Warranty Void!

In this world of cut throat business, where an act of kindness is, more often than not, "outside company policy," this incident stands out.

I bought a pair of Sennheiser CX 180 noise cancellation earphones about a year back which I fell in love with. Every note that was to be heard was heard. Every bit of noise you didn't want it blocked. It also came with 2 years of warranty.

These very earphones bailed out on me during my official trip to Kerala. It so happens that I was thrown in with a bunch of people who found my music as alien as I found theirs annoying. In line with the noisy practices of our country, the junta was of the opinion that loudness = or > quality.

After a harrowing month, I returned to Golccha Electronics, the shop on SP Road from where the said earphones were purchased. The owner promptly asked me to take it to the Sennheiser service centre which he said was opposite to Garuda mall.

So, I rode to Garuda Mall.

I didn't find it.

So, I stopped by at Garuda Mall on the way back from work.

I couldn't find it.

It was then that I called him and asked about it's location. He said it was over an ICICI bank which was "very opposite" to Garuda Mall. On enquiry, I found that the nearest ICICI bank was "very beside" Bangalore Central and that it didn't have any thing worthy of being called a service centre above.

On calling again, he told me to get to his shop, which I did that night.

He started with apologies for making me run around so much. Apparently, the Sennheiser service centre which was due opening on the 20th of December had been postponed without his knowledge.

He then asked for the cardboard case that came with the phones so that warranty could be claimed. I, with a rather knowing air, proclaimed that no one preserves those boxes and that the bill which has "WARRANTY" written on it should be sufficient. He then pointed out that this very bill has, in fine print, "Warranty void without cardboard box."

He however told me that he'd take care of it. He handed me a warranty claimant slip. Then, he hesitated and went inside his shop. On return, presumably after a call, he confirmed with me of my inability to produce the box. He proceeded to ask me to show him the slip he'd handed me. On its production, he immediately tore it up.

"No warranty without box, Sir."

And before I could recover from the shock of this dramatic refusal, he asked me how I'd like a new pair. Since I was too dazed to respond, he asked me again, to which I replied that I wouldn't mind. Off his shelf he picked a brand new pair of the same earphones and put it in my hand.

"My customers come first. I'll fight with those people."

"At least this time, please keep the cardboard box safely. "

He'd staged the whole thing very well. It had a profound effect on me. I thanked him profusely in words and gestures. I then left the shop feeling very good about Golccha Electronics and for myself.

Lessons learnt:

1. Retain the damn cardboard box.

2. Only Rajendra saheb's Golccha Electronics, people.

Now playing: Think of me with kindness - Gentle Giant (quite a co-incidence eh?!)

PS: He trusted me to an extent as to not look at the defective earphones at all.

The Economics of Art

The trip to Hampi from college was extremely special and harboured many cherished memories. One such memory is that of an evening outside the Virupaksha temple there. Come evening, the temple, bedecked with lights and thronged by devotees, assumes a festive look. As outside any famous temple, there was a multitude of peddlers selling snacks, trinkets and other memorabilia. We stopped at one selling little statuettes and other pieces of artistically moulded metal. While picking up our purchases, the usual dose of bargaining that accompanies any purchase in such places ensued.

On the conclusion of our buying there, I remember arguing it out with a friend of mine, Balaji, on how it was ok to bargain for something being sold, even if it is art. On the one hand, mundane arguments of how bargaining keeps a leash on overcharging went on, and on the other, it was held that while one cannot place a price on art in the first place, bargaining is downright sordid. The the result was one where each member stubbornly stuck to his own.

The business of making documentaries on India and screened herein has hit it big in recent times. And quite a few of these have seemingly good looking women hosts, who are Indian more often than not and strike you as being particularly dumb in matters Indian. On one such documentary, an Indian anchor with a British accent was touring Orissa. It then went on to show an old man painstakingly painting thin, closely spaced lines on a small wooden toy with deft strokes of a brush. This got me thinking as to how much effort goes into making every small toy that is present in the heap of toys lying outside temples to be sold to customers.

The toys, by lying in these heaps, have their value severely undermined. Let us compare them to paintings that a "great artist" like M F Hussain doles out. Just because of the setting, one is valued at least a million times better than the other. I admit that my knowledge on contemporary painting isn't equal to one who can speak so disparagingly of Hussain. But I'm sure that the ratio I've put forth is still absurd, even when looked into by an MF Hussain Fan Club founder. The same goes for performing arts. Writers seem to have it a little easier than the rest of the artistic fraternity.

