10 Tips To Become A Rockstar

The unabashed author in a rare moment of concern for people's feelings, would like to start the post with a disclaimer that the following is a sarcastic take on the vox populi and is not directed against any particular individual.

1) Listen to the marketing gospel. Consumers' affection towards their near and dear ones is directly proportional to the number and value of gifts presented by the former them to the latter them ensuing in purchase of exotic items which may or may not have any practical use except of course for that most-critical, all-encompassing phenomenon called social acceptance.

2) Master the pose. It is most important survival skill in this big, bad world of cameras, which keep getting deadlier by the day. Photographs also known as pictures or shots or snaps can institute or  destroy one's image. And then there is that wild monster called the selfie. The brave warriors who embrace it wholeheartedly are the selfless guardians of the planet and the true upholders of humanity.
 
3) Upgrade like there is no tomorrow. Because frankly there isn't. How can you settle for a 37,563p resolution in your TV when the 38,291p model is out in the market? How can you even look at yourself in the mirror when your mate at the gym drives a sleeker car? How can you sleep at night knowing that your tablet weighs a couple of milligrams more than a bird's feather? You are what you own, aren't you?
 
4) One needs to know things on the lines of the most fashionable lounges to hang around with the most happening crowd, best places to try the latest foreign cuisine doing the rounds, fanciest holiday destinations with the highest brag value and maximum photo opportunities et al. If not you might as well lock yourself up in the house and live like the social outcast that you are.  

5) The mobile phone needs to be venerated with an unwavering dedication and a staunch attention, as it were just a glorious extension of the hand with a mind of its own. Any and every human in the vicinity needs to be treated with the disdain a speck of dust in an inexhaustible universe deserves. After all the bloke opposite to you is but a tiny fragment in the fascinating cosmos, which is your holy phone.

6) Life, in the true sense of the word is what one experiences on the weekend. The other days are just fillers spent reminiscing about that splendid getaway with those fun friends to other friends who also had a splendid getaway themselves with another set of fun friends last weekend. And then there is the endless planning and endless discussions for that house party this coming Sunday where all those fun friends will feature.

7) You are in a race. An arms race. You need to acquire as many things as you possibly can. The wardrobe is never complete. It is just a blackhole which needs to be replenished as much as possible, as frequently as possible. And then there are gadgets. And their accessories. And the multitude of things that are needed for them to sync and connect and share and enhance and integrate. And their accessories.

8) Futile information is the highest form of wealth. Cram yourself up with all sorts of facts and factoids which can be fed to unsuspecting friends and family members and make you come across as the brightest light in the chandelier of your social circle. Like the horoscope of the week for Capricorns or the number of calories you burn by batting your eyelids 20 times in a minute.

9) Get your priorities right, mate! Facebook, Twitter, Youtube, Latest-Media-Sharing-Platform, Quirky-Fun-Addictive-App, Some-Random-Useless-Utility, Food, Water, Sleep...... in that order. Don't listen to those schizophrenics who claim that there is a world outside the seductive maze of online applications and social media overload. There isn't. And even if there is, it isn't worth it.
 
10) Manufacture your interests based on what is perceived as chic and hip. Your choice in books and music and movies is to be influenced by what makes you come across as the cool cat that you are. After all what sort of weirdos pursue hobbies out of genuine personal interest? So get that swanky electric guitar or that revolutionary DSLR which will give an interesting edge to your already razer sharp personality.

What are you doing reading this trash? You need to get that fabulous dress for that unmatchable deal on that slick fashion e-commerce portal to wear it for that adorable selfie which when posted on that omnipresent social networking platform would garner that much sought after currency in the form of likes and followers, which if everyone around you is to be believed is worth a lot and then a lot more. What are you waiting for? Chop Chop...

   

Anatomy of a Road Trip!

