Category Archives: Stories

The Mentor
by

The Mentor

Double bokeh

(Photo credit: Daniel*1977)

This is a story now several years old. I was then an Asian bank trainee lost in the posh and elegant glass rimmed offices of a European city. I had been deputed by my institution to absorb elements of international finance.

In my mind, as I set out for this training exposure, I had an unwritten internal agenda: obtain the secrets of Teutonic competence and replicate it in my Asian environment. I had to break their ‘efficiency’ code. I observed everything they did, took notes and absorbed.  Imitation is the best form of flattery. I had always admired the European ability to work hard and smart and had attributed this resolute effectiveness  to the foundations laid down by Calvinism. Expertise would be my takeaway, I decided internally.

I would spend several hours staring at rapidly changing Bloomberg and Reuter screens trying to decipher what and why and how international markets were pulsating to buy and sell assets. The markets those days went to dizzying levels as swarms of dealers from Sydney to London hounded Sterling in some concerted move crafted by the hedge funds. “This is the time to learn”,  the bankers told me.

The work at the bank was strenuous.  Given my low level of exposure,   I seemed to comprehend market dynamics rather slowly. I had several nagging doubts on the occurrences even as the market rushed past at a frantic pace.

The trader who was officially designated to mentor me was an experienced hand named Patrick. Patrick, however, seemed to be extremely busy. This busy nature of his duties made him rather reluctant to respond to my nagging doubts.  He advised me to just sit quietly and observe whatever he was doing. Often, he would indicate that I should listen in with the extra cord to listen in to telephonic conversations he had with dealers. Otherwise, I just had no mentoring!

Having only limited experience to international markets, I had several nagging and lingering doubts. I tried to seek my mentor’s answers, but it looked like Patrick was  annoyed (or was it irritated) at my volley of questions. Once, he told me derisively in German ‘fragen kostet nichts’ (asking costs nothing). With that conversation; (a rather curt if not rude statement), I decided that discretion is the best part of valour.      I tactfully avoided Patrick. To my mind, he now represented ‘Teutonische arroganz’ not Teutonic efficiency.

About a week after this conversation , one evening, as I was walking out a little later than usual to the lonely Taunus metro station, (next to my bank), I was accosted on the way  by a group of Neo – rebellious youngsters. I had been forewarned by the Training head on my first day of reporting to keep off that shady area. On this day, I had unwittingly disregarded that advice.

The youngsters surrounded me, mocked me , called me an ‘asylee’. With fear gnawing within, I blurted out that that “I am not an asylum seeker but a bank trainee”. That seemed to provoke them more: they taunted me as a ‘short, dark stout man’ and as a parasite on the system. To add insult to injury, they advanced menacingly. Not knowing how to defend myself in a strange land, I did all that a helplessness man could do: pray and plea.

The threats were loud, deafening. I felt like a cockroach in the kitchen sink. I thought I would be battered or sprayed up on with insecticide for the sake of the common good of getting rid of   unhygienic insects. Suddenly, I just wanted to go home.

I cowered, put my hands on my head and waited for the inevitable.  Then from somewhere in the distance, I heard a familiar stentorian voice, as cold as ever. Through my half closed eyes, I could see Patrick bellowing out to them and threatening them with legal action. I saw that the youngsters scamper away with as much eagerness as they had set on me. I was shivering a bit when he came down the steps and unexpectedly hugged me.

In retrospect,  I thank the neo rebellious youngsters. Patrick and I never discussed the incident again but the very next day, Patrick gave me a drive along the Autobahn. At office, he not only answered all my queries but would earmark specific time periods to teach me the economics of the market.  I believe I took home a piece of the Teutonic efficiency, thanks to my mentor, Patrick.

Related articles
Enhanced by Zemanta
by

The Elephant Story

I have two drivers- or mahouts who are supposed to take care of me, domesticated elephant that I am. The elderly senior mahout is a kind man but asleep most often. He gives me food and then goes off to sleep under the tree or sometimes even in my shade. It is not sleep but slumber. The old man, as Aldous Huxley, noted is a log. Often times, he chains me to the tree and goes to visit his mistress leaving me at the mercy of the callous second mahout.

The younger, second mahout is a stork, in Huxley’s words. He is a more recent recruit. He is raw and cruel. He is intent on nay, obsessed with, control. He keeps the power rods with himself though I have always heard that by tradition only the senior mahout must retain or use these. The elder one has virtually abdicated in favor of inexperience…He looks keen to retire and this hollow guy would then be promoted… cannot even think.

