Too late for new beginnings,
Why does it seem a frivolous, meaningless life?
Values awash on a shore of pinings,
Short of comfort for breathing.
Today meant zilch,
Life wasted on a constant, unmoving warp,
Of time and unstoppable tide,
Over daft indifference and spent moments.
Riding on a carefree draft,
Feet screeched a halt at the comforter’s lair.
Shackles awaited their touch with coldness,
To engulf and numb a surviving soul.
Privilege it seemed for a while,
Soon to turn a point blank,
For there were no greater impediments,
Than those that slaved to cut a master’s moves.
As dawn arrived, a new hope lit up within,
Would it end today, stop now?
Answering them was a hollow echo;
For there was no one left to hear,
In a deaf and deserted town called heart.
August 14, 2009
April 27, 2009
IPL and Marketing Brutes
April 26, 2009
The Indian Premier League or the IPL is what seems to be on everybody’s minds these days in India, apart from the colourful bevy of candidates standing to win despite criminal records and/ or Bollywood movies on their resume during these general elections. Now the IPL, like the English Premier League, is an exciting whip up of cricketers from around the globe put in teams supported by the big daddies of Indian business. What attracts a marketing person to this extravaganza of splurge is that though the ‘sport’ factor is pushed to the background, it boasts of some tough, bouncer-like marketing brutes in the business.
It is completely understandable that events such as the IPL are a big catch for pitching one’s company and its products. But this time around, the condition is one of marketing overdrive to the hilt and above. Every cricketer wears clothes that are hardly different from the teams, as they are plastered with logos and punch lines of companies all over their jerseys leaving very little room for any kind of colour to seep out to register in the minds of viewers. The helmets, gloves, pads are not spared either. At the end of it all, the couture ends up looking like the ruins of battle ground of marketing pros who fought over how many square inches the ideal size of the logo should be, the strategic placement and how the cricketer should not wear any other clothing over the jersey as per contract, even if it was a raincoat! I imagine the argument would have to be a breathless one.
I do however fail to understand the kill the advertisers aim at making from the investment. For instance, I wonder if an average sports guy trying to watch a replay would be thrilled to hear the name of company prefixed to super shot, when in fact it was a sixer or a boundary. Or, for that matter, if the logos on the jerseys would have recall value. Trust me when I say that some companies with long names in the company logos tend to make a viewer disinterested in reading it after the first three letters! I believe the scene at the grounds in South Africa (where it is being hosted) is not very different. With stalls of companies sponsoring the events… oops, partnering the event, calling out to sports fans with beer, caps, flags and the jamboree, I reckon the event to be more of a fest, a mela as we say here. May be the fringes are what is attracting the crowd that’s turning up for the matches, which are otherwise lacklustre.
One of the funniest portions of these IPL matches is during the presentation ceremony, after the 20-20 match is over. The ‘Man of the Match’ trophy that is given out to the outstanding player of that particular match is something where the audience tries guessing the name that would be called out to get another cheque (which looks more like a poster for a trade fair), and probably the keys to a motorbike. The presentation party on the dais resembles the congregation for a G20 Summit lined up for a group photograph. Make no mistake, this is another marketing exercise, which no rep wants to leave out, and ensures that he/ she has the company CEO up on the stage, even if the name is mis-pronounced or given a wrong gender title! Now, I would like to talk to the sponsoring parties who have given out the MoM tropies to understand their metrics of calculating RoI. What is most depressing is when the team owner of the losing team has to hand over the trophy to the player of the rival team. Does it still remain a marketing exercise or help build brand? I am still trying to figure it out.
The IPL matches are underway and the marketing excesses have been out for all to see. Without trying to sound risqué, these professionals are quite the sons of guns when it comes to plastering the company names on anybody that even remotely has a chance of being covered by the cameras! As the scrips of the companies that have sponsored have not exactly sky-rocketed on the markets, I am hoping there has been an appreciation of some other sort, at least to cover the shredded venture that it would turn out to be at the end of the cricket cabaret.
The Indian Premier League or the IPL is what seems to be on everybody’s minds these days in India, apart from the colourful bevy of candidates standing to win despite criminal records and/ or Bollywood movies on their resume during these general elections. Now the IPL, like the English Premier League, is an exciting whip up of cricketers from around the globe put in teams supported by the big daddies of Indian business. What attracts a marketing person to this extravaganza of splurge is that though the ‘sport’ factor is pushed to the background, it boasts of some tough, bouncer-like marketing brutes in the business.
