tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-264629692024-03-19T08:48:28.623+05:30Being SaptitudeIts not easy being me... Full of contradictions, its quite a task keeping my various view points in life in sync with logical reasoningSaptarshi Dashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03660213040139022682noreply@blogger.comBlogger15125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26462969.post-65166082789246163942020-01-08T12:11:00.000+05:302020-01-08T13:17:50.866+05:30Released<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt;">Anirban woke up with a terrible headache. Drinking that much cheap
beer last night had been a terrible mistake. He couldn't believe that he had
let his two friends-flatmates-colleagues cajole him into that escapade. But how
could he have refused. They had finally got an early release from that damning
client project they had been slogging on for months on end - something that
called for celebration. All three of them had already been assigned to other
more interesting projects - their new assignments starting from next Monday. Anirban
had hoped that their celebrations would be planned over the coming weekend, but
with Riddhiman and Sourashis deciding to use up some of their pending leave
balances to pay a quick home town visit before the new assignment, the party had
to be yesterday night. Anirban had decided against following in his friends'
footsteps; he had planned a long break of three weeks for his elder brothers's
wedding later in the year. It was a tough call - these three had been
practically inseparable since childhood. Riddhiman and Sourashis had taken a
cab to the station directly from the bar, leaving Anirban to go back to an
empty home for the first time in nearly 15 years.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt;">He looked at his mobile - there
was a good 15 minutes left before the digital assistant would switch on the
radio app and start playing Morning Mantra with RJ Sonali. Picking up the
phone, he pulled down the notifications tab and started going through the bulletin
of updates, news and marketing offers that his phone had collated over the
night. One update caught his eye - his brother had shared an emotional
miss-you-bro update along with a throwback picture from their childhood. Anirban
wondered what had caused this emotional upswell in his normally stoic brother.
Perhaps the idea of getting married was getting to him. Anirban tried to add a
heart reaction, but damn you Aitrel. The simplest of tasks took forever on this
network.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt;">Anirban willed himself out of bed.
As today he was technically 'on-the-bench' he didn't really have to rush to
office. He went about his morning routine -
meditation-brush-tea-toilet-bath-clothes. Like other days, he would pick up his
breakfast from the vending machine at the office canteen. Unlike other days
however, Anirban was pleasantly surprised to see that today he was ready well
before his deadline of 8:15 am. Locking the door to their shared flat, he went
down the lift to the garage, got on his scooter and was off to face the Bangalore
traffic once again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt;">Like his morning routine, his
commute to office today too seemed to be a breeze. Not only did traffic seem
lighter than on other days, Anirban was not held up at even one of the
five traffic signals between his residence and office. How ironic, thought Anirban.
On a day when he had absolutely no reason or need to be punctual, he would
manage to 'clock in' nearly 40 minutes before time - when he parked, the garage
clock read 8:45 am. Anirban leisurely ambled up to the lift lobby, pressed
the call button, and hopped onto the first lift that opened its doors for him.
Being early, he was the only occupant around, and in no time, he was at his
floor.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt;">The lift doors opened to the
sound of some commotion. Stepping out of the lift, Anirban managed to figure
out that the time attendance machine had conked off. Some admin-HR type
busybodies were quibbling over the best place to up the notice explaining that
till the contraption got working again, the security guard on duty would
record their entries and exits. Smirking, Anirban waved his id card in front of
the security guard who was looking in his direction with a strange look that
seemed to be equal parts of boredom, irritation, non-chalance and indulgence.
He knew this guy. They had paired on the same team only last weekend at a
company '2-man' cricket tournament.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt;">Heading towards the canteen, Anirban
decided to pick up a cold coffee to go along with a chicken-mayo sandwich. A
dull reminder of the headache had remained despite the paracetamol he had with
his morning tea. Anirban hoped the coffee would take care of it. Heading over
to the library - the designated chill-out zone for all benched employees - Anirban
looked around for familiar faces; there were none. That was a good thing he
thought, he could get a head-start into reading up on his new project.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt;">Logging into one of the
computers in the network, Anirban started up the browser to access to his mail.
