I was reminded of this episode when I read about the recent finding of dinosaur fossils in Tamil Nadu. True to our tradition I waited for a follow up report that would reflect our national ethos of showing scant regard for priceless treasures. The report came in a day’s time with the following line:

“Barely weeks after scientists unearthed a Jurassic age treasure in the form of hundreds of dinosaur eggs in Ariyalur district of Tamil Nadu, local villagers and students are looting and damaging the precious fossils.”

I can only add that it is not correct to blame ordinary people. Even our netas rush to the site of a terrorist bomb blast accompanied by a few dozen minions in tens of cars and stomp all over the scene of the attack pretending to take stock of the situation, even as the whole country knows that nothing will come out of the ‘investigations.’ The terrorists may well be sipping chai at a nearby tea stall and may even garland the beaming neta.

Most countries around the world would cordon off such sites in minutes and even the Prime Minister is not allowed to inspect the site with gay abandon. But not India!

But I have a funny tale to tell. I sent a script that I had written about dinosaurs in India to Steven Spielberg. This was written long before the recent finds in Tamil Nadu. Spielberg refused to even consider my script so I asked and got an appointment with the iconic film director. Unlike Bollywood big wigs he agreed to meet me seeing my enthusiasm.

I began by telling him about the Indian response to his movie Jurassic Park. He was not aware that this film was dubbed into several Indian languages. He asked me if our languages had an appropriate word for dinosaur and I told him about that thrilling scene in his movie when a kid exults when she first sees a dinosaur. The Hollywood original has her screaming: “Gosh There’s a dinosaur!”

The Hindi version, I told him, has her screaming: “Uima chipkali aa gayee!”

When I translated this into English Spielberg exhibited a range of emotions that could have won him an Oscar! He alternately laughed and cried till he was rolling on the floor out of pain and hilarity. Once he regained poise he said that calling a dinosaur a “chipkali” (a lizard) was……!!! Mercifully he left it unsaid.

When peace descended I told him that I had a script for another India-centric dinosaur movie. This time I told him it was about octogenarian and nonagenarian politicians in Tamilnadu itself, not far from the site where fossils were discovered. The highlight of the movie, I told him, was when the egg bursts and a baby dinosaur emerges. He walks to Chennai and encounters some netas with whom he establishes immediate kinship considering the similarity in antiquity.

The rest of my story is about how other netas in India wished to meet this dinosaur only to be told by DMK that some more of its MPs must be inducted into the Union Cabinet as a pre-condition. The adventures of the dinosaur are well chronicled in my script. Spielberg is actively considering the project.

It was a quiet Sunday morning and I was fast asleep, hoping to get up very late. Suddenly I felt my wife shaking me awake, gushing excitedly about something that sounded like “elephant” to my sleepy brain. Contrary to what some people think, India does not have an elephant or a snake charmer around every corner. In fact in most cities, children would not even know a snake charmer if they met one!

So, the word elephant was enough to pique my curiosity and wake me up. I then realized that she was telling me that an elephant was standing in our street, having just got down from a truck. I guess mere mortals have to do with a bus, however a truck can be the only means of transport for this giant, majestic creature. I got up, intending to take a quick look at the elephant and then return to sleep after a few minutes.

True enough there was this elephant munching away on odd fruits that the children in the neighborhood were offering her with delight. The caretaker (who subsequently turned out not to be one) was shooing away everyone saying it was dangerous to come too close. After offering some fruits, I left telling them that they could call upon me if anything was required as we lived at the end of the street.

By that time, sleep was long gone so I proceeded to go through my morning routine. While so engaged I heard my spouse banging on the bathroom door and telling me that I had some visitors. Now, we live on the ground floor of an apartment building and when I walked out of the room, I almost fainted at the sight of this elephant blocking the balcony doors with its massive bulk. For a few seconds I thought that she might actually break down some walls to enter the apartment. The actual mahout and caretaker was waiting to meet me and requested some water to bathe the elephant. And so started that unforgettable Sunday. Obviously the “little water” was not not a small amount by any stretch of imagination.

For the next couple of hours the elephant luxuriated in having a leisurely, well scrubbed bath and a pedicure! Then which she was made up as carefully as any beauty queen; we watched in fascination as her forehead and face were painted with unusual decorations.

In the meantime we had organized for a few kilos of vegetables which were promptly gobbled down by her.

I became 5 years old again and spent the entire time scrubbing the elephant, running around her, taking pictures and finally sitting atop her after she had finished her bath. She was sweet enough to indulge me and lived up to the label of a gentle giant.

We learnt that the elephant was Ms. Shyamala Devi who hailed from Swamimalai, a small town in southern Tamil Nadu. She had come to Chennai to grace a wedding with her distinguished presence and ending up gracing up our home for an entire morning.

Oh what an unforgettable experience, being Mowgli for a few hours!

Here are the two questions that had tormented me for years.
(1) Why do Indian politicians usually live long, often well past their sell by date?
(2) Why is idol worship — a Hindu practice — wrong?