The Plan : The plan is conjured originating as a twitchy seed in one's mind and snowballing into a monstrous collective apparition as the travel date approaches. The ideas floated go through a demanding screening process filtered by various criteria including novelty, timelines, stamina, resources. Depending on the group dynamics, the plan can be as intimidating as the will of the strongest member or as moderate as the view of the weakest link. And what emerges is the skeletal structure of the rough-edged game plan, with the details fleshed out during the actual trip itself.

The Driver :  The driver is the lord of all that he surveys. The immediate fates of all the inmates of the car are dependent on his effective functioning. He needs to be at the zenith of instinctive reflex and cutting-edge execution at all points of time. The finesse or the lack of it in the recalibration of the driver's driving mode from the inviting highways to the plodding inner streets is one of the key deciding factors in the safety and comfort of the ride. The driver is the ultimate machine in absolute cybernetic synergy with the automobile. The road is his bride and he is it's star.

The Navigator : Underrated and unappreciated. Doing the thankless job of providing the directions for the road ahead, the navigator is expected to be right every single time with demonic accuracy. Anything less is chastised. Perfection is neutrally tolerated at best and smugly downplayed at worst, with silent non-acknowledgement in between. The navigator doesn't have the luxury of switching off even for a split second. Apart from the real or perceived probability of missing a turn, there is the added threat of the driver losing his concentration. The navigator is not a hero. He's a silent guardian. A watchful protector.

The Passenger : Unburdened without expectations, the passenger goes through the motions in quite the figurative and literal sense. Having all the time in the world, he is spoiled for choice with options ranging from stealing short naps, shooting with the camera and pondering about that surreal phenomenon called life while staring out at the flora and fauna the passing place has to offer. He can be like the pesky house guest, demanding the choicest of music numbers and frequent breaks as per his whims and fancies.  The passenger is the prodigal son, the wasteful prince.

The Pitstop : A term rather giddily adopted from the world of motorsport, the pitstop has come to denote any stop-over for reasons not necessarily being changing tires, refueling or any other mechanical adjustments. A break for responding to the nature call or for bringing the phantom legs back to life or for the consumption of stimulants to reinvigorate the drowsy mind is also referred to as a pitstop. It is the blissful oasis in the ocean of hazy blur for the disoriented inmates to reaffirm to themselves that the world is still there and it is stationery. 

The Enablers : In the distant past, around the Stone Age, there were these huge rectangular sheets of paper we would spread out and immerse ourselves  in to figure out where we were heading in relation to the general direction of the immediate stop point. This was of course before Skynet plotted every damn place on the planet and spoon-fed unsuspecting humans to the last t with interactive charts and seductive voice commands. Screw you, Google Maps! Even you can't comprehensively chart every intricate detail of my impenetrable country and you can never fully replace the supreme confidence with which the friendly stranger advises us to go "seedha".

The Destination : As cringingly cliched as it may sound, the journey itself could be the destination. That is not to say that the end-point is not something one should look forward to,  but a thoroughbred enthusiast with a passion for the open road would never treat the journey as a necessary evil. On the contrary, for the free-spirited rover the travel fits into the theme like a hand in glove and amplifies the overall experience. And more often than not, the trips are round in shape and nature and therefore one goes through the experience two times. I like to think it's twice the fun.    

The Aftermath :Are you still unsettled and disjointed from the extensive travel undertaken? Are the images of the hills, roads, dhabas, clouds, strangers, lakes still haunting you? Do you feel like the experience has changed you psychologically and you are richer and stronger for it? Has the trip further fueled your appetite for travel or are you repulsed at the very thought of getting into the car anytime soon? If no, you are probably just a tourist who undertook the trip to show off to your friends or to get some good photo ops.

If yes, you are a true-blooded road trip aficionado.



Miner's Wife : "Are you looking for work?"

Ernesto : "No, we are not looking for work."

Miner's Wife : "No?...Then why are you traveling?"

Ernesto : "We travel just to travel."

Miner's Wife : "Bless you....Blessed be your travels."

Early morning flights! : Or how I learned to stop worrying and tolerate the neck pillow.