It is completely understandable that events such as the IPL are a big catch for pitching one’s company and its products. But this time around, the condition is one of marketing overdrive to the hilt and above. Every cricketer wears clothes that are hardly different from the teams, as they are plastered with logos and punch lines of companies all over their jerseys leaving very little room for any kind of colour to seep out to register in the minds of viewers. The helmets, gloves, pads are not spared either. At the end of it all, the couture ends up looking like the ruins of battle ground of marketing pros who fought over how many square inches the ideal size of the logo should be, the strategic placement and how the cricketer should not wear any other clothing over the jersey as per contract, even if it was a raincoat! I imagine the argument would have to be a breathless one.
I do however fail to understand the kill the advertisers aim at making from the investment. For instance, I wonder if an average sports guy trying to watch a replay would be thrilled to hear the name of company prefixed to super shot, when in fact it was a sixer or a boundary. Or, for that matter, if the logos on the jerseys would have recall value. Trust me when I say that some companies with long names in the company logos tend to make a viewer disinterested in reading it after the first three letters! I believe the scene at the grounds in South Africa (where it is being hosted) is not very different. With stalls of companies sponsoring the events… oops, partnering the event, calling out to sports fans with beer, caps, flags and the jamboree, I reckon the event to be more of a fest, a mela as we say here. May be the fringes are what is attracting the crowd that’s turning up for the matches, which are otherwise lacklustre.
One of the funniest portions of these IPL matches is during the presentation ceremony, after the 20-20 match is over. The ‘Man of the Match’ trophy that is given out to the outstanding player of that particular match is something where the audience tries guessing the name that would be called out to get another cheque (which looks more like a poster for a trade fair), and probably the keys to a motorbike. The presentation party on the dais resembles the congregation for a G20 Summit lined up for a group photograph. Make no mistake, this is another marketing exercise, which no rep wants to leave out, and ensures that he/ she has the company CEO up on the stage, even if the name is mis-pronounced or given a wrong gender title! Now, I would like to talk to the sponsoring parties who have given out the MoM tropies to understand their metrics of calculating RoI. What is most depressing is when the team owner of the losing team has to hand over the trophy to the player of the rival team. Does it still remain a marketing exercise or help build brand? I am still trying to figure it out.
The IPL matches are underway and the marketing excesses have been out for all to see. Without trying to sound risqué, these professionals are quite the sons of guns when it comes to plastering the company names on anybody that even remotely has a chance of being covered by the cameras! As the scrips of the companies that have sponsored have not exactly sky-rocketed on the markets, I am hoping there has been an appreciation of some other sort, at least to cover the shredded venture that it would turn out to be at the end of the cricket cabaret.
April 26, 2009
Shopping in the time of woes
April 26, 2009
Writing constantly in keeping with a particular underlying emotion at the centre of each piece can become quite tedious for a human in a writer often gets intertwined in circumstances beyond control. It seems more tedious when humour is at (or at least tried to be maintained at) the epicentre of a blog.
During the past few months, the usual haunts that feed news and information for writing has been nothing but depressing. No matter how hard one tries, it is difficult to write anything humorous. Dissociating myself with the cataclysmic terror strikes that I almost missed by a thick sliver of time does not seem to work either. At one point, I considered stopping to read dailies (though it would have been catastrophic to my job and addiction to newspapers), having repeatedly sifted through web pages of terror unleashed just about everywhere in the world. Whenever I tried to jot down my thoughts, verses sounded like lyrics of a Linkin Park song. Fearing it would sound too lamenting, I did force a few words of hope in them, almost like a weeping circus joker’s wild get up to evoke some laughs from a juvenile audience. But in this entire awkwardness, there was a little flame burning in the hope that there would be a return of happy words. Perhaps, as it happens to everybody else, there has been a realization. At the risk of sounding boastful, it may be due to efficient stress management. No, it wasn’t because of a book of a priest who sold his hot wheels. Just good old ego massage and some binge shopping!
Now shopping is not what I would usually pick for a weekend activity for many reasons- a. it involves lot of time in travelling up to the mall, b. the energy spent on looking through each design, colour, fabric, fall and fit per visit can almost be used to write a month’s blog – back-to-back, c. when you wake up from the hypnotic stage of being shopaholic, a question – a rather soap-opera rhetorical – immediately springs in your mind- ‘What have I done?’
