Operations Management

Here's one post that I have had for long, penned down during a lecture some 2 years back while I waged war against the sin of sleeping during class...

Operations management is such a pain,
Everything is so obvious, what is the gain,
Trying to remain alert in class,
Will definitely one day drive me insane.

Productivity, strategy – the book definition,
Just taught to us using a different rendition,
And even the glittering slide show,
Fails to enhance my erudition.

I wonder what questions can come in test,
The mystery deepens despite trying my best,
And I realize what an uphill task it would be,
To differentiate the relevant from the useless rest.

A Japanese word is all I learn,
Waiting for the class to adjourn,
How others manage to remain so interested,
Is a fact that I will never be able to discern.

And as the end approaches I start to pray,
That nobody asks a doubt to prolong my stay,
The end brings with it a relief unbound,
I am happy to have survived another day.

Are we all alone?

Does life exist outside of our planet? The question that continues to haunt us. Millions of years into our evolution, hundreds of years since astronomers have been gazing the sky for signs of life but to no avail. Despite all our technological breakthroughs, we have still not been able to determine whether there was or is life on Mars, our closest planetary neighbor, leave alone our solar system or our galaxy. The real search has not really begun. When we struggle for our own existence, fighting ever shrinking resources and ever increasing demand, looking for extra terrestrial life is an indulgence whose time has not really come. But there have been efforts all the same; Sending out radio waves into Space with an expectation that somewhere, some intelligent specie will intercept and decode those waves. Sending video and audio recordings on all modules sent in space has been a ritual for decades. Yet success has eluded us.

For decades, there have been reports of sightings of UFOs; most commonly as disk shaped objects circling an area, bright lights emanating from the same. Yet most of these sightings and even pictures have been debunked by scientists to be either low flying balloons, or cloud formations that people have really imagined to be disks. There is tremendous data on the internet on UFO sightings from all around the world, pictures, videos and what not. And some pictures I have come across have actually left me dumbfounded. Then again, the authenticity of these pictures can be questioned, and many past digitally altered samples have awakened the cynic in me. A cynic who would not believe unless confronted by any such flying object.

But I question all the same, how can we be all alone in the universe? We are a young civilization still in terms of the evolutionary time scale that reaches into millions of years. And our solar system and Sun are acknowledged to be young systems. And there are hundreds of millions of Stars out there. Stars much older than ours, galaxies much bigger and older than ours that support many times the planets and stars that ours do. Even if the probability of life springing on any one planet is infinitesimally small, the infinitely large multiplier effect of all planets in the universe makes life outside of Earth a surety. Yet we have not come into contact with any such life form. We plod on nevertheless, and this struggle will only intensify in the coming years as Earth slowly ascends the ladder where people gravitate from concentrating on their own needs and start looking for answers to questions that have confronted all mankind for ages. But till a proven life form outside our own is found, I will continue to believe in the existence of the same. For as one movie dialog goes, “But I guess I'd say if it is just us... seems like an awful waste of space.”

My School, My Heaven

Just came across my first school’s community in Orkut. And since then can’t help but recount all my happy years spent in school. From lining up near the gate to sing the national anthem every morning to swinging on the entrance gates and getting scolded almost every day.

Very few have ever been through the esteemed hallways of East Point School (yes that was the name, as ridiculous as it may sound), but I’m sure that everyone’s lives were somehow touched by the spirit and the culture there. Very few of my friends know about it, ‘cause I have almost guarded the knowledge from them in the fear of being ridiculed because of its name, as I was initially when i joined the new school, Cambridge. But I can’t be prouder of having joined EPS, my childhood could never have been be more enriched. I remember the weird arrangement when Japanese students joined us in the 5th standard. They were superlative in sports and were very fun to be with. I still remember all their names; Michael, Raphael, Elijah, Robert, Pauline and the attractive Rachel. They would be there just for the initial four periods and then head back home, and the periods were arranged such that English, Hindi and Math was taught in the mornings. It was a queer arrangement, and many would question as to why a school would go to such lengths to take just 6 students in class. But the school was perennially short of funds; even working capital needs were met with difficulty.