Making small talk with the cabbie on the way to the airport. Mimicking the facial expression of the picture on the identity card at the terminal entrance. Conveying the preference for an emergency exit on the aisle at the boarding pass counter. Posing as the Vitruvian Man for the security scanners. Trying to balance without holding any support as the shuttle bus swerves around to the plane. 

The eyes are heavy and puffy, the dark circles betraying the rude awakening from nightly unconsciousness.
The mind is on a disoriented overdrive. Thought and imagination lack coherence and clarity.

"Ladies and gentleman! I am your chief attendant and on behalf of the captain and the entire flight crew, I welcome you aboard".

Bloody hell! Stuck. And stuck for quite some now. I look around and secretly hate all the co-passengers who are blissfully asleep. But I am too proud to admit. Not to myself. Not to any other soul. Who needs to sleep in a flight, anyway? Sleep is for suckers. The brave and the honourable stay awake.

And afterall, this is the only time you get  to do the things you wanted to do but couldn't find the time. Not a bad idea to resume reading the book from where you left off in your last flight ride. Not a bad idea at all. I am not a teenage girl to play Candy Crush on the dumb phone, nor a humourless suit to follow the financial times. Too bad that the mind refuses to fully grasp the words being read.

The eyes are rubbed, the head is shaken and the mind is willed to make sense of it all. Between the longing stares out of the window, the forceful cracking of joints and the wishful daydreaming of an inviting bed, a few pages are flipped with partial comprehension. 

"Excuse me. Would you like to have something?" 

"I would like to have a sprawling castle on the banks of Scotland" is what I would have liked to say. "A glass of water, please" is what I manage instead, with the blood red eyes and a forced grin probably disconcerting the air hostess. The realisation of me momentarily slipping into blankness before being awoken strikes. And the thought is swiftly dismissed with the blame being laid ironically on the lack of sleep. 

I then start pondering about one of these great mysteries in life. As to how after every return from a trip, there is a truckload of work which magically manifests and every pending task suddenly acquires critical importance and becomes top priority. It is going to be a long day and I won't be hitting the bed anytime soon. Damn it!

"On behalf of the airlines and the entire crew, I would like to thank you for joining us on this trip and we look forward to seeing you on board again in the near future. Good day."



The neck-pillow was considered a boon to the frequent fliers. But to me, it represented the touristy way of life. Preplanned and packaged. The neck-pillow sucked the variability out of the flight ride by coddling one into a beatific dream. And I hated it with a vengeance. It was everything I stood against.

The broken-doughnut-shaped monster was to be seen at most airports. On display in stores in the retail arena of terminals and hanging from the dragged luggage of hurried passengers. And it was to be seen more and more, its presence greatly multiplied in colours and absolute numbers over the years.

Soon it would consume everyone. An entire generation of travellers would fall prey to its alluring charm. But not me. I always considered myself to be the influencer rather than the influenced. So no amount of eulogizing by any of the die-hard loyalists of the ever-growing cult of the neck pillow, would make me change my mind.

I would resist it. I would protest against it. I would fight the good fight till the very end. I didn't need to snooze on early morning flights. What if I didn't get more than a few winks of sleep the previous night? What if the the body was stressed and strained?  And what if the mind was drained and fatigued? After all, I have survived all those innumerable travails in all those ungodly hours. And doesn't whatever that doesn't kill you make you only stronger?

A particular item was billed at the WH Store at the Terminal of the Rajiv Gandhi International Airport.

"Your boarding pass, please. Have a pleasant flight, Mr Varma"

The eyes are heavy and puffy, the dark circles betraying the rude awakening from nightly unconsciousness.
The mind is on a disoriented overdrive. Thought and imagination lack coherence and clarity.

"On behalf of the airlines and the entire crew, I would like to thank you for joining us on this trip and we look forward to seeing you on board again in the near future. Good day."

Now....where was I?

Of 22 men chasing a ball for 90 minutes

It was that summer again when people all around seemed excited about the funny game where a bunch of guys in shorts pursue a round lump around a rectangular field.