Let me take up the first question — why do Indian politicians live past their utility value? I recall the papers reporting the sad and tragic demise of the Andhra Chief Minister, Y.S.R Reddy. I had a lukewarm attitude to the man but I was aware that he was very popular among the masses and among his otherwise squabbling party men. I was pained at the manner in which he met his end. Even as I was struggling with my emotions on his sad demise, I saw reports that in the 24 hours after the fatal accident, more than a hundred people either committed suicide or died of shock on hearing of the death of their beloved leader.

Now I believe that one can admire and even love a person dearly but does one have to commit suicide on the beloved person’s death? Why can’t one accept that life is ephemeral and no matter how great or powerful a man might be, he will have to die anyway. Death after all is the great leveller. But there is a streak of insanity in some of us that surfaces in moments of great turmoil that leads to self destructive behavior. I am afraid this phenomenon that was hitherto a Tamil Nadu speciality has now reared its head in Andhra Pradesh.

What was my Eureka moment? The events after Reddy‘s death gave me an answer to my burning question. Indian politicians have tremendous compassion for their supporters and are aware that their demise will trigger several suicides. Politicians obviously do not like others to take their own lives in such a manner. They prefer that this affection be transferred to their son or daughter who will be found standing next to the party chief at the funeral. But our clever leaders are certain that some die hard supporters will commit hara kiri. To postpone this inexorable event our netas live very long !

I had all along been cynical of such politicians but now that I saw them in a better light I can only say, ‘Ayushman bhava’ to people like Arjun Singh, Karunanidhi, Advani, Laloo Yadav, Shekawat, etc.

Now to that other matter about idol worship. I have addressed interfaith meetings in which Muslims and Christians have objected to idol worship. I have said that the Cross that adorns every Christian church, almost every Christian home and most Christian necks is an idol too. I have even talked of the human need to concretize the invisible, but in the Eureka moment I had received a fresh insight into this vexing question about idol worship.

What led to a new insight was a news item. Here’s an excerpt from the article:
LUCKNOW: Uttar Pradesh Chief Minister Mayawati has now been painted in shades of divinity. A 25-year-old painter has projected Mayawati as a goddess in several paintings on display at Lalit Kala Akademi here. Mahesh Tripathi, who is pursuing post-graduation in fine arts, said: “I feel that she (Mayawati) in the last few years has done a lot for the poor and downtrodden, who in turn would enable her to acquire the status of a ‘devi’ (goddess) in near future.”

In one such painting titled ‘Dalit Devi’, Mayawati has been depicted as a goddess with a halo in her background, her hand held out as if she is blessing the viewer. “Like Guru Nanak and Jesus Christ, she has been devoted to the cause of downtrodden. Considering this fact, I depicted her as a Dalit goddess,” Tripathi, a resident of Siddharthnagar district, said.

Now I am not assessing the UP Chief Minister’s achievements. All I am saying is that once Hinduisim allowed idol worship here was no stopping the idolisation of anyone whom we could elevate into a deity. In the absence of a Pope or other spiritual authority, who can object to my friends erecting my statue as a god of Creativity, considering my status as a trainer, consultant and author in that subject? No one! I can become a god too.

I now have my strongest reason to object to idol worship, an argument that no Christian of Muslim had thought of before! Now before you call me Archimedes ka avatar let me hurry to my bathroom. Who knows what fresh insights I may come out with. But hereafter I shall be more careful when I rush out.

Here is the gist of my talk:
Indian politicians have a habit that is much discussed in the US but is rarely practiced. Several studies by your institute have shown that many ailments are caused during the patient’s stay in a hospital in the US. Paradoxically doctors in this country, far from healing a patient actually cause diseases. If the habit I am referring to is acquired by hospital staff, the savings to the healthcare bill in the US will be at least $100 million a year and I am not counting the loss in terms of leave of absence, fall in productivity loss of morale etc.

At this point the audience got impatient and asked me to please enlighten them about this simple habit! I said that I was alluding to the habit of frequently washing hands! Indian politicians are known to wash their hands almost hourly. For example Laloo Yadav has washed his hands off the fodder scam and the daily allegations of misrule and corruption during his 15 year rule in Bihar. Six months from now Mayawati will wash her hands off the allegation that she had used tax taxpayers’ money for self aggrandizement by building statues of herself on every street corner in Uttar Pradesh. This is why India’s ruling class has remained unaffected by swine flu.

“What else can India teach the west?” I was asked. At this point I drew the audience’s attention to an Indian tradition that the west should aspire to emulate. In the west it is common for people to greet each other by kissing, rubbing cheeks and embracing. I suggested that they abandon such unhealthy practices and adopt the Indian namaste or the Muslim Adab arz hai.

