Thursday, November 12, 2009

Hair today gone tomorrow

I remember how as a kid I used to hate to get a hair cut. Schools then used to be extremely particular about hair length and since my hair grew at a prodigious rate I frequent the barber (yes we used to call them that, until they all enmass became hair dressers) quite often. My parents seemed to have a knack for noticing the length of my hair on weekends, which meant that my precious holiday time on Saturday mornings was spent in the barber shop across the road, waiting for my turn to get shorn. My friends would be out playing while I impatiently waited my turn in a barber shop. Life seemed unfair at that point in time!

In those days an army cut was mandatory which meant that the barber would machine the sides and the back of the head to make it buzz bald. Regulations in school allowed the patch on the top to be slightly longer. The actual cut would take all of 10 minutes at max, which included the extremely precise task of shaping the nape of the neck. The barber would always ask whether I wanted the line at the base of my neck, to be square, natural or U shaped, as if I would ever see it!! My frustration stemmed from the fact that, for those 10 minutes in the barber’s chair, I would waste an hour or more waiting while other customers preened themselves getting shaved, oiled, massaged and dyed. It seemed to me that getting a hair cut was the favorite pastime of a lot of people on Saturday mornings. I was a timid child and very often the barber, seeing me as a captive customer (who would leave no tip), would keep pushing my turn behind other more generous customers, which would result in extending my waiting time further. All this, while I would be subject to loud music blasting from the radio (TV’s had not yet come out).

At the end of the cut, the barber would whip out a round mirror to the back of my head, for me to review and approve the way my hair looked, as seen from the rear. I would always nod as if completely satisfied. I used to be as blind as a bat without my glasses, and my glasses at that point would be on the counter, with my hands secured inside the barber sheet to keep my clothes clean. And my ego or shame (I forget which), would never allow me to admit that I could not see what I had just approved. This habit of blindly approving haircuts, I carried on into adulthood, well after I had lenses and then got Lasik done - even if the moron with the scissors had created bald craters at the back of my head. My philosophy has always been that if I cannot see it, it does not affect me.

This repugnance for a trim I carried into adulthood, and I find nothing as confining and constricting as sitting in a chair while another person twirls sharp scissors and blades around my head and neck. Of course the only difference is that what used to take 10 minutes now takes the better part of an hour. Every barber now poses as a hair dresser, and hence cuts and styles each individual hair, while I sit there fuming for the ordeal to get over. They fuss and preen over my pelt, insisting on waxing and gelling it at the end of the cut, not realizing that their efforts are in vain. Within an hour of the cut I would have washed my hair along with the styling ingredients.

These thoughts struck me due to the fact that I went for a hair cut last weekend. Over the last few years my patience with these extended hair cuts has been wearing thin and a couple of years ago I reverted to the gung-ho barbers, who have you in and out of their chair in 5 minutes. You know the sorts – the ones who would not take exception to being called barbers! I now try to combine a hair-cut, whenever I have any other work in Al Fahidi Street. That particular weekend I walked over to my regular Pakistani barber to find that he was busy, with a couple of guys waiting ahead of me. I will never wait around for something as mundane as a hair cut, and if my regular barber is busy, I will just go somewhere else. So I decided to walk down further and landed in this small “Gents Saloon” near the Dubai creek. I could see a few guys waiting through the glass windows and I could also see one barber’s chair occupied, though no one was serving him. So I walked in to enquire if they were busy. As soon as I entered, it was obvious that I was not the sort of client that this establishment was used to. I was immediately waved to the occupied chair and the incumbent was unceremoniously ejected from it. Before I could protest the barber quickly donned his white coat and pushed me down. As he gesticulated and spoke to the others I realized that he was a Gujarati. He tied an apron around my neck and asked me what I would like. I responded in his language and the shock on his face was worth it.

Anyway I leaned back and closed my eyes for the haircut, and suddenly I was transported to the barber shops that I had frequented as a kid in Bombay. This guy had obviously cut his hair cutting teeth back home, because he made these very distinctive sounds with his scissors. I had almost forgotten that sound, since the “hair dressers” here use a different kind of scissor and cutting style. This guy made snipping sounds in the air with his scissors, almost as if he was cutting some imaginary hair. That is so representative of saloons back home where barbers would snip 6 to 7 times in the air for every one cut of real hair. As I sat there with my eyes closed I was transported back all those years and could almost visualize 8 to 10 barbers, all in ecstasy as they waved their hands and snapped their scissors in the air.

When he finished, he asked if I would like a head and neck massage with a hand held vibrating machine, as it was included in the price of the cut. I had experienced this once, a long time ago in Muscat, and never wanted to repeat the experience. This huge contraption (which looks like a generator) is strapped on to the back of the barber’s palm which, when switched on makes his hand vibrate. All the barber then has to do is place his hand on your head and move it around and the vibrations get passed on. That in effect has a massaging feel (apparently) for some people. In my case I had felt like a soft drill had been accidentally put on my head, and the sensation was akin to being lulled to sleep and violently woken-up, both at the same time. My eyes had closed of their own volition and I could not get them open again. Taking that as encouragement, the chap continued to stroke my head and neck, while I desperately tried to convey that I wanted him to stop. As I writhed around in the chair firmly in the guys grasp and powerless to do anything, he shoved a vibrating finger into my left ear. That was pure sensory overload, and as I felt my bowels loosening and my sphincter muscles relaxing I jerked away with superhuman effort. As the effect diminished I sucked in the drool hanging from my lips, mustered what dignity I could, and told him that that was enough. I had left without bothering to collect any change left over.

Coming back to the current, I still had some time to kill as I was waiting for my shoes to get polished and so I told him to go ahead. I was relieved to see that he had a different type of contraption which he used on my neck and shoulders, the net effect of which was to leave me sore and feeling worse than before he started. I left the saloon after giving the chap a good tip for taking me back on a nostalgic trip, and for bringing to mind the reason why I still carry a residue of distaste for hair-cuts. Of course I do realize that I should enjoy these experiences while they last, since my thinning pate will not warrant these forays very much into the future.

Monday, August 17, 2009

Of Boars, Bulls and Other such Species

I really wonder how many of you would have guessed the topic of this blog from the title. My guess would be no one, but if you are reading this, then I have piqued your curiosity. This blog is on good conversations or rather their absence, and the rationale for the above title will be evident as we go along.