A true work of art touches you so deep that it evokes an almost primitive feeling which cannot be described, for descriptions are, by nature, man-made. It is this that puts a true artist on a pedestal that raises him beyond the scope of other things man-made, such as those of Economics. In the days of yore, there were kings who recognised this valued position of art, rising beyond economic worth. This is why art flourished in those days, patronised by the Kings, to give us masterpieces like Hampi and brilliant performing arts like Bharatanatyam and Carnatic Music. Today, Economics rules us all, and it doesn't take too kindly to art, although nowadays, it is coming to be seen as an art in itself.

Which brings me back to bargaining. My father once encountered a farmer who was selling a bunch of freshly picked lady's finger. He gave the latter how much ever was quoted and brought home the bounty. On finding out my father had paid the farmer slightly more than the market price, my mother called him naive and I seemed to think she was right. My father held that he couldn't refuse to give to a man whatever he asked, for something grown of his own hands. Horticulture, by virtue of its closeness to nature, started off as an art until the machinations of modern machinery have uprooted these links. Today, I am wholly sympathetic with my father and concede to Balaji in that I will never again bargain for a work of art.

The Dog's Day?

07-10-2010, Thursday

It so happens that I've to travel quite a lot to get to my new workplace. Located far away as my home is, there is a choice between a shorter route riddled with construction barriers and a longer, more unfettered route. As saving those few minutes I deemed quite important, I chose the longer route, and on one such circuitous trip, I was inspired to write thus.

The unoccupied mind tends to get on one's nerves, and because of restrictions imposed by the employer, I'm forbidden to bring along electronic devices of appeal, which leaves me either reading, or looking at the city en passant with contemplative eyes. The depth of this contemplation depends upon my state of mind, which is inclined to receive some inspirational tweaks on reading something well written. On this occasion, the proverbial food for thought turned out to be a Navtej Sarna short story.

On its conclusion, I was on the contemplative city gazing routine when I noticed a limping stray dog, and at least from his point of view, his mate, smaller, but able. The protagonist in question was on three legs as his fourth had been amputated half way.

His girl didn't share his eagerness and would've none of his attempts to set the ball rolling, coaxing on, from behind her. Firm bursts of barking were put forth to this end. However, they lacked a degree of bitterness that would've been present if she didn't approve of him at all. An interested onlooker to this ensuing drama was another dog, quite able and on all fours, silently watching these events unfold.

"Why was she playing hard ball?"

"Is it because he was a cripple?"

"Is it because she isn't ready yet? Or does the presence of the onlooker hold any bearing on her decision?"

"Was she merely playing hard to get before eager submission?"

The pleading, pitiable look on the dog seemed to ask these questions, just as I ask them now. However, the bus pulled away from the traffic signal and I never quite figured out whether it was the dog's day.

For once, I was a little sad when the bus pulled away from a signal. It is usually the case that my mind continually eggs the bus on, seeing as how traffic moves slower than a sleep-walking snail in unplanned, construction ridden, and as a result, gridlocked Bangalore. On switching buses at the Majestic bus station, a pen, paper and a well suspended, comfortable Volvo bus seat at my disposal, I'm inspired to pen down my thoughts before the will to do so evaporates. The frequently interrupting Bangalore traffic signals at hand are my allies now. I think I'm going to like this new job.

The Eternal Dilemma (Part2)

Let us look at society today. There are very clearly, blue collar and white collar jobs. While us white collar folks have five day weeks, desks , A/C, paid vacation, and any other perk that we fancy for ourselves, there are some labourers who are paid wages on a daily basis. And more often than not, in a country where labour is exploited, like ours, they are paid for an entire day less than what we make in half an hour.

And then there are employee benefits, retirement schemes, promotions, and so much scope for betterment still. The other side shows us jobs which are mostly handed out by flimsy contracts under cut throat contractors. These jobs are mind numbingly repetitive. They are bound to it for the rest of their lives until they

1. Are killed by an accident on the job
2. Die/Retire due to some occupational disease
3. Are phased out, fired and forsaken when they can be replaced by machines.

The ideal society is supposed to provide equal opportunity for every individual to pursue his dreams. The staggering contrast between that and reality is depressing.

