Bombay – the Gateway to India and the riches of the East India Company is a city that sits on India’s west coast. In the late 1800s and early 1900s the British invested a lot of money in the city’s infrastructure turning it into a magnet for the young and the ambitious.
Several young men came to Bombay to find their fortunes. Many of them came from little villages and towns from the State of Gujarat. And most of them found their way to a little part of town called Bhuleshwar.
Over the years, Bhuleshwar transformed itself into one of India’s largest wholesale markets. And less than 150 years after it was formed, Bhuleshwar had burst at its seams, incapable of supporting the very large community of traders and commerce that it had given birth to.
It has been said, and not entirely in jest, that if you were to simply stand still in Bhuleshwar – you would soon find yourself in a different part of town, propelled there by the sea of humanity that inhabits it. In 1970, it had a density of 1500 people per acre (contrast that with .5 per acre in little known Stormville).
Several of the markets have been moved to other parts of town. And new generations of Gujaratis are moving out to the distant suburbs where they can have a little more room to raise their families.
Kandivali is one such suburb in Western Mumbai. Instead of the crammed 150 sq ft tenements, they now live in 1000 sq ft skyscrapers, most with little lawns and gardens. In the evening the men and women congregate in the compound in groups, recreating that lost sense of community they had in the old neighborhood.
I’ve been spending a lot of time in an area called Mahavir Nagar as I shuttle between my parents home and that of my sister-in-law. Actually, its probably even just a subset of Mahavir Nagar, because it is just one big block of buildings.
Last night I did a leisurely walk through of the shops in this block – all tiny mom and pop stores of the good old Bhuleshwar tradition. The owners run the businesses and typically know their clients by name. In fact, my parents discuss the owners of different stores with their neighbors.
And what a set of businesses! You will find all kinds of food – Gujarati, South Indian, North Indian, Punjabi, Chinese, Mexican, Pizza, Sandwiches – Jain and Hindu varieties and all strictly vegetarian. Realtors, insurance agents, pathology labs, doctors offices can all be found on this block. Wait – is that a nursing home ? There is a gym, a slimming center and a diabetes treatment center.
Last night, waiting for my ride, on the opposite side of the street – I spotted the large liquor store – that carries champagne – all 3 varieties sold in India. Guptaji delivers fresh vegetables and fruits to your home. There are raw fruits and farsan, bhel puri, pani puri, sev puri. Fresh squeezed juice is Rs 10 for a large glass, the man apologizes thinking I will complain about how expensive it is – I’ve paid as much as 50 in other parts of the city.
Other stores sell jewelry – precious or fake – clothing and fabric, items of home décor, dry goods, electronics, consumer durables. There is even a photo studio and a store that sells items needed for religious ceremonies. There was a shop selling automotive accessories – guess you’d have to leave the block to buy a car – but there’s the car rental place on the corner. There’s the travel agent where you can book your tickets to visit your daughter in London or your son in Sydney.
Hmm I did not find a shop selling funeral supplies – but come to think of it I’ve never seen one of those anywhere.
One block – everything that you could possibly need for your home or to live…….. and they all deliver inside Mahavir Nagar…….Fascinating – the Gujarati spirit of free enterprise is alive and well, even if the road is filled with potholes and construction debris.
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
Bombay - it is no more!
September 13th, 2009. That was the day on which I finally accepted that it would never be the same. The time was about 7:30 in the morning. The rickshaw was crossing the nallah on Link Road in Andheri or perhaps it is Jogeshwari. As the sun peeked out from behind the smog laden sky, and my nose was assaulted by the full force of a Mumbai morning, I finally accepted that my romance with Bombay was over and that Bombay existed only in my imagination.
I had marveled through the floods of 2005 at the resilience of the people of Bombay. On 7/11/2006, I had waited anxiously by the phone to hear that my niece and her mom had reached home safely, and I tried not to think of the trauma my sister-in-law went through as she saw the victims of the bomb blast at Bandra railway station.
I proudly cheered on the integrity and unquenchable spirit of the young heroes of Slumdog Millionaire, turning a blind eye to the criminals who tested that spirit.
On 26/11 I wept as I watched the carnage in South Bombay, and I wept again when I heard that a dear friend had been one of the hostages. And I took comfort in knowing how he had held onto the indomitable Bombay spirit to the very end, believing he could charm the terrorists into letting him live. I read every single story about the attack, and while my heart bled over the senseless carnage, it also swelled with pride at the bravery and the determination of the people in the attack. Along with every other Bombayite, I applauded the determination of the hoteliers to re-open their doors, to restore their establishments to their full glory and deny the terrorists any semblance of a victory.
Through twenty three years of living in the United States, I had firmly held onto my image of Bombay – a slightly chaotic, but generally efficient city, united in the honest and determined pursuit of wealth and self-improvement, a city in which people minded their own business, and respected your desire to make an honest living. And while its streets were not exactly paved with gold, you did not need much to get started. You could count on the infrastructure to work, most days anyway.
You could count on being safe, even at 2am in the morning, and you could count on public transport. Yeah, you could get yourself into trouble – but you really had to go looking for it, it generally did not go out of its way to confront you.
The city teemed with energy. No city quite matched Churchgate station at rush hour – though New York city tried occasionally (and I haven’t been to Tokyo – but I suspect it is far more orderly).
And then just like that, that Sunday morning, I realized the Bombay I was thinking about was a figment of my imagination. Today’s Mumbai is larger, more crowded, more chaotic and the will to make an honest living has turned into a miserable drudge to just survive.
Oh yes, the spirit lingers. It even thrives in some pockets. But I am starting to think that that is the exception rather than the rule. Yes, the slum dwellers find things to be joyous about their condition. And yes, that is all part of the indomitable spirit. But seriously, is the choice to live in a slum, an actual choice they make?
People of all communities and religions live alongside peaceably each focused on earning their living. But isn’t this also where we have seen some of the worst communal riots ? Isn’t this the same city where a mob attacked a TV station because it had had the nerve to criticize their leader ?
Today, I think the various terrorist attacks, the various “acts of nature” that have inflicted harm on Mumbai were all avoidable. Or at the very least their impact could have been blunted through better management and infrastructure.
Instead of holding on firmly and with pride to the image of my college mate who is now one of Mumbai’s most respected policemen, I pray for his safety. I pray that he may just be allowed to live his life as he chooses, and I wish he would not choose to live it so dangerously.
I had never reconciled myself to the black cages that adorn every window, or the mosaic of cement lined cracks on building built in the late 50s and 60s, and I am sure that that was somewhere in my consciousness that Sunday morning.
I had been to a high school reunion the previous night, there I had met classmates from primary school from a zillion, ok 30+, years ago. It had been a wonderful evening of reminiscing and reliving of old experiences. We had talked till I fell asleep.
At 6:45 on Sunday morning, I left to take a ride to Kandivali where my parents now lived. I had expected to experience the serenity and peace of early Sunday mornings as I remembered them – People strolling along the promenade on Carter Road, others walking to the temple or church dressed in their Sunday best. Mostly just peace and quiet as most of the population slept in after a late Saturday night.
Instead, I encountered a few maids walking large Alsatians. I gingerly avoided the little mounds of dog poop and flagged down a rickshaw. The air was still and very stale. No fresh dew, no soft gentle morning breeze. The smell kept getting worse and by the time I reached the nallah in Andheri, I realized that there was very little about Mumbai that was pretty or orderly. It was just dirty, unkempt and run down, and that ideal city that I carried in my heart – that was just a figment of my imagination.
I think I still love that imaginary city. And I think I shall keep looking for it in Mumbai and every other place I go to.
But BOMBAY- Aas! It is no more.
I had marveled through the floods of 2005 at the resilience of the people of Bombay. On 7/11/2006, I had waited anxiously by the phone to hear that my niece and her mom had reached home safely, and I tried not to think of the trauma my sister-in-law went through as she saw the victims of the bomb blast at Bandra railway station.
I proudly cheered on the integrity and unquenchable spirit of the young heroes of Slumdog Millionaire, turning a blind eye to the criminals who tested that spirit.
On 26/11 I wept as I watched the carnage in South Bombay, and I wept again when I heard that a dear friend had been one of the hostages. And I took comfort in knowing how he had held onto the indomitable Bombay spirit to the very end, believing he could charm the terrorists into letting him live. I read every single story about the attack, and while my heart bled over the senseless carnage, it also swelled with pride at the bravery and the determination of the people in the attack. Along with every other Bombayite, I applauded the determination of the hoteliers to re-open their doors, to restore their establishments to their full glory and deny the terrorists any semblance of a victory.
Through twenty three years of living in the United States, I had firmly held onto my image of Bombay – a slightly chaotic, but generally efficient city, united in the honest and determined pursuit of wealth and self-improvement, a city in which people minded their own business, and respected your desire to make an honest living. And while its streets were not exactly paved with gold, you did not need much to get started. You could count on the infrastructure to work, most days anyway.
You could count on being safe, even at 2am in the morning, and you could count on public transport. Yeah, you could get yourself into trouble – but you really had to go looking for it, it generally did not go out of its way to confront you.
The city teemed with energy. No city quite matched Churchgate station at rush hour – though New York city tried occasionally (and I haven’t been to Tokyo – but I suspect it is far more orderly).
And then just like that, that Sunday morning, I realized the Bombay I was thinking about was a figment of my imagination. Today’s Mumbai is larger, more crowded, more chaotic and the will to make an honest living has turned into a miserable drudge to just survive.
Oh yes, the spirit lingers. It even thrives in some pockets. But I am starting to think that that is the exception rather than the rule. Yes, the slum dwellers find things to be joyous about their condition. And yes, that is all part of the indomitable spirit. But seriously, is the choice to live in a slum, an actual choice they make?
