Cold Feet

'Everyone should make at least one. I am sure you will enjoy it.' My landlord sounds encouraging. It starts almost as a joke.

'The snow seems good. Its been there the whole day. We can almost make a snowman.'
'Not interested yaar.' My roommate muttered.

'The snow really is perfect for a snowman you know. But it will melt by the evening.' That was where my landlord comes in. Again, 'There's lots of shoveled snow outside.' And then finally, 'Here is the carrot for the nose. And here are the eyes. You can make one on the porch'.

There i a snowstorm, as I like calling it, the night I from Toronto. White powder falling from the sky. I trace my footsteps from the bus stop, watching them disappear, reappear. An ephemeral coat. A flake settles on my fingertips, melting away. I hold my tongue out and feel a few drops from the black freezer up in the sky. The yellow streetlights faintly the streets, reflected by the white. It does not seem night. It does not seem day. People, many of them are not happy with it. I am in the seventh heaven. 'It's getting worse'. I just smile and trundle along, watching the white hooded cars, the empty sagging seats at the bus-stop and the drains bemoaning their uselessness. Sometimes sinking beyond the invisible boundary of the sidewalk. But that was the day before.

The next day the kids on TV make snow animals. I wait inside, watching. And then it hits me. I have never made a snow man, ever. The decade old attempts at Rohtang were stillborn. With feet after tourist feet mutilating the virgin snow, it had turned into ice, tired, resistant and intractable. It had met the ultimate fate of all snow in India. Now is the opportunity. Hey, even the kids on TV have done it !

My landlord considered it almost a crime, a deprived childhood, one that had never seen a snowman. She made sure I march out armed with carved carrots, round onions, marginal enthusiasm and Calvinistic ambitions. The porch seems too public. What if someone sees me. The sole kid on the street has built a castle. Guarded by a plastic owl and a white dog which disappears into the walls.

My creation will have to stand guard at the backyard, where wandering deer venture in sometimes from the dundas wildlife reserve. Cautious steps, wooden ones, almost at level now take me down the backyard. The same backyard which welcomes all seasons, green in summer, yellow, orange and dark red in autumn and a dry white in winter. The floor is covered with a thick carpet of grass and green wall of shrub both of which feed the deer. It also hides the squirrels, big black ones which enter the house if the window is left open, to try their hand at everything from cupboards to boxes to trash. My landlord always thinks it is the work of raccoons. Now the green carpet is white.

Down, in the land of squirrels, deer, raccoons, shrubs, I glance around. A guy next door is practicing snowboarding. Down the slope, then up. Towards netherland again. He did not fall. I am disappointed. I scoop up a small heap of snow. Then stare at it. The winter cut through my leather gloves. Should I make two balls, one over the other like they draw in the cartoon strips? But it is no longer powder. The top layer had met the sun and melted brittle, stiff. The heap refuses to roll into a ball. It assumes the shape of a pyramid instead. This is going to be one big fat snowman with an over sized winter coat. I roll over another smaller ball for the head. It comes out oval, like a rugby ball instead of a football. The kids on tv had worked hard ! It is not as simple as it looked, I realized as I see the gruesome figure. It needs some hands now.

The shrub is not ready to come off and I am adamant. Slowly it gives way. The roots remain underground. Two branches in my hands, I stumble backwards. Towards the newly transformed birdbath-to-bird-ice-rink. Besides it were two pots, waiting for plants without soil. Not empty. Filled with powder. I see bright potential for a hat.

The sticks stand out like outstretched ghost palms begging for solace. The carrots and onions take places carefully carved out. I overturn one pot. There is an oval mound on the step. It is already non-powder. Hasty palm pressure made sure nothing came of it. Powder does not stay its own way for long. The falling snow forces that below it into ice. When it stops, the layer on top melts ever so slightly, coalescing. Snow cannot flow away. It collects, forming mountains everywhere. Smoke burns water. Black walls form on both sides of the sidewalk. The melting ice is slippery, so the roads and footpaths are salted. Every now and then, someone slips. But they need to reach home, to shovel all the snow out. In the fall you shovel leaves, and then snow which follows the leaves like a family of duck. Quacking away at your misery. Virgin beauty to monster madam.

