Winning over Allergies

Last week I picked up the book title: Winning over Allergies by Dr. Arif Khan. The book talks about various allergies and how it impacts on us. Thankfully I am not allergic to pollen or airborne. I suffer from a food allergy. My eating habits have gotten worst in recent times. I have been consuming a lot many meals outside and not getting enough sleep either.

The book has explained allergies from India’s perspective. Most examples are also from we locals. I was mostly interested in if a food allergy is making my eyes go red and getting boils all over my head. The reason could be many: oil, egg, wheat, seafood, food colors, antibiotics, etc.

I remember discussing gut microbiome with Aparna; she has extensively worked and studied on this domain. It was she who recommended me the book.

Reading the book has been a good start. I am feeling less bloated and cheerful; because of home-cooked meals and gut-loving fruits and vegetables. The quest is far from over. It seems like a lifestyle I have to adapt.

filter

A founder’s other important virtue is the art of filtering. Building a startup is no different than having a roller coaster ride or getting married. People are a priced asset and define success.

It is too easy to get carried away by the opinions of others. It is easy to get stressed on the critical feedback. It is easy to get on an ego trip hearing all the praise.

In the end, the founder’s journey is very lonely, and destiny depends on how he/she sees and sails through it. How much does opinion, praise, or critics matter when they have no skin in the game. They have played, took a demo for 5 minutes?

You have been building a product since inception.

Building a product is hard. Becoming a critic or cheerleader is easy. The sooner you have a Bullshit Detector wired in your head easier your life gets through the journey of running your company.

time

Time is the most valuable asset for us. We are dying every single moment. The more and more I see our neglected attitude towards I get hurt. People say we Indians do not value the importance of time. To me, it is not about being Indian or not Indian. It has more to do with us individuals.

I am in the sales business. I see how we are not spending our time to its potential, many calls that should not have happened, calls which could have been a simple email. I get hurt seeing how we are wasting it. Many hours go before or after any conversation in its preparation. On some occasions, I shared my feedback and displeasure as well after the call. Some took it graciously a few others did not.

Stoic Philosopher Seneca died teaching about how small our life is and how short time we are left.

“People are frugal in guarding their personal property; but as soon as it comes to squandering time they are most wasteful of the one thing in which it is right to be stingy.”

Seneca: On shortness of life.

like

You cannot live in this world pleasing everyone. Not everyone is alike, not even twins. The sooner we realize it, the better our life becomes.

Our ideologies are different. We are all biased. We cannot think alike: world wars happen for a reason.

The rule applies everywhere at the workplace, in relationships, or in sales. So don’t fumble, keep on living your life. Find the ones who like you.

process

Marty Cagen’s Inspired has a simple success recipe for an organization. 

  1. Hire a bunch of smart, independent people.
  2. Define a process, which has a roadmap and timelines.
  3. An outcome will be a successful product.

I always had this back of my mind, and we have worked with amazing people all these last four years. 

A few months back, while talking to Shobhit, he suggested reading Goals by Eliyahu M Goldrat. The story revolves around the loss making industrial plant. The owners gave three months to the author for fixing it, which he did with the power of process. 

It opened me more about the concept of bottlenecks and the overutilization of resources. Anyone building a company of any type can pick learning from it. 

kaun?

Nandkumar, we call him Nandu is a soft-spoken, wheatish, stout built. His mustache, Ray-Ban sunglasses, and bullet motorbike reminded me of Salman Khan’s Dabangg.

Nandu cleared BPSC(Bihar public service commission) and posted as BDO in the nearby block from my hometown. Nandu’s father was a headmaster in the middle school in my village. I grew up playing Gilli danda, goli-goli, spinning lattu with him every summer.

I wonder if it was not the strict grumpy father of Nandu, would he reached this far in his career. A moveable blackboard and a chair for the teachers were limited furniture at our village school. Students would bring their seats: ginny bags, pens, books along with them. Most classes would happen around the mango trees.

I met Nandu by fluke at the railway station while strolling to my old-time favorite comics shop at the railway platform. He invited me over for dinner that I gladly accepted with the hope of alcohol serving. Bihar is a dry state like Gujarat. One has to buy alcohol illegally in black by paying 10X more. But for babus and netas(politicians), it was always available in abundance.

For old memories and reciprocity, I was confident of my Old monk rum. Nandu was in Delhi preparing for the IAS exams. We had many alcohol sessions at his barsaati in Mukharjee Nagar. I paid for most of those sessions because I was earing and he had limited money.

I was at Nandu’s main gate sharp at 8 pm. Electricity condition has improved, so finding the house was not that difficult.

Nandu hai kya?
Aayee, wo aa zainge. A pretty lady opened the door and greeted and introduced me as Deepika. She was about six feet tall, well built. Her eyes reminded me of the female lead from Nagraj comics. The long sindur, dark red bindi, and hand full of bangles made me wonder if it was Nandu’s instruction. I was happy and surprised with the fact of Nandu marrying someone out of his league. It happens in Bihar; a government job gets you anything.