People of all communities and religions live alongside peaceably each focused on earning their living. But isn’t this also where we have seen some of the worst communal riots ? Isn’t this the same city where a mob attacked a TV station because it had had the nerve to criticize their leader ?
Today, I think the various terrorist attacks, the various “acts of nature” that have inflicted harm on Mumbai were all avoidable. Or at the very least their impact could have been blunted through better management and infrastructure.
Instead of holding on firmly and with pride to the image of my college mate who is now one of Mumbai’s most respected policemen, I pray for his safety. I pray that he may just be allowed to live his life as he chooses, and I wish he would not choose to live it so dangerously.
I had never reconciled myself to the black cages that adorn every window, or the mosaic of cement lined cracks on building built in the late 50s and 60s, and I am sure that that was somewhere in my consciousness that Sunday morning.
I had been to a high school reunion the previous night, there I had met classmates from primary school from a zillion, ok 30+, years ago. It had been a wonderful evening of reminiscing and reliving of old experiences. We had talked till I fell asleep.
At 6:45 on Sunday morning, I left to take a ride to Kandivali where my parents now lived. I had expected to experience the serenity and peace of early Sunday mornings as I remembered them – People strolling along the promenade on Carter Road, others walking to the temple or church dressed in their Sunday best. Mostly just peace and quiet as most of the population slept in after a late Saturday night.
Instead, I encountered a few maids walking large Alsatians. I gingerly avoided the little mounds of dog poop and flagged down a rickshaw. The air was still and very stale. No fresh dew, no soft gentle morning breeze. The smell kept getting worse and by the time I reached the nallah in Andheri, I realized that there was very little about Mumbai that was pretty or orderly. It was just dirty, unkempt and run down, and that ideal city that I carried in my heart – that was just a figment of my imagination.
I think I still love that imaginary city. And I think I shall keep looking for it in Mumbai and every other place I go to.
But BOMBAY- Aas! It is no more.
Monday, July 27, 2009
Where is my stuff ?
This morning we were talking about the stuff we had left behind. As immigrants my uncle and several other members of my family have all left home with just a suitcase seeking our fortunes in lands far away from home. In doing so, we have often been separated from our stuff.
Stuff that we had painstakingly collected in our youth - stuff that we remembered with fondness and nostalgia -stuff that we could no longer lay our hands on. This stuff was the topic of our conversation. We were sitting in my "staged for sale" family room - I was getting ready to move once again. We were sipping Brooke Bond tea, a few strands of sunshine peeking out from behind a thick curtain of clouds, as a damp and gentle breeze wafted through the open windows. And suddenly I missed the stuff I used to have.
I missed my signature collection of cotton saris, gathered over a period of time - beautiful handloom saris from every part of India, the kind that made people stop and stare and ask me where I'd bought them . I had left them neatly stacked (ok my mom did the stacking) , occupying a full shelf in Mom's Godrej cupboard. When I returned 13 years later, I found just the one sari - my father used it to line the ironing table after it had turned soft after years of washing - it had done duty as my mothers favorite sari to wear in the house. There was no sign of the others.
It seems that shortly after my departure from the US, my mother and sisters-in-law had decided that I wasn't going to want these any more, and there really was no point in letting them rot away in the cupboard. The greatest honor they could think of for these saris was for them to keep them in circulation by wearing them. They would have consulted me had they thought for a second that I might have a different opinion on how they should be used.
And I missed my books that had probably made their way to a raddi pile or were donated to some library.
But this reminded my uncle about his stamp collection which he last saw in 1960. When he returned to the family home in Bombay several years later , he asked his young nephew Sudhin what he had done with the stamps. By then, Sudhin had taken over possession of the drawer in which my uncle, Nitin, had left the stamps. Sudhin told him he was just starting a collection himself and that he loved stamps. Too chicken to confront his older siblings over the loss of the stamps, Nitin simply wrote off his stamp collection. But it did not stop him from wondering about it this morning.
In any case it was the "randho" that my dad had given him that he had been really attached to. A "randho" is the Hindi name for a manual tool used to shape a block of wood - a predecessor to a router perhaps. Nitin often hung out at our house watching my dad work on his various carpentry projects. So my dad bought him a miniature randho that was very similar to the one he used. He loved that little randho, imagining all the things he could fashion with it. Suddenly, almost 50 years after he had last seen it, he had this strong need to find out what happened to it.
It was only 7 o'clock in the morning, we knew Mom would be awake, but we weren't sure she would pick up the phone. So we decided to call up Sudhin to see if he remembered the stamp collection any better than he had some 40 years ago...
So we called up Sudhin.. we talked to his son Ajay - who I think must have silently questioned our sanity - and quickly handed us off to Sudhin. "Hmmm.......you know I must call up Apurva and find out what he did to my coin collection.. I had all these rare and precious coins.. I haven't seen them since I left for Bahrain..... Stamps ? Kaka I've lost my whole coin collection, it was HUGE..........I bet Apurva knows something about it....." Clearly we were not going to find my uncle's stuff by talking to Sudhin.
So we hung up on Sudhin and called my mom, who hasn't forgotten anything - "Mom, do you remember the small randho papa bought Nitin - he left it behind when he came to America and he hasn't seen it since." Oh that's what happens to stuff.. I remember all the stuff I left behind in Kishore Bhuvan that they threw away as soon as I left the house. I had the most beautiful collection of music and songs - I got married, I left the house - when I came back from Haldwani 6 weeks later - everything was gone, and someone had taken over my drawer. I tell you the minute you leave, people throw away your stuff and take over your space. I am told someone decided that there wasn't enough space in the house for being sentimental. "
Then my dad got on the phone. "Oh yes, I remember the randho I gave you. What did you do with it Nitin ?"
This reminded me of my brother Uttam, bemoaning the loss of his "first day covers". First day covers were envelopes bearing stamps that were "postmarked" on the date they were first issued. First day covers were a big deal. My brother would make the trip by train from Bandra to Churchgate. From there he would walk to the GPO (Grand ? Post Office) by Victoria Terminus (now Chattrapati Shivaji Terminal). Here he would stand on line to receive the strictly 1 per person envelope that bore a special seal, and had on it a the newly released stamp. An instant collectors item was created when the post office datestamped this envelope. I know, because I once accompanied my brother on such a trip. I remember mostly just being fatigued by the hot sun and bored with standing on line.
But the first day covers - those are gone - vanished into thin air. Most likely I asked my mom to move them out to make room for some of my stuff. Probably best if I don't say anything - perhaps my brother has consoled himself with some other collection. Perhaps the coins... oh I think he bequeathed his coin collection to Sudhin.. Oh dear...
My sister-in-law Joyce wanted to know what all the to-do was over stuff. We told her she should be greatful she had no siblings waiting to take over her space and lose her stuff. And she reminded me that while she had no siblings...... she did have two daughters whom I had trained to throw stuff away. And they seemed to have learnt rather well.
For earlier this year, the one cleaned out the pantry throwing away the historic collection of spices that had been in the family since 1982, and the other had cleaned out Joyce's closet and from it perfectly good clothes that were a just a few sizes too large.. I kicked myself as I remembered lecturing the young ones - "You see all this stuff in my house. You have a choice, you can help me get rid of it now -while I can help you, or you can discard it when I am gone."
And with that I moved up the family tradition of losing stuff to a whole new level.. now we don't even wait for someone to leave - we now throw stuff out at periodic "weedings". Stuff that hasn't been used in a while, stuff that doesn't fit or look right, sometimes stuff that we paid lots of money for, sometimes stuff we really should keep - all this gets thrown away in the name of SHEDding or rationalization - Lets face it, there isn't much reverse migration happening from the US of A.
Chances are we will never find the stamps, the coins, the randho, the books, the clothes or the spices. On the other hand, thanks to the internet we did find this delightful piece on Stuff by George Carlin. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MvgN5gCuLac .
Stuff that we had painstakingly collected in our youth - stuff that we remembered with fondness and nostalgia -stuff that we could no longer lay our hands on. This stuff was the topic of our conversation. We were sitting in my "staged for sale" family room - I was getting ready to move once again. We were sipping Brooke Bond tea, a few strands of sunshine peeking out from behind a thick curtain of clouds, as a damp and gentle breeze wafted through the open windows. And suddenly I missed the stuff I used to have.
I missed my signature collection of cotton saris, gathered over a period of time - beautiful handloom saris from every part of India, the kind that made people stop and stare and ask me where I'd bought them . I had left them neatly stacked (ok my mom did the stacking) , occupying a full shelf in Mom's Godrej cupboard. When I returned 13 years later, I found just the one sari - my father used it to line the ironing table after it had turned soft after years of washing - it had done duty as my mothers favorite sari to wear in the house. There was no sign of the others.
It seems that shortly after my departure from the US, my mother and sisters-in-law had decided that I wasn't going to want these any more, and there really was no point in letting them rot away in the cupboard. The greatest honor they could think of for these saris was for them to keep them in circulation by wearing them. They would have consulted me had they thought for a second that I might have a different opinion on how they should be used.
And I missed my books that had probably made their way to a raddi pile or were donated to some library.
But this reminded my uncle about his stamp collection which he last saw in 1960. When he returned to the family home in Bombay several years later , he asked his young nephew Sudhin what he had done with the stamps. By then, Sudhin had taken over possession of the drawer in which my uncle, Nitin, had left the stamps. Sudhin told him he was just starting a collection himself and that he loved stamps. Too chicken to confront his older siblings over the loss of the stamps, Nitin simply wrote off his stamp collection. But it did not stop him from wondering about it this morning.
In any case it was the "randho" that my dad had given him that he had been really attached to. A "randho" is the Hindi name for a manual tool used to shape a block of wood - a predecessor to a router perhaps. Nitin often hung out at our house watching my dad work on his various carpentry projects. So my dad bought him a miniature randho that was very similar to the one he used. He loved that little randho, imagining all the things he could fashion with it. Suddenly, almost 50 years after he had last seen it, he had this strong need to find out what happened to it.
