Bax to school

there is a lot of chatter these days about “back to school” in those economies where schools and other institutions of learning function normally. the august-september period usually sees the advanced economies starting the academic season. other economies start the season with the onset of the monsoon.

today (3^rd september) is a particularly significant day for me. for it was on this day a few years back that i went back to school. business school, to be precise. in one of the most storied cities of the planet. whose name originates from the old roman word for swamp (how ungodly!). called lutetia at one time, and lately, well, since the 9^th or the 10^th century ad -…paris.

this day is also the anniversary of the day when the world was plunged into the deadliest conflict it had witnessed till then. but that’s for the historians.

my descent into france was not entirely planned. like most indian children of my vintage, i had harboured the desire of studying and living abroad. but the question was, “where?” let’s face it – it’s a big planet, there are over 200 countries on it (ok, not every country welcomes foreign students, or is suitable for such an endeavour), and it wasn’t easy for a lad with limited means, fiscal and intellectual, to just pack a bag and go west. besides, my interest in marketing and communications was no guarantee of untold riches in the future; unlike finance, law, tech, or astrology.

like most good things that have happened in my life, the decision to go to france was crystallised in quite an unexpected manner. over a cup of tea with a french rugby player in mumbai (formerly known as bombay), if you must know. this gent was the regional representative of a french bank in the dear city, and i was a lowly wage slave in his office. learning the ropes of commerce as a trainee something-or-the-other (any similarities to mike and psmith are the result of a fevered imagination).

this gentleman was the product of one of the best grandes écoles de commerce (business school for the anglo-saxons) in france. he suggested i try for one of those schools. so i did a bit of research (a major task when one had to rely on real intelligence), and zeroed in on ESCP Business School. the world’s oldest business school, which offered the Master’s I wanted.

it's not an easy place to get admitted to. but surprisingly for such a venerable institution, and french to boot, it processed my admission at a speed one did not usually associate with that country. i was processed and pronounced ready for admission in six weeks. the chest puffed out for much longer than that.

at the beginning of fall, i flew northwest (ever geographically challenged, west was not my direction) and landed in france in a german aircraft on the 1st day of september. and entered the portals of the school on 3^rd september.

france was not really on the radar of indian students at that time for business studies those days. the flow was more for language, literature and theoretical science streams. in fact, i was the first indian to be admitted to ESCP. so when i entered the classroom on the first day, i was about as familiar to my classmates as a mango in a baguette.

but there was a "social ecosystem" in place for indian students in the city - housing in the maison de l'inde, the occasional cricket in the bois de boulogne, plenty of friends and fellow countrymen – which took care of the leisure hours.

the academic system was an altogether different story. for a lad used to leisurely readings of economic theory and french poetry, the weekly surprise tests, live case studies with real brands after a 2-hour lunch with a charming bordeaux, and the realisation that although i had spent nearly 10 years soaking up the language, its literature and way of life, i couldn’t understand a word of french for the first week, made me doubt the wisdom of my decision for a few days.

but one thought kept me going. the memory of my parents at the airport seeing me off.

the trip to the airport was a subtle signal to the world that the child was off to do the family proud. my father was not known for expressing emotion of any kind, and he probably produced a grimace-trying-to-be-a-smile under a force-majeure clause (he was a lawyer...). but it was brighter than the lights of the eiffel tower for me. my mother was content to bask in the knowledge that the boy was out of her hair for the foreseeable future.

though my expression in the photo does indicate a slight FOTU (fear of the unknown), the warmth and camaraderie of my classmates, professors, and every person i met in paris helped me overcome this in a matter of days. i also finally understood french as she is spoken.

Raksha Bandhan. A bro's POV

 

raksha bandhan (protection money in today’s jargon) is a uniquely indian tradition. like slurping tea from a saucer. or trying to match your maternal grandmom’s younger brother’s daughter’s class mate to your paternal uncle’s elder sister’s boss’s brother’s son. it is colourful, loud, confusing, and creates a wave of emotion that only a brother separated from his sister will understand.

the theory is that the sister prays for the well-being of the brother, the bro agrees to protect the sister from all kinds of bad stuff (including pink cotton candy) and hands over a gift in cash or kind. or bitcoin.

