The Mentor

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.

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Why do we blog?

Is it
to fill the emptiness in our lives with granules of thoughts?
Because
we believe we have something to say?
we cannot speak and so we write?
we are filled with bitterness at what we see?
Run away from all of them and all of these?
we love and dare not say it?
of the strange urge of self- expressionism?
we wanna document our experiences for posterity?
believe that the message is in the medium?
no one notices me otherwise?
of my urge to escape reality?
I really need a group to belong?
I have nowhere else to turn?
I am intensely lonely?
It is just vanity publishing?
Could you tell me why you blog?

River Ganges

As you unlock yourself from the Himalayas,

Hurling boulders as they gurgle along side you,

Reformat  this ancient, harrowed , civil terrain,

I stand by your  decrepit  bank in fear and awe,

Touch your cold water to soothe my torments

Wash my sins, drench my dilapidated emotions,

Watch the decrepit dirt  slip away in the splash of your colours

I think of my ramshackle  past, then,  snap the tenuous thread

Death of thought, of reflect, of felt, of sensate, of disgust,

Birth of light, of detach, of spirit, so indifferent, of calm,

A thousand lamps lit along you in hurried,  hazy  hues

Each one a tear drop of time,  your biographer,

Me lost save in your arms , so welcome  icy cold,

You drench with your countless drops, chill my fire within.

The Climb up in Life

Barefoot climb.
Steep plane vertical.
Holding onto slippery rails.
Hills Blue and Black.
Dark, deep forests swaying wild.
Hot rocks smouldering.
Stones simmering in noon heat.
Lone companion on a long trudge .
Looking for the crest.
Elusive with every step.
Yet higher the ascend.
Hear the irregularity of breath.
The blaze of a fire.
Then the Sight of the Invisible.

The Ghost Chat

The Ghost Chat

Ghost below the Sunset?

Ghost below the Sunset? (Photo credit: Scott M Duncan)

Ashen, pale, macabre, worried,
He helped me find some ground,
Several lost miles we traversed,
Me looking to him as a guide,
Through the clouds, he conversed,
Each morning, as I drove west,
He storied me of dreams unkempt,
Of white fields we furrowed, sweated,
Dust strewn sapling irrigated,
Grappling hazy emotions unchained,
Remorseless, winged, ghoulish, morbid,
Crows that refuse rice yoghurt rolled.
You should have lived through the night,
We indeed could have at dinner laughed.

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Faces

Faces

Big Beautiful Face Statue in Tenerife

Big Beautiful Face Statue in Tenerife (Photo credit: epSos.de)

Faces-
They come back to me in time,
I see them repeating as before,
Visages which seem the same,
They remind- stirrings once more,
From among crowd, they haunt,
The stares- the mind they challenge,
Memories, they nudge and taunt,
Rise from the ashes of passage,
Anger at frothing amnesia so selective,
From the dustbin, burnt leaves reformatted,
Books of the past, in reclaims so restive,
Knocking at strained re-collective doors in regret ,
Countenances so lucid that they fade,
Into oblivion yet more jaded.

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A Security Guard’s Story

I am a security guard at the Debit and Credit Bank.
I earn a decent , minimal salary in these times of recession.
My monthly pay packet is fair enough to take home after tax deductions.
I pay taxes so that the bank where I work can be sustained through Government funding.
I am told that as a taxpayer I own quite a substantial number of shares in this DC Bank.
So I sit through the night and guard the bank which I own as a taxpayer. I guard so that external brigands do not plunder.
Everyday, I watch in awe as these blue suited, dignified looking, learned but taciturn bankers move out in hordes in the evenings.
I stay behind television screens and read newspapers ( I read as I am lonely in the darker hours of night as I struggle to keep awake)… read that my bank is paying its investment bankers $ 250 million as bonuses…It is about performance related pay… (PRP)
It is paying $ 400 million as fines for rigging the ‘Libor’…
It is creating a reserve of $ 1 billion to protect the bank from mis-sellings in insurance and swaps… ( I do not understand these words…so these might be very technical terms to understand and implement… that is why these bonuses are paid) ; banks are ambiguous; banks are complex.. they mis- sell; I mis-read!.

Democratization of the writer and of writing. . .

Democratization of the writer and of writing. . .

The Poem

The Poem (Photo credit: Zavarykin Sergey)

Few wrote earlier.
Fewer published.
The elite read.
The miniscule number published.
We had to visit libraries to borrow books.
WordPress changed all that …
All of us write now. Or at least most of us blog…
We read each other’s writings.
There are several million blogging on a daily basis reading or writing.
We comment on what another writes.
We appreciate what the other person writes.
We encourage each other to write better.
We try not to criticise in mean manner.
We listen to the other voice.
We are multitudes; we are global…
We never knew each other until we met here.
We encourage each other and raise the bar subtly.
Raise Expectations … authors attempt to reach these expectation stars.
It is no more a feudalistic few privileged who are men of letters but several millions talking in a babble that each one of us listen to and try to comprehend… (at least we think we comprehend).
We make leaders of blog writers… we follow them…and leaders become servant leaders who follow followers…Gandhi called for servant leaders for democracy to succeed…
We are not ethnocentric. We are several nationalities and several cultures.
I call this the Democracy of the WordPress Mosaic…
May be we are all vain …
But more so I think we are what Thomas Grey wrote: ” full many a flower is born to blush unseen and lose its fragrance in the desert air…
WP gave us an opportunity to blush seen , not to be lost in the searing heat of the desert of life…
WP is what I see as proletariat power writing in force as Marx would have said…or the advancement of the plebians as Romans would have said…
And all of us write so ‘pressingly’ as Keynes would have wanted it here and now for in the long run we are dead!!!

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Author’s fears- of non completion.

I have not visited you for quite some time.
No apologies.
Cannot visit.
Am up aginst a wall.
Unjust Berliner Mauer.
Formidable, daunting, bleak cliff.
Between me and creativity.
Cannot climb.
Can see no stairs.
Can see no ladder.
Every attempt, I slip back, falter, tired.
Every page I type, stares back at me in derision.
Every word I draft, seems already writ.
Every effort I agonize, seems a futile bit.
Yet I shall chip the Wall, brick by brick.
To run and reach the freedom of creativity.