A good conversation is like fine wine, one can reflect on its particular qualities well into the future. However just as there are pestilences that ruin a crop of grapes and make for a bad vintage, there are people whose very presence is inimical to a good chat. In every walk of life one comes across some individuals who push the nadirs previously tested, like athletes breaking new records.

For one there are the Boars (Bores). These are people whose knowledge and their desire to impart it, is far in excess of their ability to communicate. They trap their innocent audience in the banality of unnecessary details, from which extrication is difficult. Some of them can be almost hypnotic, holding their hapless audience in an unwitting thrall. We must all, at some time or another, have experienced being caught in the midst of an enthusiastic but boring presentation, and the associated feeling of time crawling as your thoughts addle over and freeze. As the other person steps up a verbal gear and their animation and passion increases, your eyelids start to droop and your brain is simulating the desperation of a drowning man trying to stay afloat. Sounds like a lecture from a nerdy professor does it not? But this can also be the effect of a sophomoric conversation, where one person extols rhapsodic, to the utter disregard of the other’s interest levels. Generally, such people are most enthusiastic about their own interests and achievements, and can get unpleasantly surprised if people show any curiosity beyond those vast borders. At such times they will become quiet and not participate. Their redeeming feature is that they seldom realize their own impact, and if asked would count themselves as some of the most interesting people they know. I guess a real bore ranks in equal popularity with people suffering from bad breath and foul body-odor. And as with those maladies, one only hopes that the symptoms will be self-rectified or pointed out by someone else rather than broached by us.

On the other extreme are the Butterflies. These are exponents of the verbal arts whose conversations flit from topic to topic, like a butterfly over a field of flowers. The conversation never touches down for enough time to develop momentum and in his case, an opinion on last night’s gastronomic outing or a bystander’s fashion faux pas, mixed up with bawdy personal comments, is the height of banter. The talk becomes a carousel of sentences that can literally make you dizzy with the pace of change. It’s almost as if the person is trying to distract you from their vapidity like a cheap magician, by switching topics rapidly. And as the topics whir by with increasing intensity, the general level of conversation sinks below the equator. Their presence in a gathering is evidenced by meaningless chitchat, senseless laughter, and a complete absence of a rational and structured conversation. There is no possibility of a good conversation getting any traction with butterflies around, as they are mutually exclusive. Sometimes, after a long and hard day, butterflies can serve as stress relievers. Nothing as strenuous as a thought needs to strike you when one is around, and even if you are in a mental coma no one around will be the wiser. The conversational vehicle is on cruise control, with the wheel firmly in their hands.

Then there are the Shrinking Violets, the ones who are so sensitive that almost anything can potentially force them to withdraw into a protective cocoon. They are normally emotionally challenged, and are always one breath away from an implosion. Most people have one or two topics that they are a bit thin-skinned about, but this variety can be traumatized on almost any issue. Their presence turns the conversational landscape into a virtual minefield, and every word has to be carefully measured and weighed before utterance. This inhibits free speech and stems the flow of ideas. People around them tend to skirt around issues so as not to hurt them, but quite often the more they are shielded the more photo sensitive they get. Their reaction when offended (which can be quite often) varies from a hyper-emotional tirade, to stony silence accompanied by a constipated expression, leaving no doubt in the speakers mind as to what they think.

However the worst of the lot are the Bulls or conversation busters! They are like demolition balls waiting for a conversation to develop some structure, before they swing in to wreck it. They are the worst because they actually allow you to hope that a decent conversation has a chance of budding, before they pull the soil from under its roots. Just as the topic is gathering steam, the group is pulling itself together to discuss an issue of substance, or a few people have put their stake on opposite sides of the ideological fence, these people swing in like battering rams. They are the guardians of the mundane and the ignorant, and they will defend their turf fiercely to ensure that no structure above a hovel can ever be erected on that ground. Any conversation that aspires to reach above sea level will be flattened, by diverting everyone’s attention to some other matter of insignificance. Having completely eviscerated that particular conversation, they can then unflinchingly inflict the unkindest cut of all, by feigning interest and asking the person they interrupted mid-sentence, to continue from where they left off.

Some of these traits can coexist, creating a potent Molotov cocktail. Imagine a bullish butterfly! I have not mentioned another type who can also have an adverse impact, the Clownfish. They are the ones who can rapidly puncture the mood of a conversation with their flippant one-liners, but in general are not as lethal as the others mentioned before.

So then what makes for a good conversation? Is it the person, or is it the sound of their voice? Is it the delivery or is it the topic? Some of the most intelligent people can bore you to death as soon as they open their mouth, and conversely, buffoons can keep you entertained for hours. This is an important question as I consider an ability to hold a good conversation and to keep people engrossed as probably one of the greatest gifts. Also, for a person who experiences bouts of ADD at such times, I find myself rapidly phasing out of the inanities. All of us have inbuilt safety mechanisms, which ensure that we filter out puerile data extremely quickly, before it inundates us. I am by nature a serious person who prefers a deeper conversation, which prods and explores the topic at hand from all sides before a switch to another. If the topic is not adequately examined I feel a lack of fulfillment, almost a sense of denial, and I very quickly drift away mentally. I love a good argument and I definitely love to listen to someone who knows what he / she are talking about. It is always fascinating to listen to someone who has an in-depth understanding of an issue, or is passionate about her ideals. Agreement with the views expressed is not always essential; it is just an additional perquisite.

Einstein gave us the concept of relative time, and to me it is most evident during a conversation. A nice chat can make the hours fly, and vice versa some conversations can make it flow like treacle. I cannot say that I have been surprised though as to the differences in what makes for a good chat amongst people. Food, gossip, children seem to be the all time favorites with women, and I am sure that women would say that men can't talk of anything beyond sports, movies and sex. A lot of people prefer to avoid topics that polarize opinions; often times they find it too strenuous, sometimes do not have the depth of knowledge or understanding to express or defend their views, or are intrinsically uncomfortable with confrontations and disagreements. I am of the view (as expressed in the movie Matrix Reloaded) that you never really know someone until you have fought them (I refer to verbal jousting of course). A good debate clears the air, increases your store of knowledge and most importantly makes you get to know the other person infinitely better. A lively discussion will be remembered for years to come, unlike the generally insipid banter that is forgotten even before the lights are turned off for the day. I still remember in vivid details the debates that we used to have as kids in school, and carried on into college and early adulthood. Some of my best times were spent crossing idealogical swords with my sister in early days, and then my sister-in-law later on.

