THE RICH MIDGET'S BUDGET

A common factor connects all rich men. Whether they gathered their money by sheer hard work, inherited daddy's money or ripped off the common man, you'll notice that they are usually short.
Yesterday, the man in a white dhoti gave 21st century India's budget. And boy has he got the rich midget's attention! Taxes on the rich, SUVs, AC restaurnat, imported bikes, cigarettes, cell phones; everything that makes the rich show off has been taxed. This was with the usual TV news covering the entire event, along with a bunch of Armani and Gucci wearing panelists.
I was glad that Kiran Bedi was not part of the panel. But, it did not make sense anyway. It has been termed as a 'status-quo' budget, similar to my pocket money. The rich are certainly fuming. All their hard and hardly earned money is going to the government's coffers, from where they will shifted to Swiss Banks.
I pity the rich. He has to pay more from his brand new SUV, the 8-seater, 8 kmpl beast which he alone would drive. His son's Harley will cost more, which he won't have the chance to touch. He would pay more when he takes his wife to the 5-Star restaurant, but won't enjoy a morsel. His wife will constantly bitch about  her social circle, and finally when he takes a break from it all, even his cigarettes cost more. And all this when the country thinks that taxing the rich will help the poor.
The rich guy decides to call it a day and go home, when he is told that Parking and valet services have gone up. Fuming, he gets into his car and drives off, blaring at the traffic. When he finally nears his exclusive bunglow, BANG! a pothole has ruined his ride. Now, it's become what the President's son once remarked: Dented and painted beauty.
Taxing the rich is like a forced corporate social responsibility (CSR). How will it help you and me? Heck, how will it help the rich midgets' remains to be seen. The taxman is already at the corporate offices and the villas, knocking their Italian made doors and pressing the German made calling bells. At the end of it all, the man in white dhoti is having the last laugh.

NIGHTMARE ON FIRST JOB STREET, PART 4

Back home, some of my friends supported my decision. Some said that i was a sissy, and should have punched my senior in the face. There was even a suggestion that i should have tolerated the abuse, taken work experience for a year and then quit. That way, i would have at least managed to have a decent portfolio.
If you dread waking up every day of your life, hate yourself and become a drunkard; if the only thing you look forward to at work is going back home; if you think experience matters and abuse is to be tolerated; if you begin to hate the very thing you are passionate about, then you must be uniquely..resilient or a human condom. Abused and to be thrown.
As the saying goes 'I rather be King in a small Iberian village than be second in Rome', i would rather work for lesser pay and be appreciated, than be treated like a rusted robot. Yes, i do harbor feelings of hatred to this day for what happened to me. I did not deserve it. But, something good came out of it. I rekindled my passion for reading and writing. I realised my self-worth and gained my self respect. I learnt never to treat another human being like dirt. Each person has his or her own worth.
Today, i am on the anvil of beginning a new life, filled with new challenges and possibilities  I have embraced its beauty, and have become a little philosophical in the process. But, looking back, whatever happened was for my own good. It made me a better man.
Some of you who are reading this might have been through a similar situation. I hope you have found your strength. Remember, it was not your fault. If want you to scream, shout, laugh, cry and just act childish, nobody, i mean NOBODY, can tell you to shut it. Give them the finger. Keep that rebel in you alive. You never know when you need it.
God Bless. Peace out.

NIGHTMARE ON FIRST JOB STREET, PART 3

I did not realise the harm it was causing me emotionally. I would turn to drinking as a way to forget the stress. My diet went for a toss. The other staff would get cab or travel allowance if they went late, but not me. The reason was that my papers hadn't come through. This went on for a month. My respite from all this were the conversations i had with my flat mates. It was fun.

Back in the office, the verbal assaults and abuses continued. Sarcastic tones followed. I did talk back once, only to be met by 'I'M A SENIOR SO SUCK IT UP AND SHUT UP'.  I did put up with all these, along with a girl who was very helpful and kind, but faced the same abuse from the guy. She told me that quitting was not an option. I agreed, hesitatingly though. The creative head had warned me that such pressures will be there. We had no HR as such, and my copy writing section had only me and my pig-of-a-senior. 