I remember the inadequate infrastructure, the school operated out of. One three floored building and that was it. Many of my friends lived in houses larger than that school building. No sports ground to speak of. Our sports periods were spent under the vigilant eyes of a teacher in a community ground of that place, just behind our school. Small classrooms, individual chairs and tables, a small library that housed few books, and one “khoosat” librarian. No canteen and no open spaces that I took for granted in my new school. But it couldn’t have been better. Smaller classes meant lesser students per class; I guess 30 in a class and 2 sections for that standard was the maximum that the school ever managed. Yet, it was this sole reason which promoted friendship and closeness both between the students as well as the teachers and the students. I remember the teachers fondly. Vandana mam and her cute daughter Sonali, Amita mam and her slightly British accent, Radha mam and her south Indian accent, Sharma mam and how she always disliked me, as I was poor in Hindi. I remember Christopher Sir, and how well he played the guitar. His Bon Jovi looks, long blonde hair would have floored many a girl. And Kanti sir and how he would slap both cheeks simultaneously, and how it used to hurt back then. I remember the classes, somehow I was brilliant right through till 8th standard; i remembered i got the best student award in every class till 8th and cried when i got 63 in Math in the mid terms.

You would ask as to why I left the school at all. But as luck would have it, the school did not have permission to conduct classes beyond 8th, neither could it, there was no space left. My academic career nosedived thereafter. I used to hold my new school culpable for that, with its typically overfilled and noisy students, uncaring teachers and poor teaching methods. But then, my old school had pampered me so much, that any place after that was bound to be a shock. Nobody can imagine studying in a class size of 11, yes 11, and that was my final year at school, with 6 girls and 5 boys in one class. You could imagine the level of closeness the teachers had with each students. Typically the students would be living near the school itself, and were within walking distance of each other’s places. We used to visit each other often. We used to shop for gifts together when any teacher had a birthday and then went all the way to our teacher’s home to wish her. Generally when someone joined the school, nobody left unless “better knowing” parents in the interest of their children’s futures would take them away. When I think of the past, I can remember zilch of my new school; I had practically no friend and precisely one teacher who I liked. So I have no memory of years from 9th to 12th, a time when most students have most fun in their lives, into their teens and about to enter adulthood. But I had had my fun early in life. And nobody could replace that, those memories are etched in my mind, none have faded. Some of the long lost friends, Anubhav, Sakshi, Manu, Gautam, Gaurav….I still remember them, have not talked to them now for like 8 years, don’t know where they are or what they are doing presently but I’m sure I’ll face no anxiety when I meet them, only nostalgia of what I had, and what I miss most in my life…..my school, my heaven……

Will any Indian movie win an Oscar in the near future?

India is the producer of the largest number of movies in the world. Despite this, our movies have featured amongst the nominees of Best Foreign film category only thrice. India's first ever entry to the Oscars, Mother India got the nomination for the best foreign film, but couldn't win it at the Academy members didn't like the ending. Thereafter, a long wait of 31 years ensued. Salaam Bombay, a movie based on the miserable lives of street kids of Bombay, was the next to feature in the category. It was unlucky to lose out. And, we all know about legendary Lagaan which lost out to No man's land. One which we thought would break the shackles and bring us an Oscar, RDB didn’t even make the final cut.

There is no denying the fact that majority of movies made in India are not worth a watch, but the same can't be said about the Indian cinema of 50's and 60's with greats like Guru Dutt, Satyajit Ray, Shyam Benegal and many others .Satyajit Ray won the Oscar for “Lifetime achievement in Cinema”, but it is ironic that none of his movies were found good enough by the Academy to even be nominated.

This leads me to think that the perception of the world about India is still that of a third world country. Because movies that have made it to the final list of nominees - Mother India, Lagaan and Salaam Bombay - depict India as a third world country or a backward state. Perhaps that’s the reason why a movie like Rang de Basanti failed to get make the grade.

Shekhar Kapoor had once said that it all depends on market dynamics, India is not a market for Hollywood movies, so it won't be getting any Oscars. I don’t buy this line of reasoning. Because small movies from Algeria have also won at the Oscars, surely we are a bigger market for Hollywood than them. The problem then lies somewhere else.

Most of the films that are sent through are Hindi films whereas there are a lot of good regional movies as well which deserve attention. In the last 10 years, there has been only 1 non-hindi movie that was sent, Shwaas. The selection jury must ensure that the best piece of cinema from the industry makes the cut, not just the largest Hindi magnum-opus of that year.