When the football jerseys of various nationalities were worn for aesthetic hollowness rather than enduring honour.

When the players were more often venerated for the sleek coiffure they sported than for their silken touch of the ball.

When the games were followed for the fodder they provided for imaginative updates and not for their tactical plots.

When the aliases of teams were bandied about in foreign tongue for topical charlatanism and not for historical perspective.

When the undivided loyalty to a team was purely on the basis of the recent success on the pitch rather than original affiliations.

A lot of things were said of the teams and players, which the fastidious purist in me ached to hear.   

The Hidekguti, Kocsis and Puskas triumvirate of the Magic Magyars couldn't overcome the steel of the resilient Die Mannschaft at the Miracle of Bern in 1954. That was a Mean German Machine. The current side resembles a fun and slick joyride in comparison.

The humiliation of the Seleceao in the semis wasn't entirely due to the crack in the vertebra of a certain lanky 21 year old bloke and the subsequent national mourning. There was also tactical naivety at play with the buccaneering full backs showing scant regard for their primary job role and leaving spaces for the opposition free-roaming bohemians to exploit throughout the tournament, crescendoing into the massacre at Belo Horizonte.

Lionel Messi for all his unbelievable exploits for "Mes Que Un Club" has not shone at the international level like some of his luminary compatriots of the past. Speaking of him in the same breath for the La Albiceleste as the electrifying Maradona or the prodigious Kempes would be blasphemous.

The long-haired retro stars directed by Rinus Michels and featuring the irrepressible
Johan Cryuff showed the world the beauty of harmonised attacking flair and the unadulterated joy of Total Football in the 70s. The Oranje side of 2014 rely largely on the pace and cunning of their two nimble left footed forwards.

Who cares for the decade and a half of watching the game being played across various leagues, countries and tournaments. Who cares for the infinite time spent going through the previews, reviews, analysis, reports of the innumerable matches. Who cares for the insights gleaned from watching and re-watching the official documentaries of many a competition. Who cares for the numerous books, articles, editorials read in an attempt to assess and understand the beautiful game in all its glory.

Who cares, when your flashy mobile app gives the popular predictions and the funny tit-bits. Who cares, when the sports section of your favourite newspaper shares oversimplified stats and juicy WAG stories. Who cares, when you have a hilarious joke about the Suarez bite or the secret diet of the sculpted Ronaldo.  

It wasn't enough for me to back France, the team I have supported since inception or the secondary inclination to Italy courtesy of the Juventus connection. I was expected to support one of the two teams in every match played. That was the whole point of watching the contest. After all what sort of a person would follow a match for the clash of opposing tactical philosophies. What sort of a person would view the game for the defensive solidarity and passing proficiency exhibited. What sort of a person would see the contest for the skill and technique on display. After all what sort of person follows the sport for the sake of sport.

The vast majority would have preferred to see the dream contest of a Brazil Vs Argentina or the galactic clash of a Ronaldo Vs Messi in the finals. It wasn't to be. Instead it was going to be a battle between two golden generations cultivated over the last few years by meticulous harnessing of alluring talent for collective brilliance. Only a faithful bore like the author could see the beauty and romance of such a match-up.

After all, football is a simple game. 22 men chase a ball for 90 minutes and at the end, the Germans always win.

I sell, therefore I am.

Any role, strictly speaking can be broadly divided into a handful of key activities. The following is my rather vain attempt to define what I do for a living.

Market Visits : The body creaks under the accumulative strain of hundreds and hundreds of kilometers traveled. The road is the unflinching constant as you pass one unpronounceable town after the other, as the unapologetic sun beats down in the day and the understated moon looks down upon the stillness of the night. The unappetising concoctions of multiple cups of tea/coffee/almond milk/ buttermilk/coconut water/all sorts of fruit juices/all sorts of fruit juices mixed and matched et al offered by business partners and consumed over the course of the day, motivated by a combination of factors including, but not limited to thirst, obligation, fatigue, respect leaves one feeling a teeny bit more than a weeny bit uncomfortable. And it is all about conversations. Conversations full of communication, appreciation and negotiation, with a range of emotions/expressions from laughter to frowning thrown in for good measure. And at the end of the day, the shoes are dusty, the clothes are creased and the mind is tired as you lay down on bed cajoling yourself that it is all worth it in the grand scheme of things.  