Another major factor that impacts a conversation is the size of the group. In general, the bigger the group the swifter is the descent to the lowest common denominator. Anything above six to eight individuals leads to pockets of conversations, with attention flowing in and out of different pools. It is difficult to have one conversation, unless it is a topic that is of current interest or an issue that each feels strongly about. There are many obstacles for the tide of debate to swell in that situation, which can then be compounded by the presence of the butterflies or the bulls. Of course it is impossible to have a deep and meaningful conversation all of the time, nor is it probably desirable. However my heart starts pounding every time I see one peeking out of the bushes, and my shoulders slump (metaphorically) when it is quickly jerked out of sight.

I would like to end with a quote I recently read – “People like to acquire information, but they prefer to impart it”. Going through some of my earlier posts this statement summarizes my pomposity quite well, I must admit.

Sunday, August 2, 2009

Happy Camper

All (well most) of my friends love to go camping, - I don't as much! It is as simple as that. However that one little distinction morphs into a macho thing, with anyone not immediately ready to live in the wild seen as a wimp. I guess this is our pre-historic instinct coming to the fore; to be one with nature, cooking over a fire, gazing at the night sky and waking with the dawn. It definitely looks fantastic in movies and does quite make for good reading as well. However the reality is as far removed as Pluto is from Earth. In actuality camping to me symbolizes our descent into man's Bronze Age. Why anyone would actually enjoy sleeping in a flimsy tent, eat char burnt food, and use open air facilities with no plumbing, is beyond my threshold of understanding. In my opinion it is disrespectful to our ancestors to indulge in such activities. They worked hard, over centuries to ensure that we do not have to endure a lack of electricity and plumbing, and here we go turning our backs on it all. Even if it is for a day it is the principle that matters. My great-grandparents would definitely frown and cluck their tongues at this stupidity. The narrative that follows is a uniquely individual perspective of our camping trips of the past, which might or might not be echoed by others.

Our camping trips normally start to get organized a week in advance. A detailed list of items to take to the campsite is circulated, which leads to numerous trips to the hardware store as well as the supermarket. About ninety percent of the luggage being carried (by weight) if you exclude cars and ourselves, would be of the ingestible variety. By my approximation, we normally attempt to tuck away our own body weight during the 15 hours that we shall be in the wild outdoors. Knowing my ignorance about these matters, my friends generally take pity on me and provide me with a list of day to day groceries to pick up, as the other specialized camping gear is way out of my area of expertise. It involves such arcane stuff as next generation lighting fluids that could operate in a vacuum, xenon and night vision lamps that could be worn on your forehead (keeps your hands free in case you get attacked by wild creatures), special drinking water dispensers with desalination plants and filters, state of the art tent pitching equipment and all sorts of other widgets that are critical to our survival.

The time to venture out on the given day is critical, and requires precise calculations of trip distance and time to set up camp. We normally leave the comfort of our homes towards late afternoon, a time set to ensure that we, both beat the heat and set up tent before it becomes too dark to see what we are doing. A couple of enterprising buddies would have already scouted out the camp-site a few days in advance, to make sure that we do not get lost or mistakenly pitch up tents on a major caravan (4WD) route. These sites over the years have been pushed further and further away - firstly due to the expansion of the city limits and secondly to discourage my habit of waking up before dawn, to drive home for my quotidian ablutions before driving back for breakfast. My personal preferences have been for sites close to a small restaurant where tea and coffee are available 24 hours, and decent washroom facilities are at hand, but I was generally overridden in the past and now not even consulted. We stop along the way to pick up bags of ice to put in the box cooler to cool our drinks. There is a mounting sense of excitement in the children as we reach the chosen campsite, which is almost 25 meters away from the road. I did not know this, but there is an art to choosing a campsite, which involves juggling complex conditions like distance from the road to lug our food and water, judging windward and leeward sides of the dunes surrounding us, as well as ground gradient to ensure that the tents do not get blown away, and of course availability of flat ground within the camp site for the centerpiece attraction, the campfire.

A couple of camping trips ago this selection of a proper campsite almost resulted in the entire trip being put in jeopardy. Once at the site itself, the two alpha males could not agree as to which side to pitch the tents on, with both insisting on the diametric opposite side as the ideal location. There was a point where I thought that the entire trip would be cancelled due to non-agreement, but unfortunately a happy compromise was reached. Both decided to pitch their own tents where they thought it most appropriate and the other tents would be strung out in a line between them. Now that the site has been marked, starts the backbreaking work of setting up the tents. It normally takes about two hours for all tents to be set up, sleeping bags to be rolled out, pillows fluffed and torches and lamps set up. As we had only one 4WD in the group, that one is used as a workhorse to bring the water, drinks, barbeque pit and coal, as well as the food to the site. It takes several trips from the road, as the rations are distributed in various vehicles, and the groaning off roader might get stuck if it is overloaded. The tents are pitched up and ready for occupancy just as the light is fading, and a quiet descends around us.

This is a moment to savor, away from the city-lights and sounds. As your eyes start to adjust to the twilight, your ears pick up the distant sound of surf on the shore. It is a peaceful moment, one to be shared with your children. But as your eyes start to pick out a few stars winking in the sky, and your body is unwinding from all its city induced stress, you realize that it was the calm before the storm. The sound of ABBA breaks the silence and bright headlights turn twilight into day. The 4WD has been brought onto the periphery of the site, to entertain as well as give light while the campfire is being set up. The ladies get busy with setting out the food and the guys start doing what they were born to do – light up fires. Shaken out of my reverie I get up to help with something, but do not really know what I can help with. As the campfire starts going, people get thirsty and hungry, and the soft drinks and the assortment of crisps and chips are taken out. The barbeque pit is laid out over the fire, and as the meat starts to roast and spit, the strong aroma of cooked meat starts to overpower the clean air and smell of the desert. Being the fifth wheel in this group, I normally contribute by eating as much as I can. This is my way of appreciating my friends’ efforts. It is awe inspiring to witness complex human behavior wherein within a group of so many adults and children each picks out his role and task, seemingly without being told or asked – my task is to not interfere and to eat!

