used to it” she said, “That’s what we do.” It stuck me as very odd.

    I can say now with clarity that I did not quite understand then what it meant to be in an environment of violence. Nor did I know I would ever be in such a situation. But I was convinced I would be extremely scared, and could not possibly feel normal, if ever this was to happen to me.

    And then life moved on. In Sep 2001, when the twin towers came down, I was in FD1, along with the cast and crew of the English Drama Club’s latest production. A friend (and lead eccentric character in that play) came bursting in, slightly amused, that a plane had rammed into a tall, very tall building in New York, and was bombing Pentagon. I didn’t even know what the Pentagon was. And at that point, no one could understand or imagine what exactly the scale of violence was. We continued to practice. And in the coming days, would gaze in awe at the repeatedly played videos of the towers crashing, like in a video game. It was too far away from home though. And we hadn’t nursed our MS ambitions adequately yet, to care. So we moved on.

    And then, while still in Pilani, the Gujarat riots happened, born out of violence on a train, and in a heated moment, a few friends and I started ‘Try Peace’ on campus. The idea was to engage in these very touchy conversations, share films, books and other pieces of work that shed light on these complex issues, and really engage at University level, with what we thought was a serious problem.

    But we did not go far. We were an urbane, shielded lot. Who loved to talk. So we gathered in Sky (the college café), about ten of us, and heatedly took sides on whether it was ok or not to kill in the name of religion, when provoked. We all judged each other. I remember being particularly shocked when a friend I held in high-esteem vociferously argued that Islamic terrorism was a problem because Muslims were genetically tuned to be violent. I felt enraged, but did not know enough to counter this. And I was too polite.

    When we tried to take things a step further, by trying to screen films that we thought would sensitise us, as students to the issues, the school came down hard on us. The Dean just said No, in plain English. We were furious. Weren’t we adults? Didn’t we know to judge between right and wrong? And anyway, who the hell was the school management to prevent us from viewing a movie, if we wanted to? So we sat in Sky with a cup of chai, and gave vent to all this. And then? And then, we moved on. Try Peace died that very semester. And as much as we tried to revive it in the next, none of us had the persevearance or the vision to do so. We failed to believe in what it could be.

    In the next few years, I was busy acquiring MBAs and earning money. Yes, every now and then, there were the passionate discussions in the school cafeteria, in the office pantry, in fancy restaurants, about how wrong this was. How we had no vision, no resolve, no nothing. How this had never been repeated in America. My friends who had left the Indian shores would message or call me every time a bomb went off somewhere in India (by then there was a rhythm to these things), to check if I was ok. I did the same to others in India. We all felt loved, and cared for. And then we discussed life, the latest movie, how Indian politicians sucked, and how communal tensions would destroy our country. And we all simply moved on.

    In 2008, when the famous BAD series took place, it all came a little too close to home. First, when the bus-stop in Bangalore saw the blast take a few innocent lives, I remember reading a very descriptive article in the Times of India (?) I think, and feeling particularly sad, may be because it is a city close to my heart, and one I have spent a part of my life in. The very next day, multiple blasts hit the city of Ahmedabad, another city I am familiar with and have fond memories of. Some of these were in hospitals where the injured were being admitted. Particularly brutal. I was really angry and upset, and obsessively consumed all the media content on the emails from the terrorist outfits, the planning and plotting, the alleged phone calls recorded on the success of the series of blasts, etc. My blood boiled, but if anything, I was even more confused about what one could possibly do. Who could we, as a people look up to? Was there really a way to tackle any of this?

    And then, terror and I had a close shave. My husband (then boy friend) was down in Delhi for a long awaited weekend, unknown to his family in Bangalore, and we drove down to my favourite bookshop on the corner of Janpath, in Delhi on a lovely Saturday evening, the 13th of September, 2008. We were celebrating four years together, and life was beautiful. Even as I chatted up my favourite bookseller, who with great delight, introduced me to the world of Chugtai and such, a loud, but dull thud went off in the background. We immediately looked in the direction of Connaught Circle (above Palika Bazaar), about 200m away from where the sound came, and a painful voice in my head said this could be a bomb. As I voiced my concern, policemen at the little chowki near by nonchalantly walked away (think they did not want to cause panic), and my bookseller looked amused (and in denial). We were undecided because we wanted to walk towards the Circle to go withdraw cash but the chaos was starting to spread.