I tried out the second pot. Another mound. But only a little bit of carving. The brittleness at the bottom is hidden. I place it on the head but it does not stand still. So I flatten the head out, thumping it, cutting the brains. Then make it top heavy. The snow has melted through my shoes. My capped head, squint eyed, begging hand man lacks shoes, I realize. I conjure up boots. One is large, another is a sad case of elephant legs. I walk back to the house, semi satisfied.

Next morning, as I wake up, the sun hazes into the room. Snow melts. Top heavy structures melt further. My snowman stands in the backyard. Hatless. Headless.

Kolkata Chronicled

'Taxi?', a fellow with a moustache and stubble enquires. As a rule, all such language is representative of taxi drivers scouting for passengers. The surprise here was, there was only one. No pack of hounds closing in on doomed prey. Calcutta looked hopeful.

The yellow ambassador taxicabs are an intrinsic part of the city landscape. The same way a black premier padmini is of Mumbai, a multicolored vikram is of lucknow and the yellow painted red seat shikara is of Shrinagar. Coming through the bypass via Salt Lake City, you see large tracts of green but in development land screaming from both sides. A site few cities can boast of. (The only comparison I could think of was Hyderabad with it's million year old rock strewn landscape.) The road is lined with Coconut trees. Something which stands out, especially when your airplane circles the city forgetting the fact that it was supposed to land.

As the car weaves through the narrow bylanes and the constantly overhead flyover, it feels like Lower Parel. Old dusty buildings, sundry people crossing roads and a jumble of cars maneouvering under flyovers. Buildings, ancient and creaking, dot the roads, lanes and bylanes, interspersed rarely with the modern. Sometimes, a jarring half-renovation leaves behind a comical (architectural) juxtaposition that escapes classification. Multi-storey relics of a bygone era also stand witness, watching the city sprawl outwards. Things which perhaps gives Kolkata an old world charm not present most places.


Malls and roads are not wide, accentuating traffic and plaguing parking. Branded outlets, while international inside, carry the look of a suburban market, when driving through. Between cars of all variety, two wheelers and helmets resembling miner's hats stand out. The boards everywhere are in English, the same way as in Mumbai, Delhi or Hyderabad. In fact more than Hyderabad, which denotes that it is a cosmopolitan city.

Chat stands, kulfi and the ubiquitous kwality walls cyclewalahs declare their presence with a crowd of connossieurs waiting to catch a bite. An assortment of cars wait by the sidewalk for a dip of the puchka and a bite of the chila. The especially enticing mango kulfi (it was kulfi literally in a mango) is a street delicacy not to be missed.

While in the city, it is impossible to miss the Havda brigde. Without any pillars, with an awe-inspiring view of the Hoogly, a broad promenade and pleasantly vibrating side-railings, it offers multiple opportunities for photographs. Primitive jute mills and red brick paint-peeled buidlings stand in wilful harmony with the red railway station. Boats float arcross the horizon and cars drive over the Rabindra Setu. The imaginatively named 'New Havda' bridge with private vehicles, lesser traffic, toll booths and sidewalk-less road stands in a wired contrast to its pillarless all-men-are-equal ancient neighbour. As the car approaches visible distance, you recall photo-albums of all your relatives who ever went to the Golden Gate. 'New Havda' however, is protected from the ravings of capitalist tourism. With a police fine.

People travel across the river. On jetties. 3 rupees each - that is the minimum fare for lazing across the hoogly on a white blue boat chugging smoke. Boys, perhaps employed by the transport, jump across from port to river to boat and the other way round. The Hoogly flows on - in slow sluggish currents buried under its own expanse, letting wooden boats float gently and be guided by the oars. The lights of eden shimmer on and gongs of the prayer to kali drift with the mellowing day.

A railway line runs near the havda. Ring rails. Empty rails. Rails also run in the city centre. Comfortably ensconced in northern calcutta, the trams of chitpur and bada bazaar welcome you into the arms of old calcutta. The change is gradual. The roads get narrower, the buildings dirtier, the traffic thins as the crowds bulge and then you even see the hand-rickshaws. In the land of equals, man rides on man, unconcerned. This is the Calcutta you see in the movies.

A tram follows my taxi. However, there is only one lane and no space to park. So it follows us for quite some time, trumbling on and humming a horn whenever we stop for directions. The road names mark all addresses. Perhaps a vestige of British planning, addresses in Calcutta are the preserve of streets, like the west. (e.g. in Calcutta you live on Russel Street, in Mumbai you live at Parel) Very few area names, fewer landmarks. Road names in Mumbai confuse, landmarks in Calcutta do so. The autorickshaw driver takes in five people - with a security rod near the driver's seat, so he does not fall out.