The audience nodded appreciatively and wanted to learn more from India. I told them about the results of some informal research I had been doing in India and the US. In the Tamil Brahmin community it is customary to invite a priest to conduct ceremonies and pay him in cash and kind. The latter usually includes dhotis and towels. I was curious to know what the priest did with the over hundred dhotis and towels he receives every year. He replied that he sold them to a textile shop and received cash! I realized that I may well have bought the same dhotis and towels repeatedly. Recycling indeed!

In Mumbai one sees youngsters selling flowers at street corners. Readers may not know that these flowers are taken from graves where people leave garlands in memory of loved ones. Recycling again!

In the US, Indians customarily offer bottles of wine to the host of a party. These are inexpensive and are easy to pack and carry. I performed a small experiment. I made a small mark at the bottom of a bottle indicating my ownership and date of purchase. Then I found something revealing about Indians. The same bottle kept coming back to me every six weekends — it is on the weekends that parties are held. The interesting thing is that I got back my wine bottle from a totally different person! Indians here recycle the same gift over and over again. Talk of 6 degrees of separation.

How about shaking hands ? I suggested that American bureaucrats can learn several lessons from their Indian counterparts, known as babus. These babus are not as obese as Americans. Why? American bureaucrats consume enormous quantities of high sugar coke. Indian babus are content with chai paani. At the most he will accept bachhon ke liye mithai.

The babu does not like to shake hands since his palms have been greased as a protection — against the scorching Indian sun. This accounts for the absence of swine flu among bureaucrats in India.

Indians are ambitious and will seize any opportunity to go ahead in life. Right now millions of Indians have lined up outside the American Consulates in many cities in India. They refuse to listen to the consular officials shouting, “PLEASE DO NOT APPLY FOR H1N1 BECAUSE IT IS NOT A VISA.”

Not so long ago, when there were still prying but sympathetic peers abound (of which the later variety is a rare and endangered species these days) there lived an average Joe monk in a monastery. One day after his usual ablutions, meditations, chores done and frugal meals partaken, he set out to gather firewood in the nearby woods for the rituals at twilight. Then it happened. With both hands occupied, holding the bundle of firewood perched on his head, there was little he could do to defend himself when a wild dog dug its sharpest teeth into the fleshiest part of his rear end anatomy.

Smarting under the sharp pangs of his submitting so meekly before the lowliest of creatures and limping under the practicality of having to now shift weight to one leg that which didn’t have the honor of submitting itself to the cursed cur’s uncompromising and deep oral dalliance, the monk thought thus hurrying towards the tall and fortified walls of the comforting monastery beyond the reach of such wily whelps.

“Mm..let me see now….there are around 377 brother monks behind the blessed boundaries. This pronounced limping coupled with the not so nuanced painful contortions of my face are bound to draw both attention and sympathetic yet piercing questions about what transpired. There is no other way for me but to open up and give them a detailed account of the state of affairs. The more matronly of the fraternity will want to dwell on the shape, size, speed and stealth of that scourge on four legs. Not once, but many a tens of times will I have to go through this motion of explaining to each and every one. Reliving through those painful moment again and again with no prospect of the pain ever dulling. Or me finding time to tend to that tender part of self in the privacy of my chamber. I trust the better way out of this predicament would be to…”

Into the sight came the hallowed monastery, rising magnificently from the woods. Amid the chirping of the birds snuggling into their well feathered nests and the call of the wild, the monk could make out faint peals of the clear bell ringing in the dusk as it struck thunderbolt awareness into his hollowed head.

Like a hurricane in a hurry, shot the monk towards the monastery doors, throwing caution to the winds. Scurrying up the tower that housed the bell, lifting the otherwise half-a-ton weighing gong, he struck it against the bronze bell with all his might… all this was a moment’s work.

Surveying the surging shaven heads and their scrutinizing gazes, the monk turned around, bent over, lifted the ochre robe well above the mark that pumps blood into the sternest of cheeks and proceeded to recount the ordeal he hath passed through that unfortunate evening….

Now my dear friends; when did we not feel the strong urge to announce to the world what we have passed through in the wilderness of our respective corporates? Almost everyday I hear you all cry in unison. I know. I have been there. But thankfully I haven’t done that. For however much the temptation is to unburden myself of the travails I face day in and day out, I know there aren’t many kindly and brotherly souls around. So I shift weight, drag the feet and keep a smiling face. And I work hard at throwing a sympathetic glance in for good measure in hope that some numbskull will fall for it and entertain me with his tale of misery. And over and above that, I make sure to carry a sturdy staff and bide my time. For though there is a dearth of kindly hearts it’s more than made up by an overabundance of the blasted bowwows.

Now comes the news that there has been a derailment in the Delhi metro although the system is almost new. One can cite thousands of such examples at the end of which we are forced to ask the question — what is really happening here? Is there a fundamental issue here beyond what appears on the surface?

There can be several answers but I shall highlight a few here.

Incidents like collapsing bridges point to not just poor execution and maintenance but to total lack of respect for life. The company that built the metro bridge probably had to pay so much money under the table in getting the contract that in its effort to recoup this ‘investment’ the company compromised on quality even if it meant a human disaster in the future.

