As I write this, the Indian stock market is curing a lot of punters of their constipation by going up and down like a yo-yo. I'm watching the CNBC TV18 channel to find out what the wisest in the land prognosticate for the stock market. After all, it's money, honey.
Well, all that the nice lady with the lousy make-up is talking about is "sentiment". It is news to me that hardened capitalists like stock market traders can be sentimental, but apparently, that's what they are. I can almost imagine them sniffling and wiping away a tear as they contemplate the widow or orphan whose bread they have just snatched. Well they are very sentimental people. Sometimes, they send stock prices up, especially when they are sentimental and happy. At other times, they send stock prices down real fast, like now, when they are sentimental and scared. Hmmm.
I get the sneaky, but extremely heretical here in my office, feeling that the people on CNBC TV18 do not know anything about the market, which direction it is going, why it will do so, what clothes are in, why it is uncool to have 17 long strands of hair combed across a bald pate in a bid to appear unbald. Oh no, the CNBC TV 18 guys know everything. If only we could understand properly what they are trying to say, we would all be millionaires. This dude just told us that in his view, the stock market would oscillate in a band. What band would that be sir? A jazz band? The New York Philharmonic? The Naval Band? A rubber band?
And now, another bloke tells us to adopt a wait and watch policy. That was so deep. He must have really put hours of thought before he came up with that one.
I think I will apply to CNBC TV18 for a job. I am ugly. I have no dress sense. I am very good at talking without routing the content through the brain. I have an MBA, too. Am I overqualified?
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
Thursday, January 24, 2008
Why the stock market will go up again
As you know, the markets tragically crashed on Monday, despite CNBC TV18 saying that nothing of the sort was going to happen. Well, PC and Manmohan immediately invited me to Delhi for a briefing. They know I am a popular blogger, doing much to mould opinion in the cyberworld. (I don't want to sound like a braggart, but a recent survey indicated that twelve - yes twelve! - separate people actually read my blog).
As it happened, only PC met me because Yechury and Karat managed to corner Manmohan Singh outside his office as he was leaving and were beating him up for speaking to the US ambassador over the weekend, presumably about the Indo-US nuclear deal.
Me: Hello PC. What's happening to Manmohan?
PC: Thanks for coming at such short notice, Naren. Don't worry about Manmohan. He's used to it, plus the CPI(M) are really very decent people, they never hit you with sharp objects or cause much permanent damage. How are Sheela and the kids?
Me: They're fine. How's your son? Still profiteering at the stock market?
PC: Oh, nothing much, a few crores....
Me: Annually?
PC: Daily! What do you think he is, some kind of petty trader?
Me: Sorry, my bad. Well then, what did you want to speak to me about?
PC: As you know, the stock market crashed the other day, without anyone telling us a thing. We are on a mission to restore investor confidence in the market.
Me: But wasn't the stock market overheated? Several economists including Bimal Jalan, former RBI governor, have called it a bubble.
PC: Oh no, definitely not a bubble. It was a very stable exponential rise. These guys are very impulsive and short sighted. Don't think before they speak.
Me: Even Bimal Jalan?
PC: Especially Bimal Jalan! He thinks he understands economics better than us just because he happens to be an economist. Let me tell you, we have been having some wonderful indicators. Our per capita income is up 0.2 %. Corruption is down 0.2 % And the percentage of the population below the poverty line has dropped by, let me see (leafing through his papers) 0.2%. Plus we have a better human rights record than China, unless you count Gujarat.
Me: Why do you think the crash happened?
PC: It happened because of the US sub prime crisis, but it will pass.
Me: But hasn't that been brewing for months now? Why should that result in such a steep crash?
PC: Our little broker community, while tremendously able and competent, is a little slow on the uptake, especially if things are spoken in a Yankee accent. They thought the sub-prime crisis meant that the Al-Qaeda had captured a nuclear under-sea vessel.
Me: Which way do you think the market will go now?
PC: Oh, there's only one way for the market to go, and that's up!
Me: Because the fundamentals of the economy are still good?