Vast tracts of gardens, especially near the Eden do not surprise you. They follow you right from the Victoria Memorial, a white mansioned, ancient-gardened Victoria Memorial. Protected by the Marble lions gruaring the gates, you can see the people walking, exercising. You can also see an orange beaked bird. I could not figure out its name. The sprawling gardens with grandfather trees, a throned queen with a pigeon piss crown and calm reflecting pools where ducks eat fish attract all kinds of tourists.

The memorial houses a history of India. A musuem. They story of class divisions, surprisingly, does not overwhelm the picture. Hidden vignettes can be found in the numerous life stories scripted (like a Britisher who died a troubled death advocating rights for the natives). Ancient portraits (the son of Tipu Sultan painted by a European, Siraj-ud-daula looking pretty foreign in a furred cap) and amazing landscapes ('A rock-cut temple on Salsette island' - my guess are the Kanheri Caves, Kashmir, Kanyakumari, Gujrat) from across India at the turn of the 18th century present a picture of history pickled, preserved.

Coming back to the parks, the land outside is marked with stalls and with horse-carts driven by half starved ponies. Ponies which graze in the parks under tall trees, yellow flowers. a searing sun and noon criket. As you near the eden, the parks turn into parking lots, especially on a day of the IPL. Parking for cars with stickers, blue, green, red, pink - multicoloured privileges of getting closer to the grounds. The grounds of full. As many people throng in to see the cricket as to see Shahrukh Khan. The pitch is slow and the white cheerleaders seem to be the only interesting thing around - the calcutta crowd shouts anyway, unfluttered with the dangers of moral turpitude. Even Shahrukh escapes the obligatory dance routine. Bored, the flash lights refuse to work. Nothing shimmers on the Hoogly.

Buses in Calcutta are small and cheap like all public transport. Glorified vans. They leave you at the landmarks, the streets, the street market of Chowringee with the un-named old building that features mandatorily in all tourist guidebooks. It also leaves you near the metro, as the crowds move to the underground. The metro seems small especially if you have experienced Delhi. The stations however, are lined with art like all good metros whould be. It is crowded but not crowded enough to evolve its own chaotic structure unlike the suburban railway of Mumbai. The city is sweaty, smelly, tasty, crowded and red. It is also a sightful. And something you cannot easily forget.

Over !

It feels strange. Not the same feeling all over again. Gone is the sense of relief. Gone with it is also the feeling of familiarity. 2 years. At the risk of sounding cliched, I would say they passed pretty quickly. Not quickly like a speeding ferrari, but quickly like a mumbai local. The one which involves a lot of effort in getting in. One which is crowded with experiences, a whirlwind in minutes. The last day of classes felt a bit awkward. There, that went the last lecture in a proper classroom. It was as if you have completed the sentence. Full stop. A feeling that the paragraph of life has changed. But the book was still the same.

I did not feel out of place when I left for a short vacation. But now, its different. I already feel as a stranger. The words are already past tense, the jokes nostalgic, the sights count memories, the sounds number moments. Any and all attempts at normalcy are stillborn. The breakfast does not feel the same. Nor does the tea. It has changed. Or I have changed. Perhaps the times have changed. It almost feels like an alumni meet. The questions today are markedly different. The whys and the hows have been replaced by the wheres and the whens. And this is what marks the final goodbye. A goodbye which already happened, when no one was looking. Its time now, to start a new book.

If only every competition email could be like this...

Firefox was getting jittery. Nothing fiery or foxy. Rather like a LazyBuffalow. Anyways, checked out the morning and the emails. Just for a change, read one of the many competition mails which land up in the inbox everyday. (Perhaps I will detail these 'competitions' some other day). The mail was inviting entries for Treatise at IIM Lucknow 2008. And for a massively shocking change, found it entertaining.

'So if you think you can shape India’s future, then all you need to do is to register at our website before 17th December, 2007 and submit your initial plan before 19th December, 2007.'

It had a kind of 'to change the world buy our toothpaste' kind of feel to it. If it was intentional, it was masterful. If unintentional, then I would love to read every mail of these guys :D

Yukon Ho! - I

(Let me be clear at the outset that I have not visited Yukon and don't plan to. It's just too cold and I have not intentions of bearing a chill, sneezing my heart out and running around protecting my existence from wild animals. But this is a Calvinistic Fantasy and, absent any alliterative Canadian inspirations, makes for a great title....)