Another crucial factor that places Hindi movies on a disadvantage is the lobbying or lack thereof. Promotions and media coverage does affect the opinions and preconceptions of the jury. Alas, this requires large sums of money that most of the times Indian entrants are not willing to commit. Movies like Shwaas are made on small budgets, hence do not have the wherewithal to spend the amounts on promotion as foreign flicks do. But even a large spend does not ensure a success, Amir Khan spent more than a million dollars to promote Lagaan to no avail.

So I am led to believe that Indian movies are perhaps just not good enough. Over the years the technical production has improved so we think that our movies have become world class. We conveniently forget that many of the movies lack content. What we need for an Oscar are some serious film makers who know their art. What we need are two words that are unfashionable today: sincerity and honesty. One ingredient required for a successful international movie is sincerity of the film maker, not making too many compromises for commercial success. Each frame should be a work of art and the story should be told as it happens. If we look at the Oscar winners of the past we cannot deny that most of them broke new grounds in cinema. None of our movies do that, they are made specifically keeping the mass audience in mind, hence they depend on gimmickry to make the films succeed.

We are living in a fool’s paradise when we say that our creations merit an Oscar. So when Amitabh Bachhan says that Indian films should not aspire to win the Oscar, that they require an Oscar to certify them as being good, was offensive to him, I cannot help but thinking him of a sore loser. Perhaps then he can downgrade the reputation of the Oscars as well by shedding light on its origins, that they were devised as a publicity stunt to promote sagging box office figures in the US in and around March. Sad but true.

My Childhood Revisited

One windy Sunday afternoon, returning to my hostel room, all dressed in formals for an early morning presentation that made me wait for an eternity, I was enthralled by the presence of numerous kites of all colors right above my head. I searched for the source of the string, where it originated, and was thrilled to see that it was in the hands of a student in a lawn in my very campus. In fact there were hoards of people who were trying their hands at flying the kite. It was an informal event in our annual fest, Manfest. And boy I was glad. I could have hugged the person who came up with the concept of kite flying as an informal event. Instead, I ran towards the registration desk to find out whether I could participate or not. It was an indirect way of asking for the place where the inventory of kites and “charkhis” were stored. I wouldn’t have taken no for an answer anyway. On locating the inventory, I made a dash for it, much to the bemusement of the people enjoying their afternoon lunch in the open air canteen, the one I just ran through. I cared little for those looks. I was elated to see many kites strewn about in a cardboard box. I instinctively picked up the most colorful one, found thread to bind its “kanne” and raced towards the lawn, forgetting that I had forgotten to pick up the “manja” without which the kite could not take to the sky. On realizing my mistake, I ran back. I’m sure the speed at which I was running (un-necessarily) would have put any athlete to shame. Nothing could stop me now. Except the non availability of “manja”. “We ran out of it”, was the organizer’s evasive reply when I demanded it to be made available to me ASAP. “Maybe you can fly it with someone”, was his solution to the problem. So I ran my eyes across the field to see who I knew in the sea of people and could be coaxed into giving up his/her thread to me. As my luck would have it, I found just the guy. His unsuccessful attempts at flying the kite were amusing as he ran one side then the other, the kite barely lifting off the ground. I didn’t volunteer to help him. I knew that another 2 minutes at it and he would tire or the kite would tear apart or both could happen. And as per my wishes, the kite paper could bear no more of the violence and in one crisp tear, made the kite unusable. I was elated. You might think that it was devilish of me to act in such a manner. But then “kite ke liye kuch bhi karega”. I took his “manja” from him, half sympathizing with him and tied it to my kite which was ready by my side. The wind was brisk and in no time I had it in the sky. I was as if I was reliving my childhood. All the past memories flooded back to me….

- My old Delhi house, three storied at that time and one of the tallest in the neighborhood proved unparalleled kite flying experience. I remembered my father by my side, teaching me the tips and tricks of the trade. I remember I used to keep looking heavenwards, hours at a stretch at the many kites that filled up the evening sky like a pack of bees. I remembered that I used to cry myself hoarse with shouts of “i-bokate” when we won the battle of the kites, called “pench”. I remember accompanying my dad to the kite vendor. Fighting with him when he used to offer less thread than he should have for the money that we paid him. I still remember that turning, the face of that shopkeeper who used to sit in the shop and patiently listen to me as I made a hue and cry of everything under the sun. And I remembered that I had cried for hours when a guy near my house had used a stone and thread to intercept my kite in mid flight, and taken it away from my control.