Knowing our visceral fear of the dark, on the last camping trip a friend who works in a factory managed to procure wooden pallets which he got cut as fire wood. With the quantity of wood that he got, we knew we were set for a month of continual fire, and so we went overboard on the size of the pit. As the flames grew we fed them more and more till the fire was as tall as a standing human and we could have barbequed a full grown water buffalo over it. As the fire grew, so did our fascination with gazing into it, and such was the intensity of the flames that the bright Dubai streets would look dim in comparison. It took a few days for my night vision to return from staring into that inferno. We had calculated precisely the size of the blaze so as to be able to feed the flames all night long, and hence not carry any wood back. There was a veritable feast laid out for dinner as the ladies had all excelled each other in their offerings. Apparently, they were afraid that we could die of starvation overnight, and each had carried food to feed an army. I ate till I felt I would burst, and then tired from the back-breaking physical exertion (of standing around), and replete and content from the food, I kept looking at my tent fondly as it beckoned with open flaps. It was only 09.00 p.m., but out here in the wild, if you stripped away the hulking SUV and its headlights, the music, the lit-up tents, the barbeque and the torches, it might have felt like the middle of the night.

By the time food is done and we sit around contemplating what to do, it is 09.30 p.m. This being the great outdoors the light is still too dim to play the games we got and so we just chat. The lack of beamed entertainment drains our childrens' spirit and boredom sets in. Their mood impacts ours and just as we are beginning to get annoyed at their lack of appreciation of the rustic life, we decide to alleviate their hardship by giving them chocolates and for us some post dinner beverages. Eventually tired (and a bit bored) of sitting around the campfire, everyone starts to drift away to their respective tents, until only a few die hard pioneers stay back to keep watch and fuel the fire. By 10.30 p.m. the site is still and hushed and the only thing to disturb us is the pop and crackle of the fire, the sound of intermittently passing cars on the road above us, and the revving SUV engines of thrill seeking dune bashers, as they try and circumvent the dunes around us. By mid-night even these are gone, and then it is only the snores of fellow campers to indicate any human presence. In the middle of the night you realize that your tent is pitched on a slight slope and the silky sleeping bags keep making you slip downhill every time you move, but you are too tired to care. By morning it is only the one fabric wall of the tent, pegged firmly into the ground with my entire family’s legs pushing against it, that is keeping us from sliding enmass into the campfire.

We get up at the crack of dawn, and some intrepid soul has already put the water for tea to heat on the fire. Since there is no facility to brush one’s teeth or wash ones face, (much to the children’s delight) all that is required is to walk a few meters away to pee into the wind. One feels a unique bonding with nature at this intimate act being performed in such a way, just as one prays fervently that no other scatological act will be required that morning. The campsite is a hubbub of activity as the morning tea and breakfast is being prepared. There is again a spread of eggs, sandwiches, biscuits and other savories, meats, and a selection of cheeses on offer. I am not hungry and my stomach is rumbling from last night’s meal, but since when has that prevented me from tucking in, at the sight of such food. Breakfast done we now look around at the sheer beauty of nature. We struggle over the small dune to look upon a beach and the ocean and decide to go for a walk. A few hundred meters down we realize that the desert sun has already become too strong, and that if we do not start packing up soon, the heat will get unbearable. We return and begin the tedious task of packing up and taking the tents down. Since there is no technique involved here I can also be of help, and I am thankful for the open sky and a strong wind which masks my farts as I bend over to take out the tent pegs. I notice that putting a tent back into its bag is infinitely more difficult than taking it out, and make a mental note of next time volunteering to set up the tents rather than folding them back. By this time my stomach is aching to empty its contents and I cannot wait to get within sight of a restroom. By 08.30 a.m. we have managed to pack everything. We scan around to ensure that we have not left an ecological footprint, and as we depart I salute the site with a gaseous release.

It is 10.00 a.m. as we reach home and I frantically rush for the bathroom. I thank the fact that most people cannot take the desert sun for too long and hence our camping trips do not extend beyond sunset to sunrise. As I relieve myself, I swear that I will subsist on salads for a week as penance for the dietary deprivation during our sojourn in the wild. As we start putting our tent and sleeping bags back into the store room, the family talks about being one with nature, and our collective experience in the wild and the hardships endured. We look forward to the next camping trip to get closer still, maybe with portable satellite TV’s and auto cleansing chemical toilets, not to leave out catered food to alleviate the adversity.

Well not immediately, but maybe a few years down the road.

Monday, July 6, 2009

Chapter Closed

So ends another chapter in my life, one that I had almost a congenital fear of ever opening, and (to be completely honest) closed with a mild residue of regret. If I look back to a mere year ago, I could not in my wildest dreams have imagined my life being turned and twisted as much as it has over the intervening period. I could not even have contemplated that I would change my job, lose it and then get another -and all of this while every other aspect of my existence followed its pattern of normality. I feel like I had been accidentally plunged into a dark tunnel, confused and slightly apprehensive, and then come out the other side completely exhilarated - a little bit like the gamut of feelings we go through when we sit on a particularly scary ride in an amusement park.


I was unemployed for a hundred and five days, and in this period, I experienced a side of life, met people and did things that in my previous sheltered existence I would never have dreamt of attempting. Desperate times call for desperate measures and I called upon every project management and organizational skill that I had ever learned, developed, or seen done, to the task of securing a job. I spoke and wrote to every one I knew and many more that I did not. No idea or suggestion was not worth exploring, no lead too small to follow. Every morning the appointment pages would be scanned from cover to cover. Looking for employment on a full time basis in not something that I would recommend, but having gone through it have to admit that it was not as unpleasant as it might seem. It was something completely out of my comfort zone and no amount of reading or talking about it could ever make one mentally ready. It is something to be experienced first hand, lived through and come out of.


There were down sides, like not knowing when and whether anything would click, or meeting people who did not hesitate from pointing out the gloomier side of the picture. There were moments, like the one very early on where I was called in for an interview with a recruitment agency, and made to sit in a room full of unemployed people. There were probably fifty people in a room that could accommodate only half as many, and sitting there all dressed up in my suit, made me realize more starkly than anything else before, how precarious my situation was. Stress was writ large on every face, and I wondered if mine expressed it too. As I was waiting there, in walked a young Filipino girl who had been a junior employee with my previous employers, and who had been terminated a while ago. I could not remember her name, in fact doubt if I ever knew it, and as we smiled at each other in recognition of the fact that we were both in the same boat, I thanked the fact that I have never lorded over anyone or been arrogant enough to let my corporate position get to my head. I think that was the lowest point after which things only got better. In fact that was the one and only time that I was shepherded into a densely packed public waiting room. All of my other meetings were more discreet and definitely much more fruitful.