It was pitch dark and the she was serving some food. I had lost all sense of day and night. It was always day outside. A day of clouds beneath my feet. Some of them pretty literally. The Brussels sky was covered with clouds, white sheets. The giant wings of the A380 partly shut of the view from the glass-covered window.

It felt great when I finally landed, after 20 hours, 4 meals and an endless day travelling with an entire Punjabi village. The Pearson International airport was gigantic. Beyond my dreams. We came down the elevators, walking across Shilpa Shetty, Sameera Reddy, Shekhar Kapoor, Satish Kaushik, Tanuja Chandra and god knows who else. It felt good that I never ever saw them in Mumbai and no one knows them in Canada. So there were no impromptu stampedes or special arrangements. I tried the wireless but it was paid, same as in Brussels. After spending a few nostalgic moments remembering socialist India with free wi-fi; our feet and a few directions from a helpful counter-lady took us to the ground floor towards the groundways transit. A free transit had been arranged towards McMaster University.

We were going to stay in Hamilton, often called the 'Steel City' or the 'armpit of Canada' if you want to be particularly uncharitable. The groundways transit clerk mispronounced our names . It was the first time but not, unfortunately, not the last. The driver of the car was pretty friendly, he tried some jokes. That was the first time I realized the meaning of culture. All attempts at conversation were doomed to an eerie I-don't-understand-what-the-hell-are-you-saying hell. He did not get our accent and we did not get his jokes. At the end however, he got one message across, there are no good strip clubs in Hamilton.

As we got around from Toronto to Hamilton, one thing started becoming clear. The Canadians might lack some people and some warm climate but they had land to throw away. Right through the window of your car. As we drove past vast tracks of trees, parking lots, wide two storey behemoths of Supply Chain corporations, big discount stores and still bigger parking lots, this fact was continuously rubbed in.

As we entered Hamilton, I felt happy that most Canadians have not visited Mumbai. If this was called the armpit, Mumbai would be designated by an more anatomically colourful term. The houses were dreamlike. They were individual and sloping roof, indicating it rained here. The cottages with parking lots, porches, clean roads and little chimneys looked right out of a movie. I was difficult to shake off the feeling that I am in a real country. As we arrived, the rains did too. Not the torrential Mumbai rains. It was similar to the light Lucknowi showers. The landlady was not home and we waited on the porch. So that was my arrival in Canada; Lucknowi showers, maple trees, clean roads, careful drivers, movie studio like student houses and two wet bags on the front porch.

Plagiarizing Professors and Pirating Populations - I

(Disclaimer: The incidents described below are liberal mix of fiction with personal experience. Its a kind of based on a true story where the gaps in the story have been filled in with liberal dramatizations. Any coincidences with reality are, of course, purely intentional.)

Scene 1: May 2, 1999

S****** F****** was typing fast late in the light. The New Salem lights were dim outside. He had to submit his assignment in a few minutes and he had not even looked at the figures. Even if he had looked, he had precious little time to figure out anything.

The case-analysis was of the legendary 'Netscape's IPO'. Unlike the usual Harvard cases that start with a tensed executive staring philosophically out of the window, this one came straight to the point. Netscape wanted to get an IPO out. They had never made any money. All other sources of finance were dry. They decided to approach the stock markets. And dotcom gold diggers on wall street wanted the stock more badly than ever......

So, the question was what should be the price of a Netscape share. It primarily highlighted the difficulties faced in valuing a company where you know next to nothing about the company or the industry's future.

'God, thank you for creating excel with the drag and copy feature for the formulae', he thought as he put in his assignment for the day. For a 10 minute job, the excel could not have been better. However, it lacked any fundamental correlations with reality. A sane mind, with one reading of the case, could do no more than keeping hitting the delete button in frustration - hopelessly trying to eliminate all memory of the horrible effort.

Perhaps the professor will not actually verify the figures. Perhaps no one will look at the excel sheet. After all, you could have justified everything......

Scene 2: Between May 2, 1999 and June 4, 2007

Professor J****** W***** was sitting in his office gazing philosophically at the boston snow outside, imagining himself as the hero of a Harvard case study. An imperceptible sigh escaped his breath as he found himself battered with the meetings of the day. The case at the edge of the table caught his glance.