- I remembered me flying kites all alone on the terrace, shooing away my brother who was inept at the art of kite flying and my cousins who used to be an irritant as they got the thread all mangled up. I remembered how I used to climb up the water tank above my terrace, precariously, and in complete disregard of all my relatives shouting at me not to do it.

- I remember moving to a new society, and watching from the glass windows as people flew kites from what was now the 8^th floor of our apartment block. I remember how, despite my fever, I summoned all strength to hail a “rickshaw”, travel some distance from our flats and buy the kites and thread and then finally fly them, amongst complete strangers, sometimes aggressive, on the 8^th floor. And I remember how I made some friends just by this kite flying ritual that I performed every evening, more regularly than anyone else

- I remember my friends telling me to study for the boards next day and me concentrating all my efforts on flying kites. I remember the dreams I had, of intense battles between kites, and how I managed to steer my kite away from the heat of battle, to take on opponents one at a time. I remember the sometimes, me being the only one flying the kite in the evening. I did not need anyone on those occasions as well. I used to have clouds as temporary barriers and used to circle my kite around, I used to try and take my kite near birds that came in view, it was an enthralling experience even without another kite in the sky. I remember….

I remember so much more. My happiness has no bunds. Kite flying made me remember my childhood like never before. I knew then what I had missed for so long. That one piece of rectangular paper, and brightly colored thread had so many memories wrapped around them, it feels makes me feel like I’m 11 again……..

Chak De India!!

It’s 1 at night and I have nothing to do. At home and comfy, I have the option to sleep obviously, but all the days of the last semester have perhaps taken their toll on my sleep glands (I know there is no such thing). So I sit here, chatting away, when even the chat friends disappear one by one, busied by their own tasks. One chat friend after ridiculing my team (meaning the football team I support) goes to prepare for his early morning presentation of some case. The other says be right back and forgets to come back after half an hour, then another bids adieu as his mom calls him for some late night chore. And so I sit here. Nothing particular to do. I therefore engage in this activity called blogging that some of my friends call atrocious (by the fact that I am not that good at it). By I believe that practice makes perfect or its increases the standard of work at the least. It’s part of the “learning curve” as we say in management jargon.

So my topic of today’s effort is a movie called “Chak De India”. A cheesy name tag I thought at first. The songs were uninspiring when they came out and the promos were less than convincing. Usually I give such movies a miss. But this time I am glad that I went along with my friends for a screening. And what a movie it turned out to be. More inspirational than most Hollywood movies I have seen (yes I set Hollywood movie as the benchmark, don’t kill me for that). And yet the movie was enjoyable. Rarely have I seen such good acting performances from a bunch of nobodies. The do the job perfectly. The reason I am writing about this movie today (a full fifteen days after I first watched it) is because I went and saw it on the big screen again today, this time with my parents. The motivation for me to go and watch it for the umpteenth time (I saw it umpteenth-2 times on the laptop) was to show it to my parents and revel as they enjoyed it. Somehow, the fact that they enjoy something makes me even happier. So off I went with them, driving like mad, jumping queues (which was justified as I had pre-booked the tickets and just had to collect them) much to the annoyance of the people standing in the queue for long, just so that they would not miss the opening.

As I went through the emotion of watching the movie again, I saw many subtle points that I had missed on my previous viewing. And it was a whole new experience. Where the last time the theatre was silent right through the movie, this time, there were peals of laughter (many a time at inopportune instances which was irritating), and genuine clapping when the climax of the movie was revealed. I would say this has been a much better movie experience than the last time around (a large Pepsi and butter popcorn certainly helped the matter). And now that the spectacle is over, I reflect on some of the most powerful scenes that I have seen in Hindi movies for a long time. Like the one where the men’s hockey team salutes the women’s team for their gutsy performance against them, or the scene where little Komal Chautala passes the ball to her arch rival (in terms of goals scored that is) Preeti for her to slot home the equalizer in the final stages of the world cup final match against Australia. Great movie, great background music (including the tracks that appeared so cacophonous when listened to before I saw the movie); I guess this should surely get its star cast a host of awards at the annual film festivals. Perhaps this movie will make it to the Oscars as well. But then win it will surely not, because the emotion that egresses our hearts when we see the females fight it out against all odds and against a male chauvinist society like India’s will not be appreciated fully by the judges coming from contrasting cultures. But whether it reaches the Oscars or not or whether it is even considered or not, I must say that it has been a pleasure watching the movie, and is certainly one of the classics that I have seen in the past year.