This young fellow oft looks me in the eye and says menacingly that he would set me right. Ambitious and keen on proving his elephant driving abilities, he hurts me between my ears at times and often times drives the stick into my nails. Excruciating pain… He uses the curved hook and the poles to harm me. It pains me. He is arrogant; thinks he knows. He really does not. As the bent iron nail drills through my skin and flesh, dammed tears fill my eyes. The senior mahout , whenever he wakes up, shouts at the junior mahout for the bruises evident on my body and then goes back either to sleep or visit his other mistress.

I am aware that have long tusks. I sometimes feel like goring the second mahout. I know I have a long trunk. I could lift him and throw him off. Should I do that… or should I just scare him? the balance of terror… I know my strength.

My thoughts often make me sad: even lions respected my forefathers. And this puny, short little fella thinks he can dictate… But then, before I got trapped, my herd, my pride taught me that the powerful are patient. Only the strong can forgive.

by

Promotion

The ‘performance based’ promotion list arrived in stealth from ‘Head Office’ yesterday. One more time, my friend Austin had missed making it to the managerial cadres. Abe had bypassed him.

That evening, Abe said he would stay back in office a little longer as he had some urgent work. I felt that Abe did that deliberately so that I could be alone with Austin. On the way home, as we travelled together in a troubled, steely, cold, metro train, I tried to console Austin. “Do not worry”, I said, “after all, in a long career, a promotion is a small matter. What difference does it make to you what designation you have and then, monetarily there is going to be only a marginal difference. In these days of recession, saving a job is important.” I attempted to assuage his feelings. There was pregnant silence, which made me realize that my statement was insensate to the situation.

After a while, he responded, in hushed, hurt tones, hardly heard above the inapt incongruence of the metro. “It makes little difference to me, but I have not had any good news for my family for quite some time. For their sake, it would have been great to be promoted at least once. I have had nothing to celebrate for so many years now”. I knew what worried him: Abe stayed across the street. Comparisons!

When we alighted from the metro, I saw his hunched shoulders and wished the train ride had never ended; that would have avoided going to Austin’s home. I decided to walk down with Austin even if it meant a longer route. It was unfair to leave him alone in this rather sad state; it mattered little if I went home a trifling late.

“How do I break it to my family?” he asked, as he was about to ring the bell. I did not know how to respond.

Austin’s eight year old son rushed out from somewhere as the door opened. The kid looked crestfallen as he hugged Austin and murmured, “Daddy, Neil did not play with me; they are going out for dinner. He says his dad has become a manager. I told him we will also go out for dinner.” Austin’s three year old pony tailed daughter smiled as she tried to nudge her brother out for a warmer hug.
I waited to catch any variations in Mrs Austin’s voice as she announced the final decision , “We shall go out for dinner tomorrow. Today Dad and you will play scrabble”. There were no disappointing variations, which I noticed in that voice.

That evening as I trudged my way to my humble abode, I was grateful that God made families before He made offices.

by

Roses in Recession

For a decade and half, I had been working with Ron. This family owned company sold mid market and lower end cars. Ron had been a guy with a hands on feel about his business. He had set up this business single handedly. He had no formal education of any value having been a trader in spices in the market place. He learned the art of brokerage and the science of arbitrage, from the market place and made his money. He travelled long enough to be ‘educated by experience’. His acumen in car trading was remarkable.

Ron was the epitome of sincerity. We adored this guy who believed in shared values. We knew about seasons, we knew about business cycles, we knew of competitors all through the guffaws of his lectures. We were all in love with this warm and effusive character. He kept aloof from crucial decision-making but was close enough to know everything that is happening. That is how Ron groomed us.

Each one of us, as his front office sales staff felt proud. Every December, Ron would call us in to his small cabin with a broad smile on face. “Enjoy life with your family with this big fat cheque”, he would say softly. Ron insisted that we take our bonus and “scoot” with family on annual vacation; he said that rejuvenated us. Personally, this was our ‘best, rich month’… – something my children and spouse looked forward to. It was all “roses in December”, as I had read somewhere

To disrupt such joy and bonhomie, came the recession. The blizzard in the summer of 2008 hit us hard; the sales targets seemed on shifting sands. It was all plummeting: the numbers, the graphs and the morale amongst us. Customers disappeared; suddenly they were wary of the future. Each one hoarded money; all reluctant to spend. There was only selling, no buying. We were way down. The show room empty of patrons, we would sit sipping coffee. We missed out on all the customer fun. Ron had tough days staving off the bankers. He was quieter. We knew he had to redraw financial frontiers: inwards. The strain told on him.