This is seen first hand in a place where manual labour is found in plenty, like process plants. I used to attend classes for half a day in an A/C environment, the other half with Google Reader and Facebook and managed to make more than a thousand a day. I looked into the slip of a labourer who toils all day under the unforgiving Vizag sun and saw 154Rs/day.

So are we better than them because we are more educated? Or is it because we have the systems and the nonchalance to thoroughly exploit them?

The Eternal Dilemma (Part 1)

While reading Thomas Friedman's The World is Flat, I was struck by this thought.

Everyone knows that globalisation is good for the world and is here to stay. Let me focus on one aspect of globalisation that has contributed to its emergence- sourcing labour/ services from where they are cheapest. This is a continuosly increasing trend and this is what has seen so many Indians land good jobs from across the oceans and at the BPOs.

This will mean that given a wage, somebody who can give you maximum output will be employed. There is a catch here. Has anybody looked into what kind of people that gives rise to?

Enter the concept of "hard working" individuals. On the one hand, we are always told all round development is paramount for a good life and on the other, we are told to slave away till we are bathed in sweat at the lowest wages possible. These two worlds are at a constant conflict. To be successful in this scenario amounts to working like typical Indian or Chinese people- work atleast 10 hours a day, 6 days a week. All your life should revolve around work and the occasional social function. These functions are supposed to be where you "unwind". The idea is to meet as many people as possible who are slaving away at their jobs and discuss which firm is the best to slave for etc. Let me remind you that these people have almost no hobbies, are terrible public speakers and have unidirectional ambitions- to excel at their jobs.

Have you noticed the particular dearth of good public speakers from India? Where is there intelligent humour here? Where are our creative pursuits appreciated? Instead anyone pursuing a career in art or aesthetics is thoroughly snubbed. At the same time, we lack knowledge of the world around because we don't travel all that much. We tend to look at people through judgemental eyes and are percieved as narrow minded and disagreeable. At the same time, our rich cultural heritage is taking a beating. How many people realise the value of our monuments, our history and our festivals?

This kind of orientation is happening as early as possible in an Indian's life what with IIT classes from Std 6 and the like. Is this the essence of life? Slaving away till you retire and spend the rest of your life plagued with senility, eternally devoid of any interesting activity?

Nobody can criticise globalisation and hold it solely responsible for these dreary consequences. However, now that our country has moved on from harbouring an image of the poor country where people starve and cows are well fed, we need to rethink on these lines. India and China, which have a similar orientation towards developing career driven citizens, are the leaders of "development" in today's world. What defines development is highly debatable here.

Damn!

The hit counter starts from zero. Where was it when blogging was a fad?

Peepli Peep

Aamir Khan productions and all, so I went and watched Peepli [live] today.

It was fresh. I've never seen a Hindi movie stick to simplicity as it has. There is only as much sensation for it to just about distinguish itself from what happens in a village everyday. But yes. For the ability to fully appreciate this one, one has to understand the countryside dialect used.

Nevertheless, the essence of the movie is conveyed even to people who know average Hindi.

The movie deals with the struggle that rural India continues to grind through. While trying this edgy theme, the producers have decided to keep the tone light, perhaps to not attract the kind of criticism Adiga's White Tiger or Lapierre's City of Joy have. But that was definitely a compromise. In some places, the humour is a tad misplaced. Where the movie could have scored on emotional points and hit a deep string with the audience, this route was chosen. The background score is sprinkled very appropriately with Indian Ocean tracks.

The ever sensationalising media gets what it deserves: A spanking of a lifetime. The movie also scores from an artistic point of view. It is heartening to see Bollywood finally venturing outside its zone of comfort. Besides, any movie where one hasn't to sit through song and dance sequences is most welcome.

Looking back

As soon as I selected the cloud label view, I realised how many useless labels I had. While cleaning this up, I also noticed how much cleaner my writing has gotten through the years. At the same time, I also realise that this process is more like swimming on an infinite upward helix. We are miles from where we have started and have miles to go from where we stand. The important thing is to keep moving higher.

And yes. I am thankful for people in society who'll make sure blogging never goes out of style.

Could I borrow your phone?

