Thoughts in Words

My Father must have been great person. So are all fathers to their children I suppose. And I hope I too am to my children. Though I can’t say for sure about my children, I can bet my bottom dollar that for my grandchildren I am a great guy. Did you notice the subtle change in the terminology? Person vs Guy? That’s the state of affairs. Sigh! And also “yaar” and all. Imagine, “Yaar, Grandpa...” I had asked my father for only three things, in my School life. That’s all. But before I joined school he made an offer to me which I didn’t refuse. That was when I was three years old. Now you will ask me how I you remember things that happened when I was three. I do. I was in my mother’s lap and was admiring my father smoking a cigarette nearby. Seeing my curiosity, he asked me: “want this?” I said, yes. He carefully put the cigarette in my mouth, I took a pull as I had already observed and stored the technique in my mind and there I went coughing to glory. And mother went ballistic at th

For the last some decades, marketing is the thing. These marketing guys have even taken over ‘leadership’! And here I am an Army Officer. Retired, so what? On that dirty word of marketing, some other time. Bloody consumerism! I had an uncle who was a big shot in the tyre industry. To give the devil his due, he was my siblings’ and my guide and mentor during our formative years. But since my siblings were much younger and unable to grasp his wisdom, I was the one who got a lot of his talks into my head. And it did help in so many ways. But there always comes a time, for any worthy pupil, when you question your guru. It came to me too. I called on him in Delhi once as his family member. He was on to some business venture while being the national head of an organisation and was trying to rope me in, when I was, in a senior enough rank, still in Service of the Nation, while he was selling tyres. The discussion went on and on. I was trying to politely decline him. At one point, he said

Introduction. This is a serious article (even if I say so myself) on identifying a problem, analysing it to find possible solutions, evaluating the various options and then arriving at the optimal solution. Therefore this endeavour is divided into various subheadings, for easy understanding. Some may have read the title of this blog, already. Some, I expect would read somewhere in between and some after the whole piece, if they reach till the end. There are birds of all kinds of feathers! Background. What I want to say is, not to get alarmed by the title. These days ‘notice’ is a word that can give shivers to anybody, however innocent you are or are deemed to be, or are seemed to be. It may come from the enforcers (no reference to Winter Olympics. I was meaning enforcement directors) or from some religious or otherwise bigots, from JNU, from local thug, from the Corporation, or even from your local friendly neighbourhood Bank; you name it. Don’t be alarmed, as I said. This

This seems to be the final one in the unintended trilogy of “My Hand in the Till”. The practical knowledge gained in the KGB Act was passed on to the next generation, and how! Pragati Maidan in Delhi is a happening place. Regular exhibitions are a norm. And whenever there used to be Book Exhibitions, we as a family made it a point to visit. On such a visit, my son and his cousin, my nephew, were in Class VIII. Now-a-days it is referred to as Grade, I think. 8 th Grade! Well, that year, we four and my sis-in-law and her son, making us a total of half a dozen as a family, were all enjoying ourselves browsing books. (How silly, what else will you browse in a book exhibition!) At one stall, I found a small pocket note book, which had various information. Like a small encyclopedia. I being of an unusual species, used to insist on my children to develop the reading habit and to carry a small note book and pen in their pockets, always. My Grandmother had taught me that ‘pusthakam’ is ‘

You see, I began my last blog to tell you about how I got my hand in the till, and as is my wont, went on and on about everything else but the captioned story. Like Amitabh Bachan repeatedly said in a movie, “arre, asli bath tho bhoolee gaya”. By the way, my wife used to tell me: “You talk too much”. Being adept at English, she could pack a punch or two or more if she wished (which is more often than you’d like). And when it is delivered through clenched teeth, with a hissing noise and through tight lips – man, it gets delivered! And it’s something that’s better not be talked about! There you go; I am digressing. As I was telling you, we friends kept going to the fair every evening (what else, when you are jobless), and kept ourselves happy through voyeurism of all kinds. One day we entered a stall where they had a host of ties. So many varieties of colour, print, texture etc. Perhaps, there was an unexpressed desire in all of us to possess one, since we all might need that stuff s

In these days when everybody is hood winking everybody else and fleecing the gullible and making do away with the loot, to wit, Nirav at the Diamond level and Kothari at the Rotomac Pen (of all things!) level, I wondered whether I also had any hand in this popular great Indian sport at some level. After all this sport covers an incredibly wide spectrum! And I do belong to the creed, if not the caste. I might have figured somewhere at the pen level at least , I thought. I sieved through my memories of three score and ten years of my life to come up with something worthwhile. If nothing came, my life would have been a waste! Lo and behold! I did have a part. Once as an accomplice and then as a tutor! Great! After Nov 1967, I was preening about in Madras (she was beautifully called that then) with strong shoulders broad enough to support the world, like Atlas, since I had just cleared the SSB to join Army, after a well fought and won battle with Graduation the same year. (There is ano