The road to success

“Yeah, I would like a beer”, said Suresh, as he lowered his lean form onto the sofa. “It’s been a rough day.” His hands pushed back his thinning hair from his forehead.
“No problem,” said Vikas. Opening the fridge, he pulled out a bottle of Kingfisher. The bottle was frosted with miniscule drops of condensation. He opened the bottle and poured the beer into a mug. “What about you, Chander?”
“I’ll have a whisky, thanks”, said Chander, “ and I’ll do the honours myself.”
The three friends settled down with their drinks. This was good – no wives, no kids, just men and their best friends. Tension visibly seeped out of bodies.
“Hey, Vikas”, said Suresh, “you seem preoccupied about something. Business or personal?”
“Oh, business as usual”, said Vikas.
“What is it, man?” asked Chander.
“Welllll”, said Vikas, “its this thing about incentives and disincentives for the guys in our company. My MD asked us to think about ways and means to motivate the staff to achieving more, and I have been trying to think of some.”
“Why, is there some problem with your people?” asked Chander, cocking an eyebrow. “You’ve always raved about what a great bunch of guys you work with. Has the dream gone sour?”
“No”, said Vikas emphatically. “Our team is great. Yeah, there are the one or two who let their colleagues down, but what the hell, that happens in every organisation. It’s just that the company hasn’t been doing too well. Sales have leveled off, profits are more a function of creative accounting then actual performance, and expenses are still hovering around the stratosphere. We just don’t seem to be getting into top gear. So we thought, may be we need to motivate our guys to walk that extra mile, to reach for that faraway star.”
“Uh uh”, said Suresh, sinking deeper into the sofa. “This beer feels good, man.”
“Wait a minute,” said Chander, sitting up. “I don’t seem to be getting the connection. What have incentives got to do with the company not doing too well?
“Come on Chander’, said Vikas, irritably. “You’ve not finished your first drink, and you’ve started asking stupid questions.”
“No, I am serious”, said Chander. He looked it, too. “You made a quantum leap here. Your company is not doing too well and you are looking at incentives for staff, in the hope that that will solve all problems.”
“No! That’s not it”, said Vikas, “this is just one of the initiatives that we want to put in place. We are still on a fixed package system, and thought that it would be better if rewards could be linked to performance. It will make people feel better, as well as give them a push to achieve more.”
“One sec”, said Suresh, making his first contribution, “let me understand this. Can you start from the beginning? Why is your company not doing too well?”
“Welllll, as I said, sales have leveled off. The competition is terrible. Almost every sale is a price war. The market seems to be going nowhere. We have lost one or two major contracts. One of our business sectors is just not progressing. Ah, what the hell, why am I boring you guys? Who wants a refill?”
“I’ll get my own, thanks”, said Chander, walking to the sideboard. “Can I ask you a question? Are all paint companies facing the same problems? Or is it just you?”
“I don’t know”, said Vikas, honestly. “The thing is that we are not supposed to do badly. We have a great team, we have a great production facility, we make superb products, we are an MNC and have the reputation and credibility that that lends,… I just don’t know.”
“Uh uh”, said Suresh, “famous last words. Just because you are an MNC and make top quality products in a top quality plant, you believe that you should succeed? No way, man. If that was true, you and I would be flying Concordes to Mumbai and Lucknow and Tirupur!”
“Yup, he’s absolutely right”, said Chander, nodding his agreement. “products and quality are only one part of the jigsaw. Tell me, Vikas, what is your company’s strategy?”
“To make money, of course”, said Vikas promptly. He had fallen under Eli Goldratt’s spell about 3 years before, and was still firmly enmeshed.
“Dummkopf, that’s your goal or objective”, said Chander. “What is your company’s strategy to reach that goal?”
“Well, er, to service our customers better…, provide better value…, to dominate the niche markets that we are operating in?” said Vikas tentatively.
“Not bad”, said Suresh appreciatively, “ you have just paraphrased 93% of the management gurus in existence. That’s great, but do you guys have a specific strategy?
“Yeah, an action plan that is laid out by industry, market, target market, product and service strategy, pricing strategy, distribution strategy, sales strategy, promotional…”
“Hey, hey, hey”, interrupted Suresh, “what’s this? Been boning up on management skills? Where did you suddenly spout all this from?”
“Come on, Suresh”, said Chander, “I am in the business of creating new businesses. Every time I set up a new venture, I need to go through this exercise. Doesn’t everybody?”
“See guys, I know that we have a strategy. But whether it is in such detail and specifically laid out, I am not sure…” said Vikas, looking not very sure of himself.
“Look, Vikas”, said Chander, “you are a senior manager, isn’t it? If you are not sure of whether your company has a clearly laid out strategy for each business, than who is?”
“He has a point”, said Suresh, sitting up and leaning forward. “We guys were doing about INR 10 million 8 years ago; today we are doing about INR 200 million. This is because Jennie D’Silva set out a comprehensive action plan in 1993 and we have followed it to the “t”. That bunch of 6 pages is a damn bible in our company!”
“What does it say?” asked Vikas, “does it talk about everything Chander mentioned in detail?”
“Come to think of it, it does”, said Suresh, getting a little excited. “I never really thought of it, but that’s right. It measures the industries we are targeting. It examines the markets, it specifies whom we should target, it dissects our competitors in great detail, it sets out how we should price our services, how we should sell…man, that is some document!”
“Suresh, have you had reason to change it in the past few years?” asked Chander, “considering that India’s economy has been changing quite a bit?”
“No”, said Suresh. “There are addendums and appendices, but the basic document hasn’t changed. Once a year I xerox the pages and throw the old ones away. See guys, basically, the action plan is not a tactical plan. It does not tell us whom to meet in which company and say what. To put it poetically, it lays out where we want to go. It lays out the territory we are travelling in, the climate we may encounter, and the dangers and pitfalls. It maps the road on which we need to travel. It lays out a few rules of the road. But, other than that, it does not constrain us to specific actions.”
“Exactly”, aid Chander, “this is exactly what I do. Draw up maps. Do you have a map in your company, Vikas? And more importantly, does every member of your company have a copy of that map?”
“Well, to the first question I will answer a conditional yes”, aid Vikas. “We do have meetings and discuss our short, mid and long term plans. We did have a couple of brainstorming sessions some months ago. But, as to the latter, it is a definite no. What there is of the map is known to the managers, if that.”
“Good for you, Vikas. At least you are honest with yourself.” Said Suresh. “To celebrate such naked soul searching, I am opening another beer! What about you guys?”
After their drinks had been refreshed to their satisfaction, the three men went to the balcony to light up cigarettes. “Ah, that’s great”, said Suresh.
