PART 1: THE WAY TO GO -----> Chapter 1

June 2006


It was a hot sunny afternoon. I was homeward bound on a train from Mookambika. I had gone there to offer prayers and to express my gratitude to Mookambika Amma . For, I had successfully created a new variant of a biscuit at the company where I was employed at. The regional launch of the variant was highly successful and we were gearing up for the national launch. At this juncture, the company announced a reward for me—a promotion, a salary hike and a paid trip to Malyasia—if the all-India launch would be successful. But I didn’t stay on at the company. I quit.

I had read a motivational book, which said that one must follow the calling from one’s heart. And I believed it. My friends would always warn me not to read such books. “Abhi, authors of such books convey notions without considering the ground realities of the situation. Those tips wouldn’t work for us,” they would say. But I had to keep reading these to retain self-confidence. I also had a notepad in which I wrote inspirational quotes and ideas. It helped me find relief and motivation in times of pressure.

I reached Cochin the next morning. Achan and Amma were relieved to have me with them after a long time. I promised that I would be with them for at least a month before I moved on to my next thing. I finally got to have Amma’s chorum thairum chammandipodiyum after a long wait. I also got to see the rains from the terrace of our house. To see the rains approaching from a distance was the most beautiful sight. My last assignment on the new biscuit had kept me away from home. And when the launch had become a success, they offered me an all-expenses-paid foreign vacation! I would never leave Achan and Amma for something like that!

It was during our ‘post-lunch discussion’, when we were talking about the latest happenings among friends and relatives, that Achan told me about Prof. Sreedharan’s phone call.

“He called to ask how you were doing on your job. I told him that you quit. He wants you to contact him.”

“I think I’ll go meet him,” I replied. “Maybe tomorrow itself.”

Prof. Sreedharan was the Dean of the business school, at Kottayam, where I had done my MBA.

***

“Passing out from a modest B-School and making it big is a greater accomplishment,” I pointed out to Prof. Sreedharan, sitting in front of him, in his office, at Kottayam.

“Yes, Abhinav,” he agreed. “But nowadays, B-Schools are mushrooming all over the state. This is adversely affecting the quality of the students of each passing batch. I think your batch and your seniors were the best students we’ve ever had.”

I was flattered. I believed that ours was a batch of indifferent fools, me included. We didn’t want to learn anything. We just wanted to freak out during those two years.

“This Thursday, it will be three years since you people passed out from here.”

Prof. Sreedharan knew each one of us personally. But he was always fair and just while dealing with us. While penalizing us for indiscipline, he was never partial.

“Advise them on their approach towards the MBA programme,” he invited me to speak to the batch of freshers. I obliged unwillingly. Facing a new audience still gave me the jitters.

I walked into the classroom along with him. And the first thing I looked for was the podium so that I could hide behind it. This was one object one could not do without. To me, a podium was like a barricade used by policemen during a lathicharge. If you didn’t have one, the mob would pulverize you.

The Prof. introduced me to the freshers—a bunch of wide-eyed people who looked like batsmen surprised at being given out LBW. They looked even more nervous than me.

The first semester was always tough. You had to adjust to your new surroundings, peers, and faculty. But for some, the fun was just about to begin—life away from the control of parents.

I walked up to the podium and faced the audience. Placing my hand on the wood, I felt nostalgic for a moment. Then I came back to my senses. Making speeches never came easy to me. I decided to be theoretic to these fellows, for, they were going to do the practicals themselves. I began:

“First of all, congratulations to all of you for making the final cut. An MBA means different things to different people. I think you ought to spend these two years developing your emotional intelligence. Rely on feedback from friends and do a lot of introspection. Derive maximum knowledge about the subjects you deal in, the world around you, and different industries. Your ‘personality factor’ is very important. Set targets to read maximum number of books from the library.

“Apart from subject knowledge, I learnt a few things from our faculty. Thomas Mathew sir taught us to focus on the positive side of things; Peter Jacob sir showed us how to break up a problem into several parts and solve each part and also to do things in a systematic and disciplined way; and Sahadevan sir emphasized the commitment we must have towards our customers. We learned to make decisions in an ambiguous environment at this very place and Prof. Sreedharan taught us the most important lesson, which is about attitude—‘never give up’.”

The freshers listened to every word I spoke, with their mouths open. All what I had said, was actually what one was supposed to do at B-School. But we realized this only after we had graduated from the programme. I didn’t want these persons to have the same fate. You are supposed to walk in as one person and walk out as another by the time you complete the MBA programme.

I thought I had given them enough to think about. I bade good-bye to Prof. Sreedharan and left the place.