There were many positives as well, like meeting interesting new people, seeing parts of the city that I would otherwise not have ventured into, and of course learning to sell the most important product that you could ever sell, i.e. your skills. As I met more and more people, be it recruiters, or corporations I got better at pitching myself. I started to understand the worth of all the work that I had done, and the experience that I had so taken for granted over the years. I also realized the true value of my professional qualifications, which in the intervening years had lost meaning. The whole experience made me see myself with new eyes. In the three months that I was unemployed, I spent more than thirty hours updating my profile, registered with over twenty five consultants and job sites, personally met up with eleven headhunters, and interviewed with five organizations. I directly applied for more than sixty assignments, with no response from more than forty. I did not accept interview calls for about ten jobs, and was sent an apology by twelve. During this entire period, not once did I believe less in myself than I do today. I did not feel emasculated or subjugated, and as time progressed, I in fact started to feel calmer and more upbeat. Every call that came in meant that there was something in my resume that clicked, and every interview only reaffirmed the worth of my experience and knowledge.

This period has given me a tremendous boost in self confidence, something that no amount of verbal praise, positive annual appraisals and periodic promotions, can ever provide. The years of corporate appraisals, 360 degree feedback sessions, internal interviews and various personality reviews, (most of them positive) did not in any material way grow my self esteem. In fact, depending on the worth of the assessor sometimes the feedback actually had contrary reactions. As we all know praise from some quarters is no praise at all! Also, one of the drawbacks of a prolonged tenure with any one organization is the fact that one does get taken for granted, with a corresponding detrimental impact on the mind set and confidence of the individual.


Coming back to this chapter, and as written earlier, there was a sense of freedom, a feeling that a whole new world lay open ahead of me and I had no baggage to lug along. There was absolute confidence that I was not unemployable and that all of my previous experiences, education, and training were distilled into the person that stood here today, looking for a job. The hard work over the years, and the variety of relationships and experiences, both good and bad, had forged my personality. Having conquered one devil i.e. my own sense of worth, my only other enemy was time. I knew that the right opportunity would take time, and I would have to be ready to sacrifice that time. From the outset, I mentally gave myself a good amount of time to secure something, and after that never indulged in a count down.


Nothing ventured, nothing gained. Would I have said that had things not worked out as they did? To be honest, I do not know. But I do know that not once during this phase, did I regret any decision that I had made. Not once did I want to reel back time to a better yesterday, or rewind my life to a crucial decision point, so as to take the alternate fork in the road. According to me that then is sufficient evidence of having taken the right course, and having taken it I could not let the first hurdle deter me from persevering onwards.


Now, as I find myself approached for advice on looking for jobs, either because the person’s position is precarious, or they are simply unhappy where they are, for the first time in my life I feel like I am in a position to actually contribute in terms of providing advice. Though this is not an entirely new situation, and over the years I have been approached sporadically by people looking for jobs, who thought that being in a good position in a large organization, meant that I could definitely help, what IS new, is that now I feel like I know a bit more about what I am talking about. I do caution though that each individual’s experience is specific and cannot hence be replicated.


As I stand here today, I realize that I have learnt (the hard way) the following dictums:-
· Live within your means; it makes it easier to tighten up when required,
· Develop a longer term mind-set, instead of one of instant gratification; it gives you mental strength and develops patience,
· Have at least six months worth of expenses in cash available; you never know when you will need it,
· Continually educate, train and re-qualify yourself; it will always come in handy,
· Expand your experiences both personal and professional; it will give you a wider range of opportunities to target,
· And most importantly believe in yourself; you are almost always worth more than you give yourself credit for.

Thursday, July 2, 2009

End of Days

This article was written a while ago and put on ice, due the fact that my lovely wife thought it did not portray me in a kindly light. Considering the dry run I have been having with writing anything at all, I thought I would go ahead and post it anyway. If you do not hear from me again, you know why :-).

What is it about people that they want to turn night into day? I have never understood this fascination with staying up late and partying into the wee hours, concept. It is supposedly cool to sleep at 03.00 am and then get up at midday to start the exciting routine again. If you desire to be in bed at a decent hour, it is seen as a sign of old age, and heaven forbid wanting to turn in before midnight on a weekend night. It can easily be construed as ill health or an early sign of the onset of depression.

Ever since I can remember, I have been one to follow the normal diurnal patterns followed by our ancestors since the dawn of time. Early to bed, early to rise, makes a man healthy, wealthy and wise, was the dictum oft repeated, when I wanted to stay up late on any particular night. Maybe I was too gullible but I have followed that through out my life, much to the chagrin of my friends, my spouse and my colleagues. To this day almost everyone I know will make pointed remarks about my lack of desire to imitate the owls. I have never thought of myself as aged, or lacking in energy, but have been made to feel like a geriatric, whenever I have mentioned the possibility of turning in early on a weekend night. As if my body clock should automatically reset itself every seven days in sync with the end of the week, so that I can party all night long.

To make matters worse, most people around me do not suffer from the same affliction (if you can call it that), making my predicament all the more difficult to understand and empathize with. It makes me sick to see people completely charged up at midnight, looking forward to a few more hours of merriment. I remember growing up as a kid, the competition amongst various groups as to who would stay out latest. On a night like New Years Eve, it reached epic proportions, with some people I know coming back the next day - post breakfast! Of course these people had won a lasting victory over the other nerds who had called it a day by 05.00 am. And God forbid if your parents had a curfew going ...my parents were the sort who never had any curfew, we could stay out as late as we liked and were trusted to do the right thing. Many’s the times I have cursed them for not having imposed any curfew. At least that would have given me a legitimate excuse to curl up in bed at a time of my choosing. I remember I had once tried to tell my friends that I had a time limit to return home - my friends had laughed so hard, that it took all of my efforts to ensure that, that did not become the talking point for the next week.

Late nights have caused quite a bit of stress, sometimes (I have felt) even more so than the angst that exams have given me. Just knowing that a late night is imminent is generally enough to make me feel uneasy. I am sure that if I were to diarize the days on which I have had the most headaches, Thursday would take the sweepstakes easily (Thursday being the weekend in the Middle East). This has been the subject of countless debates and arguments with my wife over the years. She would call me a party pooper or a spoilsport, for ruining a weekend night by not being game to hang out till late. My monophonic argument always was and continues to be - why can't we meet earlier and spend the same number of hours AND be home in time to sleep early. Why don’t they have nightclubs where you go to dance by 07.00 pm and are out the door by 10.30 pm? I guess they could be called eveclubs!