“Okay”, said Chander, “let’s look at this issue further. Let us say that your strategy or what there is of it, suffices. What about your tactical plan? Has your company planned out the resources to back up the strategy? Men, material, money, whatever? Are you sure that the problems you are facing are not systemic rather than specific?”
“What do you mean?” asked Vikas, smoke swirling around his confused face.
“See, as I know it, you need a strategy; and then to service this strategy, you need a resource plan – a document which details how you are going to put that strategy into action. To take off from where Suresh left off, this plan tells you when a bike will be enough, when you will need four men and a palanquin, and when you will need an all terrain vehicle with GPS compatibility.”
“Yeah, I get you”, said Vikas, “we do a budget every year and also estimate our resources and costs for a year or two following that. Is that what you are talking about?”
“No, Vikas”, said Chander, patiently, “a budget is an operational document that draws from a tactical document. This is the resource roadmap. Let us say that you are planning to enter a new market next year, and another the year after that. What will you need to arm yourselves to successfully enter and dominate these markets? Will you need four additional people? Will you need to enhance your manufacturing line in a particular product category? Will you need new branches in three new cities? You will need to plan ahead, won’t you?”
“Uh uh. Well, I suppose that is in the domain of the business managers”, said Vikas, tentatively, “I am sure that they are…”
“Bullshit!” interrupted Suresh, explosively. “Vikas, you are not firing on all four cylinders today! What Chander is talking about is not limited to the domain of one business or one manager. This is information that should not just be available to every member of your company, but must actually be thrust down their throats!”
“Relax, Suresh”, said Chander, “can’t you see the guy is confused already?”
“No hassles, yaar”, said Vikas, smiling at Suresh and Chander. “This guy gets excited once his alcohol level crosses point one percent! Anyway, you are making sense, and no, there does not seem to be any such resource roadmap in our company. At least, not as far as I know.”
“Okay, we’ve come so far, we may as well go the rest of the way; Vikas, do you think we can catch some pizzas?” asked Chander.
“No hassles”, said Vikas, opening the balcony door, “I’ll just call Chef Express. You guys have any specials, or shall we go for the whole hog?”
“Ah, anything will do”, said Suresh, “just make sure they pile on the jalapenos.”
Vikas moved into the drawing room, and shut the balcony door.
Suresh turned face the vista ahead of them. “Man, this guy is really lucky – what a view!”
“Yeah, sure”, said Chander, obviously deep in thought. “Tell me, Suresh, does your company have a resource plan?”
“What? Oh yeah”, said Suresh turning to Chander. “Though not as detailed as you describe it. But then, we are a service company – if we plan our people, we are half way there. And we do that well in advance.”
“I thought you would”, said Chander, smiling. “I can’t see a market research company not following the advice they dole out to their pitiful clients.”
“Oh, perish the thought”, said Suresh, smiling too. “If we followed every piece of advice we gave our clients, we would either be Microsoft or we would have gone bust long ago.”
The balcony door opened and Vikas came out. “Okay, folks, the deed is done. Can we continue where we left off? It was just getting interesting.”
“Of course”, said Chander, “I have been thinking up some questions. Tell me, how many years has Denso Paints been in India, and of these, how many years have you met your budgets?
“Welll, we came into India in 1995; we achieved our targeted sales in 1996-97. The other years, we did well in one or two businesses, but on the whole…”, said Vikas, trailing away.
“Then, if that is the case, why are you looking at incentive plans?” asked Chander. “I thought incentive plans were to help stretch the envelope, not just to fill the damn thing. Aren’t your guys being paid enough?”
“Oh, I think we are quite decently paid”, said Vikas, grinning. “But enough? Never, buddy.”
“Then, what with the incentive plans?” butted in Suresh.
“See, as I told you, we are on a fixed package”, said Vikas, “and that does not seem to be delivering results. We were concerned that this complete lack of a system of rewards for high performance may demotivate people and discourage them from going all out to achieve.”
“Oh, I agree with you,” said Chander, nodding. “Rewards do need to be linked to performance. And so does punishment. But that comes later, I thought. Let us say you have a guy in one of your sales team. Let us call him John. Now, you give John a target to achieve, let us say a hundred thousand litres of paint for the year. On what do you base this target?”
“See, each business sector draws up their targets and budgets. Based on this, each member of the team is given a target to achieve,” said Vikas.
“But, how”, Suresh interrupted again, “do these business sectors draw up targets if there isn’t a clearly laid out strategy and action plan for the company? What do they base their estimates on?”
“It is the understanding in the company that the business managers know their businesses…”, started Vikas.
“Great”, said Chander, “do they share this knowledge with all the others? Can this knowledge withstand rigorous questioning?”
“I am sure it can”, said Vikas, “after all these guys have been in the business for more than fifteen years. If they don’t know the business, who does?”
“Now, don’t go defensive on us”, said Suresh, raising his hands in mock fear. “We know you think a lot of your friends. But seriously, I do not understand this – if each of your business managers know their business as well as you claim, and they draw up their budgets and targets, then why has your company not achieved these targets each and every year?”
“What are you getting at?” asked Vikas, getting irritated. “I thought we met to have a decent evening together, and you guys are grilling me as if…”
“Come on, Vikas”, said Chander, putting his hand on Vikas’ shoulder. “We are not trying to piss you off. I am only trying to understand where Denso is coming from. If you give John a target of a hundred thousand litres, what you are saying is that this is a figure out of the hat. Is that it?”
“No, I am not saying that”, said Vikas, indignantly. “The business managers build up a budget for the coming year, and I am sure the sales guys play an important role in this exercise. Then, the budget is approved by the MD, and the team has to run with the ball.”
“That does not answer my question”, said Chander, shaking his head. “Where does this figure of one hundred thousand litres come from? Is it based on customer requirements or projections? Is it based on regional market intelligence? Is it based on an understanding of market growth trends and patterns? Where does this figure come from? Because, it obviously does not devolve from a mid- or long-term strategy.”
“Why are you fixated on the hundred thousand litres?” asked Vikas. “What has that got to do with anything?”
“Because, my friend”, said Suresh sarcastically, “if you thought about it, you will understand that you could be setting up John for failure! And then, not all the incentives in the world will help!”
“Exactly!” exclaimed Chander. “How do you know if this figure of hundred thousand litres is achievable? Or could it be that it is too little, and that you are not exploiting the potential available? In either case, any incentive plan has no meaning! Don’t you see?”
Vikas’ brow wrinkled in thought. Then his face cleared. “Yes, I do”, he said, though a little reluctantly. “I see what you mean…”
The doorbell rang. “Ah, the pizzas are here”, said Suresh enthusiastically. “I’ll get the door.”