Late in September, Ron left us in his sleep. We were caught altogether unawares. That year, we were way below targets. I was hoping the new management would not retrench me. I was a ‘high cost centre’ with my long years of service. I was quite a bit worried about retaining my job. I de-escalated expectations at home; nay I had prepared them for possible .

The last working week of the year was slow and unsteady. That was a week I just wished faded away. As we were about to leave, I received a summons from the new boss. He extended an envelope: “Ron left this for you… he wrote that I hand it over to you on the last working day”.

I tore the envelope: there was a small slip saying that he had already issued a standing instruction to the bank that my account be credited with a bonus to enable our vacations. “Seasons come and go, cycles keep moving, do not miss the family fun.”

Ron knew that we needed some support through the recession- even if he had to redraw his frontiers.

by

An Invitation

These are days of recession. It is common for borrowers to be ‘underwater’. You borrow and your asset value covers a little short of your assets. So you are left floating in the deep, half dead sea of debt.

Some months earlier the small business I had had failed. Someone had helped me out temporarily with a small measly income job. With ‘downsizing’ all around, I was struggling to keep myself on the rolls. I found myself vulnerable as I felt there was a skill mismatch. To pay off loans, keep my kids at the University and to meet other commitments I had to slog, over borrow. My boss was a bit difficult and would sometimes upbraid me in the presence of others: “Are you breaking stones? Work a little smarter”, he suggested. The approach gave me a complex. Word slowly gained that I was not necessarily a success.

Now with the property valuation fall, I felt caught in an elephant trap. I stared at an impregnable wall. I knew I was a bankrupt. If your known assets cannot cover your liabilities, your net worth in the lender’s eyes is negative. In simple words,I became a tenant in my own house. A tenant served notice to vacate. Gradually, my acquaintances ceased to visit me at home, except very few like my friend, Austin.

I sold my car, put myself on the best of face and boarded public transport. People in the neighbourhood suddenly realized that I was turning or had already turned insolvent. May be it was a complex but I felt people were largely avoiding me. I felt they looked at me as much as an unwelcome cockroach in the kitchen cabinet.

In such a ‘Kafkaesque’ situation, I found that people ceased to invite me for social events in the community. I had suddenly fallen out of their grace. A social ‘pariah, I was compelled to adapt to an economic led social seclusion. Sometimes, reluctantly, my friend Austin would ask me if I had been invited to a certain function or a wedding or similar event and I would nonchalantly confide in him that I had no invitation. Other than Austin and my spouse, no one really seemed to notice at these social slights. Suddenly, there was perhaps an apprehension in the eyes of the people around me that I might borrow money from them. I consoled myself stating that this is what happens if you live beyond your means, even if the contributory factor was a global recession.

After weeks of resigned acceptance, I suddenly got an invitation to one of the local ‘big’ weddings. I was quite excited to receive it. Mr. Henry was among the higher echelons of the community and the an invitation extended for the wedding of his son might be a turn of tide, I said to myself. There would be social ‘reacceptance’, I reasoned to myself.

I was proud to inform my spouse of this invitation. I tried to persuade her but she was reluctant to join me. Both of us planned which suit I should wear. We decided that I needed to have the suit dry cleaned for the occasion. It might mean an extra coin, but it was worth the spending for social reacceptance that this wedding invitation meant.

Joyous, in the evening I went to visit Austin. I pretended it was a casual visit. “I have been invited for Mr. Henry’s son’s wedding”, I said. Hs eyes seemed to light up when he murmured “good”. “We shall go together”, I said. He readily agreed.

The wedding was as grand an affair as it should be. Suddenly I was happy to be back to the society… I felt secure in this crowd. Most of the time I tagged on with Austin as most people seemed reluctant to go beyond pleasantries with me. Nevertheless, I enjoyed just being there.

As we were leaving, I thought I should specially thank Mr. Henry for inviting me. I went up to him and did that. The look in his eyes, and the coldness of his handshake perplexed me. He seemed surprised, nay a little taken aback, that I had come for the occasion. Had there been a mistake?

It nagged me. In Austin’s car I was lost in thought. “Why are you silent?” Austin asked me. “Forget Henry. He is an egoistic guy”, he said concentrating on the road ahead.

