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?

hope

‘I have a girlfriend, stop marriage related conversation’; screamed Akash. It has been a daily sermon: anybody or everybody would end up giving him marriage counseling. Be it the milkman, maid, vegetable vendor, or barber.

Akash is in his early 30’s and a well-groomed, small-time boy. He was among the early ones from his village to make it to IIT Delhi under a thousand ranks. His parents are in their early sixties, and he was visiting them over Christmas vacation. After working at consulting, gaining all the wealth and knowledge, he runs a profitable company, unlike his batchmates who have been running unicorn companies (valued on paper).

It was one of the cultural fests where Akash met Hina from St.Stephens college. The age difference was no barrier; it was love at first sight for them both. As time passes, so did the distance; but love survived. Hina joined BCG, another consulting firm, and traveled across and worked on multiple verticals. Her dream is to settle in the US. She worked hard and ended up pursuing an MBA at Stanford. She had luck, money, and perseverance all with her.

The Biden government has made Hina hopeful of getting a green card, settling in the US.

The inseparable love of Akash for Hina makes him hopeful of the union.

The prayers and everyday reminders make Akash’s parents hopeful that soon he will get married.

Such is the life, like a thread running in full flow on hope.

control

Why do we want to have control over others? I heard about incidents related to the work environment where leaders, founders are absolute control freaks. When you hire someone, they have a role to play within the organization. They are given responsibility and expected to deliver. A leader can focus elsewhere.

I thought leadership is all about serving, like having a star trek team and letting individuals come up with a solution.

Do we have control over ourselves, our thoughts, and the monkey mind? How are we thinking of leading as a control freak?

faceless

You will find me everywhere: Traffic signals selling flowers, begging. At a restaurant serving your meals. At your home helping with cleaning and cooking. At midnight fixing potholes or before monsoon many fts down under cleaning sewage system.

We are faceless; we have no voice. Police, politicians, people everyone considers us invisible. Nobody cares about us.

We are faceless and go through every atrocity you can think of: molestation, beatings, robbery, false allegations. Are we slaves or just part of this system.

Maturity

Maturity comes with age and experience. I was a believer of it, not anymore. I think it is a mental construct and, more of it is about ourselves.

People come on their reasons which fit their construct. In the end, one has to face themselves and their thoughts. How can we be vulnerable; we have to take high ground for ourselves.

A manager will not tell you why salary is getting delayed or, an investor will not give you any right on the face. An engineer while moving on will not tell you he is leaving for better pay.

We all are vulnerable, and we are all scared of being naked. At the same time, we want to hold high moral ground ourselves and feel rational about the decisions.