“And most of the pizzas, no doubt”, said Vikas wryly, as he and Chander smiled, thinking of Suresh’s huge appetite.
The next few minutes saw the three friends arranging themselves around the pizzas, and digging into the cartons with gusto. “Wow, I really needed this”, said Suresh, enthusiastically crunching into an indeterminate mess.
“Yeah”, said Chander, with a faraway look on his face again. He looked at Vikas. “So, you were saying…”
“I get your point”, said Vikas. “You are saying that if we do not have a clearly defined strategy, and we do not have a tactical plan, then the operational one, that is, the budget, is meaningless. Okay, let us say I accept your argument. So an incentive plan for the sales staff would not make sense. But what about the others? The manufacturing guys, and the finance guys, and the technical guys? We can have incentive plans for them, isn’t it?”
“Welll, let’s see.” said Chander, wrinkling his forehead. “If you did, what would their performance be linked to? The number of litres they churn out? Or the number of cheques they print?”
Vikas thought about this a few moments. “No, we wouldn’t. Stand-alone functional measures make no sense. They need to be linked with the whole. So they need to be linked to the performance of the company…”
“Yes”, said Suresh, finally surfacing for air. “And the performance of the company is measured against the budget, which you hypothetically agreed is meaningless! So there goes the incentive plan for the rest of the staff.”
Vikas leaned back in his chair. “Okay, you guys are the experts. Tell me, what should we do?”
“No Vikas”, said Chander, gently, “we are not the experts. We are just using a 2500-year-old technique to dig to the roots of a stated problem. The dialogue. Ultimately, you have to develop the solutions to your problems.”
“Yeah, I understand that”, said Vikas. “But, seriously, what should we do?”
“Firstly, I believe you should not look at an incentive plan alone being the panacea to all your problems”, said Chander, seriously. “Yes, it can and will help, up to a point. Performance based reward schemes have been found to bring out the best in employees. But, that would be treating the symptoms. You need to strike at the root cause.”
Vikas was silent for a while. “Okay, here’s what I have understood”, he said. “first, we need to formulate a strategy for each business sector. We start with our mission statement and our objectives. Right so far?”
“Absolutely.” said Suresh. “Once your objectives are clear, you need to be sure that you, as a company, have a thorough understanding of the industry you are in, the markets you are playing in, your target customers and your competition."
“Great! Then, based on what you two guys said, you need to draw up a strategy paper for each business sector which contains the market strategy, the product/service strategy, the pricing strategy, the promotion strategy, the distribution strategy, the sales strategy. Once these are done, they will lead you with no ambiguity to the operations strategy, or your manufacturing and technical strategy.” This was Chander, ticking of the points on his fingers.
“Then what?” asked Vikas.
“Then you make sure that these strategy papers are put together to form a cohesive and interlinked company strategy”, said Chander, “and, finally, most important, this holistic strategy must become the bible that every single employee of your company memorises and breathes.”
“All this sounds good on paper, man”, said Vikas, “but what happens if the environment shifts? Then we are stuck with a bunch of crap!”
“No, you are not”, said Chander. “I agree that no strategy can be static. But, the core remains the core. What you do is what Suresh does. Any change in the environment has to be updated. And this includes the internal environment, that is, your company itself, and the external, that is the economy, the government, the industry sectors you are working in, etcetera. You can add appendices and updates any time. Unless there is a radical shift and Denso is going to sell T-shirts instead of paints, the core strategy, if it is planned well, will remain integral.”
Vikas lit a cigarette and inhaled deep. “Okay, let us say we try this out. What next? The resource plan?”
“Yes, absolutely.” said Chander. “Then, the senior management plans the resource requirement for the foreseeable future, which could be anywhere from 3-5 years. This plan, too is published internally, and is treated as the New Testament, if we have to continue using the bible analogy.” He grinned.
“So, now we have the strategy and the tactical plan”, said Vikas, leaning forward. “Based on these, and our ongoing knowledge of the businesses, we can draw up realistic budgets. Right?”
“Right!” said Suresh, blowing out a stream of smoke. “Now, you can start talking about incentive plans. When you know a budget is realistic and achievable, then you reward your sales guys for stretching. Then you are saying “Johnny boy, we are on our way to Europe. I have given you a reasonably accurate roadmap to Mumbai, for which I am paying you your salary to reach by the end of this year. However, if you go beyond Mumbai, and reach Karachi, I will reward you over and above that!”
“Wow, that makes sense!” said Vikas, excitement showing on his face. “And, to continue to use your stupid analogy, if we did not have a strategy and resource plan, our map would be useless, and we could be sending John to Calcutta, and not all his efforts and not all the potential rewards would help him reach Mumbai, leave alone Karachi!”
“You are right up to a point”, said Chander. “I wouldn’t agree with the last part, though. Remember that your sales guys are not fools. They are experienced and would need to be capable to have gotten a job in Denso. What would happen is that the guys would see your map, and instinctively disregard it. They would then use their inherent experience and talents to try and reach Mumbai, with the faint understanding that Russia is the place they are heading for. They may lack the support and resources that Denso could have provided. Even so, they may reach Belgaum or even Pune. Some of them may even make it to Mumbai and beyond. But that would not help Denso achieve its combined objectives…”
“Absolutely. I agree with that one hundred percent”, said Vikas. “And the same roadmap will help the manufacturing, technical and finance guys to make sure that the sales guys get all the help they need on their journey! So everybody works as a team. With the same vision, the same goal!”
“Yes, yes, yes”, said Suresh, triumphantly. “Now that we have solved all Vikas’ problems, do you think I can go home? I do need to sleep once in a while.”
“One sec – let me do a quick recap”, aid Vikas, “first, draw up a solid strategy, second, make sure everybody knows what the strategy is, third, draw up a resource plan, fourth, make sure everybody knows what it is, fifth, draw up the operational short term plan, or budget, sixth, let everybody know what it is, and seventh, now that you are sure to achieve the budget, or close to it, set up incentives to encourage guys to go beyond and above the normal, and do the company proud!”
“Perfect”, said Chander, rising from his chair. “Now comes the difficult part. Putting what you just said into action. Getting your MD to buy in. Getting your fellow managers to buy in. And, then, once you have achieved all this, you can dream about earning the salaries that Shirish does in Infosys.”
“That’s a good thought to part on”, said Suresh, lacing his shoes. “Or is it? Every time I think of Shirish’s pay packet, I get heartburn!”
“Thanks, guys”, said Vikas, accompanying them to the door. “I am lucky I have friends like you. I’ll keep you posted on how this turns out. Good night, sleep well.”
“Good night.”
“Goodnight, Vikas.”