'Why did Netscape have to come out with that IPO. More so, why did they actually think someone could value it. Perhaps they wanted to enhance your number juggling skills......... does it really matter? Enough people can take care of these trifles without me wasting time over it.'

In another room, the screen of the TA jingled with a 'you have got mail' sign. The TA had actually recieved two mails. The first one confirming his evening out and the second one from the professor.

'What does that slave-driver want now? Another one of those stupid assignments with reams of excels and arbitrary powerpoints.'

As he gave a long look to the six pages of IPO pricing difficulties, it dawned on him that he would have to cancel that date. But perhaps there was some hope. The irony was not lost on him as he plugged on his netscape to search 'previous opinions' on the case. And he hit paydirt......... F*******.xls . A whole excel, with the the numbers crunched and digested. It looked a bit rough on the edges but any checking would only waste time.

Virtually anything under the sun could be written and argued for. Who's gonna read it anyway!

CTRL C and CTRL V with a little know-how of IPO underpricing, make for a good 4 slide ppt and a saved date.

Scene 3: August 3, 2007

'Triskaidekaphobia!' - exclaimed the t-shirt in and around Hostel 13 at II* L******. The grounds outside smelled of the fresh Lucknowi showers. A host of bugs pursued the incandescent lamps everywhere, mistaking them for the moon.

In one room of that hostel, a group of 5 students was pondering over the future of the cement industry. At least trying to, in the sultry dampness of a rainy monsoon.

Suddenly, another one torpedoed into the sage meeting, oblivious to all serenity. He was obviously excited.

I got a google. It's done by a professor. Some J*** W****. I don't think we need to check it.

The relief in the voice was palpable. It amounted to saving one more hour. They really needed that, if not for themselves, then for the cement industry. But all of them were not equally ethically challenged.

Abey excel toh bana le! (At least make the excel!)

The chiding remark ricocheted of the room walls. An eerie silence prevailed. Ethical uncertainity and the cement industry, the devil and the black sea - the choices were not very pleasing.

I have read the case. I have practically followed netscape from then on to its present avatar as FF. You can make an argument for any price. Change the growth rates here, the discount rates there and you can have a figure from 15-50. It's not worth spending any time over...

But the argument was not pervasive.

Then it's even better! The excel will not take more than 10 minutes.

The new entrant was tired, defeated. He retreated. He might as well as confirm the numbers with the case. He picked up the case and started checking the excel sheet. And then, he saw what S******* F****** thought no one will.

WTF!!

The story would have ended here, but it did not.

Scene 4: August 4, 2007

'WTF!!'

Expletives are not the most common words one mouths in class. But today was a groundbreaking day. A day which shook beliefs and reaffirmed the worst fears. A day which answered, 'Yes, the sky is breaking down and its gonna fall on you' and 'Yes, everyone is out to get you'.

It had all started with yesterday's announcement in class.

He's gone mad!

People will not read even one!

How will he complete it in 75 minutes ?

These were some of the sentences being bandied around the previous day. The voices were as incredulous as they were distressed. Some bright soul of a professor, going around by the name of A*** G***, had decided to give Harvard a run for its money.

Harvard pioneered the case study method. We will now teach them how to F*** Forward with case discussions.

These were his thoughts. OR perhaps he had an essential faith in their collective incompetency, which prompted the projection that there will be no discussion. There was no other reason why a sane individual would assume that 4 cases can be analyzed and discussed in a 75 minute class. The cases were small, but pretty complex in themselves, as in no one could precisely pinpoint even the issues involved. How do you predict for example, what valuation was correct for Netscape?

The group from Hostel 13 were sitting in the class with the new, modified, corrected and embellished solution. All thoughts concentrated on Netscape now. It was not perfect but was as near perfect as the group could take it.

Group * , can you make the presentation

The feeling of relief was as deep as it was imperceptible on all faces except of Group *. They had been called on to deliver judgment.

Dot com companies.. Business Model... IPO pricing.. blah.. blah

The torpodoing retreater of hostel 13 was sitting in this class. A sudden smile passed his lips as he saw the xls. He could not believe it. Yes, it was modified. It was clean of all mistakes. But the assumptions. They were unmistakably close. Others had done the same thing he had tried to attempt in his hostel, he mused. Hail Google! The source of one. The source of all. A patina of relief masked his face as Group * ended and A*** G*** started speaking.

Hopefully, a sane solution. Let's hope we get to learn here.