    In the next moment, my world changed. Because my best friend, who lived in GK, near M Block called, to say there had been a series of blasts, her windows shook, and that we must rush home immediately. We knew we were in the middle of a series. And what better place for the next other than Janpath. So we crossed the road, begging to be away from Janpath, very alarmed, and ran towards my car, parked outside Tribhuvandas Jewellers. Suddenly now, every landmark felt like a sitting duck. And my hands trembled as I reversed my car out of the carpark, from next to a telephone cable box, which I was convinced, held the next bomb.

    As we drove away, and I calmed down, we decided we wanted to drive back and help the wounded. We tried, but in all the panic, traffic towards the Circle was completely jammed, and images of the blast at the hospitals in Ahmedabad haunted us. So we decided to flee.

    Even as I worked my way out of Connaught’s confusing circles, I realised later I had been close to more than one site, and by the time we were home, about 830 pm, I was exhausted and afraid. For the first time, I had had a personal encounter. And I had felt most helpless.

    Things calmed down over the next few days, only till 26/11, when big terror hit home. Big, because by now the bomb series was a familiar event, and this was different. Big, because, in full public view, we were told that in India, not only was the average citizen helpless against terror. But also, the protectors – the best policemen, the army, the most powerful and affluent, and every other significant person was helpless too. For almost a week, we all circled around the office pantry table and gazed in disbelief at the TV screen as the media stuffed mics into weary relatives who prayed for their loved ones battling from within burning towers.

    Because it was South Mumbai, we all knew people who were holed up in offices overnight, friends’ friends who had been at the hotel restaurants just two hours before, the odd person who had pretended to be dead amidst a pile of bodies. In the aftermath, we put up angry messages on facebook, we joined candle marches with no agenda, no vision, no leadership and increased frustration, and for a slightly longer time, kept memories alive with discussions. A few heads rolled, the savvier media sincerely went back to these stories for a while (of course we dutifully celebrate the 26/11 anniversary now) and then we all, once again, moved on.

    In all these times, I have poured over any devourable stories on bomb blasts, most of which have taken place in Mumbai, and been part-victim in one, in Delhi. Now, just two months after I moved to Mumbai, hoping to make it my home, a series of blasts happened again. For the first time, I have been in Mumbai, when these blasts have happened. When I heard, I was close to Lilavati hospital, and because of all the traffic jams, decided to walk home.

    I have to admit, I was very scared as I walked past Lilavati, nervously wondering if it could be a target in the series. After I got home, a colleague told me that the meeting we had between 4 and 530 pm earlier in the evening was next to Opera House. I was struck by the number of people who called and urged me to just quit Mumbai and go back abroad. All this, when I was not even really close this time around. I quietly finished dinner, watched TV till I could no longer tolerate the resilience talk, and then switched off and went to bed, thinking, this too will pass.

    I think about being in Mumbai, and I do feel more confused, nervous and helpless than ever before. Because I understand better with each such incident firsthand, what we now confront. On at least two occasions, I have been scarily close. I see how we have done nothing as individuals or as government in the long-term to meaningfully tackle terrorism.

    Our foreign policy is more contradictory than ever before. Our voice on the subject less informed, more confused, least confident. As communities, we have done nothing to make bonds with each other stronger, not encouraged mingling across divides, allowed our respect for diversity to weaken, and trivialised the most important and complex concerns we face as a people.

    I write this not just because I feel scared, frustrated and helpless. I definitely do not write because I think I have a solution. However, for the first time, within my life-time, I have a sense for what could have been achieved in the long-term. I feel the weight of having lost an opportunity and a tremendous amount of precious time, to fix a serious problem. And worse, I feel like the next eighteen dont show any promise either. 

    In eighteen years, we have been constantly reminded to fix a growing menace. And yet among a billion of us, we have not had the vision or the leadership or the resolve to do so.

