I think people traveling by Mumbai local trains should have destination tags taped to the front of their shirts. Just like at business events, where they name tags. Of course, that arrangement is not prefect either because the name of the person is printed in bigger letters than the name of the organization. So, if you are a journalist who is looking to save business cards and avoid unnecessary small talk, you are left with no choice but to squint at people’s breasts awkwardly until you decide whether its worth your while to introduce yourself.
But returning to the point, people traveling in local trains should wear destination tags. If you are one of the daredevil types that hang from the door, you are exempted. But if you are one who gets on the train at one of the earlier stops and manages bag a seat, it is mandatory. I shall explain why. Standing commuters who want a seat generally crowd around seated commuters, ready to pounce on the first seat that falls vacant. Of course, given Indians love for forming queues, there is a queue which you can’t jump. So the first in the queue usually stands between two rows of facing seats. Now if this person knew that all the seated commuters were getting off at the last stop he wouldn’t be standing there between the seats with an expectant hang-dog expression on his face. He would give up hopes of finding a seat and stand in a more comfortable position. And the seated commuters would be spared the pleasure of having his crotch and butt in their faces. It’s a win-win for all concerned.
Now we wouldn’t have needed this system that badly if the commuter traffic obeyed the laws. Let me explain. There is a law that holds that the 8:58 local to Thane will empty at a station called Ghatkopar and all standees will get a seat. But commuter traffic doesn’t play by the rules always. So once you have passed Ghatkopar and non of the seated guys have got up, you are just standing there looking pathetic and willing those bastards to get up. It is not just that you are tired and at the end of a hard day--It is also a question of dashed hopes and broken rules. You have come to expect something which you are summarily denied.
So the solution to all this is for commuters to wear destination tags. Whats the alternative—surveying the seated commuters to ascertain where they are getting off? That’s so lame. And also think of all the unnecessary conversation that entails. So, in the interests of overall efficiency and commuter satisfaction, I propose that all local train commuters should be made to wear destination tags.
Sunday, March 22, 2009
pass the parcel
Sometimes I wonder whether I am plain unlucky in terms of social situations that I find myself in. I have been characterized as a social retard, social idiot and a sociopath by different people depending on how pissed they were with me after I had a committed yet another faux pas. In my assessment, I am a blessed with a combination of social awkwardness, revulsion for small talk and a monumental disinterest in the day-to-day lives of most of the people I chance to meet in the course of my work—all in equal measure. In a previous post I ahd pointed out the anomaly of my character make-up and the profession of my choice, journalism. So it is to be expected that when my profession and my personality rub shoulders, there are plenty sparks.
My boss was invited for a social do by this uppity foreign bank and since he was definitely not going to fritter away a Saturday night at a PR event of a company whose payrolls he doesn’t figure on, the invite fell in my lap. I find any form of interaction taxing and when it is a ‘social, interaction—bereft of any direct professional objective or gain—I am naturally at my worst. But since I am endowed with an eternal zest for self-improvement, I bit my lip and strode forth to the event which had promised a spoof of Hamlet on the invite.
The moment I stepped into the hall my worst fears were validated. There was not a soul I knew except the CEO of the bank who looked right through me. So I went to men’s room with the intention of taking as much time. I splashed my face with water, took an inordinately long time over my hair but and hung around for as long as I could before the others took me for a freak. If I had been the only inhabitant of the loo, I would have never come out.
On emerging from the john, I scanned the crowd looking for another person with a haversack or any bag. If you are trying to seek out a journalist, a haversack is a dead giveaway. Who else would come to a social evening with a haversack slung over the shoulder except someone who had come straight from work and didn’t have a car to leave his bag in? I finally spotted a youthful chap but it turned out that he was the bartender coming in for his shift. I didn’t know what to make of the gathering. There were kids, spouses, girlfriends and of course they all seemed to know each other. I felt like I had trespassed on to the bank’s “for the spouse, kids and girlfriend/boy friend” party. There were caricature artists, tarot card readers and some other such trade-peddlers scattered around the hall—a up-market fun-fair if ever there was one.