He typed in his user name and password and waited for his mail to load. In the
meanwhile, Anirban clicked on the intranet icon on the desktop to check out if
there were any events or activities planned for the second half of the day, by
when he was sure that he would complete his reading. Being on the bench was fun
only in one’s imagination. One had to keep finding ways to keep oneself busy.
There was only one event listed for 5 pm.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt;">Anirban went back to the other
browser window - his mail had still not loaded. He had heard how the library
computers were amongst the slowest in the company - usually end-of-life
machines that were being forced to carry on. He went back to the intranet and
clicked on the link to figure out what the event was all about, and started
reading...<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt;">"OBITUARY SERVICE<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt;">"It is time to pay our
last respects to the kindred spirit who left us for his heavenly abode
yesterday night. He was not only extremely talented, but also a very passionate
employee and a devoted friend. But even the best amongst us have some
weaknesses - perhaps that is what makes us human. Last night, he died in a road
accident on his way home. Let's congregate at 5 pm to remember the
contributions and life of Anirban Dastidar, and take a pledge to never drink
and drive."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<br /></div>
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</script></div>Saptarshi Dashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03660213040139022682noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26462969.post-34949661238678638642019-05-13T11:51:00.003+05:302019-05-13T11:51:56.272+05:3016<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
When life is out of control, is it really that easy to roll your lips, blow a whistle and say all is well? Many would believe so. And I'm sure there are some who have found it to be true.<br />
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But what of those who can't whistle? Of those who don't have a song on their lips or a tune in their hearts? Of those who can't paint, who can't dance, who cannot find rhythm? Of those who eat, but cannot cook? Of those who clap but are never clapped for? What of them? Why must only a few be celebrated by the uncelebrated masses?<br />
<br />
Is it because the "uncelebrated masses" do not have a bias for action? Those who succeed apparently started somewhere. And kept on trying till they succeeded. Like the proverbial ant. Or was it a spider? But the spider and the ant know what they want. A cobweb. Or the piece of sugar.<br />
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What if you have a cobweb to stay in and a guaranteed source of sugar? And you do want to do something, but do not know what, much less how? Is it always easy to "badhao" your "pyaas" as the ad exhorted?<br />
<br />
And then again, do all spiders get to build their cobwebs? Do all cobwebs stand the test of time? Do any cobwebs stand the test of time?</div>
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</script></div>Saptarshi Dashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03660213040139022682noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26462969.post-65193047737329084452019-05-12T08:51:00.002+05:302020-01-06T16:57:36.289+05:30The Secret<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Roni was in a rush. His chemistry tutor had taken an extra half an hour of class today to explain about metals and non-metals. As if he needed the explanation. He had been raiding his elder sister Tanni's table for over 3 years now, studying the notes and solving the problems she would give to her engineering students while they struggled. Roni was in class 10, but he felt like he was ready for college. But that's not why he was in a rush today.</div>
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<br /></div>
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He was late for his daily fix. Every day of the week he used to visit a different tutor straight after school. Staying in a small town filled with educators meant that nothing, especially teachers, was too far away. But every place, and everyone, has secrets, and he had discovered many nooks and crannies where, on his way home, he could indulge in the cigarette procured from the school peon in exchange for a part of his tiffin - usually a snack like an apple or some mithai, or the joint received from the school bully as reward for help on homework. He would light up, taking care that the smoke did not blow into his clothes or hair, and for a few idyllic moments get lost in a dream world. Later, once he was home, he would raid his sister's table for new nuggets of engineering wisdom, complete his homework, watch an episode of the Big Bang Theory or the Simpsons, take his dinner and go off to bed. He had the entire evening to himself. Despite having a family to speak of, he hardly had them around to speak to - his parents ran a BPO unit catering to law firms in the UK, while his sister would be out partying with her friends or working on her thesis with her PhD guide. </div>