I then guessed that Austin had reinserted the wedding card received in his own name on to a new envelope. He had forwarded it on to my address. That was a friend’s way of re-engineering a social reacceptance. Even though it meant a lot to me, for Mr. Henry I was an uninvited visitor.

by

Meeting Carl

Carl was my batch mate at College. We were quite close. We shared hostel rooms, meals, dreams and intellectual readings. He went on to be a successful government official. Compulsions of life swayed my life a shade. I had to be satisfied with a not too envious job among the far away sands of life. Not having done too well in my career, I withdrew to my shell; concentrated on the smaller joys of life. That left me quite contented in my smaller globe. I always lived life through memories of (what I believed were) my studious yester years. In those daydreams, I would longingly remember the intellectual aptitudes of Carl.
Every visit home, I would check up on Carl’s ascendancy graph – the steady climb of my friend among bureaucracy’s well-encrypted ladders was a joy. He was rising fine on the official hierarchy line. Deep within, I was so happy at every success of his. In his achievements, I had some vicarious satisfaction. My insignificant position seemed to matter less. For him, I wished the very best. Every time his name appeared in the newspapers, I was proud of my friend. I would run up to my spouse to reinforce her (oft shaken) confidence in me and reassert that I had good, high level connections in the bureaucracy. My bespectacled little son (who seemed more of a technocrat reinventing cycle wheels rather than an enviable bureaucrat presiding over papers as I would have liked him to be) seemed quite impressed at my solo list of friends. On the quiet, I would tell him stories of how Carl and I studied together , how Carl borrowed my books, and how I expected my son to be like Carl- to be in the top league, a winner always, a la my friend.
In conversations with my acquaintances too, I would casually drop the Carl name. That gave me some credibility among my current, aspirant colleagues. The latter were more mundane, more un-intellectual, more ‘nuts and bolts’ guys. I obtained a larger bit of conversation space at rare dinners owing to this ‘close’ friendship with Carl.
Years Later:
Offices are political minefields. Carl’s office was no exception. Some senior colleagues of his were trying to scuttle his opportunities. His career progression appeared slowed because of some investigation. I felt bad for Carl. It was all over the newspapers. What a brilliant career, I thought; it could not be sullied by the discontented. I empathized with him. Friends are meant to be proximate in troubled times. I decided I had to meet him.
I rang up his office for an appointment. I explained to his Secretary, that this was just a courtesy call. “We are childhood friends”; I sought to impress her. There was a silence- possibly checking up- the she reverted to say that “he is busy today, try tomorrow”. I left my mobile cell number. I thought Carl would call back. He did not. I explained to my spouse that possibly the Secretary had not passed on the message to Carl.
In the afternoon, when my family was away, I mustered courage to ring up the Secretary again. She assured me that she had passed on the message to Carl. She had been instructed by Carl to ‘squeeze’ me in during his free times between busy meetings. “What time would that be?” I enquired eagerly. “Four thirty”, she informed. “So would that be a good time to see him?” I asked. She gave me a non-committal reply. “Shall I come and try my luck? I asked; she seemed uncertain. Then there was a suggestion: “ You said you are a friend, so he might see you impromptu.” That did it.
Evening. as I was getting all ‘smartly’ dressed to meet Carl, my son asked me if I would take him out for a drive. I said that I had to meet this important man. I sold my son the idea that he was too important a man to miss. The little boy said he would wait.
I landed at Carl’s office at four fifteen. The Secretary did not seem too excited to see me(contrary to my expectations). “Why did you come without a firm appointment?”, he is busy”, she whispered. I said cheerfully that I would wait. She seemed quite ill at ease. “He could be very late, I have passed on that you are waiting” she explained. “Never mind”, I assuaged her. I sat reading the Economist and Reader’s Digest which she gave me.
At 5:30, the office caretaker came to close with the keys to the rooms. He asked the Secretary why she was waiting after office hours. She said she was keeping me company as she expected her boss to call me. “Boss left half an hour ago” said the caretaker. “He went by the north door”. I realized that big bosses have independent exits. I felt embarrassed. She dialed the boss’ cell phone to confirm that he had indeed left office. “Oh, yeah, tell him I completely forgot …maybe he could meet me next week”, it appears he told her. She mollified me by stating that he must have had had an urgent call from somewhere.
I returned home with a bar of chocolate I bought from the convenience store for my son. He asked me how my friend was doing. I evaded a direct answer, “My son, he is such a big man that he is too busy”. My son did not quite comprehend the intricacies of a busy man’s life but murmured: “but he should be happy to see a friend”. He, then unusually, offered me the first bite of the chocolate.
I now understand the meaning of the word ‘disappointment’. I now understand that as we grow older we lose memory.