PC: Yes. And also because the entire experience of the crash has raised the average investor IQ by just 0.2 %
As it happened, only PC met me because Yechury and Karat managed to corner Manmohan Singh outside his office as he was leaving and were beating him up for speaking to the US ambassador over the weekend, presumably about the Indo-US nuclear deal.
Me: Hello PC. What's happening to Manmohan?
PC: Thanks for coming at such short notice, Naren. Don't worry about Manmohan. He's used to it, plus the CPI(M) are really very decent people, they never hit you with sharp objects or cause much permanent damage. How are Sheela and the kids?
Me: They're fine. How's your son? Still profiteering at the stock market?
PC: Oh, nothing much, a few crores....
Me: Annually?
PC: Daily! What do you think he is, some kind of petty trader?
Me: Sorry, my bad. Well then, what did you want to speak to me about?
PC: As you know, the stock market crashed the other day, without anyone telling us a thing. We are on a mission to restore investor confidence in the market.
Me: But wasn't the stock market overheated? Several economists including Bimal Jalan, former RBI governor, have called it a bubble.
PC: Oh no, definitely not a bubble. It was a very stable exponential rise. These guys are very impulsive and short sighted. Don't think before they speak.
Me: Even Bimal Jalan?
PC: Especially Bimal Jalan! He thinks he understands economics better than us just because he happens to be an economist. Let me tell you, we have been having some wonderful indicators. Our per capita income is up 0.2 %. Corruption is down 0.2 % And the percentage of the population below the poverty line has dropped by, let me see (leafing through his papers) 0.2%. Plus we have a better human rights record than China, unless you count Gujarat.
Me: Why do you think the crash happened?
PC: It happened because of the US sub prime crisis, but it will pass.
Me: But hasn't that been brewing for months now? Why should that result in such a steep crash?
PC: Our little broker community, while tremendously able and competent, is a little slow on the uptake, especially if things are spoken in a Yankee accent. They thought the sub-prime crisis meant that the Al-Qaeda had captured a nuclear under-sea vessel.
Me: Which way do you think the market will go now?
PC: Oh, there's only one way for the market to go, and that's up!
Me: Because the fundamentals of the economy are still good?
PC: Yes. And also because the entire experience of the crash has raised the average investor IQ by just 0.2 %
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
In which I meet some movie stars
I can't say I have a great fascination for movie stars. Primarily it is a case of sourus grapus, a common medical condition which heightens one's awareness of the incompetence of others. Therefore my considered opinion is that, after fashion models, the president of India (and the vice president of course) and the guys who comment on the stock market, Hindi movie actors are the most useless bipeds in the world.
Thus, when Ajay Devgan, Arshad Warsi and Ayesha Takia walked into a Provogue store in Malad West, I was standing non-chalantly, leaning against a wall and making snide remarks that I had seen better looking personnel in airlines and restaurants while the wife and kids were busy swooning.
The crowd energy was simply awesome. They had to shut the store for a while till the stars were done and then whisked out through a side entrance.
After this, I have become a much sought after raconteur. People who, upon hearing me expound on interesting episodes in my life , begged me to write a book about it instead of telling them, now want to know every detail of the great encounter. Did he shake hands with you? Did she? Is she as sexy in person as she is on screen? Is Arshad Warsi witty? The answers are yes, yes, no and no idea. But you wont catch me saying it like that. Oh, no siree, I am milking it for all its worth. Just the other day, I was forced - FORCED - to have two extra drinks because I hadn't got through the whole story.
Friday, January 11, 2008
How to tell Australian cricketers from monkeys
In our endeavor to educate the ignorant public (you, that is), we have decided to take up a sensitive topic which is How to tell an Australian cricketer from a monkey. We know this a very tricky subject and that even experts like Harbhajan Singh have been known to make mistakes (he recently called the Australian cricketer Andrew Symonds a monkey and nearly got suspended. Silly of him. He should have said "ape", which scientists will tell you is different from "monkey").
As we were saying, it can be done, telling them apart, that is. By the time you are done reading this article you will be distinguishing between Australian Cricketers and monkeys with a confidence rate of 71.224%
Let's start with the basics. Australian cricketers are not monkeys. We know this is hard to believe but trust us. There are many points of difference, though most of them are discernible only under an electron microscope.