Even the times that we have actually gone out to shake a leg, I remember the sheer claustrophobia of being confined to a huge, dark, smoke filled room, filled with drunk and sweaty gyrating strangers. The beat of the music (if you could call it that) would feel like the grim reaper playing a drum inside my skull, with my cerebrospinal fluid as the only cushion preventing me collapsing from sensory overload. The battering that my brain got from the music would last well into the next morning.

Business travel with colleagues (well friends) was another time of concern, with most of them thinking nothing of greeting the dawn before turning in. Quite often the plan would start with meeting for dinner between 09.00 and 09.30 pm. Normally someone, either from the host country or our travelling group, would delay meeting us due to a sudden telephone call or traffic or whatever. We would mill around at the meeting point, normally the lobby of our hotel, with a splinter group going out for a smoke. By the time the venue was decided, I would be sweating profusely from the tension of knowing that it would be a good 5 hours or so before I saw my bed. The first mention of dinner would be at 11.00 pm, by which time I would be waving the last wisps of my appetite goodbye. A hearty meal would be followed by desserts, prolonging the already interminable meal. Of course I knew that someone would ask about tea or coffee to follow - but knowing that did not prevent me leaping out of my skin when the words actually come out. By this time I would be ready to shoot the person who asked about the post dinner beverages, and feel like strangling the waiter hovering around to take the orders.
Actually it is habituated late nights that I am not too fond of. You know the ones where people want to prolong an evening just because it is too early to disband. Why are we going home, it is only 11.00 pm and it is the weekend? So it is the time rather than the fact that is enjoyable, that dictates the length of the evening. Some evenings, it is never too early to leave!! Don’t you agree?

Thursday, March 26, 2009

The Worth of a Man

I have been having a bit of difficulty in getting my blog going again, and it probably has to do with the fact that I have not felt this relaxed in a long time. I have also struggled to think of a relevant topic to write about, and this one is probably the most relevant in these times. I know a lot of readers will disagree with some of what is written below, but that is also because it shines a mirror within ourselves, into places we have not explored, or questions a value system that has been indoctrinated into us.

Does a job define a man or does a man define a job? What would in other times have been a good topic for discussion, has now become a situation I live on a daily basis. For most people knowing what others do, denote their station in life. It gives people an easy point of reference, a way to assess where to slot you in their scheme of things. It indicates ones position, their relative worth and provides an assessment of their scale of ambition. Now when I am asked as to what I do, I am completely stumped! Even though it used to annoy me a bit earlier, I understood it as a conversational ice-breaker, and it was so easy saying that I worked in such and such a Company. If pressed further I often gave vague or flippant responses, like I work in accounts, or I am a bean counter. These though still provided me with an identity. Now it seems I have none, it is almost like someone has stripped me off my name. I have suddenly come to respect the rationale behind invented terms like homemaker and to understand the desire of people, quite often in meaningless roles, to give themselves grandiose titles and to also exaggerate the worth of their roles.
The type of organisation you work for and your position in it, say more about you, than the content of your character or the purity of your thoughts. It is similar to being asked as to what car you drive. Getting to know what people do, gives us a position to pigeonhole them into our mental grid. We all indulge in this process without even thinking about it. It happens in nanoseconds, in the blink of an eye, and is generally a starting point in our flashpoint decision on how to take that particular relationship forward. It happens simultaneously with the other mental images which provide us with our first impressions, like their looks, the way they carry themselves and the way they talk. Added to the latter, a person’s employment completes the mental picture for us. We take our behavioral cues based on the results of this gentle probe.
Imagine being introduced to someone. We have already processed our first impressions in the blink of an eye, even before the first word is spoken. Now you ask them what they do, and it takes you another fraction of a second to complete the picture based on their response. This extremely innocuous question leads to an instantaneous character profile being drawn up, and will often override the initial impulses gathered before this verbal exchange. You do not need to know their age, their religion, their nationality or their political preferences for you to make up a quick mental model of that individual. The two categories that escape this process are businessmen and homemakers. No one knows what to make of them, until a further sequence of questions are gone through and processed.

The diversity of reactions of people, on being told that I am not currently employed has been huge. From being quite okay about it to absolute avoidance of that topic, from congratulating me (seriously two friends actually congratulated me) to chronic sympathy reserved for terminally ill, the reactions have varied dramatically. Even people who are close to me and think they know me, have suddenly found themselves in deep waters. Thinking back now on the various reactions, I have conversely been able to assess the level of importance that each person puts on their own employment. Since I have only marginally been impacted by this turn of events, I now respond to the question of what I do in different ways. Homemaker, kept man, retired, recently liberated from the yoke of earning a living, are some of the expressions that I have started to use. I can completely understand when some people get cross eyed in trying to contain their reaction, to portray one that is both appropriate to my perceived sensitivities and their own sense of worth.

Recently I was at a get together, where we were all introduced to a newcomer. We were sitting in a sprawling circle and the host was introducing each one of us, to the newcomer, by name. As mentioned before, since a name would not be enough for him to assess the relative worth of each of us, the host was also stating what each of us did. Halfway through that exercise he must have realized the error of his ways, wherein he stopped three people shy of me - stating that he was now tired of going through the whole group. Now these are people I met after a long time, and who have no clue as to how I have taken this, and hence he as a good host, did what he felt would be least embarrassing to me. My wife and I both noticed this and I mentioned it to her on my way back home that night. Of course I am not standing on judgment at all, since I do not know what I would have done in the host’s place either.

So I try to understand where I stand on this issue and have cemented my feelings that working is only a means to an end, and there are various options that lead you to the same result. I also know now that individuals who are in a good place mentally will be able to grasp this particular bull by its horns. Others, who still have a desire to prove themselves, will be dashed into the dust. Unfortunately for us Indians, culturally we have not been prepared for something like this, and losing one’s job carries a huge stigma. I remember reading an article a few months ago that the marriage market in India has changed dramatically, with prospective grooms holding government jobs finding favor (after the lapse of many years), over ones in the outsourcing industry. It says a lot for our values and the drivers of our culture. Of course this is also true of a wider swathe of humanity. In the West however, losing one’s job is a part and parcel of life. This is a culture that celebrates people making it big from meager beginnings. A lot of the leaders of industry earned their first living by flipping burgers, and it was seen as an essential component of one’s education. I cannot imagine any Indian middle class parent approving their child starting their career in an Udipi restaurant – can you? Dignity of labour is still sadly a pipe-dream in our part of the world. Just recently, I was reprimanded for saying to my son, who plays the keyboards, that he could starting a budding musical career by playing in, the soon to open, Metro stations in Dubai. We talk about acceptance, but are extremely critical of the pursuit of any labour intensive profession that does not abide to accepted norms.