the festival in its current form is more folk culture than dictated by scripture (no, it is not a mafia tradition either). it is celebrated on the last day of the shravana month in india. bang in the middle of the monsoon. so not only is the hapless bro separated from hard-earned dinero under the guise of sibling affection, he might have to wade through inches of water to reach his sister’s demesne. especially if the sister resides in the boondocks.

i have two unique lenses on this festival. my father was one of eight brothers and in the middle was a sister, one. so naturally, my aunt raked in the stuff by the sackful. on the distaff side, my mother is one of six sisters and one brother. my uncle was empty of wallet by the time the festival trundled to an end. with no appetite for the sweets pressed upon him by the squadron of sisters.

i myself have two sisters. and a platoon of what we natives call cousin sisters (did i see the english purist wince?). but they are all my sisters. without prefixes or suffixes. and they all build the conviction that keeps me going. for that, thanking you kindly.

with the passage of time, the advent of air travel, and that quaint tradition called marriage, siblings moved away from each other. in-person engagement was not always possible. letters, phone calls, and latterly zoom calls did help to bridge the distance somewhat. but ‘twas not the same. the twinkle in the sister’s eye (not to be mistaken for a gleam at imminent riches), the bro’s sidelong glance at the tray of sweets (diminishing due to rising sugar levels as the years went by) and the whack of the sister’s palms on the bro’s back as he bent in obeisance – none of these could be replicated on a screen. even with surround sound.

be that as it may. things are as they are. not as they should be. so on this raksha bandhan day, to all my sisters – long may you live, with health, wealth, and stealth your forever companions. we bros are ordained to be at your command.

just don't keep the sweets at harm’s length.

 

the doors (with apologies to jim morrison, of whose existence i was unaware till early adulthood)

 

i was born and formed in the verdant bylanes of shivaji park in mumbai. where every street was a path to glory (with apologies to jeff a). shivaji park is just aft of the suburban border. so i am legitimately a townie. there are multiple types of townies, but that’s another blog.

shivaji park couldn’t decide whether it was utterly middle class, or middle class going on slightly upper middle class. “go west, young man” was the mantra in my knicker days, when every young person in the forementioned by lanes was expected to fly off towards the sun, not unlike icarus. that flight was expected to deposit the young, just-out-of-college person into the acme of academe, aka america. no one worth his or her salt (forgive me, but i can’t handle pronouns) thought of any other life choice.

in my street, every building had at least one person spending in dollars. they were all gifted with bulging foreheads, laser focus, and a burning desire to shorten their names from makarand to mak, or mark. the makarands made their mark with degrees that had more alphabets than meta. then, got into that safest of professions – tenured professorships – and proceeded to scrape off everything remotely shivaji park from their skin and soul.

unlike most houses around the park, our house was a tiny one room + kitchen. what is called a “studio” in today’s real estate patois. it was to port of the building entrance and faced the stern of the building opposite us. not quite a view, but then who wanted a view when shivaji park in all its glory was just abaft the building wall.

this space was where my parents made a home for their 3 children. and any number of family who visited, from places near and far. it was bright, resonated with laughter, bulged to breaking point with books, redolent with the smell of good food for which my mother was known.

from this house, my parents got their children educated, and encouraged me to dream beyond the three steps leading into the family room. being directionally challenged, i decided to go northwest instead of west. to france. and from france on a journey that took me to 12 countries and a life and career that has had many highlights (yet another blog).

in the early years of the 21^st century, the parentage and baggage including their last-born moved to a bigger house. in the ‘burbs of Mumbai. across the rubicon, verily. the house was three times the size of the shivaji park house. my parents had their own bedroom. and didn’t have to share the bathroom with the neighbours. this house is a testament to their quiet desire and tenacity to do better with the cards they were dealt with.

i left the shivaji park house. but the “studio” architecture didn’t leave me. by default or divine design, i ended up living in studio sized apartments wherever I dropped anchor. i only coped because the mind had been broadened by vilayet.

a score and two years after I left the shivaji park house, i went back. the house is empty, its walls tired and cracked with age. the entire building looks like methuselah on his last legs.

i felt as empty as the house. nothing stirred inside, nothing choked me up. what I did feel was wonder that the parentage and siblings made this somewhat grotty space sparkling and vibrant. and how all of us dared to dream and made those dreams come true.

it’s never the size of the house. it’s the size of the dreams you carry out of it.

Foreign countries can be closer than you think!