The mouse pointer moved towards the file. He could hear the click when it was selected and opened. The bits moved from the cpu to the projector at approximately the speed of light. From there to 70 pairs of eyes, they moved at the speed of light. The ones and the zeros arranged themselves to form a comprehensible display of numbers on screen. The optic nerve raced through with the numbers to the frontal cortex. The temporal lobe accessed the decidedly short term memory. As the excel sheet opened, his face lost all colour.

WTF!!

That was not the only or even the first expletive brought in by the excel sheet. This xls, the one the professor had brought to class was not even modified or corrected. It took time to sink in.

Ye bhi! (Him too !)

Hurried glances were exchanged throughout the class. Everyone knew what was wrong. They had spent the whole day trying to correct it!

And then the class attacked. If S***** F****** would have known 70 pairs of eyes were gonna go into a deepdive analysis of his excel, perhaps he would have been careful with the drag and drop. Or perhaps, J*** W****'s TA would have missed his date if he had witnessed the slaughter. The prof had not expected anyone to actually read the case. The tension was reflected in the beads of sweat on his face. The humiliation was evident as the case was dismissed hurriedly to be looked on at later (meaning never). He wondered, perhaps like all criminals do, when caught red-handed.

How do they know!

As the class exchanged smiles, they understood the unspoken fact. Everyone knew. Everyone read. Everyone googled.

(Some links which might be of interest:

http://www.wfu.edu/~palmitar/Law&Valuation/Papers/1999/FREITAS.XLS

http://www.wfu.edu/~palmitar/Law&Valuation/Papers/1999/freitas.html

http://web.cba.neu.edu/~jwelch/PPT/Netscape%20IPO.ppt

)

Who created Valentine's Day ?

It was the last year at school. And it was Feb 14. Pretty awful. I passed out into phases of immense chagrin when I heard of friendship day, valentine's day, mother's day, father's day, doctor's day, engineer's day, poodle day, alarm-clock-that-never-rings day broken-needle-eye-with-unpassable-thread day....It was the one of those days that day. Hell! It was one of those days everyday now! It was difficult to find a normal Sunday or Monday in the calendar. And its not specifically easy to remember 365 different day names.

The class yesterday was not quite as interesting as I wanted it to be. The prof was saying something about exchange rates and then something about Tony Blair. Tony Blair has no currency left... That was about the only thing my mixed up mind could make out.

Why? Why is this happening ? Get me the old calendar back. Whole worlds of emotions were being compressed and done away with on single days. Wanna say thanks to your mother. Wish her on Mother's Day! That's it! You have done your job. You are a great son to have, she will surely tell herself. Why is this happening?

Tony Blair surely had enough money. He must have got that for the article he wrote in the economist. The prof was appreciating it for the third time now. I hope the economist did not pay profs...

How are people able to remember all of these days. Who was the brilliant (and masochistic) enough to inflict this pain on humanity. The world was going beyond my miniscule IQ, when I suddenly hit upon it.. It was not that great, but in school days, I really thought I did make a discovery and it made a lot of sense.

I saw a handout nearby. An interview of Anil Moolchandani. Someone was obviously sleeping in the marketing class. It was an interesting interview. Always listen to your customers, was the age-old marketing or rather business mantra I remembered. Can it be true the opposite way ?

I would gleefully go around asking people,

"Who created Valentine's Day ?'

An nonplussed answer would often be "St. Valentine", "The western world", "A pair of queasy lovers","A pair of queasy lovers with lots of spare time", "A pair of queasy lovers with lots of spare cash", "Who cares!"...... and so on.

Can a business shape consumers. Perhaps yes. Perhaps no. No sociologist today can deny the the impact of marketing on modern consumerist societies. Give the consumer what he wants.. or perhaps you can even tell him what he wants. I proceeded to a specific question in the interview...

Perhaps one answer was close.. however, I would soon delightfully scream "You are wrong! Guess what ? It's Archie's and Hallmark!" (Yes I know I turned cynical pretty early on. No need to rub it in!)

How are you planning to achieve the vision you have set for the Company?
We would like to be what we are - the leader for years to come. We will be responsible for creating occasions, so that people will find a reason to greet each other and keep in touch.

I would receive an amused smile and would smile in return. We lived in the marketer's world.

Mr Anil Moolchandani, Chairman-cum-Managing Director, Archies Ltd... I smiled as I remembered the last year of school..