    And I cannot help but feel a little desperate. And so, at the risk of sounding clichéd, I leave you with this wonderful poem by Martin Niemoller –

    First they came for the communists,
    and I didn't speak out because I wasn't a communist.

    Then they came for the trade unionists,
    and I didn't speak out because I wasn't a trade unionist.

    Then they came for the Jews,
    and I didn't speak out because I wasn't a Jew.

    Then they came for me
    and there was no one left to speak out for me.
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  5. Election season is no doubt the most entertaining period in a nation’s history. And savvy media in these times has taken the tamasha to another level. Your mind sees a rush of emotions – helpless laughter, cynicism, sarcasm, anger, sadness. Usually anger triumphs over other emotions at some point, courtesy some idiotic politician.

    This time round, I would like to bestow the honour on Mulayam Singh Yadav, and the Samajwadi Party’s manifesto. I cant call it shocking; perhaps it is a tad annoying. But mostly, it angers you, and makes you want to pull your hair. Really, Mr. Yadav? No English in Hindi Des? No use of computers?

    Let’s start by planning your itinerary ji. Wait, you possibly aren’t involved, in this busy election period. May be your PA would know better? Hang on, he needs a print out, to walk you through it. Aha! Alas, it comes from a computer no?

    Let’s move on to those many flights and trains (really?) you take. No ticket reservations ji? I think I remember you saying on TV that you think computers should not be used where work can be done manually. Why not? Shall we wait 7 days for your ticket to arrive to transport you to the next city for a rally ji? Oh hell, did I just forget you don’t need a ticket anywhere?

    I struggle to think of ways you use a computer in UP ji. And then it strikes me – you cant possibly know what role technology plays, given you spend all your time in UP (except Nithari of course) ji?

    May be then, your sons could provide perspective. They’re my generation, it seems – I am all for the youth ji!

    Apologies, but I am a big computer junkie. So I googled this – “Mulayam Singh Yadav son educated” and guess what I found sir. (Do ask your son to explain google to you ji – it may well be part of your slogan in the next elections - Bole har search google, Mahan SP ka cycle!)

    Anyways, not to digress – this is what I found ji – your own son is considered one of the best users of IT, to reach a wider audience (now now, Akhilesh is a little pesumptious). Not only that, he is educated in English medium, is an Engineer (in keeping with popular English speaking elitist choice of this generation) and even did a higher degree from Sydney. No, before you think otherwise – you may not understand their accents, but they speak English too ji.

    http://www.expressindia.com/latest-news/mulayams-son-eyes-net-gain/444950/
    Hailing from Etawah-one of the most backward towns of UP-35-year-old Akhilesh is perhaps the only politician of Gen X, at least in the state, who is making full use of information technology to gain political mileage. And why not? With a diploma in Environment Engineering from University of Sydney, Australia, Akhilesh has done his BTech from University of Mysore, Karnataka
    His close associate Anurag Yadav confirms: “Bhaiya motivates all youth members of Yuvjan Sabha and Chhatra Sabha to use the Internet to stay connected. Most of them have started using the net”. The site is professionally managed and a team of IT experts tag along with Akhilesh, who is always equipped with his laptop wherever he goes.

    May be you should hire some talented IT bhaiyas ji, too get all this off the websites, before someone more powerful finds them? I assure you, many good English speaking institutes outside of UP provide such talent ji.

    Is it time to move onto your better half in the SP, Amar Singhji? I haven’t sent that man on TV without a fancy gadget ji. Unfortunately, I don’t have the connections to observe him in person. May be he and his friends can set a sweet example in your honour ji? They can collect at Shivaji Park, and burn all the laptops in their large houses in a symbolic gesture? After all, this is one business none of them is really into yet ji.

    Should we really move onto the Angrezi bit ji? Unfortunately, the irony does not escape me – I will have to continue in English. I can speak Hindi, but can’t type in Hindi on the computer ji. Double whammy no?

    No English should be spoken in Hindi des. It is hard to tackle this one without being branded elitist ji. I must confess – I started in a convent, and went onto graduate class 10 from one of the best English speaking schools in my city. Tough one. But then ji, I knew I could trust my computer. All I did was google this – Spoken English in Uttar Pradesh and I am so spoilt for choice ji – it is more confusing than amusing!