After a frantic consultation with a friend through text-SMS (it also makes u look busy) I caught hold of some of these suit-clad obsequious young men who were ushering guests in. I told them I was a journalist and would appreciate it if they could introduce me to their some of their guests. Poor bastard, I think he didn’t know what to make of me, so he introduced me to the next, suit-clad obsequious usherer he caught sight of. And so began the ridiculous exercise of pass-the-parcel. I was tossed about from on usherer to another, with the turn-over time becoming increasingly short over between each pass until I landed up with a gent who belonged to a property consultant. He quickly introduced me to another gent from his own company and it was become increasingly clear that I had become a pariah, to be dropped like a hot potato. This next gent didn’t bother to introduce me to anyone else, choosing to just bail out on me. At least that put an end to the pass-the parcel game. I sneaked off to the bar and asked the bartender to fix me up a large. My frazzled nerves needed to be steadied and I took up position in a cozy corner of the room and began ‘nursing my drink.
I was fast approaching the agreeable stage of happy-high when the communications head of the bank showed up. My pitiful, lonely state must have rended her heart and she was quite kind. She apologized for forgetting to tell me to get someone along and I brushed aside her apology—I was too buzzed to be affected by such minor problems as not having anyone to talk to. But she bustled off, promising to be back and sure enough, she cam back with a very agreeable senior bloke from the bank. We struck up a conversation and it was already the longest conversation I had had that evening when the communications lady appeared with two other girls—a girl from the PR agency that represents the bank and her friend. Their brief was surely to not let me out of sight in case I killed myself out of the grief of loneliness because they stuck to me doggedly despite my attempts to shake them off. It is not that I didn’t want their company—I was buzzed enough to start a conversation with a chimpanzee—I just didn’t want them to be there against their will.
But when the hall opened for the play and they followed me as I slunk away to the far side of the hall, I decided they were my companions fro the evening.
The ‘spoof’ of Hamlet was an out-and-out stand-up comedy routine obviously inspired by the ‘scary movie’ tri-quels. It was funny in parts but the humour was pedestrian and not clever at all. It had all the trappings of a contemporary—audience interactions, responding to the audience—but overall, it was a very ordinary affair.
The play was bearable but when they decided to reenact the whole play in fast-forward and backwards even the previously appreciative audience became restive. They finally rounded off the play after threatening to reenact it ‘sideways’ but the evening of fun was not over just yet. Every such event has to have a bubbly annoying emcee and this one was no different. She made one of the characters reenact one of the scenes and insisted on playing after him. On another occasion, I would have marveled at her chutzpah but it time was getting on, I was hungry and I had long journey home ahead of me. The event ended after they had made the men in the audience give their women roses and I rushed off to the buffet table. I was eating my meal doubly quick and was just about done with my first round when my two companions materialized out of nowhere. The either found me damn good company or their brief was to stick to me until I exited the premises. We made casual conversation until I withdrew, with the excuse that I had along way to travel.
So, there it is—my first social do made bearable my two large shots of rum, a kindly corporate communications lady and two determined PR girls.
My boss was invited for a social do by this uppity foreign bank and since he was definitely not going to fritter away a Saturday night at a PR event of a company whose payrolls he doesn’t figure on, the invite fell in my lap. I find any form of interaction taxing and when it is a ‘social, interaction—bereft of any direct professional objective or gain—I am naturally at my worst. But since I am endowed with an eternal zest for self-improvement, I bit my lip and strode forth to the event which had promised a spoof of Hamlet on the invite.
The moment I stepped into the hall my worst fears were validated. There was not a soul I knew except the CEO of the bank who looked right through me. So I went to men’s room with the intention of taking as much time. I splashed my face with water, took an inordinately long time over my hair but and hung around for as long as I could before the others took me for a freak. If I had been the only inhabitant of the loo, I would have never come out.
On emerging from the john, I scanned the crowd looking for another person with a haversack or any bag. If you are trying to seek out a journalist, a haversack is a dead giveaway. Who else would come to a social evening with a haversack slung over the shoulder except someone who had come straight from work and didn’t have a car to leave his bag in? I finally spotted a youthful chap but it turned out that he was the bartender coming in for his shift. I didn’t know what to make of the gathering. There were kids, spouses, girlfriends and of course they all seemed to know each other. I felt like I had trespassed on to the bank’s “for the spouse, kids and girlfriend/boy friend” party. There were caricature artists, tarot card readers and some other such trade-peddlers scattered around the hall—a up-market fun-fair if ever there was one.