The year passes into the new...

Ends and beginnings, the stuff of life
Death and birth, fire and ice
One door closes, another opens
Not so much a circle, as a spiral infinite.

Oh, this was a good year; no, it was terrible!
On what grounds do we make these claims?
Did the earth shake, and the market crash?
Or did peace dawn, and the economy shine?

Was our net worth the same, or did it rise,
Did wars break out, or plagues take root?
Did my girl top her class, did your son excel,
Are these the measures on which we brood?

Should we not look for more critical paths?
Did we, for instance, hug someone,
Kiss soft lips, walk in the moonlight
Or see eyes light up when we entered the room?

Did I teach? Did I wipe childish tears dry?
Did a faraway melody make my heart soar?
Did I open a present with eager anticipation,
And exult with joy seeing what lies within?

Did we feel our hearts burst with pride?
Did we feel adoration, joy, peace and love
Sing, whistle, skip, even dance perhaps
Feel warm, and wanted, and a healthy glow?

These are what I wish you for the coming year,
Happiness, love, learning and friendship,
That every day that you add to the count
Brings wisdom, hope and tolerance for grief.

That the Lord care for you and those you love
That through you and yours, His blessings are spread
And when this New Year draws to a close,
You feel fulfilled, with nothing to regret.

The valentine syndrome, year 2005

Dearest

Will you be my Valentine?
I know that I would be yours.
Living without you, being alone,
Lonely, seems like such a farce.

Your smile, your eyes, your grace,
Oh, they leave me terribly weak-kneed.
Unless everyday I gaze at your face

Beloved, my life is incomplete.
Each day I think of nothing else;

My life fluttering, captivated by
Your flame, in which my soul would dwell

Valentine mine, je t’adore, I cry!
All my life, I have searched for you
Losing heart, wandering without rest,
Evening has come, the day is through
Never once have I given up my quest.
Today, I hope the stars align,
In friendship and in harmony.
Not just for me, but all lovers in time
Ending our restless seeking journey…

Will you be my Valentine?

Valentines day 2004

Laughter, bubbling like a brook, trilling,
Curved throat, ruby lips, joyous grin.
Grief, flowing in a sporadic stream,
Lowered lids, quiet sobs, quivering chin.

Anger, cascading like a cataract,
Flashing eyes, scornful jeer, bitter words.
Sorrow, spread like the gloom of night,
Blanched skin, furrowed brow, clasping hands.

Ecstacy, erupting like a golden wave,
Body arched, sinews tense, urgent moans.
Jealousy, swelling, an inexorable tide,
Flared nostrils, jerky eyes, aching heart.

Pity, flooding the valley of your soul,
Soft visage, open arms, endless warmth.
Love, its wondrous depths unplumbed,
Sparkling mein, secret glances, smile charmed.