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It was already 5 pm when his tutor let him go. Soon the parks and lanes and bylanes would be filled with myriad aunts and grandparents - out for their evening walk and on the look out for gossip material. What if he got caught? He would be reported and shamed for smoking, while his real fault was nothing more than to be born in a small town where people actually cared, a bit too much, about their neighbours rather than their own noses. </div>
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<br /></div>
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Lost in his thoughts Roni was ambling down the street. Up ahead was the half constructed and completely abandoned town-square-flyover project's remnants. As he passed under the construction, his eyes strayed to a cavern on his right that he had noticed before, but never paid any attention to. This was it! He was overjoyed! He quickly surveyed his surroundings to make sure no one was noticing him and slipped inside. As soon as he was sure that he was out of sight of the road, he lit up. <br />
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By the light of the matchstick, Roni noticed that it was not just a nook in the wall kind of place, the space in front of him seemed to stretch away for quite a distance. Roni suddenly felt a thrill. Here was another secret to be explored, another mystery to be solved. He took out his phone, switched on the torch and started walking. The place was damp and musty. To Roni it looked like this was being planned like some kind of office - he felt like he was passing through a series of rooms. He hadn't spent more than a minute or two inside, but he was already bored - the walls were bare, and the musty smell was getting worse by the minute. <br />
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He was about to turn back when he heard a man call out - 'Hey you!' His joint was still in his fingers, and his secret would now be out. The gossip mills had finally caught up with him to make him their fodder for immediate consumption, and later regurgitation whenever required. Roni turned around, red-faced. </div>
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The man was standing in the 'room' just behind the one Roni was in. There was some sort of a window between these two rooms, and he was beckoning Roni through that. He was holding a torch himself, a regular brass one, pointing it at the ceiling above instead of on the floor or at Roni. By the light, Roni could make out that the man was wearing a white lab-coat. The look on his face was bemused, and Roni suddenly felt that he would perhaps be spared from becoming fodder for the gossip mongers. This man looked kind, he looked like someone who would understand a fifteen year old. </div>
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Roni replied weakly, 'Hello uncle!'<br />
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'Hello beta, who are you? I saw you enter here from my pharmacy across the road and I was concerned. What are you doing here? I mean I know' - here he briefly pointed the torch at Roni's right hand - 'but this is an abandoned structure, and dangerous.'</div>
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<br /></div>
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'I'm sorry' Roni stuttered. 'My name is Ranchordas Tiwari. Everyone calls me Roni. I was just looking for a place to... you know...'</div>
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'Its ok. It looks like you're done with that for today. As it is it's not a good habit. I won't tell anyone, I promise. Now drop the butt and come on out with me. You should get home, it's getting dark outside.' He seemed genuinely concerned. </div>
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<br /></div>
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Roni started walking with the man. Roni had switched off his mobile torch and they were progressing in the light of the pharmacist's brass torch. The man was making small talk about how generic medicines were making business difficult but life more affordable. Roni was smiling to himself. He was quite confident by now that his secret would be safe. </div>
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They had reached the road. They said goodbye and turned on their respective paths - 'uncle' crossed the street to his pharmacy, while Roni ambled on, thinking about ways to spend his Friday evening.</div>
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***</div>
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Weekends were the worst for Roni. Unlike school, where one could zone out of the teachers droning about topics that least interested him, tuition teachers promised, and provided, "personal attention". And on weekends, there would be an endless series of these sessions, one after the other. Roni decided to pay a visit to his new friend between his chemistry and maths tuitions to break the monotony.</div>