This happened on my journey to Secunderabad about a month ago. I was travelling there to report to Coromandel for whom I work now. In the train, around an hour and half from Bangalore, this stranger asks me for my phone. He says he needs to phone his brother to come to Hindupur to pick him up. I give him my phone, telling him that I've low balance and hence, he should keep his call short. He then starts talking on the phone. He goes on and on in some language I don't know (Urdu I think). He gradually starts moving away, pausing for a little while in the cubicle next to mine, and then the next. I keep up with him while keeping a careful eye on my luggage as I was travelling alone. I had with me my laptop and all my academic documents. I slowly started suspecting that this man is part of a bigger gang where one person distracts the owner while others make away with his luggage.

The said phone borrower goes on and on in that tongue of his and is in no mood to give me my phone back. By now I start asking for my phone back to which he replied, "Don't worry, your phone is not in danger" in Hindi. He even pauses to buy a couple samosas in the middle of his call. He then moves to the door and stands there phone in hand, still jabbering away. He even puts the phone near my ear momentarily to reassure me, though I didn't hear any voice on the other side. By now, I thought that he was some sort of a lunatic rather than a member of an organised gang of thieves.

The train rolled into Hindupur and the platform started whizzing past us. All of a sudden, he jumped right out of the coach, samosa and all, in the direction opposite to the train's motion. Naturally, he lost his balance and fell on the platform. I could see my phone bounce on the platform and fall into the tracks. I thought all was lost for my phone. I waited for the train to slow further while keeping an eye on him. He had stood up and continued standing in the place where he had just fallen off, staring at me with a confused look, dazed. Now that the train was slow enough, I jumped off, but made the same directional mistake he did, in my excitement. I quickly recovered from the fall and moved towards him. When he saw that I was approaching fast, he tried to make a run for it. I caught him on the platform and screamed away for help. I could sense a faint odour of alcohol on him. People got intrigued and the TTE came up and took charge. While the TTE was leading him to the police station, I excused myself and started looking for my phone along the tracks. There it was, batteries, phone and battery cover lying separately. Somebody went down and fetched it. We then handed him over to the railway police.

Looking back, it was an eye opener on how easily my phone could have been stolen. The idea was good, but its execution was horrible. A cleverer or more experienced thief would have had no troubles. They have always said that trains are unsafe. Incidents like this tell me why. Also, poverty can drive people to such desperation for my phone, on resale won't be worth more than a thousand or two. But for me, the exhilaration that this whole incident produced is what I'll remember it for.

PS: The phone still works fine. Hail Nokia!

Another pick

The previous one was a touch too narcissistic.

Thursday, the 4th of March

Back home after quite a while,
news of the world around,
refreshing bath,
four hours of unbridled reader perusal,
discovery of a major scale harmonica,
tasty lunch, good spinach,
interesting game of chess,
delicious nap,
football at dusk,
refreshing bath,
running errands with dad,
dinner with frozen dessert,
interesting chess game,
more internet access,
some reading,
a day well spent.

Samarkand

The Persian warrrior sat to dine,
allergic this one, to meat.
The cave's aroma, Oh so fine!
Their fare most lavish, he sat down to eat.
Hardened sticks of bread
with cheese of camel's milk,
the first of his lavish spread,
The cheese, the best of its ilk.

He signaled to the robed groom
who at his beckon brought preparation
of the tastiest Paneer and mushroom
soaked and stuffed to perfection
sampled with sauces five,
curd, coriander, dates, spice, hing.
His taste buds sprang alive
like a gurgling mountain spring.

Then came bread spun on finger,
thinnest as Dacca Muslin kerchief.
The lady's finger did linger
long after its titillation brief.
Basmati rice, spiced and curried,
fuel did meet eager flame.
Outside the cave, stormy dunes hurried,
In his toothed cave, the story, the same.

To soothe the storm, to rest the fire,
Kulfi of Hindu Kush and camel's milk indeed.
A meal fine as is dire desert quag mire,
finer than fine is Arabian steed.
He washed his hands in water perfumed,
for a moment, in silence stunned
he lay. To prayer his palms assumed.
Allah be praised! He was back in Samarkand.

A shot in the arm

No, not the relieving shot in the arm in the sense that it is used, but quite literally. Anyway, about that idiom, the first time I read it, I was slightly bemused for it didn't make sense for someone to have gotten shot in the arm to feel better. They could have picked better anyway for even if the long term results are good, picturing an injection as a sign of assistance doesn't work very much.

Coming back to the point, this is to write about what happened to me today morning. I am located close to a godforsaken place called Bangalore University which pulls our country's already entrenched higher education system further down. It is but a mere excuse for handing out a degree.