After a frantic consultation with a friend through text-SMS (it also makes u look busy) I caught hold of some of these suit-clad obsequious young men who were ushering guests in. I told them I was a journalist and would appreciate it if they could introduce me to their some of their guests. Poor bastard, I think he didn’t know what to make of me, so he introduced me to the next, suit-clad obsequious usherer he caught sight of. And so began the ridiculous exercise of pass-the-parcel. I was tossed about from on usherer to another, with the turn-over time becoming increasingly short over between each pass until I landed up with a gent who belonged to a property consultant. He quickly introduced me to another gent from his own company and it was become increasingly clear that I had become a pariah, to be dropped like a hot potato. This next gent didn’t bother to introduce me to anyone else, choosing to just bail out on me. At least that put an end to the pass-the parcel game. I sneaked off to the bar and asked the bartender to fix me up a large. My frazzled nerves needed to be steadied and I took up position in a cozy corner of the room and began ‘nursing my drink.
I was fast approaching the agreeable stage of happy-high when the communications head of the bank showed up. My pitiful, lonely state must have rended her heart and she was quite kind. She apologized for forgetting to tell me to get someone along and I brushed aside her apology—I was too buzzed to be affected by such minor problems as not having anyone to talk to. But she bustled off, promising to be back and sure enough, she cam back with a very agreeable senior bloke from the bank. We struck up a conversation and it was already the longest conversation I had had that evening when the communications lady appeared with two other girls—a girl from the PR agency that represents the bank and her friend. Their brief was surely to not let me out of sight in case I killed myself out of the grief of loneliness because they stuck to me doggedly despite my attempts to shake them off. It is not that I didn’t want their company—I was buzzed enough to start a conversation with a chimpanzee—I just didn’t want them to be there against their will.
But when the hall opened for the play and they followed me as I slunk away to the far side of the hall, I decided they were my companions fro the evening.
The ‘spoof’ of Hamlet was an out-and-out stand-up comedy routine obviously inspired by the ‘scary movie’ tri-quels. It was funny in parts but the humour was pedestrian and not clever at all. It had all the trappings of a contemporary—audience interactions, responding to the audience—but overall, it was a very ordinary affair.
The play was bearable but when they decided to reenact the whole play in fast-forward and backwards even the previously appreciative audience became restive. They finally rounded off the play after threatening to reenact it ‘sideways’ but the evening of fun was not over just yet. Every such event has to have a bubbly annoying emcee and this one was no different. She made one of the characters reenact one of the scenes and insisted on playing after him. On another occasion, I would have marveled at her chutzpah but it time was getting on, I was hungry and I had long journey home ahead of me. The event ended after they had made the men in the audience give their women roses and I rushed off to the buffet table. I was eating my meal doubly quick and was just about done with my first round when my two companions materialized out of nowhere. The either found me damn good company or their brief was to stick to me until I exited the premises. We made casual conversation until I withdrew, with the excuse that I had along way to travel.
So, there it is—my first social do made bearable my two large shots of rum, a kindly corporate communications lady and two determined PR girls.
Meeting people
This happened in Chennai during my journo school days. On a typical oppressively hot Chennai afternoon, a couple of us from ACJ bundled into an auto and headed to a coffee shop. Everyone was on a self-depreciatory trip and was trying to come up with reasons why he or should would never make a good journalist. There wasn’t much to chose between the contenders for the “worst aspiring journalist award until I waded into the contest. “The reason I won’t make a good journalist is because I don’t like people”. I had routed them, left them all speechless. They were forced to concede that my misanthropic proclivities couldn’t be overstated and that I, indeed, had the most unjournalist-like personality.
I have always hated small talk—not because I prefer to talk about heady, intellectual stuff but because I find small talk tiring. I envy people who can banter with a perfect stranger and have him/her eating out of his hands in under five minutes. People might describe me as being a tight ass or having a stiff upper lip depending on how blunt they are but, yes, I am an awkward conversationalist, not the shy, meek type just plain awkward. Now my Dad is all those things and I probably have him to blame for the way I am, but apparently, there is a crucial difference between us. He might not say much but is a good listener, which translates into he doesn’t look bored when people are talking to him, unlike me. It is all I can do to keep from yawning when I am having a perfectly random conversation with a stranger. I am not shy when it comes to going up to strangers—I just cannot be bothered.
Turns out there is hope for people like me even in the world of journalism—in a depressing, stifling place called the news desk. To be fair, I have worked only on one news desk which is also known to be structured differently to the rest. But that single experience ahs filled me with a life-long dread fro the place and sincere empathy for the people who work there.