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Krisnapur Pharmacy. The lettering was as bold as the name was uninspiring. Roni pushed the glass door and walked inside. He had forgotten to ask the man's name yesterday. He had hoped that his 'uncle' would be there when he walked in. But he was not there. In fact there was not a single man there. The shop was entirely 'manned' by women. Roni was a bit stumped. Perhaps it was a slow day, so everyone was looking at him expectantly. </div>
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'When does uncle come in?' Roni blurted out. </div>
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<br /></div>
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One of the women who looked to be in charge, asked back - 'Which uncle?'</div>
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<br /></div>
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Roni replied - 'He works here, I met him yesterday, he is somewhat bald, round face, black spectacles -'</div>
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<br /></div>
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'No man works here.' Roni was cut short. 'Hasn't for 15 years since the original owner, Shankarnath Dwivedi died protesting the flyover. His daughter now owns this shop, and she has a strict policy to only employ women.'</div>
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<br /></div>
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Roni was confused. Perhaps the man had referred to some other shop? At that moment his eyes strayed to a dusty portrait hanging in one corner of the shop. His eyes grew large. He now knew that his secret was indeed safe for all time to come.</div>
<br /></div>
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</script></div>Saptarshi Dashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03660213040139022682noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26462969.post-82032582063004629972016-09-21T16:56:00.003+05:302016-09-21T16:56:37.605+05:30Its not personal<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
"I am sure you are family, though you have doubts. The neighbours
interfere all the time, and fickle that you are, you keep transgressing
under their influence. <br />
<br />
"At times I think that I have started
hating you, and think you are quite the ungrateful pig. For not
appreciating the times when I have lent you a helping hand in times of
distress. For not appreciating that the pain I cause you, is only to
remove your gangrenous bits, giving you a chance to become stronger. For
not<span class="text_exposed_show"> appreciating that my vision of our
family is the absolute truth, and there can be no two ways about it. For
not appreciating my efforts at trying to remove your doubts. </span><br />
<div class="text_exposed_show">
<br />
"Know this - I will never let go of you. You are mine, and I will not
let you go. Even if that means fighting every day. Even if it means that
all my energies are so spent in keeping you with me that I can barely
do anything else. Even if it means that the neighbours keep poking in
our family.<br />
<br />
"I love you. More than that, I love possessing you. I
don't care if you hate me. I am told that if I let you go, there's a
chance that we may both become happier, stronger and better in every
way. But its a chance I'm NOT willing to take."</div>
</div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
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</script></div>Saptarshi Dashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03660213040139022682noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26462969.post-21095388478974777062013-09-12T10:45:00.000+05:302013-09-12T10:45:03.824+05:30Life is short. Enjoy it.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
So many people say that. And while there may be some truth in it, its equally true for most people that enjoying life is usually too expensive. A hundred years back, may be, it was easy, and cheap, to get amused. a walk along the river, or in the park, evenings spent with family, a friendly round of the sport of choice... people could afford these...<br />
<br />
But now, all of these are expensive or difficult or both...<br />
<br />
A walk along the river... you may end up with a slipped disc from a fall or even fall prey to criminals or policemen.<br />
<br />
A stroll in the park... most parks are locked up for good, or have been encroached upon.<br />
<br />
Family time is becoming non-existent due to hectic work and travel schedules, and the omni-potent presence of the idiot box means that whatever little time the family spends together is only a physical presence<br />
<br />
Sports are costly today - check out the paraphernalia of equipment required, and the quite often ensuing medical care<br />
<br />