But a visit to the clothes section with the intention of buying some can bring out interesting observations. Couples shopping in the ladies section is the most delightful to watch. People who shop with their partners almost end up like the two faces of a drama school. The person who is shopping – mostly the woman – usually seems like she’s on a double dose of Red Bull or a mug full of Espresso! With eyes wide-open and firm mouth, she glides from hanger to hanger, section to section with gay abandon (forgive the old usage of the phrase- fyi, it has nothing to do with sexual orientation), completely oblivious to the store helper who is right behind asking her to enrol in another phone call trap card/ membership and/ or a lucky draw, which would be as lucky as the asteroid of youth that passed 10 years ago. Phew!
The partner – mostly the man – is usually the ideal ambassador for the Frowners’ Club, if there was any! His despair moves from level 1, which is when the lady chucks a lavender pick for mauve gradient, saying that the former is too loud for her taste; to level 3, which is when she tries an asymmetrical top and asks her partner for opinion – ‘Is this alright?’ That in most cases is the point of acomodador, the point where the partner gives up, who by now is carrying a shopping bag of clothes, accessories, and a certain some things the nomenclature of which is as alien to him as a 3 eyed monster; wait- perhaps stranger than aliens.
It must be conceded that the most interesting part is the opinion seeking ceremony of sorts outside the fitting room. The mostly clueless partner transforms himself to be a face reader at this point (that is, if he has not already given up and left the store). Looking at the creases on his partner’s face and head tilt of the reflection of his other half in the mirror, he decisively volleys back answers with flourish. What many ladies in the fitting rooms do not realize is that the man’s answers are all on the fence; almost all nearly don’t care. Yet, somehow decisions are taken and the couples hit the billing counter. The total time spent on the complete exercise of a normal evening easily beats the time length of any Hindi movie. Go figure!
Shopping teaches one lesson though- you may forget your harsh memories for a while, but that need not mean the pain has left you. If there are more clothes in your shopping bags than spaces available in the closet, do not worry. It can certainly mean that you are getting over your woes and sympathy is on its way!
Writing constantly in keeping with a particular underlying emotion at the centre of each piece can become quite tedious for a human in a writer often gets intertwined in circumstances beyond control. It seems more tedious when humour is at (or at least tried to be maintained at) the epicentre of a blog.
During the past few months, the usual haunts that feed news and information for writing has been nothing but depressing. No matter how hard one tries, it is difficult to write anything humorous. Dissociating myself with the cataclysmic terror strikes that I almost missed by a thick sliver of time does not seem to work either. At one point, I considered stopping to read dailies (though it would have been catastrophic to my job and addiction to newspapers), having repeatedly sifted through web pages of terror unleashed just about everywhere in the world. Whenever I tried to jot down my thoughts, verses sounded like lyrics of a Linkin Park song. Fearing it would sound too lamenting, I did force a few words of hope in them, almost like a weeping circus joker’s wild get up to evoke some laughs from a juvenile audience. But in this entire awkwardness, there was a little flame burning in the hope that there would be a return of happy words. Perhaps, as it happens to everybody else, there has been a realization. At the risk of sounding boastful, it may be due to efficient stress management. No, it wasn’t because of a book of a priest who sold his hot wheels. Just good old ego massage and some binge shopping!
Now shopping is not what I would usually pick for a weekend activity for many reasons- a. it involves lot of time in travelling up to the mall, b. the energy spent on looking through each design, colour, fabric, fall and fit per visit can almost be used to write a month’s blog – back-to-back, c. when you wake up from the hypnotic stage of being shopaholic, a question – a rather soap-opera rhetorical – immediately springs in your mind- ‘What have I done?’
But a visit to the clothes section with the intention of buying some can bring out interesting observations. Couples shopping in the ladies section is the most delightful to watch. People who shop with their partners almost end up like the two faces of a drama school. The person who is shopping – mostly the woman – usually seems like she’s on a double dose of Red Bull or a mug full of Espresso! With eyes wide-open and firm mouth, she glides from hanger to hanger, section to section with gay abandon (forgive the old usage of the phrase- fyi, it has nothing to do with sexual orientation), completely oblivious to the store helper who is right behind asking her to enrol in another phone call trap card/ membership and/ or a lucky draw, which would be as lucky as the asteroid of youth that passed 10 years ago. Phew!