Firstly, monkeys are primates but unlike humans, do not have an opposing thumb. Australian cricketers, who resemble humans more closely, do. This enables them to bunch up their digits into a fist and extend only the middle one, the universal gorilla symbol for love and friendship.
Secondly, the average Australian cricketer has less hair than most species of monkey. This is the best distinguishing physical characteristic, according to several authorities in this field, because facial features can be very misleading. The leading case on the topic is Symonds v/s Singh where the plaintiff sued the defendant for having called him, the plaintiff, a monkey face. The courts ruled against the plaintiff on the grounds of reasonable similarity.
Thirdly, most monkeys in the wild do not appeal in unison, unlike the Australian cricketers. Their preferred method of pressuring the umpire would be to bite him in the nuts. This is why the BCCI, along with the entire Indian cricket team, wants Umpires Bucknor and Benson to officiate in the Jungle Olympics.
And lastly, Australian cricketers, unlike monkeys, do not mate promiscuously with multiple females. Unless they are Shane Warne.
We hope this article was illuminating, though the space provided was hardly enough to do justice to this vast subject. The reader is most welcome to attend the author's lectures delivered in the primates section of the Bombay zoo. He will be the one scratching his butt. Aussie style.
As we were saying, it can be done, telling them apart, that is. By the time you are done reading this article you will be distinguishing between Australian Cricketers and monkeys with a confidence rate of 71.224%
Let's start with the basics. Australian cricketers are not monkeys. We know this is hard to believe but trust us. There are many points of difference, though most of them are discernible only under an electron microscope.
Firstly, monkeys are primates but unlike humans, do not have an opposing thumb. Australian cricketers, who resemble humans more closely, do. This enables them to bunch up their digits into a fist and extend only the middle one, the universal gorilla symbol for love and friendship.
Secondly, the average Australian cricketer has less hair than most species of monkey. This is the best distinguishing physical characteristic, according to several authorities in this field, because facial features can be very misleading. The leading case on the topic is Symonds v/s Singh where the plaintiff sued the defendant for having called him, the plaintiff, a monkey face. The courts ruled against the plaintiff on the grounds of reasonable similarity.
Thirdly, most monkeys in the wild do not appeal in unison, unlike the Australian cricketers. Their preferred method of pressuring the umpire would be to bite him in the nuts. This is why the BCCI, along with the entire Indian cricket team, wants Umpires Bucknor and Benson to officiate in the Jungle Olympics.
And lastly, Australian cricketers, unlike monkeys, do not mate promiscuously with multiple females. Unless they are Shane Warne.
We hope this article was illuminating, though the space provided was hardly enough to do justice to this vast subject. The reader is most welcome to attend the author's lectures delivered in the primates section of the Bombay zoo. He will be the one scratching his butt. Aussie style.
Tuesday, January 8, 2008
How did Benazir die?
In an effort to make sense of the myriad theories about Ms. Benazir Bhutto's death, this blog decided to depute its worthless-but-devoted-to-journalism founder Narendra Shenoy to Pakistan to find the truth.
Honest and intrepid, Shenoy's quest started with preparing ground research. Fearlessly typing in "Pakistan terrorism Bhutto Assassination" into a toolbar graciously provided by M/s Google & Co. for this very purpose, Shenoy speedily unearthed a few unknown but potentially deadly facts about that fine country, listed below for your benefit
1. Ain't no democracy there
2. No government even
3. No law and order neither
4. Plenty bearded blokes who are living in AD 632 and who can shoot quicker than they can think
Having unearthed all that information, Shenoy stretched out on the living room sofa and, deciding that this crime was best solved by employing the little grey cells, poured himself an 18 year old Glenfiddich. 'Bout as old as little Bilawal' he reflected. "More mature than him, though".
Scotland yard had been called in earlier and had delivered its verdict. "Sniper", Inspector Plod had told the press.
A little earlier, a Pakistan government (assuming one exists) spokesman had declared that Ms. Bhutto died from hitting her head on the door handle of her car when a human bomb went off.