While driving back to Cochin in Achan’s Esteem, I took a trip down memory lane. I went back to our hostel days. We used to ride ‘triples’ and ‘quadruples’ on bikes to the movies, cautiously avoiding the highways, which were subject to policing at night. During a movie, one of my friends dozed off. When the movie ended we forgot to wake him up. Only on the way back we realized he wasn’t with us. I also had memories of a friend who always wore his underwear over his shirt so that it would stay tucked in his pants throughout the day.

There was another incident when we were felicitating a guest at an event. I was to make the announcements. ‘Hearty congratulations’ was what I was supposed to say but I ended up confidently saying ‘heartfelt condolences’. The error was unintentional. There was a speech to be made at the same event by a classmate, who was poor in grammar. I wrote out the address for him. But when his turn came, instead of reading from it, he improvised, leaving us all red-faced. Some event managers we were! I hadn’t recollected any of these things on my job at Bangalore. My mind, at that time, had been filled completely with biscuits.

I reached Cochin in the afternoon. After parking the car in front of a shopping mall, I went to my favorite bookshop on the 2nd floor. There, while searching for one of Paulo Coelho’s books, I heard people shouting slogans from outside. I came out from the shop to check what was going on.

A group of people wearing white shirt and white mundu were shouting catchwords against a police barricade in front of the mall. They were protesting against the opening of a supermarket inside the mall. The problem was that the supermarket was owned by an MNC. Maybe they thought that MNCs should not own supermarkets.

I took a good look at the demonstrators. Amidst the dissenting crowd, I saw a familiar face. I had seen this guy many times in class during the days I was doing B.Com. It was Subodh. But his name seemed to be inappropriate in this context. What was he doing, shouting slogans in front of policemen armed with lathis?

As I watched from the 2nd floor, the police seemed to have got bored with the antics of the protestors and began to lathicharge the troublemakers. One particular policeman seemed to take delight in whipping the rear end of a plump protestor. The hapless man’s mundu loosened and came off, revealing striped light blue underwear, as large as a pair of Bermuda shorts. He hastily picked up his wear from the ground and fled the scene. In a few moments the crowd was dispersed.

I could see Subodh standing in front of a building nearby across the road. I came out of the mall and crossed the road to meet him.

“Are you alright?” I asked Subodh as we shook hands.

Subodh was not the type who would show his embarrassment. He smiled at me and said, “Oh! Those poor fellows got tired of chasing us.”

“It didn’t take even one minute to get you guys off the place,” I teased him. “It’s been years since we last met! What do you do nowadays?”

“I’m with my uncle.”

“That’s great! What does he do? Must be into business?”

“Actually, he doesn’t do anything. He’s unemployed. I give him company.”

I recalled his failed relationship in college. His lack of seriousness was the reason given by his girlfriend when she had dumped him. Many friends consoled him saying that she didn’t deserve a nice and responsible person like himself. That itself was a paradox.

I told him about my present status. “Hey, even I am unemployed!” I realized aloud.

We stepped into the nearest restaurant and ordered meals for lunch.

“What about our classmates?” I enquired.

“Many of them are in the Gulf, working as accountants. Most of the others are scattered all over India. Our pals Ashish and Madhu are in Thiruvananthapuram.”

“What’s your plan?”

“I’m also trying to get a job visa to Dubai, the City of Gold.”

Mixing sambar with rice, I thought about his slogan shouting and politics. “Da Subodh, you know what? There’s something sad about Kerala. We have Labour Unions here that are quite hostile. They aim at getting higher wages for lesser work. It puts off anyone trying to establish an industrial unit here. The result is that there are few decent jobs out here.

“Our people are then forced to go abroad for work. But it’s their remittances that keep Kerala’s economy going. So, the upshot is that you have a state, which doesn’t promote industrialization but is entirely dependent on industries abroad for sustenance. And that’s hypocrisy.”

“Hey Abhi!” reacted Subodh, almost yelling. “Are you blaming our political party? We are against these MNCs coming into our place. Okay?” He had suddenly turned unfriendly. Obviously, my remarks had offended him. He didn’t get my point at all. And I had thought dodos were extinct.

“Subodh, I believe there’s space for everyone,” I maintained. “Everyone can have a share of the Kerala consumer market, and that includes MNCs. I’m not blaming any political party. I’m blaming people like you who don’t understand the consequences of your activities.” It was indeed frustrating to witness the sad plight of affairs in our state. But I decided to hold back. There was no use arguing with him. Besides, we were meeting after a long time.

Our college days had been filled with campus politics. There were student wings of various political parties, which were active on campus. Slugfests amongst members of rival parties were common. But at the end of the day, foes would usually turn friends and walk out of college, arms over each other’s shoulders, as a gesture of friendship.

After lunch, Subodh joined his associates who were still in the vicinity of the mall, while I went back to the bookshop.

***