The partner – mostly the man – is usually the ideal ambassador for the Frowners’ Club, if there was any! His despair moves from level 1, which is when the lady chucks a lavender pick for mauve gradient, saying that the former is too loud for her taste; to level 3, which is when she tries an asymmetrical top and asks her partner for opinion – ‘Is this alright?’ That in most cases is the point of acomodador, the point where the partner gives up, who by now is carrying a shopping bag of clothes, accessories, and a certain some things the nomenclature of which is as alien to him as a 3 eyed monster; wait- perhaps stranger than aliens.
It must be conceded that the most interesting part is the opinion seeking ceremony of sorts outside the fitting room. The mostly clueless partner transforms himself to be a face reader at this point (that is, if he has not already given up and left the store). Looking at the creases on his partner’s face and head tilt of the reflection of his other half in the mirror, he decisively volleys back answers with flourish. What many ladies in the fitting rooms do not realize is that the man’s answers are all on the fence; almost all nearly don’t care. Yet, somehow decisions are taken and the couples hit the billing counter. The total time spent on the complete exercise of a normal evening easily beats the time length of any Hindi movie. Go figure!
Shopping teaches one lesson though- you may forget your harsh memories for a while, but that need not mean the pain has left you. If there are more clothes in your shopping bags than spaces available in the closet, do not worry. It can certainly mean that you are getting over your woes and sympathy is on its way!
March 17, 2009
Glory and Grief
A scheming world sneers,
At the psychopath’s grumpy glory,
When he wakes to delusional clarions
And walks on rose strewn paths.
He was once full of light,
Hope lit him with lively wisdom,
His dreams were multi colored,
Friends envied his triumphant glee.
One by one they consumed,
All dreams that ever showed themselves,
Negating his self, the trusted extinguished
Every trace of confidence that ever was.
Suddenly, the world around seemed grey,
Cold gaze replaced what was once soft,
Words were short, voicing no say;
Sounds dissolved in faint muffles.
Games of mind made the man shut off,
Windows to all energies positive,
Aching grief plunged him to abyss of desperation,
Smothering out his faith.
Now a reflection of disparity,
His actions are suspect,
A slice of insanity he seems to the community
That predicts his silent actions to be militant.
More than speeding anger and blind conspiracies?
More than reckless temper and communal lunacies?
Divya Rao
March 17, 2009
Mumbai
At the psychopath’s grumpy glory,
When he wakes to delusional clarions
And walks on rose strewn paths.
He was once full of light,
Hope lit him with lively wisdom,
His dreams were multi colored,
Friends envied his triumphant glee.
One by one they consumed,
All dreams that ever showed themselves,
Negating his self, the trusted extinguished
Every trace of confidence that ever was.
Suddenly, the world around seemed grey,
Cold gaze replaced what was once soft,
Words were short, voicing no say;
Sounds dissolved in faint muffles.
Games of mind made the man shut off,
Windows to all energies positive,
Aching grief plunged him to abyss of desperation,
Smothering out his faith.
Now a reflection of disparity,
His actions are suspect,
A slice of insanity he seems to the community
That predicts his silent actions to be militant.
More than speeding anger and blind conspiracies?
More than reckless temper and communal lunacies?
Divya Rao
March 17, 2009
Mumbai
February 09, 2009
Evolution Revisited
Void swells up a young heart,
Searing an uncertainty within.
A loving draft doesn’t embrace,
All the nervous chaos out.
Impenetrable the life seems,
What was once a welcoming garden.
Prickly thoughts disturb,
The landscape of equilibrium.
Regressing to childhood in a blink,
Blossoms of needs spring crowdedly;
It’s back to deciding which of the million parts to play,
Satisfying a bloating girth of wants.
Selfishness progresses, jealousy pervades,
Juvenile silliness of anger wrecks.
The mind that until then was in control,
Now gallops unbridled.
Does childhood ever evolve to a higher level of understanding?
Does inner evolution guarantee mind’s peaceful landing?
Answers resound from silent moments.
Elusive as an echo, the solution remains.
Divya Rao
February 8, 2009
Mumbai
Searing an uncertainty within.
A loving draft doesn’t embrace,
All the nervous chaos out.