Frustration, wrath, despair, loss,
Interest, passion, joy, surfeit,
In every avatar you take, I see
My beloved, my friend, my heartbeat.

Will you be my Valentine?

Valentines day 2002

During the March, April or May, we talk, we smile
And every time you do my heart beguile
During June or July or even September
Your beauty my dreams doth remember

In winter, your grace assumes a brilliant hue
Sparkling eyes, rubicund lips, a glance so true
Even when summer’s daylight doth fade
You brighten the gloom in the darkest glade

The old year dies, we begin again
The renewed glare of your beauty causes me pain
And then, we come that month of the year
When all that was before, seems to disappear

The days march past, eight, nine and ten
And then it is Valentine’s Day again
And my heart explodes with love and joy
My head spins, my mind tumbles like a toy

For it is now when all the universe
Celebrates the confluence of love and hurt
It is today that reveals the truth untold
That you are the one, the only, the glory to behold

I am rendered mute, and dumb and speechless
No words pass my lips, no expression I confess
But my heart is filled with rhyme and song
I just want to be with you all day long….

Valentines day 2000

From when I was a little child,
I always wanted someone mine
So, I ask you with all my heart,
Will you be my Valentine?

I am sometimes harsh, often moody,
More like vinegar than like wine
Will you accept me for what I am
Will you be my Valentine?

I’ve lost my heart, what I have to give
is my friendship till the end of time
Will you be my friend for life
Will you be my Valentine?

And a thousand sticks clapped as once...

Last night I went to a Dandiya dance again.

A few months ago, a member of India’s intellectually aware elite woke after a deep sleep. He had three choices. “Should I,” he asked himself, his hand stroking his stubbled chin, “have a cup of coffee? Or read the newspaper? Or should I file a public interest litigation?” He evaluated these options. The coffee his maid kept in front of him was a paler brown than normal. The newspaper, folded alongside, was a faded pink, and drooped listlessly. “No!” he roared to himself, aware that roaring aloud would frighten his maid into leaving, and thus invite the wrath of his wife, “I shall file a PIL against Dandiya dances! They are a veritable nuisance and a horrendous disturbance to all honest, law abiding folk. They must be comprehensively banned! Forever and more!” This is how most of the Indian bourgeois speak, especially before shaving.

Soon, the scene shifts to the venerable High Court. “Aha!” says a Judge. “Ah-ha! Finally, a case one can sink one’s teeth into!” And saying thus, he reaches for his dentures, simultaneously confining to the pending bin the huge roster of cases piling up on his desks, involving murder, political corruption and wholesale burglary. From that moment on, the lights of the High Court building blaze through day and night. Senior judges, law clerks, paralegals and peons pore and peruse and ponder. They surmise and they presume, they submit and they argue. And then, a surprisingly short while later, in a burst of rare unanimity, the High Court banned all Dandiya dances from continuing past 10 PM.

This ruling caused furore. Thousands of citizens, mostly young, male and frustrated, rail against this sheer injustice against humanity. They are joined by hundreds of dance organisers, whose glittering dreams of untold wealth are disappearing faster than darkness at dawn. Varied artistes (singers, musicians, deejays, and such) protest and refuse to ply their trade in such reprehensible conditions. Parallels to Nazi Germany and the Iron Curtain are drawn and quartered.

While all this was happening, in some households, life continues as normal. The common man wonders whether he should buy a pair of green Dandiya sticks. Or blue for that matter. We common people are not choosy.

As the pressure built to the point where there would be rioting on the streets and blood flowing in the gutters, another righteous citizen appealed this verdict with the Supreme Court. Here, too, the revered Justices acted with merciless dispatch. Imagine, if you will, the scene in the Supreme Court - a hoary Justice sweeping off all the files from his desk in a grandiose gesture, causing clouds of dust to set him sneezing till his chest heaves. Or the milky gleam in another’s half closed eyes, the most evidence of enthusiasm in many years. Breathless anticipation filling the offices, the former more due to age and asthma than anything else. No public assassination ever received so much attention and action. No stock market scam ever held a candle. How do these mundane issues matter, when the critically important issue of the duration of the Dandiya needs to be addressed?

Hearings were held, personal interviews conducted, religious tomes studied, and cultural angst explored. Newspapers and TV stations followed this erudite process with bated breath and blaring body copy. The whole city of Mumbai stood still, waiting on the Supreme Court’s verdict.

While all this was happening, the common man’s daughter appeals to her mother that she needs a silver ghaghra-choli, which costs Rs. 5,500.00. After much tears and recrimination ensue, her mother acquiesces, and compensates for her initial refusal with matching slippers, jewelry and bangles. The common man settles for ordinary unpainted sticks that can be found in the public park behind his apartments.

As the Supreme Court weighed its decision, India lost two cricket matches, three hurricanes ravaged USA and four hundred Chinese miners disappeared into the face of the earth.

The city writhed in an agony of suspense, with half of the citizens supporting the ruling, half of them opposing it, and the balance not caring one way or the other. Strangers in the local trains asked one another, grimacing while disentangling their limbs, “What do you think the Supreme Court will do? Will they allow the dance to go on to midnight? Or won’t they?” Kitty parties became hushed affairs with desperate housewives wondering whether the common man’s daughter would be forced to fling herself on the bed, sobbing as if her heart would bleed through her eyes. Corporate lunch rooms rung with the sound of raised voices wondering if the city’s fleeing artistes would return, their proud stances vindicated, or whether they would forever eke out their livings in exile…

Finally, a few days ago, the Supreme Court’s hardened heart melted. The Chief Justice stood on the podium, his arthritic knees protesting the unaccustomed athletics. “The Dandiya dances may continue till midnight,” he said, in a six hundred and eighty page judgement. “We have taken pity on the toiling masses, who need to party once in a while,” summarised the verdict, “and have ignored the cries of the aged, infirm and musically challenged, who prefer to sleep rather than listen to Indipop remixes late into the night.”