Office Time and Personal Life  :
No casual Fridays. There is nothing casual about any day of the week. Sales is more than a job. It is a mindset. It is an inclination and a state of being. And it is never just about the good, bad, ugly of sales. It is also about distribution, marketing, operations, people management, customer centricity, administration not to mention trip planning, motivational speaking and inter-functional liasoning. 
No gossiping over lunch. If in the office, you don't have any option other than meals from Venkateshwara Mess. If on a market visit, God knows. The things that are discussed over lunch with the team members (apart from silly humour) are generally along the lines of the current reported temperatures in Miriyalguda or the turnout at the recently conducted influencer meet in Jammalamadugu.  
No partying over the weekends. You work yourself to the ground throughout the week including Saturday and try to recharge on the Sunday for the grueling week ahead, assuming you are not traveling for a meeting or attending some function of a business partner. And an interesting question is, who would you party with even assuming you were inclined so?   
No socialising over social media. No posting of funny pieces eliciting likes from enthusiastic friends or sharing adorable pictures prompting a flood of responses. Only good old mails, phone calls, SMSs conveying information, sharing tactics, inquiring market intelligence and inspiring action at all times of day and night. 

Meetings and Business Trips : The meetings are many in the many headquarter locations, where the higher powers that be preside. The melange of the spreadsheets showing the confessions of the tortured data and presentations presenting the insights gleaned from all sorts of sources create a surreal environment, especially with the guy controlling the temperature plotting to freeze you to death. There are vociferous contentions and suggestions as you crusade for the rights of your stakeholders, powered by the excessive consumption of the delicious cookies. The travel and accommodation served up by the airlines and hotels of the highest star accreditation, scheme to keep upgrading you to higher tiers of the self-serving loyalty webs, whilst convincing you that you are the most unique, privileged gift to mankind, amongst a bunch of the most unique, privileged gifts to mankind. And then there are the trips to exotic locales within and outside the country for the purpose of higher-order work and controlled play, complete with configured experience and staged drama.

Peaks* and Month-Ends : The numbers are chased. With an addicted obsession and an indefatigable persistence. My good friend, Praneeth and I always joke that life is measured in peaks* and month-ends as a sort of a rebutted mockery of the 100 Pipers Ad which asks "Is life measured in trophies...In frequent flier miles, miles per hour...In con calls...Time line crunches, in business brunches...Is life measured in Oxford shoes and Prince drapes in corner offices..." It is safe to assume that the canny copywriter of the above ad campaign probably never spent long nights desperately willing the sales numbers to move that little bit closer to the intended target line. The month-end is the time when you feel like the captain of the ship fighting the strongest of tides; the leader of the expedition with an impossible peak to scale, but which must be conquered nonetheless. It is the classical Us vs Them, the romantic Good vs Evil as you put the finishing touches to the month-long campaign to outwit and outmuscle the competition and outperform your peers in other locations in the region/division/country. And assuming a strong finish, the aftermath sees you basking in the imagined glory of victory, which tastes that much sweeter considering that every ounce of intellect, energy, spirit and soul has been expended in a battle that was fought like there was no tomorrow. Only there is a tomorrow and you have to come back tomorrow for more.

*For the uninitiated, peaks are intermittent points in a month, when there is a push for higher sales to the immediate downstream buyer group in the marketing channel on account of the closure of a certain benefit, thereby resulting in a spike in the graph plotted for sales vs days. Different sales organisations use different terminology for the same.