I make bold to say that such compromises occur in almost every project in India. For example, contractors are known to compromise on not only on the quality of road construction to ‘recover’ their under-the-table investment but also to get the contract to repair the road after the next monsoon. Such stories lead me to find the underlying cause…the greed to get money even if it means shoddy work costing human lives.

There is a total disrespect for life.

It is sometimes stated that Indians are poor at maintenance of assets. This is true but reduces the issue to a managerial failing. I suggest that this trivializes the issue and diverts attention from the larger more sinister issue of the pursuit of wealth at any cost including human lives.

To return to the more superficial issue — our poor maintenance record — I feel that this indicates the reversing of roles of the trinity of the Hindu pantheon. Thus Brahma the Creator seems to have a small role to play since we create few assets. Vishnu  The Preserver has a marginal role since we are poor at maintenance. It is Shiva the Destroyer who prevails as we destroy assets at will in a riot, or even in a morcha. Apart from this we have no compunction in destroying lives. India is a Shivaite country! The only intriguing issue here is that Shiva stands for creative destruction. We have imbibed ‘destruction’ and ignored the ‘creative’ aspect.

Here’s a joke I read in an Indian newspaper that shows how poor we are at maintenance and how we can be corrupted to ignore maintenance.

A man dies and goes to hell. There he finds that there is a different hell for each country. He goes to the German hell and asks, “What do they do there?” He is told, “First they put you in an electric chair for an hour. Then they lay you on a bed of nails for another hour. Then the German devil comes in and beats you for the rest of the day.”

The man doesn’t like it, so he moves on and checks out the American hell, the Russian hell and hells of other countries. He finds that they’re all more or less the same as the German hell.

Then he comes to the Indian hell and finds that there is a long queue of people waiting to get in. Amazed, he asks, “What do they do here?” He is told, “First they put you in an electric chair for an hour. Then they lay you on a bed of nails for another hour. Then the Indian devil comes in and beats you for the rest of the day.” “But that is exactly the same as all the other hells; so why are so many people waiting to get in here?” wonders the man. He is told, “Because the maintenance here is so bad that the electric chair does not work, someone has stolen all the nails from the bed and the Indian devil is a former government servant, so he just comes in, signs the attendance register and then goes to the canteen.”

But there are exceptions. Ones which are better left untouched. At least till the time one finds one’s way around the system and its accompanying loopholes to enjoy happy, frequent and extended coffee-break moments 9 to 5. Of this hierarchy of horrors – the recasting of an old project that’s gathering dust is the most potent of plagues that has ever stunted the careers of many a bright and starry eyed broom-wielder. Don’t agree? Read on.

Long ago. One ashram. Four friends. Fast learners. Sharp brains. Guru’s pets. Complete education. Flying colors. Honor rolls. Campus placements – none then. Take blessings. Step out.

(A vast world! Make way. Roll carpet. Shower perks.)

Jungle ahead. Hack through. Path made. Deep inside. Bone seen. Intelligent all. Exchange glances. Opportunity beckons. Grab now. Showcase skills.

Bright Fellow (BF) – Number One: “Me topper. Redraw vision. This here. Is Lion.”
BF Two: “My specialty. Is Re-engineering. Skeleton built. Jungle King.”
BF Three: “Image builder. That’s me. Flesh, blood. Body, ready.
BF Four: “Turnaround specialist. Breathing life. Rise, Roar.”
Happy Lion!
Hungry Lion!
Learned men. Wise men. Bright men.
Know all – but one. How to climb trees to save ass.
They couldn’t.
End story.

Begin Moral.
Temptation is good; it spurs us to stoop to levels which we never knew existed; to soar to heights that any self-respecting executives can only dream of! But it should be gulped down with a pinch of caution. Especially when it comes to long dead projects that the previous management has dropped like a hot brick or potential fan-hitter in their occasional lapse into reasoning moments. For you know not why they were stowed aside or shoved under.

A viability report is the most you are allowed as a shining knight who is set for higher things. Not volunteering to execute the project, akin to breathing life into the beast.
Adamant still?
Reach now. Higher position.
Happy beginning.

Monitors left on in a non-power save mode, all lights switched on in-spite of the streaming sunlight, and A/C units blasting full-on and you know we are back in business. In the pantry, coffee shots from the vending machine are foamier and thicker. Teabags (ginger, lemon, mint and honey — the whole lot) came out of the locked cupboards for the benefit of the whole gentry. Rest rooms have the same cheerful telltale signs. The toilet paper thickness has increased and once more air fresheners are discreetly tucked in strategic locations. Result? Fewer people walking out like ducks treading gingerly on shredded glass.