The crisis was resolved. Anarchy was averted. While the bourgeois fumed and muttered imprecations, India returned to worrying about less consequential issues such as disinvestment, potholes and insurgency in the North East.

When he heard the news, the common man sighed, and put his white kurta and churidar under the mattress so that they may be pressed. His home becomes a flurry of dresses being tried on, make up being appliquéd, phones ringing in cacophonous tunes and the steady flutter of bills as they softly accumulate on his desk.

The night of the Dandiya dusked. The common man slips on his festive best, straightens his shoulders, gathers his Dandiya sticks, and with visible pride trails his glowing daughter and wife out of the door, to attend the dance.

Now, I know that it has been presumptuous on my part to believe that the uninitiated reader knows what I have been talking about. Many questions must be jostling for place in your puzzled mind. No, I was not referring to what exactly do birds do to bees. Or why Bush was re-elected. Let’s address the more top-of-mind ones - what is this Dandiya? What is the occasion for this dance? Where? Who? How?

Gujaratis (those belonging to the state of Gujarat, in Western India) perform the traditional dances of Garba & Dandiya-Raas during Navratri. Dussera or Navratri is a festival of worship, dance and music celebrated over a period of nine nights (Nav - nine and Ratri - nights), usually in October. This festival celebrates the worship of the Divine Trinity - three days devoted to Durga (Goddess of Valour), three days to Lakshmi (Goddess of Wealth) and three days to Saraswati (Goddess of Knowledge).

Lore has it that this custom originated in the ninth century AD in Saurashtra, Kutch, Aanarta and Laat, the four main regions of Gujarat. These dances are performed with wooden sticks (dandiyas) while forming a circle, singing 'garbas' or traditional songs.

You are aware that India is a traditional country, where casual dating and love marriages are largely frowned upon, and some times shot at, with large caliber guns. These group dances are an accepted custom wherein young singles may form (or attempt to form) romantic attachments in a socially acceptable milieu. Needless to say, such romances rarely last as they quickly culminate in marriage. Over a period of time, this tradition of dances has percolated past the borders of Gujarat, and has become an annual ritual in various cities across India. More than religious, these have become huge social functions, organized by various cultural societies, apartment complexes and politico-social groups, transcending community, caste and ethnicity.

Now that I have revealed all, and the lamentable mists of your ignorance have been cleared, let us return to the dance.

We walked towards the community ground where the dance was organized. The night was balmy, even though the skies were clear, and the stars competed with a waning moon to feebly illuminate the darkening sky. The streets were busy with people moving with purposeful energy and briefcases or bags in their hands. Shops bustled in a burst of energy before closing for the night, children darted in and out of dark cul de sacs, their shrieks of laughter resonating off concrete walls. As we walked, the faint streams of music, barely audible from afar, strengthened into steady flows of foot tapping rhythm. Sedate ties and formal skirts began to give way to the bright plumage of lehngas, stone washed jeans, churidar-kurtas and bare midriffs.

Ah there! The grand pandal! Fashioned of cloth, bamboo poles and hope, it glitters brighter than the sun. Spotlights and strobes illuminate the age-old battle between constancy and promiscuity. Banners flutter in the limp breeze, buntings swooping and soaring, sometimes crashing and lying wounded on the unyielding ground. The music has now become a gushing roar of sound, sweeping all thought from the mind. The common man’s leisurely walk picks up pace, and his daughter skips as we approach closer.

We produce our passes at the crush near the entrance. Sweaty young men with large, colourfully pleated badges adorning most of their left breast, usher us in.

Imagine, if you will, a moderately sized piece of ground, about an acre, bracketed by coloured canvas held up by bamboo poles, precariously swaying in the non-existent breeze. Imagine, then, a rude stage at one end of this ground, dominated by large items of musical equipment. Finally, stretch your already quailing imagination to visualize two thousand young, colourfully clad people jostling with one another, attempting the intricate movements of the Dandiya. That was the scene that met our amazed eyes when we stepped past the cloth barriers that kept this disturbing spectacle from the bypassers’ eyes.

There was heat, as Ruth Prawer Jhabwala would succinctly put it, and dust. The former was more than just the combined temperatures of two thousand gyrating warm bodies. There was heat in the clash of the Dandiya sticks, and in the sway of lissome youth. There was heat in the slicing of glances, and in the rhythmic judder of four thousand feet hitting the ground at the end of a reel. The ground yielded into dust, which swirled and swayed between and around the dancers, the motes catching fire as the strobes alighted on them, and then winking into temporary oblivion, only to gleam again.

There, you could see a young couple, unmindful of anyone but each other, swaying to a tune no one else could hear. Beyond them, was a boisterous group, their laughter drowning out the sound of clashing sticks. Here was a sedate harem of matrons, contentedly performing the intricate movements that allowed them to meet one another, clap their sticks in a tuneful cadence, and then swirl away to meet the next person in the circle, and on and on. Further away, you could see some disenchanted young men listlessly beating their sticks, their eyes following a swirling skirt, skipping to a bangled arm, alighting on a heaving breast.

The common man’s daughter waved her hand, shrieked once and disappeared into a disheveled mass of bodies. Her mother sidled away into the maws of a group of ladies standing and sitting on the sidelines, oscillating paper fans and drinking large Pepsis. The common man looked around. Ah there! He spots a group of middle aged friends. He waves and weaves through the jostle, and seamlessly joins the dancing group, sticks clashing while the state of the nation is analysed and dissected. The body loses its identity and becomes one with the surroundings. Speech ceases. The raucous blare of music, the clash of sticks, the tympani of feet meeting the hard ground, the swish of silk, and the tinkle of bangles and chains hypnotise. The movement of feet, the raising and lowering of arms, the deft twist every four beats, the crossing of sticks mesmerize.