But then, there are few jobs where you are overcome by the happiness experienced by a team member who got promoted and is profuse in his gratitude for your support. Or where you experience the ultimate high of winning a team contest at the stroke of midnight by a handful of additional units sold. Or where you are sheepishly embarrassed at the elaborate felicitation extended by a shop dealer and even more sheepishly embarrassed when you receive a DVD of the video portraying you as a celebrity, complete with a background score. Or where you are extremely humbled by the night guard soliciting your advice for his son's future education  

I conspire to sell paint in obscure parts of Coastal Andhra Pradesh. I sell, therefore I am.
 
The author dedicates this blog post to all those who worked in sales, and especially to those who have experienced the deadly combination of B2C Sales + Upcountry Location.

An Ode to Age Of Empires

For all the places I lived and travelled to, it was my first visit to the land of my kindergarten hero. In one of those strange work hazards, I was to indulge in touristy sightseeing to the palace which was worthy of the great warrior. And then it all came back in a flash. 

Srikanth - Sauron

Vamsi - Vams

Varun - Chinna

Udayan - Knight

Rahul - Jing Bang

Me - Tipu Sultan

The all-conquering villainous dark emperor of Lord Of The Rings was Srikanth's alias. Sauron appealed to his preference of  brute power and mismatched domination. 

Vamsi, who was never accused of being too creative when it came to names, (will save the incredible story of the naming of his pet labrador for another day) kept the alias Vams.

Varun was the no-nonsense chap, who couldn't be bothered to come up with a novel alias. His nickname sufficed for him. 'Chinna' meant the 'little fellow'. 

Knight, which is a horse-mounted cavalry military unit symbolised valour, pride and a staunch dedication to cause. Udayan aspired for all these values in his game. 

Jing Bang is the sort of ridiculous slang term only someone like Rahul could come up with. It signifies a crowd, and assembling one in the game wasn't ironically his strong point. 

Age Of Empires 2 was the greatest LAN Video Game to have ever been made. And it was worth spending every last penny of pocket money we had at Reliance Web World. We would reach the place a good couple of hours before it even opened in the morning, unable to contain the anticipation to try out the brilliantly thought-out strategy of the sleepless last night. So persistent we were that the closing hours were often extended and exclusively for us. 

 And when we exhausted the last penny of pocket money we had by the penultimate year of our engineering course, we set up our own gaming network, alternating between Vamsi's empty penthouse room and Rahul's  mom's makeshift office. A laptop was considered a valuable tool for learning and no responsible parent could deny his/her son this tool. Needless to say that this sentiment was exploited for a good cause. And so many a night were spent carefully building civilisations, raising armies, devising strategies and then going into battle till only one team remained. 

We were not one of the millions who played that mindless Counter Strike  across college campuses in the country. Neither were we part of the sordid group, who gamed Age Of Empires with a sort of mechanical efficiency,  which prized speed of fingers over sharpness of the mind. 

We were the unabashed purists, the dreamy philosophers who played the game the way it was meant to be played. For us, Age Of Empires was an elaborate battle of the wits, a game of chess stretched to its extreme limits by pondered craft and  guiltless imagination. 

Having long archers protected by  multiple front lines of pikemen infantry and flanked by Saracen mounted camels is an effective defence strategy against an advancing horde of Persian war elephants, complimented by bombard cannons and cataphract cavalry. And that is not the sort of pulsating  wisdom, you pick up in Switching Theory and Logic Design or some other crappy course like that. It wouldn't be too far-fetched to say we learned more in those 'virtual' battlefields that we ever did in the 'real' classrooms. (The words 'virtual' and 'real' to be interchanged?)

Prologue:

Tipu Sultan, with his pencil moustache, despairing at the advanced infiltration of the British troops sits down for a meal on the  insistence of his subjects. As he is about to keep the piece of bread in his mouth, the messenger enters hurriedly and conveys that the main gate of the palace has been breached. Tipu, places the food back in his plate, his facial expression betraying the slightest hint of exasperated helplessness and crestfallen resignation. But it quickly changes into a cold, steely stare into space, the fiery spirit of royal defiance flooding back into him. He reaches for his famed sword, swaggers to his feet and marches into inevitable death. And immortalised martyrdom. 

