Taking stock

Midnight's Child

2012-01-14T22:11:00.001+05:30

I take the right at the newly constructed Vishwavidyala Metro Station on to Chhatra Marg and walk past the Vice Chancellor's bungalow. It is past mid-night in December, I am heavily clothed. Heavy jacket, woolen socks, floaters but no shoes, muffler hanging around my neck and hands in the Levi's. My pace is slower than usual. I soak in the moment, the silence, the darkness, the chill and the solitude. Delhi has recorded historically low temperatures this year. I feel the tip of my nose going numb and cover it with the muffler, walking all this while. I approach the hostel gate of Miranda House to my right and PG Women's to my left. I pause for a moment and reminisce things that I should not have done and things that should have been done. I move on literally and in many ways metaphorically.

I am brought back to reality by the clickety-clack of a cycle-rickshaw that emerges from the darkness brought about by the canopy of tress beyond the university cooperative stores where the street lights have little effect. The cycle-rickshaw hurriedly passes by and disappears into the darkness as quickly as it had emerged. I walk on past the place where the U-Specials park in front of WUS on towards Ramjas passing Faculty of Arts, the Science Blocks, Faculty of Law and Nirula's. I stand in the middle of the road at the junction between Faculty of Law, Ramjas, D-School and St Stephen's deciding the direction to head in. The straight takes me to Kamala Nagar , the right towards SRCC and the left towards the ridge.

I take the left and walk on beyond D-School, St Stephen's and Hindu. The long walk has ensured that the cold stays at bay, I let the muffler hang from my neck again. Soon enough I hit the cross road at Vishwavidyala Marg. A hot cup of tea is very tempting and I know that the possibility of getting one at this time of the night is the highest at Hindu Rao so I take the right towards Shri Ram Institute. However the though of the long walk back dissuades me and I do a 180 degrees and walk towards Gwyer hall hoping that I could find the chai wala outside the PG Men's. Now that Himmat Singh has shut shop after they moved the Maurice Nagar Police Station to near Patel Chest, the Vishwavidyala Marg is morosely quiet. Quite a lot has changed.

The chill has ensured the chai wala's absence so I decide to beat myself some coffee when I reached home. I had been walking for longer than I thought I would, so I begin walking back home. I walk past Gwyer Hall, Faculty of Music and take the left on Mall Road and then the right at Hakikat Nagar and then the left at Nu Life Hospital and reach home, the mezzanine floor at 1944. I make my self the cuppa and begin reading Rushie's Midnight's Children.

The Evening After

2011-07-23T19:58:00.005+05:30

The silver Jaguar is parked in its usual spot. The other parking spots are empty. This is quite unusual for a mid-week evening. It is not a national holiday or a bandh. The boulevard is perceptibly emptier. A light drizzle envelopes the area. Lesser than usual number people walk with their umbrellas, mostly black, in the never ending line towards Churchgate Station. After a fifteen minute brisk walk I reach the station only to find it sporting a derelict look. Only during the India-Pakistan match during the World Cup was the station emptier. I call Sve on her phone, she does not answer. The train arrives, I board it and take my usual third seat under the fan, today without any effort. Usually I have to be quick. I take a sigh before climbing on, thinking that I should have called Sve again.

It is a miracle, its 6:30 pm and there are many empty seats on the fast Mumbai sub-urban local train. It rolls out slowly, I say a silent prayer. My fellow passengers are a little more ostensible. Some of them even kissing their lockets. I look at the many black bags kept above our heads on the luggage stand thinking which one… which one could be the one…which one… The compartment is quieter than usual not because there were lesser number of people but because everyone around was quiet. A man stands at the door staring at the fan. I could tell, he was not there mentally. I look at him and think what could he be thinking. Could he be thinking the same thing I was thinking? Which one could be the one…which one… Sve calls, I am only glad to answer her call immediately. The conversation is short. Everyone in the compartment looks at the bags brought in by passengers. It seemed as if only the bags mattered. The owners of the bags got no attention. I plug my ears with earphones and manage a faint carefree smile. The media usually report this phenomenon of ‘moving on’ as “The Mumbai Spirit”. On the inside, my mind is racing thinking will I be able to make the end of this journey in one piece and alive. I reach my station and de-board with a sigh of relief. My mother calls. She is relieved to find me safe. I can sense the relief in her voice. She blesses me on the phone. These are difficult times not only for the Mumbaikars for the many people related to them as well.

I had just lived the famed “The Mumbai Spirit” but did I really have a choice. Do the many million Mumbaikars have a choice? Or is the famed spirit just a way to covering up the helplessness of not being able to do anything. They say that Mumbai never sleeps. But is that really true? How many more lives will it take to awaken Mumbai? Like soldiers on the border, a Mumbaikar does not know whether he will return. But unlike the soldier, he does not have weapons to fight back. Every time, every single time, all he has is the “The Mumbai Spirit”.

Disbelieve anyone who tells you that Mumbai never sleeps. I have seen it asleep, literally, during daylight and we have witnessed the city sleeping for almost two decades now. What else would it take to awaken Mumbai? Mumbaikar, Mumbai kar, Mumbai ab to kuck kar !!!

Examining the Fiscal Deficit Argument !!!!

2011-06-09T21:26:00.002+05:30

Let us establish the validity of the statement- "Fiscal Deficit causes inflation and higher interest rates".

ARGUMENT - 1: The argument goes something like this- Government spends a lot of money. Hence, there is a lot of money floating around. Since, a lot of money chases too few goods, prices rise, i.e. inflation happens.

ARGUMENT - 2: Government borrows money to spend, i.e. fiscal deficit happens. Since, the quantum of money available is fixed, if the government borrows more there is little left for the private sector to borrow. Hence, there is competition to get loans hence, interest rates rise.

Now, if you believe in Argument - 1, i.e. there is too much money chasing too few goods, interest rates can not rise because you believe that there is too much money. Hence, if there is excess supply of money, the price of money i.e. interest rates can not rise

If you believe in Argument - 2, i.e. that too much government borrowing causing high interest rate (crowding out), there can not be inflation. People borrow less and deposit money in banks and hence spend less. Therefore no inflation can happen (At least from the demand side)

Now now now, that is some food for thought. Or may be just some thought.

* The usual disclaimer applies

A Rush of Adrenaline !!!

2011-03-06T20:45:00.002+05:30

A drop of sweat stationed on my forehead rolls down. Amid all the cheering and noise I hear the breeze and my rapidly beating heart. I feel weak in the knees. My palms are sweaty. I sit down for a moment to calm myself. Its my turn now. I am harnessed to the rope, the thickness of which seems inadequate to hold my weight. Nevertheless, I try to concentrate the on the task at hand. The instructor yells away instructions which I register only partially.