HR folks have lost their pre-eminence at the lunch tables as purveyors of juicy tidbits. Pink is still the color of the season, but only with reference to tickling that subordinates are subjected to and the Boss’ lame jokes are back in circulation. Everybody is chirping away to glory, discussing aloud the projects they are on, and they those they wish to get to so that they don’t have to work hard like they pretended to, during the last 8 months or so of the economic turmoil.

I am as happy as any underpaid, overworked employee who has ever swiped his card for all the above. But being a person cursed with a bit of extra memory that crams in unwanted trivia, I am slightly worried too. Occupying the lower rungs of the corporate ladder, it is very important for all of us to remember lessons that the recession hard-knocks diploma (it will last 18 months elsewhere, and a little over 12 months here is my prediction) have taught us. And here’s one that I learnt not so long ago.

Once upon a time, there was a washerman who had few asses working for him, carrying a mountain of dirty laundry of the entire population of the village and dutifully taking them to the cleaners. It was a prosperous time and every member of the village was extravagant, using three changes of clothes every day and wearing each only once before they sent them for cleaning. Business was brisk, the W-man could and did look after his asses pretty well, treating them to best of the fodder, choicest nibbles and outings every weekends. The asses too were extremely happy and many a occasion used to raise their braying to an absolute crescendo during the once-too-often bacchanalian revelries that the W-man threw. Life was one long beautiful song!

But all good things have to come to an end. Recession hit that idyllic village and everyone fell on hard times. People migrated or were forced to leave due to the conditions of the day. From an indulgence, getting one’s clothes washed turned to a luxury. It was a good week, if they were able to give out one set of clothes for washing. People got used to wrapping themselves in sweaty, stain dotted threads. The stench was reaching high skies but hey who cares! A penny saved is a penny earned.

That spelt doom for the W-man. With business drying up and money running out to feed all the asses even for sustenance, he had but few tough and heart-wringing choices before him:
• Let some asses go or
• Keep all asses
From being a mentor the first choice effectively turns him into a heart-less tormentor in the eyes of the asses. The second will make him an easy target for the ruthless taxmen of the king (cost-controllers is the other title they go by); or worse get the villagers’ vitriolic tongues wagging about his supposed extravagance. Alas, it also pits his asses in direct competition with a handful horses and loads of bulls that populate the ranches of other working class folks of the village. And if there ever comes a time of rationing out the grass in the village he very well knows where the asses stand.

Prudently the W-man did away with a few of his asses thereby taking the moral high ground. Over the next few weeks, the asses talked amongst themselves on the future course of action. All but one ass thought it wise to find greener pastures to eke out a course on their own. ‘Entrepreneur-ass’ they were dubbed, by a lone ass which lacked both courage and wherewithal to take that step. So it came to stay back with the master, not much work to do, still getting enough grass and water to get through the tough times.

Some more time passed, and the recession seemed like a cold and inferior cheese dragging on and on without a break in sight. It was getting difficult for the W-man to maintain the ass; for the load now was such that he alone could carry it. Thinking about it and wandering hither and thither he walked well into the adjoining jungle and found a dead tiger. Aha, the W-man had a lightning thought and swung into quick action. The thought was simple. Use the tiger skin to cover his ass and send it into the fields of other villagers and let it feed to its heart’s content. That way he gets to offload the cost of employing (err..feeding) the ass but he still gets to keep it. To act is but the work of a moment. He skinned the tiger (dead and cold, it sure was) skillfully and threw the skin over the ass. Perfect. The ass turns into a tiger! While letting it lose in other’s fields, the W-man had just one advice for it – “SHHHHH!”

The plot worked well and the ass got more than its worth in grass! It could taste different things everyday without ever getting detected. Few who could see through the dark night, feared this new breed of tiger that fed on grass and were happy that at least they didn’t have to face a man-eater.

But alas, good times don’t last. Especially for that creature whose DNA is that of an ass. All the green and tasty grass, coming free and surreptitiously as it did, made the ass get above itself. Throwing caution and the W-man’s prudent advice to wind, one full moon night at the end of a perfectly fulfilling meal, it thought of celebrating the occasion with a full-on song and dance! And how! Within moments of the said lapse of reasoning (a rare commodity by itself in an ass) its cover got blown and all the villagers descended upon it with vengeance.

It’s not for me to get into the gory details and aftermath. Will spare you folks the same but for the lesson that small yet moving story taught me. When a good thing is going and you are sneaking in and snacking on it, you are well advised to curb your enthusiasm and make the most of it. Thanks, My Ass!

If research is anything to go by, the answer will be, not as much as you should have done.

We’re told that people are so overwhelmed by the gloom they read and hear on the TV and newspapers that we’re forgetting to laugh.

I say “forgetting” because, as kids, we were masters at laughing. Research, again, suggests that, while adults laugh on average 15 times a day, small children manage up to 400 laughs a day.

On our Creativity courses at ManageTrainLearn, we produce evidence that suggests that the more you laugh at work the more creative you are.