It was only 7 o'clock in the morning, we knew Mom would be awake, but we weren't sure she would pick up the phone. So we decided to call up Sudhin to see if he remembered the stamp collection any better than he had some 40 years ago...
So we called up Sudhin.. we talked to his son Ajay - who I think must have silently questioned our sanity - and quickly handed us off to Sudhin. "Hmmm.......you know I must call up Apurva and find out what he did to my coin collection.. I had all these rare and precious coins.. I haven't seen them since I left for Bahrain..... Stamps ? Kaka I've lost my whole coin collection, it was HUGE..........I bet Apurva knows something about it....." Clearly we were not going to find my uncle's stuff by talking to Sudhin.
So we hung up on Sudhin and called my mom, who hasn't forgotten anything - "Mom, do you remember the small randho papa bought Nitin - he left it behind when he came to America and he hasn't seen it since." Oh that's what happens to stuff.. I remember all the stuff I left behind in Kishore Bhuvan that they threw away as soon as I left the house. I had the most beautiful collection of music and songs - I got married, I left the house - when I came back from Haldwani 6 weeks later - everything was gone, and someone had taken over my drawer. I tell you the minute you leave, people throw away your stuff and take over your space. I am told someone decided that there wasn't enough space in the house for being sentimental. "
Then my dad got on the phone. "Oh yes, I remember the randho I gave you. What did you do with it Nitin ?"
This reminded me of my brother Uttam, bemoaning the loss of his "first day covers". First day covers were envelopes bearing stamps that were "postmarked" on the date they were first issued. First day covers were a big deal. My brother would make the trip by train from Bandra to Churchgate. From there he would walk to the GPO (Grand ? Post Office) by Victoria Terminus (now Chattrapati Shivaji Terminal). Here he would stand on line to receive the strictly 1 per person envelope that bore a special seal, and had on it a the newly released stamp. An instant collectors item was created when the post office datestamped this envelope. I know, because I once accompanied my brother on such a trip. I remember mostly just being fatigued by the hot sun and bored with standing on line.
But the first day covers - those are gone - vanished into thin air. Most likely I asked my mom to move them out to make room for some of my stuff. Probably best if I don't say anything - perhaps my brother has consoled himself with some other collection. Perhaps the coins... oh I think he bequeathed his coin collection to Sudhin.. Oh dear...
My sister-in-law Joyce wanted to know what all the to-do was over stuff. We told her she should be greatful she had no siblings waiting to take over her space and lose her stuff. And she reminded me that while she had no siblings...... she did have two daughters whom I had trained to throw stuff away. And they seemed to have learnt rather well.
For earlier this year, the one cleaned out the pantry throwing away the historic collection of spices that had been in the family since 1982, and the other had cleaned out Joyce's closet and from it perfectly good clothes that were a just a few sizes too large.. I kicked myself as I remembered lecturing the young ones - "You see all this stuff in my house. You have a choice, you can help me get rid of it now -while I can help you, or you can discard it when I am gone."
And with that I moved up the family tradition of losing stuff to a whole new level.. now we don't even wait for someone to leave - we now throw stuff out at periodic "weedings". Stuff that hasn't been used in a while, stuff that doesn't fit or look right, sometimes stuff that we paid lots of money for, sometimes stuff we really should keep - all this gets thrown away in the name of SHEDding or rationalization - Lets face it, there isn't much reverse migration happening from the US of A.
Chances are we will never find the stamps, the coins, the randho, the books, the clothes or the spices. On the other hand, thanks to the internet we did find this delightful piece on Stuff by George Carlin. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MvgN5gCuLac .
Sunday, July 5, 2009
At the Gym
For about 2 months now, I've been going to the gym religiously in an effort to build up my strength and endurance. Why ? you ask... Because I could....Things were a little slow at work, and this was a good way to keep my sanity.
This is actually my second foray into the gym - the first one having been a rather unsuccessful stint some 10 years ago - when I also worked out with a personal trainer. She was nine months pregnant, I felt confident that she would not push me into doing really difficult stuff.
This time was different - I was committed to make the most of the time available to me, and I was going to work out and give it my very best. My selection of trainer was based on who was in the gym at the time I wanted to work out. I ended up with a Young man who participates in body building shows - ok his name is Young and perhaps his attitude - he just placed first in a contest of body builders over 55! His military like demeanor is a far cry from my 9 months pregnant teacher from 10 years ago.
Going to the gym 6 days a week plus cardio, even someone as non-observant as me starts to notice people.
Like the 3 stooges - Larry, Curly and Moe or is it Darryl, Darryl and Darryl that come in every morning. Darryl has a hearing aid, Darryl is hard of hearing and the third Darryl is practicing to be in a show, and training his other two buddies. So their conversation is generally loud. Most of the time it is amusing - but I swear, one of these days if it interferes with my concentration, I will be having a talk with them. I suspect part of the problem is that they want me to talk to them, but gimme a break - they are very out of shape and very senior. So the only talking to they will be getting from me, is "Could you keep it down, please".
Then there is this extremely fit chiropractor - he is a cage fighter for sport - I am sure I never want to go to a chiropractor, and definitely not him.
There are the various couples that come in and train together - always the guy giving the girl instructions on what to do and how to train. Funny thing is they are right, only about half the time.
Then there are the young, enthusiastic guys. There is this one guy - I think if I would get a full cardio workout just by being his weight caddy - taking off and putting back the weights he uses on the leg press and the other machines. The other night he was excercising his back - he had 8 50lb wheels on each side. I usually moan and groan and struggle though with 1 20 lb wheel.
Then there are the twins.. well actually lots of twins. This is because I cannot distinguish one bald guy from the other. And generally speaking body builders prefer to shave their heads bald - at best they will sport a crew cut.. So this morning I saw this guy in a pair of tight plaid shorts and a tank top. His muscles were literally bursting out of his arms. Then I saw him again - this time in long dark pants and a full sleeved t-shirt. I figured he must have put on clothes to keep his muscles warm (yeah there's a whole ritual to this).. then I turned around and there was plaid shorts - so maybe there were two of them or three or four. Trouble is body builders prefer to shave their heads bald. So in the gym, to my untrained eye, they all look the same! So much for making any friends or acquaintances there - Darryl Darryl and Darryl seem like my best prospects so far. Atleast I can tell them apart when they are standing together.
Every gym has its share of gossip and intrigure as well. Like the body builder that got his picture in the paper but really did not deserve to and so on.
All in all, there is enough excitement to keep me amused every single day and keep me going back to the gym - at the end of the day, that is all that matters.
This is actually my second foray into the gym - the first one having been a rather unsuccessful stint some 10 years ago - when I also worked out with a personal trainer. She was nine months pregnant, I felt confident that she would not push me into doing really difficult stuff.
This time was different - I was committed to make the most of the time available to me, and I was going to work out and give it my very best. My selection of trainer was based on who was in the gym at the time I wanted to work out. I ended up with a Young man who participates in body building shows - ok his name is Young and perhaps his attitude - he just placed first in a contest of body builders over 55! His military like demeanor is a far cry from my 9 months pregnant teacher from 10 years ago.
Going to the gym 6 days a week plus cardio, even someone as non-observant as me starts to notice people.
Like the 3 stooges - Larry, Curly and Moe or is it Darryl, Darryl and Darryl that come in every morning. Darryl has a hearing aid, Darryl is hard of hearing and the third Darryl is practicing to be in a show, and training his other two buddies. So their conversation is generally loud. Most of the time it is amusing - but I swear, one of these days if it interferes with my concentration, I will be having a talk with them. I suspect part of the problem is that they want me to talk to them, but gimme a break - they are very out of shape and very senior. So the only talking to they will be getting from me, is "Could you keep it down, please".
Then there is this extremely fit chiropractor - he is a cage fighter for sport - I am sure I never want to go to a chiropractor, and definitely not him.
There are the various couples that come in and train together - always the guy giving the girl instructions on what to do and how to train. Funny thing is they are right, only about half the time.
Then there are the young, enthusiastic guys. There is this one guy - I think if I would get a full cardio workout just by being his weight caddy - taking off and putting back the weights he uses on the leg press and the other machines. The other night he was excercising his back - he had 8 50lb wheels on each side. I usually moan and groan and struggle though with 1 20 lb wheel.
Then there are the twins.. well actually lots of twins. This is because I cannot distinguish one bald guy from the other. And generally speaking body builders prefer to shave their heads bald - at best they will sport a crew cut.. So this morning I saw this guy in a pair of tight plaid shorts and a tank top. His muscles were literally bursting out of his arms. Then I saw him again - this time in long dark pants and a full sleeved t-shirt. I figured he must have put on clothes to keep his muscles warm (yeah there's a whole ritual to this).. then I turned around and there was plaid shorts - so maybe there were two of them or three or four. Trouble is body builders prefer to shave their heads bald. So in the gym, to my untrained eye, they all look the same! So much for making any friends or acquaintances there - Darryl Darryl and Darryl seem like my best prospects so far. Atleast I can tell them apart when they are standing together.
Every gym has its share of gossip and intrigure as well. Like the body builder that got his picture in the paper but really did not deserve to and so on.
All in all, there is enough excitement to keep me amused every single day and keep me going back to the gym - at the end of the day, that is all that matters.