I walk down the slanted ledge. "Step on the pipe", the instructor yells. I release a little rope and station my step on the pipe at the end of the ledge. " Now, take a small step", he yells again. He must be crazy, I think. I take a small step only to slip. I hang from a rope 80 feet above the ground, my heart racing, my muscle tense and my mind turbulent. Somehow, I gather myself and my posture on the rope. A dash of adrenaline hits me and rappelling smoothly down the 80 feet wall I come.

That felt nice, I say to myself and climb up the four storeys to try again. This time again I am a little nervous though perceptibly lesser than my first attempt. The instructor smiles and checks my gear and goes through the routine. I position myself on the ledge carefully, taking sure, small steps. My heart races again but this time out of excitement. I smile and take the plunge. Three leaps and I touch the ground. I look up and stare at the 80 foot monolith of a structure. It still stands high, but conquered.

Local Train Adventure

2010-09-07T22:56:00.000+05:30

I found the train parked at the platform when I reached there. I had barely boarded the train when it began to roll out. I was the only passenger in the bogey. It was a bit surprising but I thought to my self that the train is usually empty at this particular station. So I took a seat. Having moved about 400 metres the train came to halt. To which I thought that some trains wait at the outer signal for the signal to turn green.

Just then a few crows came flying in to the compartment. This was the weirdest thing I has seen all day. I had never ever seen crows inside a train. Then a few more crows made an entrance. It looked like a scene from Harry Potter where crows usually play the role of being the harbingers of sinister. It felt a bit spooky. An empty train compartment in a stationary train in the middle of a train yard with a few hundred crows flying in and out of a compartment. I leaned outside the door to see if there were any other passengers on the train.Not a soul moved. Suddenly the fans are switched off. The silence was now accentuated so much so that I could even hear the flapping of the crows' wings. At the far end of the train I saw the drive deboarding. It is then I realize that the train was being parked in the yard. This was confirmed by a voice yelling at me from the other side of the train. I deboarded the train as well and then tailed the driver all the way back to the platform. This was my little adventure on a rather unassuming day.

On a totally disconnected note, walking on railway tracks with formal shoes on is really tough.

Star Plus and Cooldom

2010-08-18T20:51:00.000+05:30

In my experience of the world, people usually graduate from watching Star Plus to MTV to Channel V to VH1 to Star World.

However, Sve- the very busy human being, takes time out of her busy schedule to watch Star Plus. She has graduated from watching Channel V and MTV to Star Plus so much so that the she even googles the plots of the soaps that she has missed or the soaps she intends to watch but can not watch becasue of the ever so busy schedule. Besides, she has got her sister and her entire family hooked to Star Plus giving us yet another example of how influential she is.

Now, all the advertising people here is a lesson for you- The new cool is what Sve says is cool !!!

Death Walked Down this Corridor

2010-05-14T15:45:00.003+05:30

The winding corridor looks darker than before. The solitary bulb glows trying to dispel the darkenss. A solitary moth engages it. The shadows seem darker and a deathly stillness prevails. Some figures walk around the shadowy corners, stubbled and untidy.

A faint light peaks from under the closed door. The fan hangs still. There is a strong odour that I can not tell. A bunch of incense sticks burn in the far corner. There are too many of them. All placed in that one room as if they were intended to supress something. A door flings open, I can not tell why. There is no gale, not even a breeze. A boy in shorts and a crumpled t-shirt walks out in a hurry. He covers his nose with a dirty looking piece of cloth. He looks unsettled, his eyes red, his hair unkept and his slippers ragged. He walks past taking no notice of me. It hits me then, I am begining to tell the odour.

There are hurried footsteps beyond the dark corner behind me. I turn around. The solitary bulb shines on, the moth's still fluttering around it. I hear some distant incoherent voices. Three, may be four, voices, I figure. Four days...Suicide...Groundfloor...!!! is all I catch. The voices grow fainter with each passing moment. I can not hear them any more. The smell catches my attention again. Four days, suicide, ground floor come to mind. I put them together and realize that someone had committed suicide four days ago in one of the rooms on the ground floor.

The body lay decomposing, in the room with the many bundles of incense sticks, until they discovered it this morning. The incense sticks are doing a resonable job of supressing the rancour odour. Morbid pictures flash before my eyes. The room in which the suicide was committed is in front of me gaping wide like a death hole. I step back and then forward again. I stare at the room, then the fan and then the room again with a thousand thoughts grazing my turbulent mind. The whys, when and hows will remain unanswered. My phone rings, I answer it and head for the fifth floor. No amount of incense will be able to hide the fact and I shall always know that once death had walked down this very corridor.

In Defence of Economists

2010-05-04T14:30:00.000+05:30

Economists have come under severe criticism for being unable to foresee crises, so much so that the efficacy of economics as a discipline is being questioned. Besides, people often point out that economists have been guilty of using models that are not applicable in the real world. Some of the criticisms are fair. However, to question the very efficacy of economists on the ground that economists have not be able to predict crises in misguided.

Firstly, many of the crises that people often quote can be attributed to asymmetry of information more so the recent Global Financial Crisis. Financial firms sell exotic financial products. The only information you have about these products is that they represent some underlying asset which will yield returns in the future. These products often come with an ostensible ‘Investment Grade’ rating from the rating agency and hence do not explicitly state the exact nature of the underlying asset. In such a scenario it is safe to assume that the investment products are a relatively safe investment. However, the problem arises i.e. a crisis takes place, when the financial firms or the rating agencies pass off toxic investments as good investments. The information that the economist has is that the investments are indeed good. All calculations are based on this information. This being the case there is no reason for the economist to believe that a crisis can occur. Then in the event of a crisis occurring people jump to conclusions that the economists have failed to predict the crisis. The real cause of the crisis is often not understood, in this case; being the lack of proper information about the financial products. Why should the economist be blamed if financial firms commit outright fraud?

Secondly, on using models that are far away from the real world; the very definition of a model is that it is a hypothetical description of a complex event or thing. The main purpose of any model is to simply whatever it is intending to explain. Thus, when an economist uses a model he/she endeavours to break down real life phenomena to a level where a study can be done with relative ease. The model is just a depiction of a complex happening in a way that is easy to understand or deconstruct. With the models many underlying assumptions are stated explicitly. These assumptions point out that the model is indeed a deviation from the real world scenarios. The economist, to his credit, makes it ostensible that the model is based on assumptions. In such a case is it fair to hold the economist responsible if someone else uses the model without fully understanding the implications of the assumptions being violated. Clearly, it is not.

Thirdly, “...the evil that men do lives after them, the good is oft interred with their bones…” goes the famous Mark Anthony speech. Economists are treated in this way. The work done by economists is often forgotten. The recovery after the crisis has been steady. Timely interventions have saved the day and prevented another Great Depression from occurring. Economists have pointed out that government’s role in the economy is imperative and therefore the G-20 nations have accordingly undertaken coordinated fiscal stimuli of their economies. This action has stalled the free fall that the world economy saw during the financial crisis.