The breaking point reached when I waited like a dog to get a copy approved, while he played a game of carrom. At the end of it, he just wrote one line on the copy and gave it back. 'ARE U WRITING FOR A DOG OR A PERSON?' I couldn't take it anymore. Only when you reach the bottom of the well, do you get the strength to crawl back. I did. I QUIT. For good.
The emotional turmoil that followed taught me the importance of family. My family supported my decision to return. This, given the fact that for all the abuse and hardwork i put in, i wasn't paid a penny. I remember the night i quit. I made an excuse that my sister had come, my senior asked me to "F*@k off" and i just ran from the office. I was crying with tears of joy. The next day i told the office that my father has fallen sick, (which he had) and i'm returning back to help in the business. It wasn't the actual reason. I could not muster the courage to say that i no could longer can take the beating. But, i did not leave empty handed. My senior had to leave for his native for a week long vacation. He had booked the flight tickets too. He pleaded that i stay back for the week.
There was no doubt in my mind that this was my chance. I had to take it. I refused and spoiled his travel plans. In a way, i had my own sweet revenge.

NIGHTMARE ON FIRST JOB STREET. PART 2

At first, my senior seemed to be a nice guy. He would guide me on how to write and share a few tips. He was a Bong (slang for people from Didi land, Kolkata). The other staff would be surprised when i told them that i like my senior. They thought i was crazy. They were right.
I interacted mostly with the art department. They would often ignore my mistakes and correct it, without bringing it to the notice of my senior. They would take me to lunch and share many things about life. It was odd that, apart from work, they hardly interacted with my senior. They avoided him. My senior would make his presence felt as much as possible. From his breath filled with the stench of smoke and calling names loudly, to his music on the earphones which reminded us of the Banglore traffic outside. I figured he was 'socially awkard', like most writers and creative people are. I also figured that he used more of deodrants than wasting water on showers.
The abuse started from the second week. He would write hurtful comments, and ask me to rewrite. I would do it a zillion times and finally get it right. I figured this was a way of pushing myself. Soon, it became evident he had a hatred towards Tamils, which i was. Behind my back, he would refer to me as a Madrasi. It grew worse when he started to tear the paper, or crumple it, and throw it on my face. I was too meek to protest. He would point out my mistake in front of the whole office, make up stories and insult me. This went on for quite some time, and was accompanied by the F-word. F@*k this and F@*k that. This was my greeting and goodbye.
I hated the way i had to wait for him to complete watching his movie, or porn, or Facebook. The ad copy was delayed, and clients used to scream on the phone to the client-servicing guys. On some occasions, he used to leave before a review was done, leaving the project incomplete. I was frustrated. I knew this was my first job, in a great company, and would look really bad if i left because i could not manage the pressure. Or had a bad tempered senior.

NIGHTMARE ON FIRST JOB STREET, PART 1

I ticked post-graduation off my list. To this day, i do not know how and what i learnt in my Masters. Communication and Journalism does sound fancy. So i decided to stick to the hype and fancy of the title. Next was the job search, since our institution did not offer campus placement. By reference and persuasion, i ended up in a reputed ad agency in Bangalore  The events leading to this and after make for an interesting read, but later about those.
It was a global ad agency, specializing in direct marketing. Its clients included retail giants in shopping, fashion and apparel. I could not believe my luck. Neither could the others working there. Rarely, does anyone end up on their first attempt at that place. But I did as a junior copywriter. I did not prior work experience nor any internships to boast off. Yet i aced the interview and a written test as well. The call came one afternoon that i had been selected. I was elated. I was on cloud nine. I had no idea what was in store for me.
The first signs of trouble started with the fact that there is no training for such a job. Plus, searching for a place to put up in Bangalore was a nightmare. The first day in the hotel, i was explaining my day to my mum who had accompanied me, and soon cockroaches dropped in on the conversation. That sent mum packing the next day. I, on the other hand, decided to commute by bus from Mysore. So it was for at least two weeks. I would start off by 5 AM, reach Bangalore and wade through traffic to be at work by 9, leave office by 7PM, catch the bus and reach Mysore by 12 AM. I chose bus over train because i could at least sleep peacefully. This put a strain on me and my parents who dropped and picked me up.
I got a rough idea of the work i had to do by the third day. I was to write, in three lines, convincing customers  to redeem points collected b shopping. A company which specialized in redemption offers provided the bread and butter to the agency. The creative head was clear about this and so was the senior copy writer. The creative head was a gem of a person. He lead by example and motivated his team. My senior though, was a different case altogether. He changed my life and my outlook of it, for the worse.