Friday, May 22, 2009
The City of Poughkeepsie
I first heard the name Poughkeepsie in January of 1985 as I travelled on the Amtrak train from Rochester to New York City. I had come, reluctantly, to visit the United States - for how could anything ever compare to my wonderful city of Bombay. And yet, despite the cold, I had fallen in love with New York city - after all it was just as cosmopolitan and energetic as my beloved Bombay, just cleaner and more organized. But I digress. The train travelled through a snow laden landscape unlike anything I had ever seen before. And then as it headed due south at Albany the tracks ran along the mighty Hudson - covered with a large sheet of ice. The river's presence evident only by the large cracks in the ice that warned you of the freezing water flowing under the ice. I recalled fondly the books I'd read of frozen rivers and sheets of snow. A couple of hours from Albany, the train stopped in what seemed to be the middle of nowhere, and an oil tanker came upto the side of the train to refuel it. On the barren, windswept platform on the other side of the train, I saw a sign "Poughkeepsie".
10 months later, when I heard that name again, I was already familiar with it, and not even remotely intimidated by the prospect of moving there. I moved to the Town of Poughkeepsie in 1986 and studied Computer Science first at the Dutchess Community College, and subsequently at Marist College. I traveled through the City of Poughkeepsie - a more concentrated urban center with a Main Street and a Market Street and an Academy Street etc... but always gingerly, always worried about the crimes that I had known were committed there. I never ventured there after dark.
And yet, as I travelled through the streets, always with the car doors locked, I marvelled at the beautiful Victorian mansions that lined its streets, marvelled at the exuberance of the trees and flowers that flourished in the city gardens and felt a pang of nostalgia for what this city must have been. But back in the early days, I was always in a hurry, and never had the time to stop and think too much about the names of the streets and on some of the historic mansions in the area - Vanderbilt, Roosevelt, Morse, Clinton, Vassar, names that I had heard back in India. For I was way too pre-occupied with the one really big name I had invested my entire future in - IBM.
IBM had come to the Poughkeepsie area only during the late 1930s/early 1940s - rumor has it that Tom Watson, the founder of IBM was looking for a safe place to house a gun factory - like all patriotic corporations, during World War II, IBM had turned its significant manufacturing capabilities to producing guns for the War. Tom Watson was flying through the Hudson Valley looking for a suitable location. When he passed over a patch of land along the Hudson, just a little south of the City of Poughkeepsie - he pointed down and told his realtor that that was where he wanted to build his factory - "Why there ? It is so God forsaken.." the surprised realtor is supposed to have stammered - "Because it looks like it has been bombed already.." Mr Watson is supposed to have replied.
But the City of Poughkeepsie had been a thriving center for commerce long before the arrival of IBM - it was a center of manufacturing, performing arts, shopping, and education. Several of the buildings and streets that served as major thoroughfares back then, still stand - some painstakingly preserved and others showing signs of urban decay.
For the manufacturing plants and the famous stores have all moved away, and in the late '80s - the City of Poughkeepsie became notorious as a high crime district. Over the years, I had less and less reason to go to the City of Poughkeepsie - I am guessing I hadn't been there at all in the last 15 years.
And then out of nowhere, I found myself being summoned to the City to perform my civic responsibilities - all residents are called upon to do this at some point of time or the other - mine happened to be this year. And I now find myself travelling into the City (as we affectionately refer to the City of Poughkeepsie) about 2 or 3 times a week.
You can see that there has been an effort to revitalize parts of the city - the Poughkeepsie Journal building and the Post Office stand as proud examples of the Grey Stone work this area was proud of - the Court House and the Dutchess County District Attorney's office, which is actually a painstakingly restored bank building, stand tall on the corner of Main and Market. The railroad station with its high ceilings and enormous stained glass windows is one of my favorite buildings. Lush green foliage and gorgeous flowers are everywhere confirming Poughkeepsie's reputation as Arbor City USA.
And yet, there are also the abandoned buildings, crumbling structures with windows that are boarded up, or sometimes the even sadder alternative - signs of people living in them. I am told that incidents related to drugs and gangs are relatively common. And unlike the farmlands, just 10 or 15 miles away which are being hastily bought up and parceled out into homesites - there are very few buyers for city properties - several of which are already constructed and quite beautiful.
This morning I ended up driving through one of the prettier boulevards in the city - Academy Street home to large old Victorian mansions, several beautifully restored, and several especially as you got closer to the city center in a state of decay. I was overcome by a feeling of sadness and helplessness - oh that i could do something to restore this city to its original glory - what a waste of absolutely beautiful homes - what a loss of history !!!
And then I think about the young people living lives of quiet desperation, resorting to whatever they must to survive in this city, fighting their demons, often spending all of their painfully brief lives in the confines of the city center - and I feel even more despondent - they don't even know what they are missing........
and then I am pull myself back to the inspiration for this blog - the Poisonwood Bible - the one that taught me - "Never presume you know what is best for someone - until you've walked in their shoes, lived their lives, dreamt their dreams and experienced their pains and their joys - you really cannot know what is good for them." And I find myself asking "Really ? Not even here ? I knew that to be the case in India, which I had been away from too long to really know or understand.. but isn't this my home - America ?
And then I gripped by a cold reality - who am I to judge ? .... I am but an immigrant, with a suitcase packed and ready for the next opportunity, the next adventure - with temporary roots and transferable ties, an unquenchable thirst for new experiences for pushing myself into places and experiences I've not yet begun to imagine - what do I know about people who have mastered the art of stillness, who revel in continuity - aren't I the one envious of all the people I know who go to the same church all their lives, and where there is continuity of lifestyle across generations, a permanence that I who move to a different home on an average of 3.5 years have never experienced ?
10 months later, when I heard that name again, I was already familiar with it, and not even remotely intimidated by the prospect of moving there. I moved to the Town of Poughkeepsie in 1986 and studied Computer Science first at the Dutchess Community College, and subsequently at Marist College. I traveled through the City of Poughkeepsie - a more concentrated urban center with a Main Street and a Market Street and an Academy Street etc... but always gingerly, always worried about the crimes that I had known were committed there. I never ventured there after dark.
And yet, as I travelled through the streets, always with the car doors locked, I marvelled at the beautiful Victorian mansions that lined its streets, marvelled at the exuberance of the trees and flowers that flourished in the city gardens and felt a pang of nostalgia for what this city must have been. But back in the early days, I was always in a hurry, and never had the time to stop and think too much about the names of the streets and on some of the historic mansions in the area - Vanderbilt, Roosevelt, Morse, Clinton, Vassar, names that I had heard back in India. For I was way too pre-occupied with the one really big name I had invested my entire future in - IBM.
IBM had come to the Poughkeepsie area only during the late 1930s/early 1940s - rumor has it that Tom Watson, the founder of IBM was looking for a safe place to house a gun factory - like all patriotic corporations, during World War II, IBM had turned its significant manufacturing capabilities to producing guns for the War. Tom Watson was flying through the Hudson Valley looking for a suitable location. When he passed over a patch of land along the Hudson, just a little south of the City of Poughkeepsie - he pointed down and told his realtor that that was where he wanted to build his factory - "Why there ? It is so God forsaken.." the surprised realtor is supposed to have stammered - "Because it looks like it has been bombed already.." Mr Watson is supposed to have replied.
But the City of Poughkeepsie had been a thriving center for commerce long before the arrival of IBM - it was a center of manufacturing, performing arts, shopping, and education. Several of the buildings and streets that served as major thoroughfares back then, still stand - some painstakingly preserved and others showing signs of urban decay.
For the manufacturing plants and the famous stores have all moved away, and in the late '80s - the City of Poughkeepsie became notorious as a high crime district. Over the years, I had less and less reason to go to the City of Poughkeepsie - I am guessing I hadn't been there at all in the last 15 years.
And then out of nowhere, I found myself being summoned to the City to perform my civic responsibilities - all residents are called upon to do this at some point of time or the other - mine happened to be this year. And I now find myself travelling into the City (as we affectionately refer to the City of Poughkeepsie) about 2 or 3 times a week.
You can see that there has been an effort to revitalize parts of the city - the Poughkeepsie Journal building and the Post Office stand as proud examples of the Grey Stone work this area was proud of - the Court House and the Dutchess County District Attorney's office, which is actually a painstakingly restored bank building, stand tall on the corner of Main and Market. The railroad station with its high ceilings and enormous stained glass windows is one of my favorite buildings. Lush green foliage and gorgeous flowers are everywhere confirming Poughkeepsie's reputation as Arbor City USA.
And yet, there are also the abandoned buildings, crumbling structures with windows that are boarded up, or sometimes the even sadder alternative - signs of people living in them. I am told that incidents related to drugs and gangs are relatively common. And unlike the farmlands, just 10 or 15 miles away which are being hastily bought up and parceled out into homesites - there are very few buyers for city properties - several of which are already constructed and quite beautiful.
This morning I ended up driving through one of the prettier boulevards in the city - Academy Street home to large old Victorian mansions, several beautifully restored, and several especially as you got closer to the city center in a state of decay. I was overcome by a feeling of sadness and helplessness - oh that i could do something to restore this city to its original glory - what a waste of absolutely beautiful homes - what a loss of history !!!
And then I think about the young people living lives of quiet desperation, resorting to whatever they must to survive in this city, fighting their demons, often spending all of their painfully brief lives in the confines of the city center - and I feel even more despondent - they don't even know what they are missing........
and then I am pull myself back to the inspiration for this blog - the Poisonwood Bible - the one that taught me - "Never presume you know what is best for someone - until you've walked in their shoes, lived their lives, dreamt their dreams and experienced their pains and their joys - you really cannot know what is good for them." And I find myself asking "Really ? Not even here ? I knew that to be the case in India, which I had been away from too long to really know or understand.. but isn't this my home - America ?
And then I gripped by a cold reality - who am I to judge ? .... I am but an immigrant, with a suitcase packed and ready for the next opportunity, the next adventure - with temporary roots and transferable ties, an unquenchable thirst for new experiences for pushing myself into places and experiences I've not yet begun to imagine - what do I know about people who have mastered the art of stillness, who revel in continuity - aren't I the one envious of all the people I know who go to the same church all their lives, and where there is continuity of lifestyle across generations, a permanence that I who move to a different home on an average of 3.5 years have never experienced ?