I managed to free myself form the unforgiving confines of the desk and the struggle has been extensively chronicled on this blog and elsewhere. So, now I am a reporter with a different newspaper and a different city and I am forced to reckon with my misanthropic tendencies.
So what should a young man whose just starting out as a reporter do to enable him to further his prospects in this esteemed profession? Ask the old hands and they will invariably tell you, “Just, go meet people! Talk to people!”. They sound as though the only dilemma in my mind is whether to “ go out and talk to people” or not. Okay but what kind of people should I be meeting and talking to? “Everyone”. Like even the surly lift boy who hates stopping at our floor for some reason? I hate it when people talk about people as though it is a homogenous entity which can only be engaged on the group level.
Since the old hands have forgotten what they did when they were rookies, I am left to my own inferences. I decide that the people to meet at this stage are the corporate communication representatives of the various banks that I shall be tracking. The first bird I call sounds delighted that I am proposing to come and see him. Having been a journalist himself, he is still unused to being sought rather than being the seeker and revels in such small joys. After a tiresome two hours he thanks me profusely for coming and seeing him. I learn my first industry truth as a journalist. Not to expect anything from ex-journo corp comms because they are only in it for the ego trip.
My next interview is better, not least because the guy is a namesake, which instnaly puts us on an amicable terms. But the third and last one for the week is quite different. The guy knows nothing about his company and instead chooses to regale me with stories from his days as a journo. He also manages to smuggle in his views on the political situation in the country before we settle into a discussion about which newspaper is reporter-driven and which is desk-driven. And I am suddenly visited with a question—how is this meeting furthering my prospects as a journo? This guy is a person alright, so technically I am meeting ‘people’ but is anything going to come out of it?
I have always hated small talk—not because I prefer to talk about heady, intellectual stuff but because I find small talk tiring. I envy people who can banter with a perfect stranger and have him/her eating out of his hands in under five minutes. People might describe me as being a tight ass or having a stiff upper lip depending on how blunt they are but, yes, I am an awkward conversationalist, not the shy, meek type just plain awkward. Now my Dad is all those things and I probably have him to blame for the way I am, but apparently, there is a crucial difference between us. He might not say much but is a good listener, which translates into he doesn’t look bored when people are talking to him, unlike me. It is all I can do to keep from yawning when I am having a perfectly random conversation with a stranger. I am not shy when it comes to going up to strangers—I just cannot be bothered.
Turns out there is hope for people like me even in the world of journalism—in a depressing, stifling place called the news desk. To be fair, I have worked only on one news desk which is also known to be structured differently to the rest. But that single experience ahs filled me with a life-long dread fro the place and sincere empathy for the people who work there.
I managed to free myself form the unforgiving confines of the desk and the struggle has been extensively chronicled on this blog and elsewhere. So, now I am a reporter with a different newspaper and a different city and I am forced to reckon with my misanthropic tendencies.
So what should a young man whose just starting out as a reporter do to enable him to further his prospects in this esteemed profession? Ask the old hands and they will invariably tell you, “Just, go meet people! Talk to people!”. They sound as though the only dilemma in my mind is whether to “ go out and talk to people” or not. Okay but what kind of people should I be meeting and talking to? “Everyone”. Like even the surly lift boy who hates stopping at our floor for some reason? I hate it when people talk about people as though it is a homogenous entity which can only be engaged on the group level.
Since the old hands have forgotten what they did when they were rookies, I am left to my own inferences. I decide that the people to meet at this stage are the corporate communication representatives of the various banks that I shall be tracking. The first bird I call sounds delighted that I am proposing to come and see him. Having been a journalist himself, he is still unused to being sought rather than being the seeker and revels in such small joys. After a tiresome two hours he thanks me profusely for coming and seeing him. I learn my first industry truth as a journalist. Not to expect anything from ex-journo corp comms because they are only in it for the ego trip.
My next interview is better, not least because the guy is a namesake, which instnaly puts us on an amicable terms. But the third and last one for the week is quite different. The guy knows nothing about his company and instead chooses to regale me with stories from his days as a journo. He also manages to smuggle in his views on the political situation in the country before we settle into a discussion about which newspaper is reporter-driven and which is desk-driven. And I am suddenly visited with a question—how is this meeting furthering my prospects as a journo? This guy is a person alright, so technically I am meeting ‘people’ but is anything going to come out of it?
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