I watched this scene in black and white on a CRT, on the Doordarshan Network as an impressionable 5 year old. I went to my mother and told her that I was going to be Tipu one day. 

The Most Awesome Bunch Of Chaps Ever

July 2011 to February 2013. 1.58 years. 19 months. 580 days. I couldn't go on without coming across as weirder than I am. The blazing heat and the intolerable humidity made it seem like much, much more though. Never mind I couldn't speak the local language, the place was cruel to the 'outsider'. The looks of bewilderment were etched across the faces of the team members when I was first introduced as the new unit head. I had no bloody business to be there in the first place, forget handling the team.

How time changes views, attitudes, perceptions! Work, despite being chaotic and frustrating at times, was entrepreneurial and challenging. It gave scope to create and institutionalize. The transitions to processes, personnel and place of work were taken into stride. We were in the madness together. And ironically, it was the only thing which kept me sane. I did my very best to take the unit forward while trying to make a positive difference to my team members. I like to think, I did quite well.

In the fall of 2013, it was felt that my work in Chennai was done and it was time to move onto another challenge. (On a side note, the blazing heat and the intolerable humidity it seems were not done with me just yet. They were going to follow me to my next destination). And so a team outing was planned as my tenure was coming to an end, coinciding with my farewell. After the fun and games during the day, there was a surprise planned for me.

As I stood in the middle of the circle formed by the 60 guys who were my life for the last year and half, words were hard to come by. After a few minutes I regained my usual penchant for eloquent speeches. And then went to share quirky tit bits and funny anecdotes regarding each and every one of them. And after what seemed like more than 2 hours, I had covered the last team member. And then each of them had some very kind words to say of me, of which I must admit, am totally undeserving. Fire crackers were lit and then Vinod had slipped a gift-wrapped box into my hands with his usual grin.

No one had ever gifted me anything worthy of mention. Not that I care for that sort of pansy gestures. But this was truly amazing. I hastily removed the wrapping and held up the object. The New iPhone shone in the receding rays of the Mahabalipuram sun. I was truly humbled and could only manage a low, uncharacteristic 'Thanks'. It was from that moment on going to be my precious. And it would be treasured forever.

And then the mass music was put on and I was implored to join them to shake a leg. I could never ever dance to save my life, the absolute lack of rhythm in my body making it close to impossible to indulge in this supposedly natural bodily expression. But this was their last wish from me and I couldn't deny them. Never mind that I moved like an inebriated primate, they still encouraged me with their rowdy laughs and loud screeching as the night drew to a close.

The next day, after sending away the last of my luggage, I handed over the keys of the house to the landlord and left the scene. I was leaving the city and for good. And I was going to make a stop over at my office where my team members were waiting to greet me farewell. After finishing the last of the handing-over formalities to the incoming unit head, I made my way out to crack a few jokes with my team. And as the time of the departing flight drew near, I went about the individual goodbyes. And it felt surreal as I waved to my team, sticking out of the cab window, as it sped away.

The bewildered looks of the start were long replaced by those of cheer. I still couldn't utter a word of the language. But I was truly accepted. I was now one of them.And there are few sentiments more pure and privileged than that.

There was respect. Respect which no money could buy.
There was loyalty. Loyalty which no gesture could engender.
And the feelings were mutual.

To My Boys @ APHS Chennai. The most awesome bunch of chaps ever.

APHS Sales Conference, Kerala (December 2012) : There were some games organised for the respective teams in the spirit of competition. One of them was a simple, indoor version of football. As the drama would have it, the last kick needed a goal for our team to win. The ball was placed. After a few anxious moments spent switching gaze between the ball and the goal mouth, I went for it. The next I realised, I was being hoisted in the air and was then paraded around on shoulders.