The cogency of the economist’s trade rests heavily on correct information being available. All deductions are based on information that is available. There is no reason for things to go wrong if the information available is correct. Thus, holding the economist responsible for dupery committed by others is not right.

My Experiments with Swimming

2010-04-18T17:55:00.000+05:30

You may think that it is impossible for a boy of a six feet two inch frame to drown in five feet of water. Let me tell you, at the outset, that it is possible.

Having drowned, well amost, in a five feet swimming pool, I decided to learn to swim. I enrolled at the swimming pool at Anna University. The coach tried to teach me leg movements of the breast stroke. I kicked and I kicked hard for twelve days and could not even float. On the thirteenth day the coach thought that only fate could get me to swim. Thus, he made me dive in the the deepest part of the pool which was well over ten feet deep. I protested, he did not relent and got me to jump in to the pool. I jumped praying all the while to make God take me through this episode alive and in one piece. I jumped in and wallowed in the pool drinking large quanitites of chlorine water. I thought I would not be thirty for a week. I puked, well almost and felt sick. That was the last day I saw of the coach and the swimming pool at Anna Univeristy. I could not tell which was worse-drowning in five feet of water or trying to learn how to swim and the coach almost drowning you. The moral of the story was that I survived but did not learn to swim.

About two weeks ago I enrolled, again, in a course called "Learn to Swim" at the Tamil Nadu Sports Development Authority Complex. Twelve days later I could swim with much confidence and to top it all I have picked up three of the four genres of swimming. I managed to learn the freestyle stoke, the breast stoke and the back stroke. The coach, Mr Verra, at TN SDAT was brilliant. He got everybody in my batch to swim. I think I should take up the membership of the the TN SDAT to hone my swimming skills. Mr Phelps now is the time when you should start getting worried.

The Blue Mug - A Reflection

2010-03-09T19:51:00.006+05:30

What would you associate with Rajat Kapoor, Vinay Pathak, Konkana Sensharma, Munish Bharadwaj, Sheeba Chadha and Ranvir Shorey when they come together for a performance? My expectation swung between the extremes of an outright comedy and the acute seriousness of contemporary threatre. What spanned out in those seventy five minutes caught me by surprise and brought tears to my eyes. Tears of sorrow and some of joy.

The Blue Mug was personal theatre at its very best. It was a play based on memories in which the protagoist was the memory of the thespian on stage at each point in time. This seemingly abstract play was not that abstract after all. It did serve a purpose, it did make a point and it did make a memory. In fact many memories, some bitter some sweet. The play tickled and tantalized with characterised ease. It made you feel different emotions at the same time.

Munish Bharadwaj was jesting that he had to visit the crematorium very often as people in his family kept dying often. His brother and he were the most sought after people during the days when someone had died because they had unprecedented knowlwdge on the rituals. " My brother had gone to buy wood for the pyre and gave Rs 800 for wood costing Rs 740. The wood wala said Sir change nahi hai to which my brother said koi nahi bhai sahab agli baar adjust kurlengay. Humara yaha aana jana luga rehta hai. My brother died five years ago". The lights began to dim thereafter and melancholic music played in the background. I could not help but feel the chill when at one moment I was delirious with laughter and at the next I was pained at the loss of life.

The riots of 1984 played before my eyes when Sheeba Chadha paced the stage with anxious steps and shuddery narration. "My father walked up and down the room and bricks kept piling on the roof. My father was not wearing his turban that day and that annoyed me. He looked like a distraught mad man and bricks kept piling on the roof. If someone had to come let them come now." There is a scream and the lights dim.

Ranvir Shorey plays a middle aged man whose world seems to have been stuck in 1983. His accent is pulsated with an overt Punjabi twang. Recent memories evade him. He recalls his childhood with ease but has difficulty remembering events that have transpired a quarter of an hour ago. His melancholic melodrama is imbued with the colour of raw humour. He inspires a feeling of overwhemling compassion. Konkana Sensharma plays his doctor. She graples with is condition and is unable to come up with a cure or remedy for his situation.

Rajat Kapoor guides the audience in to past and brings out pieces of our childhoods. The joint family festivities and the slumber on the terrace sprinkled with water on a hot summer night evoke a sense of nostalgia. His monologue is dotted with subtle humour and has gory mix of tragedy. "My brother called me at 10 in the morning. I knew something was wrong becasue my brother never called me during the day. He said that our father was sick. But my father had been sick for the last eight years. My dad woke up in the middle of the night and said that there was a man on the ceiling. The next day he could not recognize anyone. I went to see my father and he did not recognize me. We got used to living with him in that state. I came back. One day the phone rang, agian, at 5:30 in the morning.

The exuberance of Vinay Pathak was very well captured in his performance. He loved going to the circus and enjoyed the whole atmosphere until one day a clown spat on him through his eyes. "I loved going to the circus. I loved the smell of circus, basically animal crap. I enjoyed everybit of it. Then one day a clown pointed his finger at me and came close, very close and spat on me through his eyes. I was very scacred. Everyone was laughing at me, I had no place to hide and no place to run. That bloddy clown ruined it for me. I had nightmares of the incident. I would wake up in the middle of the night in a sweat and my mother would ask me kya hua beta. What could I tell her. Kya bolta- Ma mujhe joker k sapne aate hai"? The light dims and music plays in the background.

Memories flowed by like the sands of time, changing by the ticking hands of a clock ever so fresh and then decaying in a split second making space for another. The play made me laugh and it made me weep running by me the countless memories of my life. I was left craving for an encore. In a span of those seventy five minutes I had relived my life. How I wish I can relive it some other day too.

*The quotes may not be exact but they capture the spirit of what was being protrayed by the thespian on stage.

The Reptilian Coach

2010-02-02T20:42:00.004+05:30

The year was 1995, I think. It was the time when I was being introduced to basketball in my boarding school. Like most others of my age I was quite excited about the whole business of basketball. The game fascinated me beyond measure. At the same time it perplexed me as well. I could not figure out how could anyone basket the ball with such precision. This troubled my young unadulterated mind.

This seemingly imposible situation was solved by the basketball coach Mr Majumdar. Mr Majumdar (I think he was called Mr Majumdar) was our computer teacher and was filling in one day for our real basketball coach. Mr Majumdar's solution to the problem was very "reptilian". He said "Keep one eye on the ball; keep the other eye on the basket and shoot." We tried, and we tried again and again and again never actually managing to keep one eye on the ball and the other eye on the basket and shoot. We did shoot but never managed the former part of the advice i.e. to keep one eye on the ball and keep the other on the ring. We just couldn't. It was only in one biology class some years later that we got to know that it is physically impossible for humans/mammals to keep one eye on the ball and simultaneously one eye on the basket. Till then we had thought that Mr Majumdar has special basketball powers that allowed him to do what reptiles do with ease - look in different directions with different eyes. Mr Majumdar you had us for many years but now we have you for the rest of your life. Howwwzzzaaattt!!!