Impenetrable the life seems,
What was once a welcoming garden.
Prickly thoughts disturb,
The landscape of equilibrium.
Regressing to childhood in a blink,
Blossoms of needs spring crowdedly;
It’s back to deciding which of the million parts to play,
Satisfying a bloating girth of wants.
Selfishness progresses, jealousy pervades,
Juvenile silliness of anger wrecks.
The mind that until then was in control,
Now gallops unbridled.
Does childhood ever evolve to a higher level of understanding?
Does inner evolution guarantee mind’s peaceful landing?
Answers resound from silent moments.
Elusive as an echo, the solution remains.
Divya Rao
February 8, 2009
Mumbai
February 01, 2009
Wishes – Distant and Kitsch
Mind wanders out of the window
Weaving many a silken dreams,
Of green highlands and fertile valleys below,
Over countless gushing desire streams.
Why does the far away cloud seem brighter?
Blue skies of target never looked better.
A cornucopia of freshness abounds,
That land of victory sounds.
So what if the unique lights are blinding,
The distant terrain has a rush of uncertainties binding
Mundane inanity with rational sensibility;
Though irrational thoughts seem unsteady.
As a million straight-laced questions bombard within,
Threatening to splash out any atypical fountain of wishes,
Hope of treading the unbeaten way emerges, givin’
What’s needed most – strength and courage for a start so kitsch!
Divya Rao
February 1, 2009
Mumbai
Weaving many a silken dreams,
Of green highlands and fertile valleys below,
Over countless gushing desire streams.
Why does the far away cloud seem brighter?
Blue skies of target never looked better.
A cornucopia of freshness abounds,
That land of victory sounds.
So what if the unique lights are blinding,
The distant terrain has a rush of uncertainties binding
Mundane inanity with rational sensibility;
Though irrational thoughts seem unsteady.
As a million straight-laced questions bombard within,
Threatening to splash out any atypical fountain of wishes,
Hope of treading the unbeaten way emerges, givin’
What’s needed most – strength and courage for a start so kitsch!
Divya Rao
February 1, 2009
Mumbai
January 21, 2009
Of Obama and Slumdogs
In the past few days news channels have been busy reporting landmark events prompting ardent followers to break into a song and dance routine or hallelujah! Two events have primarily been the catalysts for such reactions. A, Barack Obama winning the presidential election and becoming the first ever African American to get to the finishing line with such élan. B, a relatively unfamiliar team of Indian cast and Hollywood technicians who joined together for an Indian, no- Indo-American, no- a major movie project that won several honours – the Slumdog Millionaire team.
I just saw Obama finish his first presidential address about all the great things that the USA has on its to-do list. It sounded grand. It sounded inspiring. It sounded very much like the story of an underdog who goes on to clinch the top award. Being much of an opponent gone unnoticed in the beginning, Barack Obama’s words about the change required in the world hit everybody in the face, much like Dick Cheney’s infamous shot. But it was not just the words. He exuded a quiet strength and confidence that was infectious and almost absent till he came on to the scene. The intriguing part of all this milieu is that people who do not even belong to the US of A have become a part of the follower mice that Obama’s piper has influenced. Though there is a portion of cynics who still believe that his ostentatious ideas don’t translate into quantifiable results, the 2 million plus people who turned up at the Capitol Hill from around the country, in icy cold weather to be part of what is now referred to as the ‘making of history’, is a reflection of how desperately expectant the world is for the ‘history’ to turn a reality.
In many ways, the success of the recently Golden Globed film ‘Slumdog Millionaire’ runs close, if not parallel, to the Obama success story. A non-Indian filmmaker sneaks into a crowded city like Mumbai and paints out the story of a slum dweller who wins the title because his life has taught him the answers to the questions that would be asked in a game show. Now this movie has graphic scenes of slums, slum dwellers, mafia and umpteen other factors that would make a Mumbaite squirm and shift uneasily in a plush theatre seat. I for one can vouch for it. But the story of hope and success has indeed brought the same for the movie and to all those associated with it. Hollywood has been introduced to the Maximum city through the eyes of one of its tribe. Despite all the adulation and glory, the movie has sparked debates upon debates if the subject is poverty porn? (Wow! I did not know that term before) Is it necessary to show the dirty side of the country, let alone the city? And so on. It is almost like right after the applause for a grand performance, one is trying to pull out the wig of an opera singer for being too ragged! It still seems like it would not puncture the soul aim of the movie, for it is too strong in the portrayal of characters that make up a masterpiece.