Goran Ekvall, professor of organisational psychology at Lund University in Sweden, says that laughter is an essential ingredient for workplace innovation. When comparing the creativity of various departments of a Swedish newspaper, Ekvall found that the most creative teams were those that had a high level of laughter and humour.

This is why Tom Peters says that you can measure an organisation’s creativity from its laughometer.

There are many other reasons why laughter is good for you.

* laughter releases serotonin, the “feel-good” hormone, into your brain
* laughter helps you connect to others. It’s one of the best rapport-building tools around.
* laughter massages your inner organs
* laughter can help you lose weight by burning off fat
* laughter helps your immune system work better.

Madhuri Kataria, who created the idea of World Laughter Day, says, “There is an epidemic of seriousness that is raging all over the world. People seem to think that being grim-faced and serious is the only way to show commitment at work.”

It reminds me of that Red Indian proverb, “When you get to heaven, most people ask themselves, “Why was I so serious?”.”

So, here, to raise your serotonin, build your team, and increase your organisation’s creativity, is one of my favourite jokes of the moment. Read it and laugh. Or read it 400 times today and laugh.

A young man, hired by a supermarket, reported for his first day of work. The manager greeted him with a warm handshake and a smile, gave him a broom and said, “Your first job will be to sweep out the store.” “But I’m a college graduate.” the young man replied indignantly. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t know that,” said the manager. “Here, give me the broom, I’ll show you how.”

Editor’s Note: Here are some of the cutest things our reader’s kids have said. They will provide ample smiles and laughs we reckon. Enjoy!

What about basking in the extra attention you get because your significant others go a long way to be more sensitive and considerate when they realize that you are feeling blue?

Remember your depression can actually trigger off a feeling of glee in others. The moment some associates realize that you are depressed, they begin to feel good about themselves and life as a whole. What better way to make others happy than by letting them know you are depressed? So you will find a lot of people trying to act very concerned – as if your well-being is the sole purpose for their existence. They will listen to you, sympathize, empathize and comfort you with their “sweet” words and ” good advice.” But the moment they are through with you they’ll pick up the phone to discuss your plight to anyone willing to listen. Ouch!

The word then spreads and so does the happiness. More people get to know, more people call you up, more people give advice, and more people call other people to spread the word around. The more you speak, the more you are convinced about your own helplessness and it intensifies your depression and the ripple-effect happiness that others enjoy by offering support and feeling exhilarated.

Can we consider introducing a World Depression Day? It can be a great day to commemorate and millions across the world will celebrate (if they can get themselves out of bed!). Marketed well, it can develop in to a great annual event with UN backing or least the sponsorship of the drug companies that manufacture anti-depressants.

Not to forget the fact that depression brings with it, the tendency to shop and eat. Such an event would be a retailer’s delight. Special offers and discounts for the depressed ones. Walk with your Prozac as proof of the blues.

Just think….special “Depressed Hours” at bars and pubs. The possibilities are endless: cards, weekend retreats and even chain mails regarding depression — “Please forward this mail to 7 persons within three hours and you will be lucky enough to be depressed for the next seven days. Ignore this mail and no depression for the rest of the year.”

What say you?

Being a part of a team which was working with an NGO to put up an art show, I was organizing and coordinating the installation of panels. This show was being held in a leading 5 star hotel, where use of the hall was being allowed, free of charge. Hence, it was made available at the last possible moment as a paying guest’s function went on later than scheduled.

The artist was a famous modern artist and the patron of the show was a leading personality, well known for a volatile temper. So, one can imagine the stress levels of people putting up the panels who were desperate to avoid any mishap that could trigger a temper tantrum. Given the time constraints, instead of standing around, I decided to help by hanging some paintings. Just when I was through with two or three of the paintings, the patron walked in with the artist. Their flight had arrived early, confirming my conviction that Murphy’s law does in fact exist and affects my reality.

Thankfully most of the work was done and there was not much chance of any unexpected problems popping up. The artist was walking around admiring his work when suddenly he gave a yell and shouted, “Who has done this?” We all feared the worst and rushed to his side, expecting to see some tear or damage to the painting. After a few minutes of tense silence, during which we could discern nothing, someone ventured to ask what was was disturbing him.

Full of emotion, he very informed us of the tragedy…. someone had hung his painting upside down! That’s when I realized that the culprit was none other than yours truly. While I was trying to figure out how he knew that the painting was upside down, someone else voiced my question. The artist very scornfully pointed to a scrawl and said, “That’s my signature and it is always on the right hand bottom side of my art.”

I almost felt like Buddha as enlightenment dawned on me. I now knew how to discern if a painting were right side up. This meant, I would actually get to understand what the artist wanted to portray and not get a distorted, upside down perspective. Imagine that!

Once I got past my initial discomfiture, I actually began to look forward to helping organize an art show again. Unfortunately, I have never had an opportunity since then to use my newly minted education. I suspect that my ignorance was detected and has been telegraphed to all the artists, advising them to avoid my help.