    Everyone around you, except you of course seems to be focused on speaking English. And of course yours being a high density population state, is hard to ignore for the English speaking – opportunity smelling corporate variety. After all, the non-elitist average UPite seems quite gung-ho about speaking English. And there are so many of them!

    I can safely and proudly bullshit the elitist argument this one time ji. Leave my blog ranting aside, someone has actually bothered to research this – a few minutes on this may open your eyes? Don’t worry, we wont tell anyone your PA shot a print-out from the computer.
    http://www.hku.hk/clear/conference08/doc/handouts/VERMA%20Meenakshi%20H_handout.pdf

    And finally, haha … this is really the proverbial nail ji. May be you said no computers, because this is the age of Blackberrys ji?

    On Facebook, he has over 300 regular members and on Orkut there are over 1,000. “This is the best was to communicate with friends and well wishers,” says Akhilesh, who mostly does his net communication through Blackberry while travelling.
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  6. ... I love this song. Would love to research and find out more about it.
    I wonder what could have possibly prompted someone to write these lyrics...
    Jo ab kiye ho daata, aisa na kijoagle janam mohe bitiya na kijo
    Humre sajanwa humra dil aisa todin
    O ghar basa-in humka rasta ma chodin
    jaise ki lalla koi khilona jo pahwe
    dui char din to khele phir bhool jaave
    ro bhi na pahve aisi gudiya na kijo
    agle janam mohe bitiya na kijoagle janam mohe bitiya na kijojo ab kiye ho daata aisa na kijoagle janam mohe bitiya na kijo
    Aisi bidai bolo dekhi kahi hai
    maiya na babul bhaiya kaunu nahi haiho,
    ansu ke gehne hai aur dukh ki hai doli
    band kevadiya more ghar ki boli
    is aur sapno mein bhi aaya na kijous aur bhi sapno mein bhi aaya na kijoagle janam mohe bitiya na kijojo ab kiye ho daata aisa na kijoagle janam mohe bitiya na kijoagle janam mohe bitiya na kijo…
    www.varshita.net
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  7. This (Source: CNN-IBN) piece of news I read over the weekend is disturbing. The alleged father is apparently a gold medallist from a leading Indian University, and two years older than me. He married someone 7 years younger, also a software engineer, and then went on to get her pregnant.

    Just 4 days after the baby girl was born, he threw her into the well and killed her, apparently to make his point, rather explicitly, about not getting enough attention from the wife. Lame? Hang on.

    The family now alleges there was dowry harassment. He claims he is insane. Of course he is!
    Sooner or later, am sure we will hear female infanticide. In any case, infanticide is the only charge they can really book him under right now.

    This may well be a one-off, but it angers me. There is more to education than a well-earned technical degree. The experience hopefully makes us more mature, and able to make more sound decisions. He was 29 freaking years old, in a good job, and with access to all the support that the modern world provides. No good came of all that.
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  8. What happened in Mangalore is shocking. In a state ruled by the BJP, one more form of unfamiliar extremism comes to the fore. And the moderate voice of the Hindu must be heard. Loud and clear.
    It is not just a women's issue. It is about a group of potentially unemployed and disillusioned men, being fed a single dogma and opinion, and having access to none other, especially a moderate one.
    We need action - swift and conclusive. Disrespecting women is not a cultural standard we set ourselves either. Our tolerance has distinguished us as a civilization for centuries now. And it is this single discerning quality that sets us apart from our neighbours, especially in these confusing times. If we give this up, we give up the right to call others extremist, to judge others as intolerant and divisive, to accuse others of being regressive.
    We hear different voices everyday. And in the omnipresent media circus, some voices are amplified more than others. But we cannot let the ignorant believe that the non-descript Sriram sena is the new voice of the Hindu. It definitely is not.
    Every time there is Islamic terrorism, we accuse the moderates of not speaking enough. It is time now for the Hindus to show up now. Not just the women, but any Hindu who knows his/her religion. And knows it well enough to believe in the founding ideal of tolerance. And as an off-shoot of that, respect for women and freedom of thought.
    The moderate Indian Hindu, who outnumbers the moderate Muslim by manyfold in this country must stand up now more than ever before.
    I do. If I mattered to the circus, I would be up there fighting the Senas, tooth for tooth, eye for eye. And to those women in Mangalore: My heart goes out to you. And my head says - speak up, even if it is hard. Even if you are a pawn in a grand game. Speak up. It is what will separate you from the extremists. And the cowards.
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  9. It’s starting to happen – the guard’s changing in Indian politics. It actually started a few months back when 4-5 very young MPs were made ministers of state in various faculties in the central government. Now Omar Abdullah has become Chief Minister of strife ridden Jammu and Kashmir for a whole 6 years.