Big Words

2009-12-12T09:09:00.007+05:30

Even protracted ruminations on the subject matter of sesquipedality has never led me understand the need for such acute communicatory profligacy. Engagement is such demeanour is often profligate. No doubt it sounds impressive, it conveys little leaving the reader discombobulated. Effective communication rests heavily on easy comprehension and sesquipedalian language does not lend it self to easy comprehension.

Now in English

I have never understood the need to use big words in communication. Using big words defeats the purpose of what it intends to do i.e communicate ( I am assuming it intends to communicate and not impress per say). Use of such language leaves the reader/listener confused about the meaning to what is being said. Communication depends on how easily people understand what they are hearing or reading. Using big words often confuses people and therefore is not good for communication

A Letter to Like

2009-11-05T12:29:00.003+05:30

Dear Like,

I am sure that this letter of mine finds you in the pink of health. It has been long time since I had written to you last (2866 years to be exact) so I decided to write. I also write to you to bring to your notice that you are becoming increasingly omnipresent in the language of my species.

Although, I like you a lot Like I must point out to you that your overt and off late annoying presence is getting to me. Like, you know what I mean. Like you are becoming annoying like you are present after every word, like after nouns, verbs, adjectives, everywhere. Like you get what I mean right. You presence as a filler, like, is bothersome. I fear for the language of my kind. Like I am scared that it may be the situation soon that a majority of our sentences begin and end with you like. Like you will be everywhere.

Thus, I must take this opportunity like, to tell you that you have to stop becoming omnipresent and hence annoying. Prey, I beg you not to dislike me for disliking you. It is only the law of diminishing marginal utility that is operating here and I am a mere pawn in the game. I will like you more again if you begin to show yourself less and less. (Over exposure is never good).

I sincerely hope that you have understood,like, what I mean Like and will take it in the right earnest. Like, you will not feel bad or whatever as what ever I have said is only for your good and the good of our language.

Yours Truly,

Anand.

Reservoir Dogs - A Review

2009-09-25T13:42:00.003+05:30

I can not claim to be too much of a "watching plays" person. However, having lived in Delhi for a little while I have had some exposure to theatre but only just. I was elated at the orginality of presenting plays on stage in two forms-screening some parts of the play and enacting the other parts. This is what ASAP productions did when I had gone to watch their play on Friday Sep 18th, 2009 at Museum Theatre, Egmore, Chennai. They play was called 'Reservoir Dogs'.

The idea of the play was similar to the movie having the same title. The stage was befittingly lit dimly giving the impression that one was sitting in a gangster's hideout. The acting was emaculate and flawless. Mr Orange did look like he had taken a bullet in his belly and the policeman did look like that his ear had been chopped off, so much so that I could feel the chill and some of my colleagues who were co audience covered their eyes with their hands. The performance was powerful. However, to my surprise many people left before the play got over. Despite the brilliant individual performances the play looked to be incoherent and failed to capture the attention of the audiences. This lapse I attribute to two things- first, the screen was crumpled up and second, some of the screeings were too long.

As far as I am concened I am waiting for other plays by ASAP for I am sure by what I saw that these are the guys to watch out for. I am going to be looking out for them, I suggest that you too do the same. You have my word, you will not regret it.

To Be Or Not To Be A Farmer?

2009-07-27T15:06:00.003+05:30

What is common between Santosh Khope, Kishan Jadhav, Shirirang Dolarkar, Vinod Vaghare, Nanji Wadhari and many thousand others? Well, they are all dead. They paid a heavy price for being a farmer in India. The reason for their untimely death is not hard to comprehend. They committed suicide. Crop failure, debt burden and penury forced them to take their own lives.

Agriculture in India is in a bad state of affairs growing at less than 3% per annum over the last decade. Vagaries of weather and bad government policies have only accentuated the trend. While not much can be done with the weather; a lot can be done with the policies of the government. High cost of production, insufficient minimum support prices, lack of sustained access to institutional source of credit, high cost of borrowing from money lenders have only added fuel to the fire.

Banks debar farmers who are unable to repay their loans. On the face of it, this might seem to be a desirable things for the sake of efficiency of banks but this practice is inherently counter cyclical. Farmers who are in desperate need of money borrow from banks to fund their agricultural activities. Now suppose that the farmer has a bad year because of crop failure and is unable to repay the loan. He thus becomes ineligible for another round of loans. But the farmer needs the money to fund next year's agricultural activities. So what does he do? He borrows from private money lenders who charge extremely high interest rates. To repay this huge interest burden the farmer must have atleast a few years of good crops. But the irony is, a farmer can not have a few years of good crops because every year is not a good rainfall year. So the farmer struggles to repay the private loan. Eventually the situation becomes unsustainable and he he commits suicide. Well to stretch the argument further he not only kills himself but indirectly his family also as very often the farmer is the prime bread earner for the family. After his death survival of the family becomes all that more difficult.

The moral of the story is that people who need the money the most are denied money. The way out would be for banks to persist for a longer period of time with the farmer. This will give the farmer a fair chance to repay the loan and it also increases the chances of the bank getting its principal back (because even if the farmer has a decent year he will be able to repay the loan). Besides the banks will be fulfilling their duty of spreading equitable growth. The only institutions that will be able to do this will be banks because they have deep pockets and will be able to stay on the loans longer.

Come to think of it the aforementioned things are not so hard to implement. I only wonder why they have not been implemented yet?

The Batch of 2009

2009-07-22T16:06:00.007+05:30

Am I not blessed to have studied at Madras School of Economics? I am, in my opinion, very lucky in that regard. It is not so much the academic foundation at Madras School that causes me to make such a statement. It is more about the company I was in. Come to think of it, at MSE I met the most incredulous set of talented and brilliant people. So much so that on many occasions I felt that destiny had played a very cruel trick on me. I felt so much out of place. The feeling was so intense and over whelming sometimes that I built a cocoon around myself and confined myself to the comfortable limits of the cocoon.

Almost everybody in my batch (the batch of 2009) had some extraordinary quality for twenty something years of age. Some were extraordinaries in whatever they did. Wizards at academics and champs at extra curriculars, everybody had something special in them. I mean everybody.EVERYBODY. Now, where did I fit in this scheme of things? To be honest, nowhere. Perhaps, my only job was to watch in awed admiration the splendid events as and when they unfolded and soak up all the beauty and wisdom thus being released. I did try in earnest to do so.