“Rap is a way of life bro’. Wanna rap? You gotcha live like us – the ghetto clothes. You gotta dress right … like a gangsta. Give attitoood and you’ll get it.”, the guy offered me the first AHA experience about Rap. He should know. He was the young 20 something who was being interviewed as he stepped off his stretch limo. I had gone to drop off a hysterical gang of teenagers at this Rap Concert. (Is that an oxymoron?)

I did not like being addressed as a dawg or a gangsta -even if it came from HIM. My kids explained that I should be honoured that HE even looked at me while saying that stuff. There were so many drooling fans around. And of all people he looked at the “unkewlest of them all”. And being called a “gangsta” is a sign of being accepted even in High School, my daughter consoled me.

“If he is from the ghettos, why is he flashing the diamond ear-ring while stepping off a stretch limo?” I put a clincher.

“Oh DAD!! Don’t you understand anything?”:roll:

Kids are low on patience when explaining kewl stuff to parents. (yeah… it is not cool. “You are SO like 70’s, Dad”)

I put my apprehensions aside. If dressing right was part of the solution, so be it. So, for a while I pretended that I was hip just like those people – the “kewl dudes”. I started referring to my kids as gangsta. That was rough on my nerves. Try saying, “Hey Gangsta! Finished your homework? Get on the case dude. You got a TEST TOMORROW FOGOSSAKE!!”

I even wore appropriate attire. I wore loose pants and that’s not easy to maintain. I normally have the reverse problem – my pants suddenly become tight. Here was a twist. I had to buy pants that would be loose enough to hang around my derriere (look I know some French and it makes me sound classy). But that meant I had to also had to buy new boxers that would be on display for the world to see. My shopping list was becoming longer and leaving me poorer. I took one of those baggy shorts and tried wearing them. How could anyone call them shorts? They reached till my socks. They were unwieldy at that. I almost tripped over in the trial room itself trying to catch a sideways glance at myself in the mirror. Loose pants around my kneecaps gave me the necessary pizzazz and the oversized T shirt made me look like a novice mountaineer emerging out of the tent he tried to put up. I wore a bandana and dark glasses that were three sizes too big for me. Satisfied that I was now ready to listen to The Music, I stepped into the streets. Wearing those dark glasses in the evening was a mistake. A kind old lady who was my grandmother’s age held my hand firmly and walked me to the other side of the street. I kept protesting to say I was fine but she wouldn’t let go.

I reached home and switched on the channel that features these Rap artistes. I always thought you got to have the anorexic look to be featured in a music video. I mean that’s what it was like in our times. The skinny models would walk down the ramp swaying to some crazy music only they could hear. The left ankle carefully placed in front of the right foot before they switched places. But Rap videos featured folks who would win Obesity Contests. One lead singer was narrating his life story (presumably) in a monotonous monologue while the drummer was concentrating on practicing a basic beat on the jungle drums. From time to time the lead singer would draw out an imaginary outline of his underwear. He would trace the design around his groin keeping his thumb and index finger as far apart as possible from each other.

I did not get it. Never will. And that’s OK. I am relying on the great divide called the Generation Gap to prevent the beast from reaching my part of the jungle.

How can this get classified as music when you can never play any of these tunes on a musical instrument? If something is beyond the scope of an instrument is it music at all or is it poetry? After a while the effort was too much for me to figure out. I switched back to good old Beatles stuff. By the way The Beatles are kewl even in High School, says my kid. I guess I am too old to rap and roll and too young to try.

An easy solution to handle such tricky scenarios or people is to look at them with wonder or amusement. Instead of getting upset by their worst or best habits, we can take it as a new view of the world. Instead of saying” How could they do this?” we can say, “Hey, how different and funny they are!”

Swami Sukhabodhananda in one of his discourses, offers hilarious tips to handle bullies. He says if a relative or a boss is getting on your nerves, just imagine them as being dressed in a funny attire, like pre-historic tribal wear or a swim suit. Then envision them haphazardly dancing away to glory, with a guitar in hand perhaps. You could think of long painted horns on their heads too.

Otherwise, just scramble bothersome people in your heads. Imagine a hot vessel in which you do an egg scramble of people who amuse you too much! Add few spices if you want. Red chili powder would be good. Just give it a shot and you’ll see.

Last year my husband took a very spirited decision. He decided to quit his job with the Tata Group to pursue a Ph.D. degree. Most of his acquaintances, not to mention his family, were astonished by his unusual decision. They were curious to know why at this juncture in life he has decided to do a Ph.D.

He explained it thus: “It is now 21 years since I am married. My wife has suddenly developed the 7-year itch 3 times over. One fine day she came and told me, ‘Look dear, I am bored being married to you for so long; I now want to marry a doctor.’ This was something I never imagined as I had taken her for granted. I did not want to lose her, because I had got used – addicted, if you will – to her. I also knew her well enough to know that once an idea had taken root in her mind, she would not rest till it was implemented. I knew that it was no use arguing her out of the idea. My mind started racing on the options available. How could I remain married to her as well as ensuring that she got her wish? I quickly collected my wits and addressed her, ‘Dear, you’ve waited 21 years; do you mind waiting for 2–3 years more?’ Reluctantly, she agreed to wait. (In any case, beautiful as my wife is, I doubted if there was a willing doctor on the horizon. She seemed to be making a virtue out of a necessity, and I played along.) So now you know why I decided to do what I have done.”