Confidence and attitude of a person or a multi cultural team can go a long way in nailing ground-breaking steps on the way. Much like the Il Divo concept. Much like what is most needed today.
Divya Rao
January 21, 2009
Mumbai
I just saw Obama finish his first presidential address about all the great things that the USA has on its to-do list. It sounded grand. It sounded inspiring. It sounded very much like the story of an underdog who goes on to clinch the top award. Being much of an opponent gone unnoticed in the beginning, Barack Obama’s words about the change required in the world hit everybody in the face, much like Dick Cheney’s infamous shot. But it was not just the words. He exuded a quiet strength and confidence that was infectious and almost absent till he came on to the scene. The intriguing part of all this milieu is that people who do not even belong to the US of A have become a part of the follower mice that Obama’s piper has influenced. Though there is a portion of cynics who still believe that his ostentatious ideas don’t translate into quantifiable results, the 2 million plus people who turned up at the Capitol Hill from around the country, in icy cold weather to be part of what is now referred to as the ‘making of history’, is a reflection of how desperately expectant the world is for the ‘history’ to turn a reality.
In many ways, the success of the recently Golden Globed film ‘Slumdog Millionaire’ runs close, if not parallel, to the Obama success story. A non-Indian filmmaker sneaks into a crowded city like Mumbai and paints out the story of a slum dweller who wins the title because his life has taught him the answers to the questions that would be asked in a game show. Now this movie has graphic scenes of slums, slum dwellers, mafia and umpteen other factors that would make a Mumbaite squirm and shift uneasily in a plush theatre seat. I for one can vouch for it. But the story of hope and success has indeed brought the same for the movie and to all those associated with it. Hollywood has been introduced to the Maximum city through the eyes of one of its tribe. Despite all the adulation and glory, the movie has sparked debates upon debates if the subject is poverty porn? (Wow! I did not know that term before) Is it necessary to show the dirty side of the country, let alone the city? And so on. It is almost like right after the applause for a grand performance, one is trying to pull out the wig of an opera singer for being too ragged! It still seems like it would not puncture the soul aim of the movie, for it is too strong in the portrayal of characters that make up a masterpiece.
Confidence and attitude of a person or a multi cultural team can go a long way in nailing ground-breaking steps on the way. Much like the Il Divo concept. Much like what is most needed today.
Divya Rao
January 21, 2009
Mumbai
January 19, 2009
Run! It’s Chronic Delegation Syndrome!
Management is an extremely useful application. Be it Peter Drucker’s theory or Henry Fayol’s 14 principles, one finds its application in one or the other way in daily business dealings. When time and work principles were formulated, it was only out of necessity, though now bosses ensure they use this completely to keep a check on wavering employees, usually trying to discover a crack code to use a new video game or download a website which offers chat options which are blocked in the office! But most of all, one important give away from the great science of Management, is the art of Delegation.
Delegation in simple words is passing on authority, to a junior from the same line, to complete a certain work. It is an important part of working and makes operations easier and quick. But right after the definition was out, people started twisting it around like a rubber tube. Some of the more intelligent business species have led their entire career on this principle. The condition may be termed Chronic Delegation. Some of the simple signs of a chronic delegator are:
· They are in the managerial level or above and generally have at least 5 people reporting to them, and all 5 are usually busy with something that has been asked by their boss.
· The organisation structure is invisible to perpetual and chronic delegators. In many cases, work is delegated across the line in a zig zag manner that can make a matrix organization blush
· The chronic delegator is a restless creature. He / she is forever blackberrying the delegatee on the status of a job whose deadline is 3 weeks away. But, what’s intriguing about this species is that when the delegatee wants information or clarification, the delegator goes missing mysteriously and emails are always replied with an “Out of Office” message. Go figure!
· You’d find the delegatee usually working on projects that have been given by the chronic delegator. Ask the delegatee about “personal initiatives” and it might take the green horn a long time to understand the word.
The person who usually hives off responsibility also has certain discernible traits that are unique to the species. He/ she:
· Works in a cabin for a very short time but comes out to hover around the cubicles of those to whom he has probably asked to find out the origin of ASAP
· Hobnobs with the super boss and family; and presents what the green horn had submitted as a project a week ago
· Keeps asking the same questions a million times
· Makes a million changes in a day on a report, repeating a previously striked out option
· Acts in the same manner like the time when one feels like detaching his oily hand and asking a more than willing room mate to wash it and get it back while he watches ESPN.