All of create identities in our lifetimes. Most from my batch will have examplary identities. Some will be great economists, some great managers, some great academicians, some of them will be the big bull on the stock markets, some will be civil servants of the highest cadre, some great thinkers. All this makes me very envious and sometimes sad. Sad because I know no matter how hard I try I am never even going to get close to any one in this regard. However, there is much happiness to be had from the fact that I had a chance to know such brilliant people. I do feel happy and blessed to have been able to do so. Like all others in my batch I will also create some identities ( thought much lesser in stature). No matter where I reach or what identity I create, my greatest identity will be that I knew these wonderful people. My epitaph (if I get one) shall read-He lived in the age of the batch of 2009.

On Why Cricket is a Religion

2009-07-16T16:08:00.005+05:30

If you think that cricket is just a game in India you are probably from Mars or Venus (the choice of planet depending upon your gender). Well, technically it is a game. Generically, it is a faith, a sort of religion, a cult or say it is a passion catalyst. Illustrative examples follow:

Example 1 : It so happened India and Pakistan were locking horns in the 2003 world cup (the match in which Tendulkar derailed the Rawalpindi Express). My grandpa and I were watching the match. Halfway through the match he developed a heart pain and had to be rushed to the hospital and was in the ICU, unconscious. After a couple of hours when he gained consciousness the first thing he said was - "India match jeet gayi kya?"

Example 2: Svetha's grandma loves watching Sun TV, KTV and their ilk. But when ever a cricket match is happening all other TVs take a back seat and she religiously watches the match. No one is allowed to touch the remote even if WW-III is breaking out.

Example 3: Madan uncle works for a private firm. He takes a leave every time India has a match. EVERY TIME.

Example 4: My mother watches test cricket, five days full. Papa calls to find out the score every hour.

Example 5: I broke my collarbone while playing cricket and returned to play cricket after exact one month only.

Example 6: Rahul, Shishir and I buried our mobile phones in an unknown jungle to gain entry for an IPL match. We were not allowed to take our phones inside and since there was no place where we could keep our phones we buried them in a jungle behind a temple. Of course we retrieved it after the match.

The list is endless. Cricket unites and divides like no other thing or sport.

For Glory Sake

2009-04-29T01:45:00.000+05:30

It has been more than 2 years since the rat and the rotten heat. Now as then a beast approached, patient and confident, savouring the scent of the meal to come and this beast is exactly like the one I had encountered years ago. It was the inmates of my room that provoked it.

While in the kitchen I spotted two rats on the kitchen slab. Those rats saw me but decided not to budge from their place until the time I threatened them. Calling upon Dinesh and George I decided to make a plan to terminate the rats. My roommates were not too keen on killing manually and decided to use rat poison instead. I, finding myself without any support had to forfeit the plan of making a plan. So I let go of the plan and got back to finding Economics in the Economics of IT course.

By this time the rats had begun their monkeying around in the kitchen again. Sensing an opportunity to do something more interesting than studying I walked in to the kitchen. This time too the rats took no notice of me and continued with their skulking around. The disdain with which the rodents treated me spurred every dram of self respect in me. This is when I immediately made a mental team of lethal rat hunters and proclamined myself captain of the team with George and Dinesh being in the team for moral support. I stormed out of the kitchen and spoke to a studying Dinesh, I said "Yeh chuha aaj marne wala hai". Dinesh looked at me suspiciously and gave me a "do not ask me to join your hunting party look". This is when I took the responsibility upon myself to get rid of the rat. After having found the perfect weapon I entered the kitchen armed with the weapon-a phool jhadoo and a torch light to make the battleground war ready.

All exits were cutoff. The kitchen slab cleared of all cooking and non cooking paraphernalia. I switched off the light and switched on the torch light. The trap was set. With bated breathe I waited in anticipation to unleash a lethal strike with my weapon. But that SOB rat did not come out in the open this time around. I was beginning to feel hot and took matters into my own hands. I switched on the light and removed newspapers from the stack behind which the rat was hiding. Sensing trouble the rat ran out in order to escape through the window.The window was closed. Finding a good chance and an opportune moment I took aim at the rat and unleashed a punishing blow. The impact of the broom was so hard on the slab that the broom broke leaving only a piece of the handle in my hand. Ofcourse I had missed my target.

Now I was in a battlefield with a non functional weapon and the enemy within striking distance. I was in a dilemma. I had to chose between running away from the rat and living with the ignominy of having fled from the battlefield or fighting to the death. I remembered that dying in the battlefield was the greatet glory that a spartan could achieve in his life. So I decided to stay and fight even when I had lost my weapon figuring out that beyond this epic battle immortality awaited me and it was there for the taking. I fought for my room, for glory and for the one place in my hostel that stood for cleanliness and neatness. With savage force I struck the rat with the broom's handle. This time my stike met its target. The rat was still mobile and was scampering around. I even think that it was trying to retaliate by biting my foot. But before it could come near me I used my height to my vantage and sanitized the rat with another strike. The rat lay motionless on the floor. I stood looking at it for signs of life.

I combed the entire kitchen to look for the rat's accomplices. The areas was clean. Having reduced the rat to a piece of carrion I channelized my energies to restoring the broom for I feared that the loss of a broom would not go down too well with maids. I succeeded partially in restoring the broom to its original health. For now I can bask in the glory of a battle win. The war is not over yet and I fear that the rats will return will re-enforcements. I am going to be watching my back and this time around I will try to involve George and Dinesh in the expedition for I feel that being my freinds and roommates they too deserve a shot at glory. As for me, I am etched in the memory of the rats as the greatest gladiator that ever lived.

Random Strokes

2009-04-22T15:40:00.000+05:30

Thoughts running through my brain when I take a break from my dissertation.

1. Running a regression with 10 data points is ridiculous.

2.Running a regression with 3 data points is even worse.

3.Solow ripped Posner.

4.Recession and Depression are the two faces of the same coin.

5. Why should relative inequality be such a problem?

6.When was the last time I had Frooti?

7.Toto is sleeping in the lab.

8.Will my dissertation be published?

9.I must catch up with my friends.

10.I will call them today.

11. But why should I do all the calling?

12.I will call anyway.

13. I have to study for my exams.

14. I must write on my blog.

15.Now I must go and watch IPL.

Time Heals!!!

2009-04-02T11:02:00.001+05:30

I came across "those" pictures again. The same pictures, with the same people in it, doing the same thing, at the same place. But something is different. Very differnt. Infact it is very very different. Say about a year ago "those" pictures had evoked acute nausea and made me feel sick in my stomach. Today they are just pictures. Pieces of digital paraphernalia.

Someone said that time is the best healer, I could not agree less.

Lynard Skynard is singing in the background reminding me of Sweet Home Alabama, "the" picture before my eyes, indifference in my head and a smile on my face.

Life is Queer!!!