I have also been told that this was probably the worst time to lose your job, wherein I corrected that individual by saying it is probably the best time to lose it. A lot of taboo's have been broken and paradigm's are shifting. In the meantime I use my time looking for employment (which I am infinitely more knowledgeable about now) and making the most of my present situation. For example, as I am writing this blog I have gotten one of the innumerable phone calls from a Bank wanting to provide me (this time) with a platinum credit card. Instead of cutting the call short as I used to do, I evinced a tremendous interest in their product, asking all sorts of questions, and thereby exciting the caller about a prospective sale. Of course their reaction was worth recording when on being asked where I worked I told them that I am out of work. You can almost imagine the mental back pedaling as they try to wiggle out of the call, and I am continuing to persist in pestering the guy to send me documentation to cement the deal. I even told the guy not to worry as I would get a job soon, and to just take my word for it. This guy literally refused to take me seriously and believe me, and kept asking me whether I was joking. I think I have now found the perfect response to these annoying calls that I have endured over so many years.

But coming back to the topic, I now also understand the rationale as to why people in relatively senior positions in various organisations refuse to fade away. They try to cling on to their jobs even past retirement age. For most of them it is not a financial necessity, nor is it about power, rather it is a way to hold on to their identity. For years they have seen themselves in the mirror as an employee, be it a GM, a President, a CFO or a CEO of a particular organisation. They have enjoyed the respect that went with a title (any title), got used to seeing themselves the way they wanted others to see them. Now they are cast away into the vast sea of humanity, to drift like all the others, with no title to separate the plumber, the carpenter or the candle stick maker. Where is the dignity in that?

And coming back to my first question, I believe that it is definitely a job that defines a man. Why else would we entrust our least valuable possession, our wealth, to Bankers and pay them ludicrous amounts of money to take care of it, and on the other hand entrust our most valuable possession, our children, to teachers to mold and shape, and pay them nothing?

Thursday, February 26, 2009

Freedom at the Darkest Hour

Every boxer must have thought, at one time or another, about what it would feel like to be hit by a Mike Tyson or a Sonny Liston. All would have also wondered whether they would be able to take it and fight on, or succumb to the lure of canvas. Similarly, every working man will have pondered on the prospects of being laid off - would also have wondered, if they would be able to endure the axe or would their spirit be diminished by its blunt swipe. I have always shuddered at the prospect of being told that my services were no longer required.

When it did happen however, I saw it coming before it hit me. For a while I thought I would avoid its frantic swing, but having seen so many people before me punched out, I had toughened myself for its eventual impact. I had a few months to prepare for the blow, and in those months I had the opportunity to study how others, who went before me, took it. Some went out with a spring in their step and others with their backs broken. Some took it as par for the course, and others as if their world had crumbled. Some went with a smile on their lips and others with tears in their eyes. It is unfair to categorize people’s reactions and judge them on that basis, as they are a function of their individual situation. The initial staff retrenched, were the hardest hit, as it was completely unexpected. Later batches got more inured to the inevitability, as the scale of the economic slide became apparent. During those months I learned to steel myself, to ensure that when it did happen, I would leave graciously. I rehearsed daily as to what I would say and do when the shot was fired.

In fact I prepared myself so well, that I felt a strange sense of déjà vu when I was given the ritual speech. It was as if I was reliving a moment that had already transpired, and as I walked out, in a strange way, I felt elated and free - liberated from a great yoke. My mind of course, was already starting to protest. I remember thinking that I was still maybe mildly sedated from the shock, or the fact that I was jobless during one of the biggest downturns of our generation, had yet to sink in. It was strange to know that while one part of my brain was experiencing emotions of positivity, another was trying to stir up the waters, muddy them with the irrational fear that is supposed to grip any professional who has just been given the pink slip. It would take time for it to sink in, I told myself.

That night I could not sleep. I still had to go back to the office the next day to handover some tasks (very uncommon considering that all others had been given only half an hour to clear their desks). That gave me an opportunity to say goodbye to my staff and the other battered survivors who I had worked with. I came home that evening relaxed, but wondering how to take it ahead, how to break the news to the wider community. So far only my immediate family and one friend (well he is almost family) knew. My wife and I took the decision that I would draft and send one email the next morning, to everyone I knew at once. That would prevent gossip and innuendo from spreading around. That was the hardest night, the night before I spread the news. Looking back it was probably the wisest course of action, as everyone who mattered got the news directly from me, though there were many friends copied in, who did not receive the email. The reactions of the people to that mail are so diverse, that they could be the subject of another blog. That night I slept like a baby.

Three days later and I felt no different. I had a sense of optimism that almost bordered on bravura, and in my own mind I have been extremely conscious of the fact that maybe I am not seeing the picture for what it is. The situation could be direr than what I make of it, and I might rue the day that I took the first step on this new journey. I have read my own diaries over the last few months, and in some of them I see my own prescience of what was to come. I had somehow invited this situation, attracted it in a perverse sense of self flagellation. Maybe at a deep level I had wanted to face my biggest fear and see if I could stand the test.

Well it has been more than three weeks now, and the feeling persists. I have spent most of my time developing a network with consultants and headhunters, polishing up my CV and actually making different versions of it (something that I had never done before). Have met loads of people, in lots of different places, and posted my various versions of CV's in numerous sites. In fact I have lost count of the companies that I have registered with, and worry that when one of them calls I might not even be able to recall my registration. The first two weeks were frenetic, in getting myself positioned in the market, approaching contacts and basically making my situation known. Now the soil has been ploughed and the seeds have been planted, and all I can do like any good farmer, is to wait for the harvest.

As I reel back the days of my life, I realize that in my over 4 decades on this Earth, I have never been in this situation. This is virgin territory for me! For the first time in my entire life I have no idea of my next step. Ever since I can remember, from school days on, I knew what my next step would be i.e. it would be the next grade, or senior school or university. Once I started to work, every job was parachuted out from, only when the next landing was in sight. Today the road ahead is dense with mist, and the forks ahead are unmapped terrain. I stand on an empty road, full of excitement and anticipation of where it might lead me. Everything around me has this feel of tanginess and freshness, as if I am seeing familiar things with new eyes. Of course, there is a voice that tells me that I cannot persist like this forever. I need to get back on to the treadmill, before it gets too late to ever get on.