· Fails to understand the words “I don’t work for you” when told by a junior from the other department, and gives a forlorn look in the hope of getting a breakthrough.
Many times the chronic delegator is unaware of his/ her condition and may completely disagree when confronted with the reports. What is totally comprehensible for him would be an arrogant marketing guy volunteering to take up a CSR project for no incentive. In many ways, it reminds me of the initial stages of schizophrenia. God help!
Divya Rao
January 18, 2009
Mumbai
Delegation in simple words is passing on authority, to a junior from the same line, to complete a certain work. It is an important part of working and makes operations easier and quick. But right after the definition was out, people started twisting it around like a rubber tube. Some of the more intelligent business species have led their entire career on this principle. The condition may be termed Chronic Delegation. Some of the simple signs of a chronic delegator are:
· They are in the managerial level or above and generally have at least 5 people reporting to them, and all 5 are usually busy with something that has been asked by their boss.
· The organisation structure is invisible to perpetual and chronic delegators. In many cases, work is delegated across the line in a zig zag manner that can make a matrix organization blush
· The chronic delegator is a restless creature. He / she is forever blackberrying the delegatee on the status of a job whose deadline is 3 weeks away. But, what’s intriguing about this species is that when the delegatee wants information or clarification, the delegator goes missing mysteriously and emails are always replied with an “Out of Office” message. Go figure!
· You’d find the delegatee usually working on projects that have been given by the chronic delegator. Ask the delegatee about “personal initiatives” and it might take the green horn a long time to understand the word.
The person who usually hives off responsibility also has certain discernible traits that are unique to the species. He/ she:
· Works in a cabin for a very short time but comes out to hover around the cubicles of those to whom he has probably asked to find out the origin of ASAP
· Hobnobs with the super boss and family; and presents what the green horn had submitted as a project a week ago
· Keeps asking the same questions a million times
· Makes a million changes in a day on a report, repeating a previously striked out option
· Acts in the same manner like the time when one feels like detaching his oily hand and asking a more than willing room mate to wash it and get it back while he watches ESPN.
· Fails to understand the words “I don’t work for you” when told by a junior from the other department, and gives a forlorn look in the hope of getting a breakthrough.
Many times the chronic delegator is unaware of his/ her condition and may completely disagree when confronted with the reports. What is totally comprehensible for him would be an arrogant marketing guy volunteering to take up a CSR project for no incentive. In many ways, it reminds me of the initial stages of schizophrenia. God help!
Divya Rao
January 18, 2009
Mumbai
January 14, 2009
Colors of dusk
Lines of light fade into greys,
A distant muezzin calls the evening.
Forgetting all diktats of mores,
A young soul prays-
asking for another bright sunny day,
where all those hidden appear with ease.
The horizon turns into a distant scarlet,
Watered up by a straight tangent of a forthright evening;
Settling breezy winds into vacant closets,
Of green foliage and a maid's toussled hair.
Changing soon to deep indigo,
The sky's bedecked as a princess of yore,
But the dark mood is intoxicating for niceties,
With some more heartbeats still to spare.
For daybreak is a speck, distant and away;
From all the excitement of an evening
Of moods and colors, spread and sway
Play along- sometimes a saunter, sometimes a shimmy!
Divya Rao
January 14, 2009
Mumbai
A distant muezzin calls the evening.
Forgetting all diktats of mores,
A young soul prays-
asking for another bright sunny day,
where all those hidden appear with ease.
The horizon turns into a distant scarlet,
Watered up by a straight tangent of a forthright evening;
Settling breezy winds into vacant closets,
Of green foliage and a maid's toussled hair.
Changing soon to deep indigo,
The sky's bedecked as a princess of yore,
But the dark mood is intoxicating for niceties,
With some more heartbeats still to spare.
For daybreak is a speck, distant and away;
From all the excitement of an evening
Of moods and colors, spread and sway
Play along- sometimes a saunter, sometimes a shimmy!
Divya Rao
January 14, 2009
Mumbai
January 10, 2009
What plans for the big day?