When she died of course, the official (if there is such a thing in Pakistan) report was that she was gunned down by two people wielding assault machine guns.
Easily confused with a sniper, of course.
"Plod, you're an ass", said Shenoy, to the Scotland yard detective. "It's clear as daylight. The murder was committed by administering strychnine through her anti-dandruff shampoo medicine, which was given to her by the husband of her former maid whom she had dismissed for being a thief and thus competing with her husband Asif Ali Zardari."
The case solved, Shenoy decided to take the rest of the day off and reflect on the wisdom and inner beauty of this fine lady who had left no stone unturned in her effort to liberate the people of Kashmir by waging a jihad against the Pandits who, with their wives and children posed a dangerous threat to the people of Kashmir, especially by being unarmed just so that they could pretend to be innocent.
Honest and intrepid, Shenoy's quest started with preparing ground research. Fearlessly typing in "Pakistan terrorism Bhutto Assassination" into a toolbar graciously provided by M/s Google & Co. for this very purpose, Shenoy speedily unearthed a few unknown but potentially deadly facts about that fine country, listed below for your benefit
1. Ain't no democracy there
2. No government even
3. No law and order neither
4. Plenty bearded blokes who are living in AD 632 and who can shoot quicker than they can think
Having unearthed all that information, Shenoy stretched out on the living room sofa and, deciding that this crime was best solved by employing the little grey cells, poured himself an 18 year old Glenfiddich. 'Bout as old as little Bilawal' he reflected. "More mature than him, though".
Scotland yard had been called in earlier and had delivered its verdict. "Sniper", Inspector Plod had told the press.
A little earlier, a Pakistan government (assuming one exists) spokesman had declared that Ms. Bhutto died from hitting her head on the door handle of her car when a human bomb went off.
When she died of course, the official (if there is such a thing in Pakistan) report was that she was gunned down by two people wielding assault machine guns.
Easily confused with a sniper, of course.
"Plod, you're an ass", said Shenoy, to the Scotland yard detective. "It's clear as daylight. The murder was committed by administering strychnine through her anti-dandruff shampoo medicine, which was given to her by the husband of her former maid whom she had dismissed for being a thief and thus competing with her husband Asif Ali Zardari."
The case solved, Shenoy decided to take the rest of the day off and reflect on the wisdom and inner beauty of this fine lady who had left no stone unturned in her effort to liberate the people of Kashmir by waging a jihad against the Pandits who, with their wives and children posed a dangerous threat to the people of Kashmir, especially by being unarmed just so that they could pretend to be innocent.
Monday, December 31, 2007
Crisis in the Australian Cricket Team
Tempers are frayed in the board-room of the Australian Cricket Selection Board. An unnamed source told us that the entire team was summoned today and given a dressing down by the Chairman of the Selectors. Captain Ricky Ponting took the brunt of the assault and later tearfully admitted to the unnamed source that he was powerless to do anything about it. The Chairman of the Selectors later played down the incident and promised that his team would be turning around soon and that they would learn from the mistakes of the past.
At the heart of the trouble is the crushing defeat that the Aussies inflicted on the Indian cricket team, visiting and currently playing a test series. As is well known, the immense popularity of the game in the Indian subcontinent is what is paying everybody's salary. Worried that frequent defeats of the Indian team might lower viewer interest and thereby hurt the board's advertising revenues, the Australian Cricket Board had specifically instructed their team to lose to the Indians or, if for some reason they can't, as often happens to teams playing chronic losers like India, at least win by extremely slender margins.
This, the board felt, was completely ignored by Ponting and his men. First, they pounded the Indian bowling attack all around the field on the flimsy grounds that it was ineffectual. Ponting's sarcastic remark, that if the board wanted batsmen who could lose their wickets to the Indian attack, they had better recruit blind players, did not go well with the selectors. Ponting later apologized for it, though he privately told our source that he was not sure that even blind batsmen could manage this.