My father and I frequent upon their running track for our dose of morning exercise. Also, students training to becoming physical training instructors of tomorrow, train there today. It so happened that I'd cycled there today and while my dad proceeded to run on the track, I endeavoured to go around it(outside of it) in circles on my cycle. One such physical training trainee stopped me half way, came around, and without saying a word proceed to rap me on the shoulder. I was completely taken aback. He then proceeded to tell me, outraged at my having brought the bike to the running track, to get off the bike, likening himself to a cop of sorts( Yeah, the bad kind). I proceeded, still dazed and confused, to call him an idiot. Then, a mob of trainees formed around and one of them chucked my cycle away like it were trash to be discarded. Luckily, one sensible trainee and my calm as ever father were around to see that I didn't get beat up.

I wasn't defiling their track. Even if it was a transgression, I am not some creature you can't communicate with, which would understand only blows. I shudder to think of all the children at the disposal of these uncouth barbarians tomorrow. They take it that they are rejects in every walk of life and enrol at the worst course in the worst university around as a last ditch. This is how we treat sportsmen and athleticism in our country. These are the values on which they are bred.

However, I learnt a valuable lesson. Never should one be confrontational in the face of a battle he has not a chance of winning. And besides, when somebody shouts out in barbaric anger, its much better to yield than to resist. Weathers the storm does the grass stalk that yields and not the deep rooted tree that resists.

Indian Noise

Well, not just noise in the unwanted sound sense, but anything that would impose your existence unpleasantly on the rest of human kind.

There is no respect for the nose, eyes or the ears in our country. Our cities are eyesores filled with horns, screams and people who play cheap music on mobile phones, the latest being a rather recent affliction. They also reek of every stench in the stench spectrum.

I guess that is why we Indians have such an objectionable reputation outside our country. Here, it's OK to spit out of your window, honk even at traffic signals, puke outside buses, throw anything everywhere and still be part of the majority. Try going to Australia and you get beat up. What's more? You raise an ugly Indian stereotype. The mere sight of an Indian abroad can bring to light these tendencies and invoke hatred enough to want to burn us alive.

Don't take it standing down if someone abuses your sense organs. Demand their right to peaceful existence. Our greatest weakness is Indian chauvinism and complacency. But our greatest strength seems to be screaming foul when our harassed hosts retaliate.

Hail Mary's Island

Wednesday saw some of our wingers head to St Mary's Island.

The driver to Udupi was insane, so much so that he stands out even in the insanity that is associated with his race in these parts. He nearly ran over a stupid, deaf cyclist. The latter had an embarrassed smile that seemed to be directed gloatingly at the devil who almost took him away but missed.

The port reeked of fish most foul. One cannot help wondering how an animal that seemingly bathes all its life can smell so bad. Lucky birds. Easy pickings.

The Island is located near a ship building unit. Even as established as the fact gets, the next time I see a ship, only one thing shall be on my mind.

Man, she's a big one!

The ferry that takes you there plays loud music which incites certain primitive instincts among Dravidians everywhere (Wow, am I racist already?) . The result: Poriki dance, much to the amusement of two foreign tourists. That boat ride was a crash course on that which Bollywood pukes for you to give as wide a berth as possible.

The island itself was very beautiful. Something about water all around us arouses some connection so pure that we hold locations such as clean beaches, islands and river beds very dear. Perhaps the Aquatic Ape Hypothesis holds some water after all.

The island is mainly known for hexagonal panels formed naturally on its rocks, like the giant's causeway. These are pretty intriguing.

Wish we had a better pic of this

Red wattled lapwings, a white bellied sea eagle, a bird that looked like a gull billed tern and a frenzied crowd of kites happened. Also saw a sea urchin that had washed ashore.

Cooool!

An hour was decided by the boatman for how long we are to spend there. Wasn't enough. We could only see only half of the island, even at a slightly rushed pace.

The ride back was crowded and kept reminding us that our escape from the crowded mainland was drawing to a close. These dreary reminders manifested in the form of the assortment of people in the boat back, the horrible music and dancing along with the gradually strengthening smell of rotten fish from the shore.

The trip ended with a rather economically priced meal at Udupi. This feature seems to be becoming a norm on my island trips.

Customary beautiful pic at the end

Photo credits: Srik's cam and whosoever clicked these pics.