The two most important reasons why relaxation is no longer relaxing is the utterly commercial nature of our society today, and the huge population that the countries meager resources have to support. And of course, there is a strong chance that these two aspects feed of each other (no-other-entertainment and more-hands-to-earn theories of population increase, and the well known economic laws of demand-supply affecting price)<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
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<br />
Someone said that life is not about happiness. It is about overcoming a series of challenges in a "Pursuit of Happyness." Some enjoy this pursuit, others get frustrated. Happiness is not measured by the size of your car, the plushness of your house, or the number of stamps on your passport. Some would say that the more material pleasures you have, the more unlikely it is that you will be happy.<br />
<br />
The essence is to do something which brings a smile to anothers face. Knowing that someone cares for you makes you fulfilled. Knowing that you are the fulfillment of someone's life, makes you happy.<br />
</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><script type="text/javascript"><!--
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Why do people write in with their personal problems to the myriad agony aunt columns in newspapers? If I have a problem, wouldn't it be simpler to go to some one I trust, some one who would know more about my past - my case history so to say - and thus be better qualified to give me advice?<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I have tremendous respect for Mr Suhel Seth... but if he thinks he is answering queries put in by actual people on his column Survival Strategies in the Graphiti (the Sunday Magazine supplement of Kolkata's leading English language newspaper, <a href="http://www.telegraphindia.com/section/frontpage/index.jsp">The Telegraph</a>) I think he is mistaken... Read some of the questions and answers that appeared in last Sunday's (29th March 2009) edition. (see them on The Telegraph site <a href="http://www.telegraphindia.com/1090329/jsp/graphiti/story_10737721.jsp">here</a>). You'll find</div>
<div>
<ol>
<li>Name and address have been withheld in all cases</li>
<li>Nearly in all cases, the questions asked are leading ones</li>
<li>The answers attributed to Mr Seth hardly seem like solutions... the nameless and homeless persons asking the questions would be liable to become more confused than ever before</li>
</ol>
<div>
Now take a look at the questions put to Ms Bachi Karkaria in her column, Giving Gyan on the Mumbai Mirror (click <a href="http://epaper.timesofindia.com/Repository/ml.asp?Ref=TU1JUi8yMDA5LzA0LzAxI0FyMDI1MDA=&Mode=HTML&Locale=english-skin-custom">here</a> to read the column on 1st April 2009 and <a href="http://epaper.timesofindia.com/Repository/ml.asp?Ref=TU1JUi8yMDA4LzAyLzA2I0FyMDMyMDE=&Mode=HTML&Locale=english-skin-custom">here</a> to read the first ever column). I again place on record my utmost respect for Ms Karkaria as a columnist.. One of the joys of my angst filled life used to be reading the double Sunday treat from Times of India <a href="http://epaper.timesofindia.com/Repository/ml.asp?Ref=VE9JTS8yMDA5LzA0LzAzI0FyMDE4MDE=&Mode=HTML&Locale=english-skin-custom">Erratica</a> & <a href="http://epaper.timesofindia.com/Repository/ml.asp?Ref=VE9JTS8yMDA5LzA0LzA0I0FyMDE0MDE=&Mode=Gif&Locale=english-skin-custom">Jugular Vein</a>. (Sadly though, Ms Karkaria's and Mr Suraiya's columns seem to have moved apart from each other of late, and get published on all sorts of inconvenient days.) But nevertheless, I do have an element of doubt with regard to the veracity of the column Giving Gyan. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
Now I have a few points to make:</div>
<div>
<ol>
<li>Whenever such a new column is started, who writes in with the first question?</li>
<li>Given the cryptic nature of responses that Mr Seth provides why would people want to present their problems to him at all?</li>
<li>And in general... the point I started out with...</li>
</ol>
In conclusion, I overheard Alec Smart say - May God bless all souls with the problems in their life that they may come out smarter and stronger for solving these problems on their own...</div>
</div>
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This is the title of a very popular song from the recent Hindi movie <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dev_D">Dev.D</a>. While I am not sure of the rest of the lyrics (which can be found <a href="http://digg.com/d1h1Nq">here</a>), the title could definitely personify the angst that one feels today against society large.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Jayeeta</span>, a friend of mine at college, had once shared some thoughts with me, which went something like this- when we are kids, we want to be first in class / sports / talent shows etc... when we are slightly older, we start hankering for attention from the opposite sex... we grow up, get into college, and then start looking out for a plum job... once that is in place, its time to get married... and then have children, who must also be trained to become first in class / sports / talent shows etc... Its a vicious cycle...</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