ITS THE GODDAMN SALESMAN AGAIN

"Hello Sir! I have your five minutes? This product changing your life. No? Ok Sir. Thank you. See you".
The guy wore a red tie, shirt tucked in neatly, a pad in hand and a bag. His shoes showed that his travel wasn't easy in the morning rush hour. I politely turned him away with a smile. He was obviously disappointed. But he made sure it was not seen. He had a long day ahead of him.
A few years back, this was not the case. I would watch my mum bark at the salesman, who woke her up from her siesta. I guessed it was the right thing to do. I could not bark. So i let our German Shepherd do it. Soon, news spread among the salesmen and they avoided our house all together. Unfortunately, our dog applied the same principles to the milk man, post man and the newspaper boy.
I was fascinated by the sheer variety of items that salesmen used to bring. Mops, sanitizers, diapers, chips, books, vacuum cleaners, water filters, bags; my favorite was books. I did buy quite a few. Glossy paper, colorful pictures and the way the guy used to say it. " I have sold 20 of these. This is the last one. You look like a bright kid. The cost is 2000 bucks, but i'll give it for 1500."
This convincing line along with the tie, completely floored me. Surely, a guy with a tie selling a book at a "personal loss" was honest, right? Or so i thought. This ended when, on one occasion the salesman took the money, took the book and bade a French goodbye. My Dutch courage was evident. My mum took matters to hand, got the book back and imposed a life time ban on salesmen.
My granduncle told me that their life is not easy. The guy faces doors slammed on his face, shouted at, chased by dogs and unruly kids; he has to sell, be it rain or shine. Too much shine. Plus the tendency to laugh at his English. This would easily demoralize the already tired and weary soul.
'A good salesman is one who sells sand on the beach', so goes a popular saying. With e-bay and Flipkart, we may soon witness the death of the salesman in the city. But on the great Indian countryside, salesmen reach villages faster than government schemes.
So, the next time you hear the bell ring and the salesman pop a smile, refrain from "its the Goddamn salesman again". Instead, wish him a good day, smile and wish him luck. As he leaves, the glow on his face will tell it all.

RAM, RAMA, SITA AND INDIAN ENGLISH GRAMMAR

An example for a noun: Ram went to the market.
Example for verb: Ram went quickly to the market.
Example for adjective: Ram told Sita that she is very beautiful.

There are two things i remember about my English grammar class. One, it made no sense. Two, everything was centered around Ram. I knew he was important because he was uttered in every grammar class, be it  English, Hindi, Kannada or Sanskrit. When i questioned why didn't Krishna, Mohan, Joseph or even a Hamid did not make it to the black board, i was asked to shut up. Frowns were exchanged, girls giggled, friends slapped their foreheads and the class continued.
I was surprised when Rama entered the picture. Who was this mysterious person? Was she the vamp aka doosri aurat we hadn't heard of. Her name was always used as the third person. Eh? Then should i term her the teesri aurat? NO. This was blasphemy. The teacher clarified that this is just an example and should be used when denoting plurals and possessive nouns. Revered  Ram and Sita still had their place reserved  in grammar classes.
I wondered the practicality of Ram and Sita's life as protagonists of grammar. If Ram had gone to the market in the morning (English grammar class), he would go again in the evening (Hindi grammar class). Phew! i figured he had quite an appetite. I did ask my biology teacher if this was possible. He promptly took his cane and spanked my soft bottom. That was the end of it.
I'm 22 now. My cousins are in classes ranging from UKG-6th grade. They have one thing in common though. You guessed it right sir. It's Ram. But here, Ram plays Angry Birds everyday, Ram bought a X-Box from the market and Sita drives a car to drop her kids to school.
It is an unwritten, yet strictly followed rule that Ram is the numero uno example. Be it IITs, IIMs, EFLUs or just a government school. Kashmir to Kanyakumari, Didi's Bengal to Modi's Gujrat. No questions asked. You can do your part by teaching and spreading the word about the same. This is heritage to be preserved for posterity.
Hey Ram!