2009-03-30T07:24:00.000+05:30

Life can be queer sometimes. Upon a second thought, life can be queer most of the times. Upon a third thought, life is queer most of the times. Allow me to drop the verb 'can' for it merely explains that life has the ability to be queer but the fact is that life is queer most of the times. So it is, the second interpretation of the verb can is, thus, dropped. ( The word can has two forms, one noun and two verbs) Infact, why am I even bothering to ask you to allow me to drop the word can? Think about my predicament, while I write this post you are not here. So I am finding it hard to ask you to allow me to drop the word can.I assume that you were going to allow me to drop the word. So I drop it anyway even before you have been asked by me to allow me to drop the word can. Thus does it make sense for me to ask you to allow me to drop the word? Wait, do not run away. I'll answer that. No, I won't, I am digressing too much from what I started to seek.

Ok so we start again- Life can, oops, is queer sometimes, oops, most of the times. I know you are a little worried about the fequent, ok I accept, excessive use of punctuation. Punctuation, you see, is a wonderful invention in English language. It allows you to string multiple ideas in a single sentence. Thus giving sentences the panache each sentnce deserves. Puntuation... Ok ok look I have digressed again from what I started to seek.

Ok we start again- Life can, oops, is queer sometimes, oops...what the hell...I am going to digress anyway so why start. I express my heartiest thanks to you for allowing me to drop the word can. It is very important to be polite, you see. You know being polite....Ufff Ufff Ufff I am digressing. Life is queer, no matter what I do I always digress. I am sure you do too, may be to a different degree. Please agree with me for it will make me feel less lonely. You see being lonely is not a good thing because...Ahhhhhh!!!! I am digressing AGAIN. Life is indeed queer.

One Year Hence!!!

2008-09-02T00:14:00.000+05:30

It was exactly an year ago when I was indulging in the most extravagant and larger than life activity that I could ever imagine. One year down the line I can look back and say it all went gurgling down the drain. I found no sleep in the train that night, too excited to sleep lest I miss my station. Such was the madness in the moment that it did not allow me to see logic. Delhi was 8 hours away and I fretted that I was still too far away and that the dawn had been taking so much longer to come that day. The passion was overwhelming. I was engulfed and consumed in it. The heat did not matter, my empty stomach did not matter, the uncomfortable second class berth did not matter all that mattered was that I was going to find bliss, that Delhi was approaching, that I was going to be captivated in the fragrance of the persona. Such affection, such madness, such impatience, such a long night.

One year hence, I look back, contemplate. No regrets. I did what I thought was right. I wanted to do it. That smile that had taken my breathe away time and again, it was worth more to me than anything I could imagine. Looking back I think what a fool I was, such naiveness, such puerility. I can forgive myself for I did nothing wrong. I kept my part of the story, it is unfortunate the other part was discarded without minimum fuss. The same place where I thought I would find bliss was inaccessible, all for want to a damned rickety steel object.

It is over and for good. The story has ended. The game is over. I am glad I played with a lot of heart. The past is over and looking back is sin. I do not look back for that is not the way I am taking. Perhaps I will indulge in the same madness and the same passion or perhaps in more madness and more passion just that I shall delay it by a span of 27 dawns. The darkness is at its deadliest best. For me the dawn is approaching.

But Still

2008-08-27T16:12:00.000+05:30

Simple words are powerful. I realized this in the most uncanny yet a very unforgetableway. It so happened that this friend of mine and I were deliberating on the concerns of the Indian Economy.

She believed that the Indian Economy was doing excellently well. I, however, refused to agree with her. Both of us then put forth our arguments. Her argument was that since there was so much activity on the Indian stock exchange, India was doing well, that the glitz of Gurgaon was a tell tale sign of India's coming of age and that cheap airline tickets proved that India was taking off.

I brought to her notice that the activity on the stock exchange was inconsummerate with what was happening to the fundamentals of the economy, that the glitz of Gurgaon was due to captive gensets and not real power generation and that the low cost airliners were reeling under heavy loses. She refused to see the point. I seconded my arguments by giving her all the developments that were happening on the poverty and develpoment fronts. I told her that inequality was on the rise, malnutrition levels were higher than in Africa, rate of decline of poverty had slowed significanlty, the ICOR had increased realtive to the 1980's. After much effort and pain I managed to convince her, or atlesat that is what I thought, that India was not doing so well.

She was begining to see the point and I thought that I had won. Just then two simple words stole away my well deserved victory. She said " You know Anand, India has all these problems that you have just pointed out and I agree that the scenario is not as rosy BUT STILL....

I was defeated by the ill famed BUT STILL argument. Come to think of it, 'but still' may sound very harmless but when used in the right context and at the opportune moment they serve to be deadlier than any nuclear weapon. I found this out in a way I would like to forget but the impact of those words was such that even today those words ring in my ear every waking and somnolent hour.

A Bird Called Me!!!

2008-05-09T22:23:00.000+05:30

Another one flew away today. I stood there, in silence, dazed. A part torn away from me. It flew away. There were many like me there. Most were dazed some unfazed and some stood with emotions that were hard to tell for my dazed mind. It was all finally coming to an end. One of the many stories that end with a hope for the future. This one seemed to have got the plot wrong. Time stood still and a tear drop stationed at the corner of my eye rolled down. I wiped it off before it was noticed, lest my emotions gave me away. Irony and contradictions clouded my vision. I wanted to take refuge in tears, in the soothing bosom of my helplessness to which I had surrendered my self hoping that I would be taken care of. Torn was I with emotions pulling me in different directions- to help it soar higher or to keep it close to me. Time had begun it journey. Before I could decide on whether to help or to baulk, it flew away before my eyes. Not too keen on leaving but not too sad either to leave.

Like all else it is so fleeting, momentary and elusive. I am here today. Grieving the flight and celebrating the freedom. Wisdom dawns on me and I prepare myself for my time. My wings are growing and tomorrow is my turn to fly.

Riddhiculously Yours!!!!

2008-02-19T22:01:00.000+05:30

DKD is my prof from college. The following is a small part of my conversation with him. Only later did I realize that sometimes overtly commonplace conversations can be extremely hilarious. DKD was trying to recall the name of this very good friend of mine. He did not succeed in recalling her name but in the process discribed her in ways that perhaps suit Riddhi very well. Expression was the Literary and Debating Society in College. Alongside is Riddhi's picture.

DKD: Tumhari English Hons wali dost kaisi hai?

ME:(Looking lost) Kaun si dost Sir?

DKD:The woman who was always with you and was a very good freind of yours.

ME:(visibly stunned thinking does he know about me and Mhk) Sir many women were good friends with me.

DKD: Arrey wahi jo staff room mein hamesha rehti thi.

ME: Ankita, Maddy, Vaishali?

DKD: No no. The one who walked with a sense of purpose all the time.

ME: Sir can you be more specific.

DKD: Wo jo chasma lugati thi!

ME: Sir bahut saare log chasma lugate they!

DKD: (looking pensive) Wo jiske baal bikhre rehte they.

ME: Bahut se loogon k baal bikhre hote they Sir.