On umpteen <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">occasions</span>, I have wanted to break free... but as the 'common man' played by <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Naseeruddin</span> Shah in <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/A_Wednesday">A Wednesday</a> says "We all have families to run". If I were to follow my heart on those umpteen number of <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">occasions</span>, I would quit my job and back-pack across India on a cycle... </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
But I can't... not just because I have a family to run... not just because I love my wife, my parents and that they would be shocked at such a decision... but because the social conditioning I have received since birth would revolt against such an idea... no sooner would I set out then I would start pining for the comforts of a homely life... the solitude that I now look forward to would become a burden... the daily chores that I now take for granted would be appear in my day dreams as the sweetest of tasks... </div>
</div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(99 , 86 , 95); font-family: "trebuchet ms"; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;"></span><br />
<div style="color: rgb(99 , 86 , 95); font-size: 13px; line-height: 1.4em;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(99 , 86 , 95); font-family: "trebuchet ms"; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">I was at a Hindustani Classical music concert last evening. Organised by a society called the Iyer Foundation and heartily sponsored by a number of well known corporate houses in India, it featured two exponents of the Hindustani Classical music tradition - Smt Ashwini Bhide Deshpande and Pt Sanjeev Abhayankar. Apart from their solo performances, the highlight was a <em>Jugalbandi</em> by the two. It was grandly called <em>Jasrangi Jugalbandi -</em>a concept created by Pt Jasraj where a male and a female singer sing the same song in two different <em>Ragas,</em> all the while maintaining their natural scales. The harmony that was produced was great, and though I am not a connoisseur, and hence could not really appreciate whether they really kept to their scales and <em>Ragas </em>(something that was endorsed by Pt Jasraj at the end of the performance), I really enjoyed myself.</span></div>
<div style="color: rgb(99 , 86 , 95); font-size: 13px; line-height: 1.4em;">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms";">Pt Jasraj is no doubt one of the greatest musicians in India today. This was the second time that I saw him live on stage, the earlier time being in a program organised as part of the Mumbai Festival 2007. That concert was called ‘Spiritual Morning’: starting at 6:00 in the morning, while it was still dark, Pt Jasraj stirred our souls with some wonderful renditions of </span><em style="font-family: "trebuchet ms";">shlokas</em><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms";"> and </span><em style="font-family: "trebuchet ms";">Pranam mantras</em><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms";"> addressed to the Gods of the Hindu pantheon. Somewhere in between, he changed the name of the God he was invoking from </span><em style="font-family: "trebuchet ms";">Shiva</em><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms";"> to </span><em style="font-family: "trebuchet ms";">Allah</em><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms";"> while mianaining the same spiritual tone. Music, in the custody of the expert, truly has no boundaries.</span></div>
<div style="color: rgb(99 , 86 , 95); font-size: 13px; line-height: 1.4em;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(99 , 86 , 95); font-family: "trebuchet ms"; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">But this post is not only about Pt Jasraj’s musical prowress and innovation. It is more about his understanding of the nature of today’s markets and consumers, and his efforts at popularising Classical music using this understanding. He creates brands, which consumers find intriguing and subsequent to the performance, endearing, and propagates these brands via tie-ups. He trains his students to be entertainers, alongside being great performers - they connect with the audience, ask permissions and share jokes and anecdotes.</span></div>
<div style="color: rgb(99 , 86 , 95); font-size: 13px; line-height: 1.4em;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(99 , 86 , 95); font-family: "trebuchet ms"; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">I would love to interact with Pt Jasraj and hear his take on branding personally… He is my new age Brand Guru</span></div>
<div style="color: rgb(99 , 86 , 95); font-size: 13px; line-height: 1.4em;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(99 , 86 , 95); font-family: "trebuchet ms"; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">First Published on my ibibo blog on 11 March 2007</span></div>
</div>
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