It is past midnight. At this time, one may find a dork pouring over an assignment that had to be completed yesterday, or a group of biking revellers vrooming their machines through the Marine Drive, or a middle aged couple deep asleep, with the home maker dreaming all that has to go into the soup for her husband for breakfast!
I, for one, just received best wishes for the day marking the passage of an entire year in my life. It is funny because one feels like a birthday wish is like a boot camp colonel’s rap on the brain hoarsely saying, ‘Another year up!’ making it feel like it has been in a coma for nearly a year!
A common question that is asked of the person about to slip into oblivion before the clock strikes 12 is “What are your plans for tomorrow?” Wow, how concerned and considerate of the prying eyes and loitering mind! Now, I am not one of those eccentric cynics who are too woven in untying the DNA structure to remember their own birthday. But somehow, it seems like an unfair question to ask this to a person who does not fall under the category of everybody-knows-and-celebrates-my-b’day. Such people somehow are often reminded, many times bombardingly so, that their birthday is up and they are required to make a wishlist so that some rich daddy, just out of rehab or prison or both, can dole out a bunch of goodies and make a donation to the charity organisation. Oh and it is celebration alright! From the overpainted clowns to the puppets, and from the ballerinas to rock star gigs, they bring the studio ceiling down.
Another of the species is the ever-important political hero who has done something big in his life that has made his/ her name significant enough to be given to a street or a memorial or at least and alley. Now most of these leaders may be long gone, but somehow it is tad difficult for those living to let their memories be fresh in the minds. The super powerful mike holder considers it a sacrosanct duty to talk for god-knows-how-long about the posthumous leader’s life, good deeds and bad deeds but somehow it all sums up to convey that it was all for the progress. Touché. Now, one advantage these late leaders have is that they are not obliged to share their birthday plans with every other person on the block. However, the same cannot be held true for the mike holders and flag hoisters!
I could go on, but I think the point is clear. A Simple Sam or a Watercooler Wendy does not walk up to you and ask your birthday plans for recording in a logbook or documenting as vital Human Resource information. In fact, all these askers should take a leaf out of the chat applications – they should send a prior request to ask the question, which can be sent only when the birthday boy or girl has adequate plans to flaunt.
Till then I hope I don’t hear the words ‘what plans for the big day?’
Divya Rao
January 10, 2009
Mumbai
I, for one, just received best wishes for the day marking the passage of an entire year in my life. It is funny because one feels like a birthday wish is like a boot camp colonel’s rap on the brain hoarsely saying, ‘Another year up!’ making it feel like it has been in a coma for nearly a year!
A common question that is asked of the person about to slip into oblivion before the clock strikes 12 is “What are your plans for tomorrow?” Wow, how concerned and considerate of the prying eyes and loitering mind! Now, I am not one of those eccentric cynics who are too woven in untying the DNA structure to remember their own birthday. But somehow, it seems like an unfair question to ask this to a person who does not fall under the category of everybody-knows-and-celebrates-my-b’day. Such people somehow are often reminded, many times bombardingly so, that their birthday is up and they are required to make a wishlist so that some rich daddy, just out of rehab or prison or both, can dole out a bunch of goodies and make a donation to the charity organisation. Oh and it is celebration alright! From the overpainted clowns to the puppets, and from the ballerinas to rock star gigs, they bring the studio ceiling down.
Another of the species is the ever-important political hero who has done something big in his life that has made his/ her name significant enough to be given to a street or a memorial or at least and alley. Now most of these leaders may be long gone, but somehow it is tad difficult for those living to let their memories be fresh in the minds. The super powerful mike holder considers it a sacrosanct duty to talk for god-knows-how-long about the posthumous leader’s life, good deeds and bad deeds but somehow it all sums up to convey that it was all for the progress. Touché. Now, one advantage these late leaders have is that they are not obliged to share their birthday plans with every other person on the block. However, the same cannot be held true for the mike holders and flag hoisters!
I could go on, but I think the point is clear. A Simple Sam or a Watercooler Wendy does not walk up to you and ask your birthday plans for recording in a logbook or documenting as vital Human Resource information. In fact, all these askers should take a leaf out of the chat applications – they should send a prior request to ask the question, which can be sent only when the birthday boy or girl has adequate plans to flaunt.
Till then I hope I don’t hear the words ‘what plans for the big day?’
Divya Rao
January 10, 2009
Mumbai
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