Friday, March 20, 2009
Is Spring on the Way ?
The arrival of spring is heralded all over the world with celebrations of various kinds. And while everyone thinks spring in their part of the world is the most special, I must confess, I must agree.
Spring in upstate New York is perhaps the most anticipated season of all. When the landscape transforms from the cold, barren grey to sunny, less cold, and the promise of life - held forth by yellow daffodils dancing in the breeze and multi-colored flowers springing to life in gardens everywhere. The road salt is washed away by gentle spring showers and everything is suddenly fresh and new. Windows that have long been shut tight to keep out the cold air are opened to let the springtime in.. It is a glorious season - energizing, uplifting, with the promise of good things to come.
I remember my first spring in New York - it had been a cold long winter of removing snow off the car, scraping ice off the windshield, that perilous feeling in the bottom of your stomach as your car spins out of control because you dared go 15 miles an hour in the snow, constantly feeling cold, hands, feet and nose never ever getting warm enough - what had I been thinking - snow was not fun, and pretty only when it fell in the distant woodlands. The best snow was the kind that had melted already.
It had also been a very difficult winter - adjusting to the realities of the new country I had moved to, getting used to the people I had been living with. Everything was so different from Bombay and its warmth and friendship. There were no people on the street, not even one. My successful advertising career in Bombay seemed so distant and irrelevant in this town that recognized just computer scientists and lawyers and doctors. I think that was the winter in which I put on my first 20 pounds. Was it the depression, low energy gloominess ? Was it the fact that you never walked anywhere ? Never got to see yourself in the mirror without 3 layers of clothing ? Or was it that everyday seemed dark and grey ?
And then early one morning I was making myself a cup of tea - indian style - and I looked out the kitchen window to this glorious sight - a tall tulip/magnolia tree covered in buds that were about to open. 23 years later, I can still feel the sense of joy and euphoria that shot through me upon seeing it. Yes, winter is finally over. Yes!! There is hope. Yes!! There will be renewal. Yes!! The good times will return..........
Of course everyone who has lived here for a few years is familiar with this phenomenon and so no one was impressed by my discovery - especially my brother whom I must have called at 6:15 his time on a Saturday morning to tell him I had seen the light.
Twenty three springs have come and gone. And yet I continue to be delighted by this renewal of life and energy. Five years ago, when I moved into this house, I planted (or got the landscapers to plant) a beautiful garden that would bloom with flowers from spring to fall. Carefully placed, in my line of sight outside my home office window, where I spend most of my day, is a beautiful magnolia tree. It stands there looking like an ordinary tree all summer long. In the fall it sheds its leaves and stands barren through the long, cold winter. But at the end of March it sprouts the most promising buds that in April turn into the most incredible blooms that covered a tree.
Five years - and I have never once seen this tree in bloom - because invariably I have been away from my home office, only to return to see the spent blooms on the grass around it. The first year the weather was bad. The second year it was a 3-week trip to Australia. The third, fourth and fifth years I was in Delhi while the tree did its thing.
The tree is covered in tight little buds and I have no long trips planned away from home this year. So will this be the year I finally see my magnolia bloom ?
Spring in upstate New York is perhaps the most anticipated season of all. When the landscape transforms from the cold, barren grey to sunny, less cold, and the promise of life - held forth by yellow daffodils dancing in the breeze and multi-colored flowers springing to life in gardens everywhere. The road salt is washed away by gentle spring showers and everything is suddenly fresh and new. Windows that have long been shut tight to keep out the cold air are opened to let the springtime in.. It is a glorious season - energizing, uplifting, with the promise of good things to come.
I remember my first spring in New York - it had been a cold long winter of removing snow off the car, scraping ice off the windshield, that perilous feeling in the bottom of your stomach as your car spins out of control because you dared go 15 miles an hour in the snow, constantly feeling cold, hands, feet and nose never ever getting warm enough - what had I been thinking - snow was not fun, and pretty only when it fell in the distant woodlands. The best snow was the kind that had melted already.
It had also been a very difficult winter - adjusting to the realities of the new country I had moved to, getting used to the people I had been living with. Everything was so different from Bombay and its warmth and friendship. There were no people on the street, not even one. My successful advertising career in Bombay seemed so distant and irrelevant in this town that recognized just computer scientists and lawyers and doctors. I think that was the winter in which I put on my first 20 pounds. Was it the depression, low energy gloominess ? Was it the fact that you never walked anywhere ? Never got to see yourself in the mirror without 3 layers of clothing ? Or was it that everyday seemed dark and grey ?
And then early one morning I was making myself a cup of tea - indian style - and I looked out the kitchen window to this glorious sight - a tall tulip/magnolia tree covered in buds that were about to open. 23 years later, I can still feel the sense of joy and euphoria that shot through me upon seeing it. Yes, winter is finally over. Yes!! There is hope. Yes!! There will be renewal. Yes!! The good times will return..........
Of course everyone who has lived here for a few years is familiar with this phenomenon and so no one was impressed by my discovery - especially my brother whom I must have called at 6:15 his time on a Saturday morning to tell him I had seen the light.
Twenty three springs have come and gone. And yet I continue to be delighted by this renewal of life and energy. Five years ago, when I moved into this house, I planted (or got the landscapers to plant) a beautiful garden that would bloom with flowers from spring to fall. Carefully placed, in my line of sight outside my home office window, where I spend most of my day, is a beautiful magnolia tree. It stands there looking like an ordinary tree all summer long. In the fall it sheds its leaves and stands barren through the long, cold winter. But at the end of March it sprouts the most promising buds that in April turn into the most incredible blooms that covered a tree.
Five years - and I have never once seen this tree in bloom - because invariably I have been away from my home office, only to return to see the spent blooms on the grass around it. The first year the weather was bad. The second year it was a 3-week trip to Australia. The third, fourth and fifth years I was in Delhi while the tree did its thing.
The tree is covered in tight little buds and I have no long trips planned away from home this year. So will this be the year I finally see my magnolia bloom ?
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Ponzi Schemes
Ponzi schemes have been in the news a lot lately - thanks to one Richard Madoff who bilked a large number of people out of their hard earned money. Richard Madoff, at 70, has had to move out of his posh luxury penthouse in Manhattan and move into a 7x10 jail cell after pleading guilty to a multitude of charges of "Ponzi scheming" brought against him.
So what exactly is a Ponzi scheme ? Its easy to guess from the context in which the phrase is used that it involves the taking of money from one group of individuals with a promise of incredible returns - often numbers that seem too good to be true.
The label was coined after a fellow named Charles Ponzi who spun his web around 1920 when he scammed about $15 million - Richard Madoff is estimated to have scammed upwards of $50billion 90 years later.
Charles Ponzi's scheme used International Reply Coupons or IRCs - the very same things I remember using as a kid to get pen pals. These coupons were used in the receiving country to buy postage stamps equal to the value of the IRC Coupons. Ponzi claimed that the difference between the amount paid to acquire these in one country, and the amount of postage stamps they could buy in the country where they were being redeemed, represented profit. The difference was enough to yield a 50% return in 45 days and 100% return in 90 days. There are many articles that chronicle Charles Ponzi's scam - http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ponzi_scheme .
Apart from the fact that the real cost of purchase, redemption and distribution would have wiped out the huge margins, because the per unit cost of these coupons was very small, Ponzi did not actually buy the IRCs , he merely said he would. He used new money that was flowing in to pay off the older creditors. With no real value being created, or real profit being generated, he quickly ran out of new investors to pay off the rabidly growing group of older investors.
20 years ago, I had the opportunity to witness the evolution of a Ponzi scheme as my employer tried one "cash flow" based scheme after another to run a business while maintaining a flamboyat lifestyle.
The first venture was recruitment that received "Retainer Deposits" from corporate clients with the promise to find them people to fill jobs in their company. In theory the deposit was fully refundable. The deposits put cash in the bank to allow the comany to pay the salaries and incur the expenses of running a recruitment or placement firm.
The second big phase was "leasing" of office space and furniture. A private investor purchased the fine furnishings for our fancy Nariman Point office, and charged the business a monthly rental fee. This allowed the company to have a very nice office, without the cash outlay. However, it did drive up monthly expenses, and with it the need to pump more cash through the system. The recruiting business never did generate the cash flow required to sustain the fancy office digs.
This saw the introduction of a "Auto Card", where private individuals placed a deposit with the company, who issued them a "card" that they could swipe at gas stations around the city. Funds would be deducted from their deposits and settled with the gas stations on a daily basis. Gas stations and individuals could get out of the business of handling cash.
Funds for the daily settlements with the gas stations ran out almost within the first two weeks. And thus was invented Cash Card - a similar deposit based debit card scheme - which got you a card that you could use at subsequent retailers.
The lights went out on this business, figuratively and literally, about 3 years after the first recruitment retainer was collected. The schemes originated from the rich, US educated imagination of the Gujarati business man who founded the company. There was an indictment, there was a trial or the start of one. And then the scheming business man died - leaving thousands of unpaid bills in his wake.
The sad part in that particularly Ponzi scheme was that no wealth was actually accumulated. Mr. Shah, the founder of the company went back to living in his mother's apartment, as penniless as the day he was born. While the fact that he had frittered away the precious savings of hundreds of middle class families, it was sadder still that he had nothing left to show for it.
Maddox's $70M penthouse atleast gives people something to figuratively hold onto.
So what exactly is a Ponzi scheme ? Its easy to guess from the context in which the phrase is used that it involves the taking of money from one group of individuals with a promise of incredible returns - often numbers that seem too good to be true.
The label was coined after a fellow named Charles Ponzi who spun his web around 1920 when he scammed about $15 million - Richard Madoff is estimated to have scammed upwards of $50billion 90 years later.