DKD:(Almost frustrated) Arrey wahi jo "Pagli" si thi Expression mein.

Me:(laughing hysterically) Riddhi.

DKD: Haan Wahi...Where is she?

Mess!!!

2008-02-03T12:07:00.000+05:30

Why would you want to call it the Mess? I mean really!!! I have always wondered and in the process I have managed to use up quite a bit of my free time (not that I am seriously busy anyway). It is the last place you would expect to find in a mess adhering to the fact that people eat in a Mess. A place that can ill afford to be in a mess.

Such was the gravity of the question that I submitted my self to its investigation for hours at a stretch. It was one of the more perplexing questions that I had encountered in a long time. After much perseverance I have somewhat managed to decipher the code in question. I may be grossly off the mark but allow me to conjour up the answer for it is one that befits the situation at MSE and the timing of the discovery of the answer emaculate.

The discovery of the answer was even more breathtaking. I woke up one morning feeling a little wiser and probably a little more enlightened. With long white locks and white whiskers that reached his stomach an elderly man looking quite young for his age appeared in my dream.Such was the radiance of his face that I was nearly blinded. However I remember his baritone clearly. He told me that there once lived a man in the middle ages who had perfect foresight and is credited with the discovery of the word Mess. Before he could finish his story the alarm went off. I woke up feeling wiser, now i had one vital piece of information that had the calibre of answering my question. I put much thought in to the fact that the man with perfect foreesight had coined the word Mess. After hours of contemplatation, rumination and a little confusion I arrived at the answer. It seemed to fit the bill just about perfectly and also its timing was perfect.

I figured out that the wise man had forseen that a boy would be born in God's own country. He would dawn the name of the Gods but his conduct would put the demons to shame. This boy would then grow up to be a bigger demon and then run a catering service in the sleepy suburb of Cheenai in an institution called MSE. This catering service would be one of its kind. It would not only earn the ire of the inmates of MSE but also defame the South Indian cuisine. This would not entail the food being bad becasue it is South Indian but becaue it would be very badly made. The choices that this service would offer would be a little different, a choice of not what one wants to eat but what one wants to avoid more.

Ramdasa's catering, in all its philanthropy, would intend to serve humans but the even the cows would refuse to eat the uttapam from this catering service. To top it all rice would be served with slimy looking, white harmless, well cooked worms. The management of the kitchen would be in harmony with nature, cockroaches would have full access to the refrigerator and the storage. The water cooler would be well protected from an invasion of flying insects with a series of cobwebs serving as the first line of defence and King Spidy would over look all assults on insets and humans alike that dared to infiltrate the boundaries of the water cooler. Ramdasa would be the Indian manifestation of Shylock-miserely, unscrupulous and clever. He would be allowed to steal water from the cooler with the help of King Spidy, his close accomplice. The curd rice would be Ramdasa's secret weapon against the inmates of MSE. With a liberal use of chillies, far more than what humans would like to eat, he would often prove a point. The dosage of Sambahr rice would so good that even the ice cream would taste like it. All in all, this would be a perfect Mess!!! One in which one had to be there to fully undertand that the origin of the word, for the first time in history, was not in the past but in the future. God bless the man with foresight. He gave us subtle hints, it's a pity we could not see it coming.

When I Died

2008-02-02T21:17:00.000+05:30

The light is fading away, and dusk is approaching.
Flickering and unsteady the light goes out………
A story has ended, a lifetime spent.

Wails, cries and frantic howls.
In a state of possession she sits by my side.
Can not be comforted by any aide.
Too shocked and stunned, he can’t believe
His son has taken his last worldly leave.
Never to come again and never to go away.

He had never imagined; he would see this day
On his shoulders he carries me away
One last hug; her momentary comfort
Smell of incense and some holy chant
I enjoy the ride on my father’s back.

A pile of wood and a river near by for the common good.
I am laid on it, on top of me some more wood.
His eyes are teary and red,
He can’t see I am cozy and comfortable on my bed

I am set ablaze, like a stone he watches me burn,
Soon it will be somebody else’s turn.
Hands, legs and torso turn to ash,
And the rancour odour rising from my burning flesh.

From the material into the sublime
I pass, and it’s time.
They go back and try to forget in vain,
They knew that I would never walk at home again.

Another tear, another cry
No smiles and another sigh.
Dull, dark and grey all around
Not even the shadow of joy to be found
The birds don’t sing, nor do the flowers bloom
The music also never plays at home.

I go near and try to comfort her,
All I manage to soothe is air.
In different worlds we live, but yet I care,
She is my mother; I can’t touch her, is it fair?

Now the sun never rises for it never sets,
The air is soothingly warm; I go to Him on his behest.
On a new journey I am sent.

A bud on my own shrub, I blossom and I grow
The caressing wind pushes me to and fro.
Another tear in her eyes, she holds me close to her
Now I feel her comforting touch, he watches us.
In dazed silence he takes her away,
Quite aware, this momentary reunion is here to betray.

My days are done again,
It’s winter, fury the winds gain.
Blown away am I
On the cold earth I lie.
Withering and wilting
Pismires are also working
And it is the time for another journey.

The Warrior of Oz.

2008-01-27T13:56:00.001+05:30

The twenty seventh day of January 2008 marks the end of an era.

Climbing up the stairway with measured steps he disappeared in to the dressing room perhaps never to wield the willow in white and baggy green ever again. With his departure from the 22 yards at the Adelaide Oval the curtains have come down on the career of the greatest wicket keeper batsmen in the history of the game. He redefined the role that the wicket keepers had to play in the game of cricket. Prior to Gilli's era, wicket keepers were perceived to be fielders who kept wickets and were push over batsmen.

With the advent of Adam Gilchrist all that changed. He not only mesmerized the cricketing world with his magical glove work but also captivated millions with his maverick like batting prowess. Who will ever forget those fierce cuts, the bludgeons to the cover fence, the pull shots in which the ball was picked up from outside the off stump, those slashes that went for maximum and the mid air collections behind the stumps. His game was simple-see the ball, hit the ball. Never fazed with burden of having a sound technique, he wore his heart on his sleeve. A team man to the core, he bailed Australia out of many precarious situations. Gilli is a fierce competitor but never in his career has he ever crossed the line. Opponents not only feared him, they revered and respected him. Perhaps his greatest contribution to the game is his dauntless spirit and an uncharacteristic simplicity.

It would not be improper to stand up and salute this champion cricketer who not only entertained but also mesmerized and enchanted spectators, Aussie or non Aussie alike. There are many who play the game but only a few like him who uphold its spirit. Above anything else Gilli will be known for his unparalleled sportsman spirit. He never waited for the umpire to rule him out , he always, without fail, walked if he was out. Unlike some of his fellow Aussies he is a glittering star that shone amongst the heap to battered, rotten and decaying sportsmanship. Adam Gilchrist will be missed and while i pen down these lines i can not contain myself for affection.