The singers sang, the amplifiers soared, the strobes flashed. Steady beats would yield to crescendos would change to slow rhythm would shift gear to a rapid staccato. Bodies gyrated and slithered and spun and swayed. Faces gleamed, make up streaked, blouses soaked, hair straggled, hand fans fluttered. Now, one perfectly synchronized group would disappear, replaced by another fumbling one, forming a new kaleidoscopic pattern. There a couple would move closer past all decorum. Here excitement, there envy, here frustration, there serenity. Different steps of the dance.

And then, midnight tolled.

The ground now seemed vast. And eerily empty. The last stragglers were leaving, leaving behind stray peals of laughter. Paper cups and fans lay scattered and crushed as if beaten by a marauding army. The security guards walked around the site, switching off lights, stacking chairs.

The common man stood with his wife and daughter beside him. His eyes looked into the distance, or was it into another time? Did he see sparkling, kohl rimmed eyes clash with his, and then demurely give way? Did he smell the fragrance of lost youth? Did he hear the rustle of silk across a swaying hip? Did he feel the blood pounding through his head as he saw her gracefully move towards him, and then lose herself in the crowds?

I tapped him on his shoulder. “Come,” I said, “It’s time to go home now.”

His eyes returned to the world around us. He turned to see his wife looking at him. His daughter seemed tired, but a smile he had never seen before tugged at the corners of her mouth. His eyes met his wife’s and he smiled, a smile of ineffable beauty. He took her hand and intertwined his fingers with hers. “Yes,” he said, “it’s time to go home.”

A million goodbyes to the Elephant God

Last week I was in Andheri again.

"Don't step out on Saturday," they told me.

"It is a complete disaster," they warned me.

"You will be on the roads for more than 12 hours if you make the stupid decision of venturing out," they cautioned me.

"Please stay at home, and watch TV," they cajoled me.

I planned on heeding all this unsolicited advice. Being new to Mumbai, and being extremely cautious, even cowardly, I resolved that I would not take a single step outside the house on Saturday, 18th September. I stocked up on books, potato wafers, peanuts (masala and roasted), diverse aerated liquids, and four DVDs. I darkened the bedroom, forming a cocoon against the cruel world lapping at my door.

And then, at 4 PM, when I was just settling into my hedonistic routine, Abhimanyu came to me and tentatively broke the news.

"I need three books," he said, his eyes seeking mine in the gloom, only sporadically offset by the flickering images of Rani Mukherjee meeting Saif Ali Khan for the third time in London.

"Wonderful," I said. "And you will have them."

I always try to sound enthusiastic and positive with the kids, even when they are intruding into the bond I was trying to form with Rani.

"I need them today," he said, insistently. "I have a project to complete and submit on Monday. They are available at Book-Point, in Andheri."

My connection with Rani shattered like so much china in the hands of Damini.

"What?" I pulled myself out of the warm and soft mound of pillows and quilts that had formed my machan through the day. "Andheri? Today? It will be impossible to reach Andheri. Use the internet!"

Having delivered this brilliant advice, I hunted around, found the bag of chips that had slipped to the side, and settled back to recapture what Rani and I had just lost.

"No, Dad," he said, "I need specific books and have to quote certain paragraphs in the report. I am sorry to trouble you, but please can we get them now?" Abhimanyu is nothing if not persistent.

Conflict. This word has so many connotations. It is used so often, especially in today's fragmented world. But, not between Iran and USA, not North Korea and USA, not China and USA, not Iraq and USA, none of these disagreements come even close to the degree of conflict that raged in my breast. On the one hand, there was Rani, potato chips, peace and Coke. On the other there was mayhem, mobs and my son's stumbling quest for education.

It was close. Thoughts of setting up an annuity for him passed my mind. So what, I thought, if he doesn't get a degree? He will manage. Hopefully, he will develop something in the garage.

But no, bitter conscience and those famed middle class values won. But not by much. Not by much at all.

And so, at 5.00 PM on 18th September, Abhimanyu and I left for Andheri. On the day that more than three million devotees leave their homes (at about the same time) to immerse and bid adieu to more than 230,000 large (many larger than life) idols of Ganesha. Which means 230,000 individual processions, about 200,000 trucks, 50,000 buses and 75,000 other vehicles on the roads of this beleaguered city. All the same time, and largely heading in the same direction. Towards the sea.

Let me digress a little to give you an idea of Mumbai's topography. Mumbai is an island - seven islands actually, but bound together now by bridges and land fills and reclamations to form a thin, long one. (I know all of you in the e-group know this, but there is this possibility that these literary gems that I produce are published to wide acclaim posthumously, and translated into 23 languages, and thus, in the interests of future readers from Kazakhstan, Wales and Ecuador, I need to describe this further.) The sea is on the West. So are the beaches. There is a breakwater (called a creek) to the East. There are no beaches in the East. Where we live, Powai, is bang in the middle. And Andheri is in the West. So, to reach Andheri, we needed to drive West, for about ten kilometers. And then, we have to locate the book shop, buy the books, and then, come back home. Sounds simple, doesn't it? Except that the 230,000 processions, idols, trucks, buses, cars are all going West, to immerse the idols in the sea. What joy!