Charles Ponzi's scheme used International Reply Coupons or IRCs - the very same things I remember using as a kid to get pen pals. These coupons were used in the receiving country to buy postage stamps equal to the value of the IRC Coupons. Ponzi claimed that the difference between the amount paid to acquire these in one country, and the amount of postage stamps they could buy in the country where they were being redeemed, represented profit. The difference was enough to yield a 50% return in 45 days and 100% return in 90 days. There are many articles that chronicle Charles Ponzi's scam - http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ponzi_scheme .
Apart from the fact that the real cost of purchase, redemption and distribution would have wiped out the huge margins, because the per unit cost of these coupons was very small, Ponzi did not actually buy the IRCs , he merely said he would. He used new money that was flowing in to pay off the older creditors. With no real value being created, or real profit being generated, he quickly ran out of new investors to pay off the rabidly growing group of older investors.
20 years ago, I had the opportunity to witness the evolution of a Ponzi scheme as my employer tried one "cash flow" based scheme after another to run a business while maintaining a flamboyat lifestyle.
The first venture was recruitment that received "Retainer Deposits" from corporate clients with the promise to find them people to fill jobs in their company. In theory the deposit was fully refundable. The deposits put cash in the bank to allow the comany to pay the salaries and incur the expenses of running a recruitment or placement firm.
The second big phase was "leasing" of office space and furniture. A private investor purchased the fine furnishings for our fancy Nariman Point office, and charged the business a monthly rental fee. This allowed the company to have a very nice office, without the cash outlay. However, it did drive up monthly expenses, and with it the need to pump more cash through the system. The recruiting business never did generate the cash flow required to sustain the fancy office digs.
This saw the introduction of a "Auto Card", where private individuals placed a deposit with the company, who issued them a "card" that they could swipe at gas stations around the city. Funds would be deducted from their deposits and settled with the gas stations on a daily basis. Gas stations and individuals could get out of the business of handling cash.
Funds for the daily settlements with the gas stations ran out almost within the first two weeks. And thus was invented Cash Card - a similar deposit based debit card scheme - which got you a card that you could use at subsequent retailers.
The lights went out on this business, figuratively and literally, about 3 years after the first recruitment retainer was collected. The schemes originated from the rich, US educated imagination of the Gujarati business man who founded the company. There was an indictment, there was a trial or the start of one. And then the scheming business man died - leaving thousands of unpaid bills in his wake.
The sad part in that particularly Ponzi scheme was that no wealth was actually accumulated. Mr. Shah, the founder of the company went back to living in his mother's apartment, as penniless as the day he was born. While the fact that he had frittered away the precious savings of hundreds of middle class families, it was sadder still that he had nothing left to show for it.
Maddox's $70M penthouse atleast gives people something to figuratively hold onto.
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
What a Day!
It is almost midnight as I start to write this blog. But it has been too special a day to go unblogged. There are two parallel dramas that unfolded today
The first is the ongoing drama on Wall Street. Despite the mayhem and bloodshed -there are significant opportunities in Wall Street for an IT company - and we are out there seeking them. Even as we spent the weekend putting the finishing touches on a presentation for a client, word was leaking out that they were going to announce their quarterly results and were expected to post the biggest loss ever in corporate history. They called to postpone their meeting by a half hour so that the people could listen into the Chairman as he shared the results with the employees.
In the skies - another drama was unfolding. An unusual pattern of cold air formed somewhere over Tennessee and made its way East and North through Atlanta, Raleigh, Washington DC, Philadelphia, New Jersey, New York all the way up to Boston and Maine blanketing the east coast of the United States in a thick white cover. Most of our team had assembled in New York on Sunday night - those that planned to travel on Monday morning never made it in.
We caught the subway from Times Square to Fulton Street and then walked over to our office on Maiden Ln. The snow was coming down in big fat flakes and I realized that this was the first time I'd ever walked in falling snow. It was a special, magical experience - but I am still not anxious to repeat it anytime soon. It was COLD. Upstairs from the office window we watched the snow come down and cover the roof tops and the street, while we started taking bets re whether this meeting would happen.
They called to say that they were going to postpone it until tomorrow because most of their team had not made it in. And just as the winners started collecting their bets they called to say that the meeting was back on.
The Dow Jones Industrial Average dropped below 7000 and closed around 6700 - territory it had not been in for 12 years - since I moved from living in a rented apartment to my own house.
The carts and food stalls that line Maiden Lane were all closed today because of the weather. But it will be interesting to see how many come back with the good weather. In fact it will be interesting to see how many of the Wall Street firms are still in business a year from today. I pray along with every other person affected by current financial debacle for a speedy end to our winter of sorrows.
The first is the ongoing drama on Wall Street. Despite the mayhem and bloodshed -there are significant opportunities in Wall Street for an IT company - and we are out there seeking them. Even as we spent the weekend putting the finishing touches on a presentation for a client, word was leaking out that they were going to announce their quarterly results and were expected to post the biggest loss ever in corporate history. They called to postpone their meeting by a half hour so that the people could listen into the Chairman as he shared the results with the employees.
In the skies - another drama was unfolding. An unusual pattern of cold air formed somewhere over Tennessee and made its way East and North through Atlanta, Raleigh, Washington DC, Philadelphia, New Jersey, New York all the way up to Boston and Maine blanketing the east coast of the United States in a thick white cover. Most of our team had assembled in New York on Sunday night - those that planned to travel on Monday morning never made it in.
We caught the subway from Times Square to Fulton Street and then walked over to our office on Maiden Ln. The snow was coming down in big fat flakes and I realized that this was the first time I'd ever walked in falling snow. It was a special, magical experience - but I am still not anxious to repeat it anytime soon. It was COLD. Upstairs from the office window we watched the snow come down and cover the roof tops and the street, while we started taking bets re whether this meeting would happen.
They called to say that they were going to postpone it until tomorrow because most of their team had not made it in. And just as the winners started collecting their bets they called to say that the meeting was back on.
The Dow Jones Industrial Average dropped below 7000 and closed around 6700 - territory it had not been in for 12 years - since I moved from living in a rented apartment to my own house.
The carts and food stalls that line Maiden Lane were all closed today because of the weather. But it will be interesting to see how many come back with the good weather. In fact it will be interesting to see how many of the Wall Street firms are still in business a year from today. I pray along with every other person affected by current financial debacle for a speedy end to our winter of sorrows.
Monday, March 2, 2009
Chicken!!!
There are many advantages to living in Stormville. Convenient access to New York city is not one of them. My choices are -
- I take a limo to the city which is very convenient and outrageously expensive, unaffordable if the company isnt paying for it,
- Take a train - There are 2 flavors to the train Either I drive myself to the station, pray that I will find a spot to park and be able to sprint up and down the stairs in time so that I do not have to wait for an hour on a freezing cold windswept platform, OR I pay Luis a handsome sum of money to drive me over. The latter also requires planning ahead. Once I get into Grand Central I have to catch a subway to get me to Wall Street. 3 hours door to door each way.
- Drive myself - 90 minutes to get from the garage attached to my house to a garage in mid-town Manhattan.
I've made atleast 20 trips to New York City this past year, and it wasn't until the end of January, that I decided that enough was enough. It was time to conquer my timidity and fear of driving into the city and give myself a little more time and flexibility.
The 90 minute ride means I hop on to the Taconic Parkway and then onto the Sawmill River Parkway and onto the Henry Hudson Highway. Parkways in the Hudson Valley region (my area) refer to highways that have been cut through forests. These are typically narrow, winding roads open to non-commercial passenger traffic only - no trucks allowed yeah!!
Someone once told me that the Taconic Parkway was built along the old horse-buggy path that went from New York to Albany. I have not found any evidence to corroborate this theory, though it is definitely a plausible theory. Forests, State Parks and farms line either side of the Taconic -and spectacular pastoral scenes with deep blue mountains as you come into Dutchess County. There is a particular bend in the road where I am always swept away by the beauty of the scene - even 20 years after I first laid eyes on it.
But I digress. There is a reason why I avoided driving into the city. For this beautiful scenic road that takes me into the city is also a major challenge. Even under normal circumstances, I am a timid driver. I have this absolute fear of brushing against or scratching my car on something.. be it a bush on the side of the road, a gaurdrail, a rock, another car or a deer. That doesn't mean these things have not happened - I've even rubbed the car against the side of the garage door and I once almost had my car wrecked by a deer who decided to cross the road at the wrong time. Neither experience has decreased my fear of these things.
Before, when I was content to drive in the right lane following any old slow poke on the road, it wasn't a huge problem. Just meant that I had to watch out when you were going over a bridge or narrow part of the road if someone was trying to pass (overtake) you. I would usually encourage them to pass me where the road was wider by slowing down.
But then I lived in Delhi for 3 years, and learnt to become impatient. And decided that I too should stake my claim on the road. And so now everytime there is a slow poke ahead of me, I prefer to pass them. Legally and in the left lane.
Atleast half the slow pokes decide that they must speed up when I try to pass them. Its almost as if I've woken them from their trance or re-acquainted them with their competitive spirit. And so we'll go side by side - or me just a notch behind them until I can psyche myself into passing them. Sometimes, I find I have to give up and hang back into my position a few feet behind the slow poke until I see a nice wide path opening up and then I swing into the left lane with a heavy foot on the gas and zip past them. This happened to me 3 times this afternoon on my way over.
And I kept telling myself I was a big chicken. And then I remembered... If I was a real chicken I'd be on the train with my feet up reading a book or taking a nap. No I am just a "used to be chicken" aspiring to something else.
Sunday, March 1, 2009
No Consequences
I was visiting my niece (yet another one) in college - about 4 or 5 weeks into her first semester. She had traded in a very close knit, highly supervised environment for life on a college campus in the United States.