They say cricket is a gentlemen's game, if at all there has been a gentleman who has played the game, allow me to say it is Adam Gilchrist's game.

India Poisoned.

2008-01-22T19:10:00.000+05:30

Optimism, undoubtedly, is a contagious disease and it is spreading very rapidly. The euphoria about India’s high growth rates never seems to cease. However, the prospects about India’s future are not as rosy as they are being made out to be. The quantum of celebration about the growth rates is totally unwarranted. We have been blinded by the glitz of pomp and show, forgetting to look at all the gross ills that exist in India and worse we even think that India is ready for take off the radiant heights of becoming an economic super power.

To put things in perspective consider the facts. Firstly, around a third of India’s children suffer from under nutrition. About a fifth of them will lose a major organ before they attain the age of 25. The malnutrition levels in India are higher than many nations in Africa. Children are supposed to be the future of a nation and by looking at India’s under nourished children we can safely conclude that India’s future is quite bleak.

Secondly, a third of the people in India do not even know how to read and write. Quite a few of the 2/3 who are literates can barely read and write. Coupled with it is the fact that not many people pursue higher education. Besides higher corporate salaries have added to this trend and thus pure science and basic research have taken a beating. Without R&D a nation can not develop and sustain its growth rates, leave aside the dreams of taking off and becoming a superpower.

Thirdly, the rate of decline of poverty in the post reform era has been lower than the rate of decline of poverty in the pre reform era. This has invariably led to an increase in relative poverty and inequality. If this trend is not reversed total consumption may fall and this will lead to fall in the growth rates of GDP.

Fourthly, the India’s growth is highly skewed and looks unsustainable given the state of affairs of the economy. The manufacturing sector is growing at over 10% while the electricity sector is growing at barely 7.6%. There is already a mismatch between the two and the gap is increasing. Therefore the growth can not be sustained unless alternate viable sources of fuel are recognized soon.

Fifthly, the agriculture sector which employs about 60% of the workforce continues to grow at very low rates. This has made agriculture an unviable activity for many. Thus there has been an exodus from the rural areas to the cities. More than 100,000 farmers have committed suicide in the last ten years. Blatantly put this amounts to one farmer suicide per hour. The growth process has by-passed this sector. In short, the trickle down has not happened. Development has not taken place.

No doubt that the growth rates in India have been bullish but India still ranks very low on the Human Development Index. The buoyant stock exchange reflects the state of the corporate sector and not the economy as a whole. It is corporate India that is “poised” for a take off, India as a nation isn’t. We still have quite a few problems to solve on earth first, why take off and go to the moon then?

Who Am I?

2008-01-20T17:54:00.000+05:30

Perhaps, you know me, perhaps you don’t. Well I don’t blame you for the latter because I didn’t quite know myself until recently. It may sound strange or even dumbfounding that how could have I not known myself for two and twenty years of my life. Yes, it is unusual yet true.

Only a few days ago a child enquired about my identity from me while I was engaging myself in some hedonistic activity in the nearby community park. I heedlessly blurted out my name. It was only later that evening that the question struck me like a flash of thunderbolt, colour from my face seemed to have slipped off like a garment from a body. You will certainly ask me what was so emphatic about the question adhering to the fact that this question must have been put before me, I suppose, a trillion times already. It was not until that particular evening that this question dawned upon me. I will not give you an answer, rather I will put forth a question and that will be my answer. Is my identity merely confined to my name, my permanent address or perhaps even my PAN which the government shall shortly furnish? You will concur with me that most of us, if not all, or let me insinuate, accept our name as our identity or our identity as our name. Whatever be the case, the case is serious.

All right, let me not inundate you with a volley of non mundane questions and come to the point straight away. My friends call me different names, my mother does so, and my father, he too has his own set of names for me, basically I am an individual with many names and by common definition an individual with a multitude of identities. It baffles me and now you say it baffles you too. With so many identities I definitely have much ado to know myself. The basic question is who am I?

When I look into that question I don’t find a straight forward answer but what I do find is an agglomerated yet, if I might add, distinct answer. I am a son to my parents, a friend to my friends, an enemy to that uncouth fellow with long hair, a crazy admirer of that cherub whom I simply adore. But do these relations define my identity even in the broadest of terms? Am I all about being a son or an admirer, an enemy or even a prospective economist? I guess I am all of it and perhaps I am none of it. Some of the identities I have created and some have been imposed upon me.

I am aware of the fact that history shall remember me for what I have done or even what I have not done. My name will be lost in the pages of history, but let my identity live on long after I am gone. Let it not be lost with my name. Ah! that reminds me, will I lose my identity if I am unable to furnish my identity card which has my name and my permanent address scripted upon it? That is a good question, isn’t it? Dear sirs and madams protect your identity cards; you never know when it might just rob you off your identity.

I am mindful of what I like or what I loathe. I am mindful of what makes me happy and what makes me sad. I am aware of my goals and what I want to achieve in life. I am cognizant of the love around me and, possibly even more, the hatred. I do feel the sun, water, wind earth and ether, every waking and somnolent hour. I am aware of where I am and where I want to reach. I am aware of being a son, a friend, an enemy, an admirer and I am aware that I am aware of what I am aware of….I am conscious of my milieu. I am conscious of what I intend to do. I am conscious of the unconsciousness that I have had about my self. It was not until that day that I found my self… I realized who I was. Today I am conscious of who I am. I am nothing else but consciousness.

The Welcome Note.

2008-01-20T14:14:00.000+05:30

Allow me to welcome you to my new blog. Well to be honest this is my only blog therefore you can disregard the aforesaid statement but not entirely. I still want to welcome you to my blog. The purpose of this blog is quite unclear to me. It will not educate you nor will it entertain you. At best it might just overwhelm you. I am sure you are, by now, quite aware of "TAKING STOCK", well it is this very blog that you are reading now. As the name suggests i will take stock of everything that catches my fancy, from the moral policing in Chennai to the stagflation that looms large over the world economy and probably everything in between. I have chosen such a plethora of varied topics so that i am able to update my blog very frequently. Sticking to a topic does not quite interest me for then i run the risk of being inane, insipid and probably mundane. Well nothing comes free of cost thus if you want to read my blog you have to agree to give me a feedback if you disagree then i request to leave without reading my blog. RIGHT NOW... Just in case you decide to give me a feedback you have to concur with one rule regarding the feedback-your feed back has to be blatantly honest. However instead of simply telling me that I SUCK, constructively criticizing my writing will really help me.
Before I end I would like to thank George J.P, Nidhi G, my end semseter holidays, Central Park New Delhi, my train journey from Delhi to Patna and finally the watershed year 2007 for enabling and urging me to write on my blog. Thank you one and all.

With Lots of regards and honesty,
Anand.