When Abhi and I stepped out of the building, we were hit by a wall of noise. There were drums, cymbals, trumpets, horns, loudspeakers, people chanting, trucks revving. It was like standing in the middle of a particularly agitated thunderstorm. I thought of turning back, but all those years of encouraging Abhimanyu to indulge in physical activities such as football, karate, gymnastics, etc., had yielded a young man considerably stronger and more agile than an over the hill, office-bound manager, whose devotion to alcohol and tobacco is the stuff of legends. The desire to return home was strong, but that to avoid an undignified scuffle ruled. So, with dragging feet and an achin', breakin' heart, I walked into the maelstrom.

But, hark! Even though I use the word noise (you will remember that I had stepped out of a cozy cocoon), after the initial jarring impact, there seemed to, from all the din, form a melody. I agree that calling anything on the wrong side of 350 decibels cannot be remotely described as a melody, but there it was. A rhythmic chant, a metronome of beats, a surging and ebbing wave. It was as if all the disparate groups and their public address systems were somehow finding harmony. There were Hindi film songs, Marathi songs, Sanskrit Shlokas, Indipop, wannabe leaders haranguing the masses, professional bands, amateur bands, religious groups singing loudly. None of these even heard each other, probably. Yet, there was harmony. A strangely serene feeling began to steal over me.

We got into the car, and began our journey. I use the word journey figuratively. The word connotes visions of empty highways stretching into the distance, of the wind blowing through your hair, of the Eagles singing "Hotel California" and speedometers reading in the high nineties. Our outing, alas, was slightly different. As soon as we turned out of the building compound into the road, we were engulfed. It seemed that we had suddenly stepped into the evacuation of Dunkirk. There were people. There were hand carts. There were trucks and buses. There were cars and bullocks. There were pandals and palanquins. There were hawkers and priests and onlookers. There were policemen and firemen and the home guard. The speedometer read in the high zeroes. I reconciled my self to a long night in the car, and mentally kicked myself for not bringing along a book to read during long stretches of apathy.

Then I noticed something strange. With all these impediments, we kept moving. It was rare that we stopped. On first sight, the mass seemed impenetrable, much like the Red Sea must have seemed to Moses and the fleeing Israelis. But, somehow, it parted. (I do not, by the above alliteration, mean to imply divine intervention.) Even the most fervent devotee or the most colorfully anointed priest willingly and smilingly gave way. The police worked overtime to ensure that jams were cleared quickly and painlessly. And we kept moving. We zigged past a truck which had a 10-foot high Ganesha precariously balanced on its flatbed, and then zagged past a group of people briskly wheeling a handcart with a 2-foot high one. We squeezed past a riotous crowd of youngsters dancing and throwing coloured powder and water at one other, and crawled between two buses filled with chanting devotees. And we kept moving. And as we moved, the sights around us filled our minds and eyes.

Have you seen a "riot of colour"? Really seen one? I am not talking about your teenage daughter's wardrobe. I am talking about 256,000 colours, high definition, in your face kind of riot. That's what surrounded us. The idols in their bright pink, yellow and red; the people in greens, blues, reds, violets, pinks, mauves; the trucks and buses in colours that put the spectrum to shame, the pandals, the flowers, the coloured powders whisking through the air, the banners, the sweets and toys sold by the hawkers. Even the grey skies and the dilapidated buildings seemed to glow brighter and take on a lustre normally absent. The whole city seemed to be on the roads, in their festive best, and it was mindblowingly beautiful.

The idols themselves were fantastic. There were standing Ganeshas, sitting Ganeshas, reclining Ganeshas, dancing Ganeshas, pink Ganeshas (Aryans), blue Ganeshas (Dravidians), artfully designed and executed Ganeshas, crudely constructed Ganeshas. There was a Ganesha leading people through floodwaters (shades of 26 July) and a Ganesha playing cricket (shades of Sachin). There was a Ganesha with Shivaji sitting by the side, there was one with Mr. Thackeray. There was even one with Manmohan Singh. And Sonia Gandhi. It was amazing to be in the midst of so much creativity, and sad knowing that in a few hours, all this will be returning to clay.

And, so we moved steadily on, drinking in the amazing sights around us, our minds filling with syncopated rhythm. Conversation was difficult. The air conditioner hummed, adding its bit to the melody. Once in a while, we hit a dead end, and the police and the devotees, would, working together in an amazing piece of coordination, clear a bit of the road or find a new one altogether. And then, we would be waved on smilingly.

We reached Book-Point at 6:20 PM. It had taken us just one hour and twenty minutes to vend our way through a million people. I could not believe this. I was expecting to reach by about 8:00 PM, and specifically asked the shop if it would be open then, before leaving home. On the way, we had not seen one angry face, or met with impatience or unhappiness of any sort. There was no force used, no fights, no quarrels. Instead, there was sharing (of drinking water, of sweets, of coloured powders and water balloons) and acceptance (of delays, of sudden showers of rain, of other's need for haste). I wonder about what it took for a more than a million people to move and work together so harmoniously. If we could do it for a day, what about a week? Or was this occasion in some way different?

And thus, we bought the books, and found our way home. The return journey was more of the same, except that we were stuck at one point for about 20 minutes, because a large truck had broken down. We too, taking our cue from the thousands around us, sat comfortably in the car, and waited patiently. Chill, bro!

By the time we reached home, the crowds had waned. Small groups, looking exhausted, yet serene, were walking along, presumably heading home. Children holding balloons and carrying plastic toys, were in turn, being carried by their mothers. Crisp saris had turned limp, faces were shiny with perspiration and colour. The street lamps cast their glow on darkening streets, and stray buntings and pieces of paper fluttered in the dying breeze. Puddles of water glistened, trying to mirror the myriad colours that had passed over them. Stray drummers rent the growing silence with their energy, and the faraway bleat of the odd trumpet sounded lonely and lost.

Mumbai is a city you can fall in love with very easily. I am in the first stages of infatuation.

Warm regards,

Shesh.