"So how's it going ?" I asked her - "Good, I am starting to make friends, figure things out.. some classes are easy, others not so much... but you know what is weird.... you have all this freedom... there are rules, but there are no consequences for breaking them.. of all the changes, that is the one I've been most surprised by".
"No consequences ?" the logic student inside me bristled. "You mean there are no immediate, direct, visible consequences ?" She gave me the look that the very young and intelligent reserve for crazy people to whom they are being polite only cos the crazy person is picking up the dinner check and says "Yeah no consequences".
The logic student noticed that she hadn't acknowledged her point - "Let me tell you my dear, there are consequences - they are just waiting for the right moment to catch up with you!" What do you mean ? she says.
"I too was young and skinny and beautiful like you" said the maiden aunt, "and I was certain that nothing could take it away from me. I loved batawadas - oh never mind, you don't know what a batatawada is - I loved batatawadas the way you love ice-cream. Oh come to think of it - I loved ice cream as well and french fries and anything that had potatoes in it and was deep fried. And I was young and skinny and beautiful.. and I could eat as much of these things as I wanted to, and I did. To the point that I could make a meal out of batatawadas.... You ask me dear, why I have to shop at the plus size store ? Its cos the damn batatawadas and poor food and poor lifestyle choices finally caught up with me!!"
By now the young woman was starting to think that the aunt might be going crazy - was this free dinner worth listening to her rant about batawadas ? Then she got it - this was the consequence of accepting a free dinner, even if it was your favorite restaurant, you had to sit and listen to the aunt - cos she was paying for the dinner, and she was going to drive you back to the dorm. If she was extra polite, the aunt's generosity might stretch to ordering an entree that they could takeout for tomorrow night. A good consequence.
"Interesting" she said, "but you must have continued your poor food choices - this could not be the consequence of a batatawada you ate 30 years ago" "Well, if we had enough time, I could probably show you the connection - but let me help you with one that is a little easier to follow. 20 years ago, I decided I did not want children. That career and financial stability were more important. There were no consequences back then - or if there were I did not notice. But here we are 20 years later. And I cannot undo that action from 20 years ago. Thank God my brother and his wife followed a different path. Whom would I be visiting today if they too had decided they did not want to have children ?"
"So how's it going ?" I asked her - "Good, I am starting to make friends, figure things out.. some classes are easy, others not so much... but you know what is weird.... you have all this freedom... there are rules, but there are no consequences for breaking them.. of all the changes, that is the one I've been most surprised by".
"No consequences ?" the logic student inside me bristled. "You mean there are no immediate, direct, visible consequences ?" She gave me the look that the very young and intelligent reserve for crazy people to whom they are being polite only cos the crazy person is picking up the dinner check and says "Yeah no consequences".
The logic student noticed that she hadn't acknowledged her point - "Let me tell you my dear, there are consequences - they are just waiting for the right moment to catch up with you!" What do you mean ? she says.
"I too was young and skinny and beautiful like you" said the maiden aunt, "and I was certain that nothing could take it away from me. I loved batawadas - oh never mind, you don't know what a batatawada is - I loved batatawadas the way you love ice-cream. Oh come to think of it - I loved ice cream as well and french fries and anything that had potatoes in it and was deep fried. And I was young and skinny and beautiful.. and I could eat as much of these things as I wanted to, and I did. To the point that I could make a meal out of batatawadas.... You ask me dear, why I have to shop at the plus size store ? Its cos the damn batatawadas and poor food and poor lifestyle choices finally caught up with me!!"
By now the young woman was starting to think that the aunt might be going crazy - was this free dinner worth listening to her rant about batawadas ? Then she got it - this was the consequence of accepting a free dinner, even if it was your favorite restaurant, you had to sit and listen to the aunt - cos she was paying for the dinner, and she was going to drive you back to the dorm. If she was extra polite, the aunt's generosity might stretch to ordering an entree that they could takeout for tomorrow night. A good consequence.
"Interesting" she said, "but you must have continued your poor food choices - this could not be the consequence of a batatawada you ate 30 years ago" "Well, if we had enough time, I could probably show you the connection - but let me help you with one that is a little easier to follow. 20 years ago, I decided I did not want children. That career and financial stability were more important. There were no consequences back then - or if there were I did not notice. But here we are 20 years later. And I cannot undo that action from 20 years ago. Thank God my brother and his wife followed a different path. Whom would I be visiting today if they too had decided they did not want to have children ?"
Is Marriage Necessary ?
Over the last 20 years well wishers have tried to persuade me to tie the knot - the arguments are often along similar lines "You need to have someone who cares for you", "You cannot live alone", "Man (and woman) is a social animal" - the last one being my favorite, a direct transplant from the Civics syllabus in the 4th standard. Those arguments failed to make me give any significant thought to the topic.
All that changed yesterday, when my young niece asked if marriage was necessary ?
Clearly, if one was to look at my life as an example, probably not. But as some good friends remind me - I am hardly the appropriate role model. And so I thought about it as I sat in conference calls, and as I cooked, did laundry, and as I went about my business in the peaceful, solitary confines of my home. Is marriage necessary ?
And so I asked myself why do people get married ? In a hair-raising moment, I was transported back to my Moral Science class at Carmel Convent - the Moral Science text book published by the McMillan press that have left such an indelible imprint on my mind. "Because it is the only way a man and a woman can be together" came back the answer. In 2009, that moral science text seems rather naive,
Why does society want people to get married ? Generically, without considering local customs and mores, it would be to provide a stable, orderly environment in which people procreated, and so that children were raised in a nurturing environment.
And that got me thinking of a young woman I had met in Paris - about 20 years ago. She had decided to have a child out of wedlock, because she really wanted to have a child but was not ready to commit to marriage. When I saw her living in her own apartment, raising her child by herself, I realized that I could atleast take care of myself. That is what had given me the strength to go out and get my own apartment. Marie's children were raised in a nurturing environment - grandparents, uncles, aunts, even a father - except he did not live in the same house. They are grewing up to be great kids. So clearly marriage was not necessary to raise children in a nurturing environment.
In modern day United States and many other western countries, where society does not require people to get married to either live together or have children, people are still getting married. In the United States - it is expected that once a daughter grows up, she gets a job, and establishes her own home - with or without a husband.
And yet people continue to get married.. In fact the gay community is pushing to legalize same sex marriage, so even more people can participate in the institution of marriage. Why ?
Because for the most part, people here get married because they want to, because they love someone so much, that they want to spend the rest of their lives with the other person. And many of them stay married for a very long time. Others live together for the same reason, and avoid getting married to deny Uncle Sam the opportunity to take more of their money.
Aha - says the young niece - but I am neither in the United States, nor am I in love. Is marriage necessary for me ?
When my parents got married 60 years ago, women did not have much of a choice in the matter. Girls were married very young - 11, 13 - my mother was married just before her 21st birthday. After independence the government set a minimum age requirement - girls had to be at least 18 before they could be married.
Perhaps it is the only reason so many women of my generation got to go to college.. they were just too young to be married, and you couldn't have them sitting at home all day. Most got married within a year or two of graduating from college. Very few of them found their own partners. The rest all had arranged marriages.
In recent years, Indian urban society has become more accepting of career women. More and more single women are opting for higher education and working. Several are doing very well for themselves. I remember reading an article in an Indian newspaper that talked about how these women had to "dumb down" so that they would not scare away a marriage prospect.... It also mentioned that more and more women were opting to remain single because they found it easier to pursue their career that way.
As an employer of women in North India, I acquired new insights into how life for a traditional Indian career woman was very different from that of one in the United States. And how different her life was compared to that of her husbands. While the husband worked late at the office, and sometimes weekends and workdays, the woman was also required to keep the household running and the kids taken care of. Sure they had help, and often there were in-laws around to share the load. But it was as one of my colleagues advised a group of women - "If you want to have a successful career, you need to first go and enroll your mother in law in your cause". Because if she supports your career - then the house will run well, and the kids will be fed and she will be proud of you. But if she doesn't like what you do - your life will be hell. You know better than to expect your husband to help you around the house (it was a male colleague delivering this advice) or with calming his mother down. It is upto you and you alone.
And yet, as a rule, women in India also tend to get married. Singlehood is the exception rather than the rule - and the majority of society still struggles with understanding how to deal with a single woman.
Choosing to remain single in this environment, is like trying to stop the tide. Many think about it,but very few have actually done it. Why ?
First of all - that is what you are raised to believe - everybody gets married. Being single is "strange" and like being an outcast.
Second - that is what your mother and her entire peer group expect of you. They truly believe that that is the only way in which you can be happy. Indeed getting a daughter married is considered a sacred duty, the execution of kanya daan being a special privilege. This is a very powerful force to reckon with.
Third - Indian joint families will look after a grown up spinster. But unless it is a very special family , before she knows it, she goes from being the revered aunt to the one that is consuming more than her rightful share of space, food and air. The amount of tolerance meted out to her will frequently be in line with her financial contribution to the joint family within which she lives. In this respect, spinster aunts are no different from anyone else in the family that does not contribute, for power has a funny way of sticking with the money. And oh by the way, joint families will rarely tolerate disrespect of social customs such as having a child out of wedlock - so forget about having a child if you decide you don't want to get married.
So why does an educated, well employed woman get married ? After all isn't she just committing herself to a harder life ? Because in Indian society, that is still the only socially acceptable way of having children. Because they actually do fall in love with someone enough to want to formally commit to live with them for the rest of their lives, in a manner that their parents would find acceptable. Because it is far more fun to live with someone than to live alone. Because even these smart women are "social animals" and marriage is the fastest way in which you magically double the size of your family. Because once you take the plunge and start swimming, you want all your other friends in the water with you, so you tell them its a good thing. Because they studied Moral Science for 10 years and at an impressionable age. Because an Indian wedding is one of the most spectacular pageants you could ever be part of. Because they want to have someone to grow old with. Because their mother says they HAVE to.