A food vlog on Bhutan brought back memories of my first trip abroad.

I was a wee stripling in shorts, oversized glasses, and a pronounced bias towards food, and lots of it. I didn't tip the scales as much as inflicted grievous bodily harm on them.

The father figure decided to celebrate my "coming of age" - I turned 12 that year - by sending me as far away as it was possible in those days. His younger brother, aka my uncle, was planning a family trip to the east of the dear country. I was added as supernumerary, one.

The uncle was a larger than life figure for us striplings. He had a tremendous sense of humour, ran the largest dairy brand in the country, and had an appetite for life that to me was the next best thing after daal and rice. A trip with him and family, which included my aunt (naturally) and 2 siblings in a similar age bracket to mine, sounded about right to a lad whose longest trip had been to the other end of Jamnagar.

Most of the itinerary was a secret - hushed discussions between the adults, furtive glances at paper tickets, and so on - but it was made known that the first leg would cover Calcutta and North Bengal.

The flight from Bombay to Calcutta was cancelled - a rather ominous start to a holiday über alles! The replacement flight was delayed repeatedly, and we finally landed in Calcutta at midnight.

The flight had several firsts - my first airplane trip, my first glimpse of the departure side of an airport, my first wide-eyed stare at an airhostess, my first airline meal (I asked the airhostess if I could have a second one, setting the tone for many such negotiations in the future), and my first experience of air turbulence. Not something I recommend on a full stomach.

It was also the farthest east I had travelled - Santacruz East having been the most I had travelled eastwards till then.

After a week of decadent travel, food, and sightseeing across Calcutta, Siliguri, Kalimpong and Darjeeling, the uncle called for a Round Table. In grave tones, and a look to match, he announced that the morrow would bring forth an experience that would enrich our young, growing minds no end. We were going to a foreign country!

Being a geeky sort of lad, with an inordinate interest in collecting bits and pieces of random information (continues to this day), I knew that going to a foreign country required a passport! Which I didn't have. The fear of abandonment immediately raised its head - did the others have passports? Would I be left behind? Should I have made a will, leaving all I possessed (particularly my spectacles, of whom I was very fond) to charity? My aunt shushed me, and said "We don't need a passport where we are going". My natural and sometimes pesky curiosity egged me on to ask about our destination, and the uncle said "We are going to...Bhutan!"

The next day we drove from Siliguri to the border of India and Bhutan. A lump formed in my throat at this imminent departure from the country of my birth. Even if it was only for two days. Would I return a changed lad? Would I develop a worldview? And most importantly, would I develop an accent?

The "border" wasn't there.

We just continued driving without being stopped by fierce-looking soldiers bristling with weaponry. There was nothing but a goat chewing placidly on some old trousers. The only indication that we were in a different country was a milestone that read "Phuntsholing - 30 kms".

Bhutan. Exotic. Closed to the world for the longest time. Pristine. Untouched by tourists. But open to Indians. Without passports. Just come in. Tashi Delek!

My first foreign crossing felt more like crossing the road to go to my library than a Vasco da Gama-esque voyage across heaving seas, facing strong winds and unknown dangers.

I do not remember much of that trip but I do recall the hotel we stayed in was called "Tashi Delek", and that I had a stomach upset from a surfeit of lychees. Love the stuff!

I did not develop an accent. I did develop a respect for hill people, and a love for Calcutta that continues to this day.

I crossed many borders in later years, in "developed economies" (Europe) and "growth economies" (sub-Saharan Africa). All were road borders. But the contrast was as startling as night and day. Borders in Europe are nothing more than a truck-stop or a pretty hedge. Just miles and miles of roads, with no sign of any outpost or border control. The only true borders, where documentation is demanded and scrutinized with the zeal of the truly converted, are at airports.

Road borders in sub-Saharan Africa are a seething mass of humanity - vendors of curiously shaped food rubbing shoulders with soldiers brandishing full armories. Crossing one of these borders demanded presence of mind, several packets of cigarettes as facilitators, and the patience to negotiate passage without parting with several large denomination bills.

Over time, my view of border crossings changed.

At twelve the thought of a border crossing was hair-raisingly exciting.

In adulthood, it's just another man-made inconvenience.

I look forward to a time when crossing a border requires only a return ticket and a promise of good behaviour.

And perhaps a goat placidly chewing on some old trousers.