THE BUSINESS OF RAPE

Sunny Leone is the latest addition to the list of bimbos who have taken rape lightly. According to the ex-porn star, its 'surprise sex'. I come from a family where women and girls outnumber boys and are taken seriously. So this statement, or tweet, comes as a shocker to me. But, a quick glance around, and i realize its nothing personal; its just business.
Yes mam. From karate to karaoke for screaming, from pepper sprays to pocket knives, the fear of rape has triggered massive sales in self-defense. Women taking care of themselves is good. I encourage my cousins to carry these and even not to hesitate to stab the predator, whether the need arises or not.
Having said that, one thing has caught my attention. I believe it was specifically designed for this. The cover of magazines and tabloids are potraying rape. These range from hands, a girl cornered by a man, a girl with a hands clasping her mouth; this is promptly accompanied by headlines which scare you and compel you to either buy, or turn away. The content inside is statistics or cases of horrific incidents, narrated to the last gory detail.The news channels are not far behind. They have background music which range from heart stoppers to heart wrenchers. The composers get paid, along with the graphic artists.
Personally, i would say that all this is sickening to watch. You are bombarded by the harsh truth where ever you go. Is there a solution? I guess you do the same thing when you see a girl being teased ....just turn away because it's none of your 'business'.

THE AMERICAN DICTATOR

I watched with a gaping mouth and starry eyes blinking, the swearing-in ceremony of Barrack Obama. A black man, a Muslim, in post 9/11 America becomes its President for the second time. That, as is shown in the last scene of 'New York', is the greatness of the country. I always had a fascination for American Presidents and their speeches. Obama said that if you're willing to work hard, any body, gay or straight, white, brown or black, can make it big in America. That's true. America is a land of migrants. It was founded on this basis and still continues to cherish this.
Today morning, as i was leafing through the newspaper, i saw a photo of Obama with a shotgun. Seems he was practicing to shoot those clay plates which are launched in the air. This is after he endorsed gun control, in the wake of a school shooting where toddlers were killed. This set me thinking, how does a gun holding American President gets the Nobel peace prize. Alfred Nobel must have been ashamed of the Nobel committee.
He winded-up wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. Good. Now its Pakistan's turn to get bombed. Drone attacks are becoming common in the border between Pakistan and Afghanistan. Children and innocent civilians die so often, that they don't even make it to the news anymore. Not to forget the support to Israel. Poor Palestinians to this day, strive to make a living, by smuggling milk and essentials via underground tunnels.
Obama recently reshuffled his cabinet. Not one black man or woman, unlike George Bush who had at least Condolezza Rice. The economy is improving, but not many blacks are getting jobs. Worse, the impression of the blacks as muggers hasn't changed much.
Drug wars in neighboring Mexico, supported by the US, are claiming lives. Africa is in need of aid, but apparently, dollars are better spent on "fighting terror", than dying people who don't make it to the 9 PM news.
Iran and many parts of the world are reeling under immense pressure with economic sanctions. The people in these places have taken to prostitution, and begging, just because America has to ensure that Wall Street is kept fat with cash. And we are becoming fat with McDonalds and KFC.
None of this is possible without the consent of the President of the United States. Abraham Lincoln deserved the Nobel, Gandhi deserved the Nobel; instead it went to a dictator. An American Dictator.