All that changed yesterday, when my young niece asked if marriage was necessary ?
Clearly, if one was to look at my life as an example, probably not. But as some good friends remind me - I am hardly the appropriate role model. And so I thought about it as I sat in conference calls, and as I cooked, did laundry, and as I went about my business in the peaceful, solitary confines of my home. Is marriage necessary ?
And so I asked myself why do people get married ? In a hair-raising moment, I was transported back to my Moral Science class at Carmel Convent - the Moral Science text book published by the McMillan press that have left such an indelible imprint on my mind. "Because it is the only way a man and a woman can be together" came back the answer. In 2009, that moral science text seems rather naive,
Why does society want people to get married ? Generically, without considering local customs and mores, it would be to provide a stable, orderly environment in which people procreated, and so that children were raised in a nurturing environment.
And that got me thinking of a young woman I had met in Paris - about 20 years ago. She had decided to have a child out of wedlock, because she really wanted to have a child but was not ready to commit to marriage. When I saw her living in her own apartment, raising her child by herself, I realized that I could atleast take care of myself. That is what had given me the strength to go out and get my own apartment. Marie's children were raised in a nurturing environment - grandparents, uncles, aunts, even a father - except he did not live in the same house. They are grewing up to be great kids. So clearly marriage was not necessary to raise children in a nurturing environment.
In modern day United States and many other western countries, where society does not require people to get married to either live together or have children, people are still getting married. In the United States - it is expected that once a daughter grows up, she gets a job, and establishes her own home - with or without a husband.
And yet people continue to get married.. In fact the gay community is pushing to legalize same sex marriage, so even more people can participate in the institution of marriage. Why ?
Because for the most part, people here get married because they want to, because they love someone so much, that they want to spend the rest of their lives with the other person. And many of them stay married for a very long time. Others live together for the same reason, and avoid getting married to deny Uncle Sam the opportunity to take more of their money.
Aha - says the young niece - but I am neither in the United States, nor am I in love. Is marriage necessary for me ?
When my parents got married 60 years ago, women did not have much of a choice in the matter. Girls were married very young - 11, 13 - my mother was married just before her 21st birthday. After independence the government set a minimum age requirement - girls had to be at least 18 before they could be married.
Perhaps it is the only reason so many women of my generation got to go to college.. they were just too young to be married, and you couldn't have them sitting at home all day. Most got married within a year or two of graduating from college. Very few of them found their own partners. The rest all had arranged marriages.
In recent years, Indian urban society has become more accepting of career women. More and more single women are opting for higher education and working. Several are doing very well for themselves. I remember reading an article in an Indian newspaper that talked about how these women had to "dumb down" so that they would not scare away a marriage prospect.... It also mentioned that more and more women were opting to remain single because they found it easier to pursue their career that way.
As an employer of women in North India, I acquired new insights into how life for a traditional Indian career woman was very different from that of one in the United States. And how different her life was compared to that of her husbands. While the husband worked late at the office, and sometimes weekends and workdays, the woman was also required to keep the household running and the kids taken care of. Sure they had help, and often there were in-laws around to share the load. But it was as one of my colleagues advised a group of women - "If you want to have a successful career, you need to first go and enroll your mother in law in your cause". Because if she supports your career - then the house will run well, and the kids will be fed and she will be proud of you. But if she doesn't like what you do - your life will be hell. You know better than to expect your husband to help you around the house (it was a male colleague delivering this advice) or with calming his mother down. It is upto you and you alone.
And yet, as a rule, women in India also tend to get married. Singlehood is the exception rather than the rule - and the majority of society still struggles with understanding how to deal with a single woman.
Choosing to remain single in this environment, is like trying to stop the tide. Many think about it,but very few have actually done it. Why ?
First of all - that is what you are raised to believe - everybody gets married. Being single is "strange" and like being an outcast.
Second - that is what your mother and her entire peer group expect of you. They truly believe that that is the only way in which you can be happy. Indeed getting a daughter married is considered a sacred duty, the execution of kanya daan being a special privilege. This is a very powerful force to reckon with.
Third - Indian joint families will look after a grown up spinster. But unless it is a very special family , before she knows it, she goes from being the revered aunt to the one that is consuming more than her rightful share of space, food and air. The amount of tolerance meted out to her will frequently be in line with her financial contribution to the joint family within which she lives. In this respect, spinster aunts are no different from anyone else in the family that does not contribute, for power has a funny way of sticking with the money. And oh by the way, joint families will rarely tolerate disrespect of social customs such as having a child out of wedlock - so forget about having a child if you decide you don't want to get married.
So why does an educated, well employed woman get married ? After all isn't she just committing herself to a harder life ? Because in Indian society, that is still the only socially acceptable way of having children. Because they actually do fall in love with someone enough to want to formally commit to live with them for the rest of their lives, in a manner that their parents would find acceptable. Because it is far more fun to live with someone than to live alone. Because even these smart women are "social animals" and marriage is the fastest way in which you magically double the size of your family. Because once you take the plunge and start swimming, you want all your other friends in the water with you, so you tell them its a good thing. Because they studied Moral Science for 10 years and at an impressionable age. Because an Indian wedding is one of the most spectacular pageants you could ever be part of. Because they want to have someone to grow old with. Because their mother says they HAVE to.
Friday, February 20, 2009
Story Telling Vs Writing
Thanks to the internet and Google, I had the opportunity to listen to the full length interview that my idol Jeffrey Archer gave in New York several years ago. And I followed that up by listening to my other favorite authors - Khaled Hosseini and Jhumpa Lahiri.
There were many things I took away from the Archer interview. The one that I am turning over in my head over and over is that he says - there is a difference between being a great writer and a great story teller.
A great writer, I guess, is someone who communicates information about a topic in a clear succint manner e.g someone who writes a textbook. But a story teller entertains. So do I aspire to be a writer - I guess I already am... I now aspire to be an entertainer............aiiiii
There were many things I took away from the Archer interview. The one that I am turning over in my head over and over is that he says - there is a difference between being a great writer and a great story teller.
A great writer, I guess, is someone who communicates information about a topic in a clear succint manner e.g someone who writes a textbook. But a story teller entertains. So do I aspire to be a writer - I guess I already am... I now aspire to be an entertainer............aiiiii
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
To Blog or Not To Blog - That is the Question
It has been a while since my last blog. Readjusting to life in America has been a little difficult. Not only do I miss the creature comforts of my life there, I also miss the warm friendships I had developed there.
Of course there are many things I enjoy about being back here -uninterrupted power, a reliable thermostat that maintains a comfortable temperature - being able to drive, better TV programs - yeah I know , it sounds a little lame.
This morning, after persuading several of my schoolmates to read my blog, I decided I too should go back and read. Some are pretty bad - but a few brought a smile to my face, and others took me back to that moment in time when I had experienced whatever it was I was writing about. And I actually enjoyed it.
It also reminded me of why I had started blogging in the first place - you've got to write a 1000 words a day on any topic if you really entertain the prospects of being a writer. I saw a little video of my favorite author Jeffrey Archer describing how he creates a book - he wakes up at 5:30 in the mornng and writes for 2 hours. He takes a 2 hour break and then writes again from 9:30-11:30. A 2 hour break and back to writing for 2 hours - 1:30-3:30 (no nap Jeffrey ?) and then another 2 hour break write for 2 more hours and etc. He writes for 8 hours every day. At the end of 1 year - he is ready to share the first draft with his editors.. Over 4000 hours to create the first draft. And he goes through a dozen drafts (though they don't all take that long). We're talking about 10,000 hours to write a book.
Even assuming I could strike up a plot that is generally in the same neighborhood as Jeffrey's (which may well be the larger problem), do I have the ability, discipline and resolve, to write for 8 hours a day ? Well, as long as I am gainfully employed, I won't have the opportunity to find out - no I don't want to hear any arguments of "there are 24 hours in a day" and you can work through the night - because I cannot. So maybe I should work on plot development. Or maybe I should just write a blog. Perhaps meaningless ones initially, until I can figure out how to capture the readers interest.
Yes while the question may well be "To blog or not to blog" the answer clearly is Blog Away......!!
Of course there are many things I enjoy about being back here -uninterrupted power, a reliable thermostat that maintains a comfortable temperature - being able to drive, better TV programs - yeah I know , it sounds a little lame.
This morning, after persuading several of my schoolmates to read my blog, I decided I too should go back and read. Some are pretty bad - but a few brought a smile to my face, and others took me back to that moment in time when I had experienced whatever it was I was writing about. And I actually enjoyed it.
It also reminded me of why I had started blogging in the first place - you've got to write a 1000 words a day on any topic if you really entertain the prospects of being a writer. I saw a little video of my favorite author Jeffrey Archer describing how he creates a book - he wakes up at 5:30 in the mornng and writes for 2 hours. He takes a 2 hour break and then writes again from 9:30-11:30. A 2 hour break and back to writing for 2 hours - 1:30-3:30 (no nap Jeffrey ?) and then another 2 hour break write for 2 more hours and etc. He writes for 8 hours every day. At the end of 1 year - he is ready to share the first draft with his editors.. Over 4000 hours to create the first draft. And he goes through a dozen drafts (though they don't all take that long). We're talking about 10,000 hours to write a book.
Even assuming I could strike up a plot that is generally in the same neighborhood as Jeffrey's (which may well be the larger problem), do I have the ability, discipline and resolve, to write for 8 hours a day ? Well, as long as I am gainfully employed, I won't have the opportunity to find out - no I don't want to hear any arguments of "there are 24 hours in a day" and you can work through the night - because I cannot. So maybe I should work on plot development. Or maybe I should just write a blog. Perhaps meaningless ones initially, until I can figure out how to capture the readers interest.
Yes while the question may well be "To blog or not to blog" the answer clearly is Blog Away......!!
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