It certainly was a unique way of looking at things. Humour happens when one looks at the same set of facts in a different light. Or the same word in different languages, as we will see presently.

A group of Indians were on vacation abroad. There was one Maharashtrian couple amongst the group. Maharashtrians are most comfortable in speaking in Marathi. However, since most of the others were comfortable in Hindi, one Mr. Lele wanted to impress one and all with his command over Hindi by rattling off a few shayaris here and there. His wife’s birthday was being celebrated by the group by cutting a cake. Mr. Lele held the first piece of cake and in ‘chaste’ Hindi, said, “ab main mere biwi ko ek ghaas khilata hoon.” (In Marathi Ghaas means a mouthful. Unfortunately, the same word means grass in Hindi, so what he said translated from Hindi as “now I am feeding my wife some grass.”) This had the group in splits at the unfortunate, inadvertent language switch.

Sometimes, great humour is built around exaggerating commonly observed characteristics of groups and communities. We all know, for example, enough Sardarji jokes and jokes about absent-mindedness of professors. Given below is an example of the special characteristics as well as humour that is the stamp of koknastha Brahmins.

Mr. Lele belongs to a community of Brahmins originally hailing from the coastal Maharashtra (Konkan), and renowned for their miserliness as much as intellect and their capacity of laughing at themselves. One such example involved another Mr. Lele who wanted to make a rubber stamp of his name. Instead of ordering a stamp with LELE, he thought of a brilliant solution that saved 50% of his cost and made a stamp with LE which he would use twice over to make LELE. Then he got a further idea. He stood near the court looking out for anybody named GOKHALE or DAMLE to whom he could rent out his stamp containing part of their names and recover his cost.

–

Shobhana works for a Mumbai real estate group. Her interests include singing, watching plays and reading books on leadership and self-development. She devotes her spare time in spreading literacy to the less fortunate. Her motto in life is to be an exemplar.

This was good cattle country but it fell between the jurisdiction of the Scottish Kings and the English. Being too far away from either to be effectively governed or policed the inhabitants were left for much of the time to their own devices.

In this region there developed a sport peculiar to the time and the geography that was called rieving, an old Scottish word which translated means to rob or plunder.

The genesis of the sport is lost in time but its roots are firmly in the natural antipathy the Scots borderers felt for the English and vice versa.

The young men of the time, lacking the diversion of the playstation, the educational value of the internet, or the speed of a dropped Vauxhall Corsa, would take it upon themselves to visit their English or Scottish neighbours and make off with anything they found, generally this was their neighbours’ cattle which were valuable, easily transported and usually located at some distance from their neighbours’ stronghold.

The sport was then heightened by the perils of the return journey encumbered by cattle which, if they were caught, would certainly spell their guilt.

The theft of cattle would clearly not go unnoticed and depending on the situation a reprisal raid would not be long in the planning and would take place in what we might today refer to as a “return match”.

The problem was that having stolen their neighbour’s cattle the home team could reasonably expect some sort of return visit and would therefore be on their guard. Thus the stakes were raised.

The return visit would be planned with even more care and even more support than the original raid. This was where the clans became useful, an affront to one member of the clan was an affront to all and there were no shortage of volunteers or intelligence when the return match was held.

Since the extended family, or clan, system was common on both sides of the border the home team stood a very good chance of becoming aware of the exact date and time of the return visit and the members of the clan would lie in wait for the rievers, not as they arrived, innocent of anything but the desire for a long walk, but when they were returning with the proceeds of their afternoon’s sport, were obviously guilty and could therefore be mishandled with impunity in the ensuing melee.

As a descendant of an old West Coast Family I am sometimes asked about this history and have to admit that my ancestors were active participants in this sport, though not very proficient since one of them was red carded and hung by the neck in Peebles in 1543 for what was probably just a misunderstanding of the offside rule.

Last month we played host to a couple from Peru into whose company we had been thrust for three days last year while Iberia Airlines, from whom we had innocently bought tickets to Peru, worked out how to get us from Heathrow to Lima via Madrid and Amsterdam, apparently without an aeroplane.

During this couple’s stay at our house in Cranfield, UK, the subject of family history came up and we told our guests this story of the Border Rievers.

Their English is better than our Spanish so we told the story in English and were a little disappointed at the rather puzzled reaction that we got to our tales of 16th century derring-do in the heather of the borders.

An uncomfortable silence descended, broken when one of our Peruvian visitors asked ‚ÄúWhy would they steal each other’s kettles?‚Äù