    When the elections were over, it seemed like the senior Abdullah, Dr. Farooq would keep power, but the baton’s been handed. No power sharing gimmicks within the coalition. No wresting from the hands of the old. A simple pass-on.

    There has been so much in the media about India finding its own Obama. Can someone with a clean slate, no decades long political history, no dynasty rise to the top in India? Look at our Prime Ministerial candidates for the elections in 2009 – one of them is 80+ years old Advani; the other likely to be one of Manmohan Singh, Pranab Mukherjee, or madam herself. Or worse, we may end up with Mayawati at the centre of it all. Unless, in coming a full circle, we actually end up seeing Rahul Gandhi. My vote in this case is for the sibling.

    Well, you can be sceptical and say it is just one rung down in the same old stinking dynasty alley. We’ve seen it from the days of Jawaharlal and Sheikh Abdullah to Rajiv and Farooq, to now Rahul and Omar. Ah well, you could be right. It’s probably routine in the Indian context.

    And yet there is some hope. These are a well-qualified, educated generation. They have had access to some of the best schools in the world, worked in the best corporate set-ups, and yet grown up with a unique sensisitivity for ground realities, given their backgrounds. The combination is unique and potent, and perhaps makes for an even more desirable personality than that of Obama’s.

    Many of the senior generation are stalwarts, and yet many are tainted with corruption charges. And so you wonder if tax payers’ money may have potentially nurtured many of these bright, young Indians as they grew up. But if even one of them turns out to be worthy of his role and position in Indian governance, I would consider my money well-spent.
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  10. On one of those mornings when you simply don’t want to get out of bed, have you imagined a scene where someone you can’t quite see is trying to forcibly prise your eyes open? Like literally using a flat spanner as a lever to pry open those heavy sleep-laden eyelids?

    That’s exactly how I feel I am being treated by those terrorists who were at the Taj last week. In a strange way, they have done me and hopefully many other 20 something, rich yuppies some good. They have forced us to wake up and look around us, and not even too far away. For terror struck familiar territory.

    Oh no, it wasn’t in those 4 feet wide galis where you went shopping before Diwali, when you were still part of a middle class household. No sir, this time round, you can’t say “Man, I used to go there with my mum to buy diyas every Diwali. I (of course!) haven’t been there in 12 years. Now, you get them at Shoppers’ Stop you see. Thank God!”

    If you went to business school in India, and decided to stay back, you probably ended up in South Mumbai, or Gurgaon, which is quite obviously the other sitting duck, for everyone to watch with bated breath now. Thanks to the famous ‘lack of diversity’ syndrome at Indian schools, you should have known a minimum 10 people who were your friends / friend’s friends / friends’ fiancés / friends’ bosses, etc. etc. who were at one of the restaurants, cafes or simply sauntering down the causeway. So no big surprise then that you knew someone who was shot dead/shot at / choked to death in the tragedy. Even if you missed this one, you probably knew someone’s someone who was on the Mumbai local in 1993 or 2006 or 2008 – take your pick. Or may be in the bazaars of Delhi, Hyderabad, Ahmedabad, Guwhati? The malls of Bangalore, Delhi?

    It’s almost like, if I had my entire life mapped out, the law of averages is heavily stacked up against me. Like in a video game, I have missed target narrowly multiple times over. Be it city, time, location, method – I have escaped narrowly several times now.

    Well then, what more can I possibly be waiting for? If I don’t open my eyes, and do something now, I never will. Yes, sitting on a time bomb feels uncomfortable indeed.
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