However, as I wait for the summons, I busy myself with regrounding my life. There is no daily routine, which itself is a huge break from the last 20 over years. I spend my mornings surfing the net, answering emails, exercising, going to the beach or running errands and reading. Afternoons, if I do not have a meeting with friends or contacts are for household chores like laundry and cleaning up. I actually prefer to keep all meetings for afternoons, to prevent myself from napping every day. Evenings are at the club with my children. My fitness is getting back to decent levels, though I just cannot seem to lose the excess weight that I have put on in the last year or so, (I think I have gotten to love food too much).

Every day is a new beginning, as all it would take is one telephone call to change the course of my life. There is a tinge of excitement as I get up each morning to see what the day holds for me, and as each day ends, I thank the powers that be, for the bounty of blessings that have been showered on me, my wife who is my rock, my family who never wavers, and my friends who have gone out of their way to help in whatever way they can. I have faced my own version of Mike Tyson, and having been on the receiving end of one of his most powerful blows, stood back up to see what else he could throw. It is not often in life that one gets to meet ones nemesis and come out the better for it.

Saturday, January 10, 2009

Existential dillemma

Over the last few weeks I have pondered quite a bit on the purpose of our lives. This has been precipitated by quite a few events, because of conversations that I have had, thoughts sparked off by something I have read, and also of course by the course of my own life especially in the last few months. We are taught often that when we get too close to an issue, it is good to take a step back and try to look at it from a different perspective. Try to remove yourself from the situation or distance yourself from the emotions. I think the same thing would be good to apply to life itself.

I am in the strange situation currently, of not really caring which way the wind blows the course of my life. Of course, having said that, it is restricted to the spheres of finance and career. Health and family are always excluded from such grandiose and sweeping statements. All my life I have felt I had something to lose, and hence was very wary of how events could transpire. Decisions were made based on calculations of what I stood to lose, rather than what I would gain. That elemental mindset was part and parcel of my value system, ingrained as a kid and institutionalized over the years by constant repitition. I guess my mindset could be categorized as a typical Indian middle class one, which a vast majority of my fellow citizens would have no problem in recognizing, as well as agreeing to. It is a defensive approach, hinging on minimization of risks, satisfaction in incremental returns and hence ensuring a self perpetuating cycle of indifferent progression.

Today however, I feel as if, I stand distanced from myself and hence anesthetized (or mildly sedated) from the impact of events around me. This state is also what others could call delusional!! I guess, having gone through the financial trauma that has affected most of the civilised world, having seen people I know and worked with, lose their jobs, seen the bubble of dreams created burst around me, has made me in some ways stronger. Anyway enough of this babble and back to the topic of the purpose of our existence. I am not a theologian, nor am I a great philosopher, and hence cannot hold a discourse on existentialism or think of providing fundamental truths about our being. All I can do is use the meager tools at my disposal, reflect and think of what all of this means to me as an individual.


Let us start with what we know (we shall not dabble with issues out of our realm like spiritualism and reincarnation). An average person lives up to 70 years, struggles to make ends meet, has children, and would probably see their grandchildren before they die. The maximum impact then that any of us have, will hence be limited to about 20 people in the world, representing 3 or at the most 4 generations both preceding and succeeding our own. I do not know of too many people who have known their great grandparents intimately, and with delayed marriages and having children later, it is quite likely that most of my generation will not live to see their own great grand children. What this means is that even though our life expectancy is growing, our span of influence has not increased, over the centuries. Other than a handful of people over the eons, almost all of humanity that has walked before us and also those who will walk this earth after us, will be like dust (not even rubble) beneath the feet of time. We will have spent our brief time on this earth in the false vanity that we all made a difference, if not on others, then at least on ourselves. Each of us will, in the decades that are allowed to us here, go through various phases of confusion, realization, and then some more head scratching confusion about why we exist at all. We will grapple for fundamental answers through reading, discussion and debate or thinking.


Scientist say that we are one of a handful of species that are self aware, (one way to define that is to state that we can recognize ourselves in the mirror). We as a species have always wondered about our place, initially on earth and then with expanded insight, in the universe. Being intelligent and creative and having taken over one planet almost entirely, we cannot believe that each of us does not have a unique place in history. We have theories about everlasting life, rebirth and the immortality of our souls. This life is just one more step in our infinite journey to reach nirvana. These provide us with some level of spiritual comfort that our lives and that our endeavors through the years on earth, will mean more than just living and dying meaninglessly.


How many of us would be able to face up to the realization that once gone, we are departed forever, never to step back on this world, in any shape or form? That an everlasting soul is just a figment of an active imagination? That all of theology, is just a collection of wonderful narrativess thought up by imaginative people, around campfires down the ages? How many would be shattered by the pointlessness then, of deriving any greater meaning to their lives? We are born, we live and then we die. We come into this world naked, and all we need are the clothes that cover us after death, a white cloth or the clothes interred with us in our coffins. All our lives, our efforts, striving and pain were then just to acquire these. It seems so sterile, so antiseptic, so cold and somehow clinical. Where then is the grandeur that one has come to expect from fables of gods and demons, and battles fought between good and evil, with the grasping of the undying soul as the ultimate trophy?

Coming back to this dimension, I think mankind's (or any other species for that matter) grand purpose is to have progeny to live on after them. Our children live on after us, and our purpose is to procreate, with the hope that one of our descendants in the long line to follow, will change the course of humanity or add to its store of knowledge. That one of them might become a great musician, a scientist or a humanist. That one of our seeds in future will pay back to the species, for the resources consumed by his/her ancestors since the dawn of time. It is then, not for us to question but to strive, to provide our offspring with a springboard to fly from. Our purpose is to nurture and to provide the opportunities to our children that were denied us, and so too our children to theirs, in an everlasting chain of virtuous upliftment, until one redeems the entire chain that bound them and supported their endeavors. That then (at least to me) is our grand purpose, and in so doing, we get the bonus of enjoying the unconditional love and the warmth, the hugs and the kisses of our children. We get to see them grow and flower, and along with them we grow too, as they teach us love and remind us of the unfettered joy of life and the unrestrained happiness of just being.

I would definitely feel that the purpose of my life has been more than met, if there is a Gandhi, a Newton, a Mother Theresa or a Beethoven to follow in any branch of my family tree. And even if not, we get to enjoy our children, the greatest gift that a human can have. I cannot think of a better deal than this, can you?