I could see a bottle of Old monk. Deepika bought hot water and a plate full of onion pakora. I was sober for two weeks, hence without further wait poured my first peg.

Deepika mentioned that Nandu had gone to the nearby village to buy lamb meat for dinner preparation. We kept talking while I was emptying my peg; Deepika was an orphan and, Nandu gave her a family and a shelter.

I had stopped counting my peg; I saw someone in the room in a white sari and milky white hair flying all over her face. I ignored it and focussed on my rum glass. As my clock gave 10 pm alarm, I saw the same structure running towards me with a plate and human flesh on it.

Khao, isko bhi kaho, tazza hai.

Was it Deepika, some devil or a trance meditated mind. Something was not right and, my alcohol effect cleaned in a second. Deepika’s eye was all in rage. I puked, cried for help, and was it god or Bihar electricity department magic; there was a power cut. The runner in me took over, and I was out from the village in quick.

How can someone sober a few hours back turn into a devil, I wondered while entering my house.

Sale gandu, Kahan tha tu? Screamed Nandu. Tera 4 ghante intzaar Kiya aur tu aaya he nahi. Thak haar ke mae he aa gaya.

Who was she? Did this happen to me or, was it a dream?

I told mom about the incident. She hugged me and said Ma Durga saved my life. Was it some newborn baby slaughtered by the devil and offered to me on that plate?

Nandu still thinks I took some weed or bhang and, there is no one named Deepika in her life or the colony. He is happily single and always ready to mingle like his idol Salman Khan.

Fine

Apka fine Katega, shouted traffic constable.
Kahe Sirji? I asked.
Singal cross Kiya hai, he replied.

I was rushing for my tuition class and, he was standing right next to the Jwalaheri Market crossing. The red lights hardly work, not today.

The constable Gurjeet Singh Ji was adamant about putting a penalty. I was more worried about my father’s reaction aftermath of the challan.

After 15-20 mins of Rona Dhona (crying), we settled for few glasses of nimbu paani and fresh kulcha and 15 uthak-baithak. It was 2007, and pocket money was limited. I had saved some money for McDonald’s trip to Rajouri Garden with friends.

We spoke for good 30 mins over our meal in scorching Delhi summer. Now was the time to make the payment, and Gurjeet took his wallet paid to the street vendor. I was shocked for two reasons. One, police guys eat for free. Two, why on earth is he paying when I was paying for the meal in penalty?

I asked: Sir ye kya, he replied.
Chal bhag le. Dobara na Kare red light jump. Tu bach zaiga, jiske haddi tutege uska soch.

My bias about police constables got cleansed at an early age. I am not saying all are clean, but some are. I am more careful about traffic rules.

I hope wherever Gurjeet is, he is happy, content, and healthy. I visited Paschim Vihar last year. The past suddenly appeared with many other memories. I wonder if I will ever meet Gurjeet and pay for chole kulche and shikanji drink.

Mili

Mili lived life on her own: like a butterfly, independent and break free. Money was in abundance, thanks to her parent’s medical profession.

I met her at a friend’s party in Delhi, I guess in Lado Sarai barsaati(rooftop). I was impressed by her confidence, and it was she, not weed or alcohol. She told me her educational background did no justice to her. She is on a path of seeking self-knowledge. I was too drunk to make sense of it. I was worried about work. I was on my first job and, money was limited.

Next month our friend’s group went to Kasauli for a trip, and Mili was part of it. Her new hobby: Yoga and mindfulness. After a late-night drinking session, we had to wake up at 5 for her session and sleep late till the afternoon.

I moved out of Delhi in 2011 and lost touch with everyone. The treadmill of capitalism and social media self gloating leaves very little time for real friends.

Last week I heard that Mili is no more. She passed away, and the reason being a drug overdose. There were half a dozen cats around her in those last minutes.

In 2016 her parents got killed in a car accident, and she was all on her own. A few years later, she married a struggling actor who has moved from France. She did everything for him in reciprocity got cheated.

I think Mili never came out of this multiple trauma. The butterfly I had seen her in the first meeting ended up as a lone worrier. RIP Mili.

idleness

You have to be rich to be a philosopher or an absolute destitute. Most of us are so busy running in the rat race, manage end meets for our living that idleness is luxury. When most of our thoughts run in the everyday misery of work, family, and figuring next day’s meal, where will creativity come?

I sometimes wonder if Tagore existed in a middle-class family or Marcus Arulieas would have written Meditations.

Our idleness is a luxury, and most of us don’t have it.

convenience

It is easy to narrate and mold stories at our convenience. It gives us the power of being something. Our ego dictates over us and leads us to take actions which we would have never taken otherwise. If we are lucky, we end up having a less painful life.

We build cars, entertainment, food apps, and virtual connections, all for convenience. Our convenience bought us more closer, gave us more free time, yet made us more miserable and sick.

What price are we paying for our convenience?