The meeting broke for lunch, in an attempt to cool tempers, but when it re-convened, the bowlers came in for a bit of stick, as they say in cricketing terms. It has been decided to enrol them for the crash course on bowling half volleys, a regular course being conducted by the advanced training program of the Indian Cricket Board. The Indian cricket board have been informally sounded out about this and have graciously agreed to impart the necessary skills to the Australian bowlers. A sports psychologist's services have been sought, to "de-competitise" the Australians. India has some of the best in this field.
When this reporter contacted the Chairman of the Selectors for his comment, the official reply was that there was no problem and the situation was under control. Privately, an unnamed source assured this reporter that the team has been instructed to lose by an innings. The idea is that even if they goof up, they could still lose by a narrower margin.
What will happen is something that only time will tell, but there is no doubt that the Australians are serious this time. The national coach of Australia is reported to have told the Indian batsmen Dravid and Jaffer that the rules of the game permitted a player to actually hit the ball with the bat, something which they reportedly found shocking and heretical, but being the fine players that they are, are actually considering it.
The situation, in short, is hopeful.
Narendra Shenoy
Special Reporter on Global Cricketing Matters
Melbourne.
At the heart of the trouble is the crushing defeat that the Aussies inflicted on the Indian cricket team, visiting and currently playing a test series. As is well known, the immense popularity of the game in the Indian subcontinent is what is paying everybody's salary. Worried that frequent defeats of the Indian team might lower viewer interest and thereby hurt the board's advertising revenues, the Australian Cricket Board had specifically instructed their team to lose to the Indians or, if for some reason they can't, as often happens to teams playing chronic losers like India, at least win by extremely slender margins.
This, the board felt, was completely ignored by Ponting and his men. First, they pounded the Indian bowling attack all around the field on the flimsy grounds that it was ineffectual. Ponting's sarcastic remark, that if the board wanted batsmen who could lose their wickets to the Indian attack, they had better recruit blind players, did not go well with the selectors. Ponting later apologized for it, though he privately told our source that he was not sure that even blind batsmen could manage this.
The meeting broke for lunch, in an attempt to cool tempers, but when it re-convened, the bowlers came in for a bit of stick, as they say in cricketing terms. It has been decided to enrol them for the crash course on bowling half volleys, a regular course being conducted by the advanced training program of the Indian Cricket Board. The Indian cricket board have been informally sounded out about this and have graciously agreed to impart the necessary skills to the Australian bowlers. A sports psychologist's services have been sought, to "de-competitise" the Australians. India has some of the best in this field.
When this reporter contacted the Chairman of the Selectors for his comment, the official reply was that there was no problem and the situation was under control. Privately, an unnamed source assured this reporter that the team has been instructed to lose by an innings. The idea is that even if they goof up, they could still lose by a narrower margin.
What will happen is something that only time will tell, but there is no doubt that the Australians are serious this time. The national coach of Australia is reported to have told the Indian batsmen Dravid and Jaffer that the rules of the game permitted a player to actually hit the ball with the bat, something which they reportedly found shocking and heretical, but being the fine players that they are, are actually considering it.
The situation, in short, is hopeful.
Narendra Shenoy
Special Reporter on Global Cricketing Matters
Melbourne.
Friday, December 28, 2007
Cellphones - their part in my hair loss
Every once in a while I get the feeling that I am really not part of this world. You know, like you've just come out of the Kalahari desert, lost and disoriented. Except that bushmen can find their way around by the stars. I can't find may way around in the mall, because I find the signage confusing. Nothing is written in words, just internationally accepted symbols. I frequently land up at the baggage counter for a pee. Anyway, thats a different story. What I was getting around to saying is that every once in a while I get the feeling that I'm lost and cellphones are guaranteed to make me feel that way.
My basic attitude towards buying cellphones is to get away with buying the cheapest one possible. I would much rather spend my money on fine alcoholic beverages, you see, than buy expensive cellphones so that the people who make them can buy fine alcoholic beverages. So when my finely honed instincts drag me towards the crap-phone counter, Sheela and the boys feel I'm being a cheapskate. "Dad", one of the boys said, "even the guy who washes the car has a better phone". There was much truth in that statement. The guy who washes our car is quite a happening dude.
I really can't understand, for the life of me, why a "better" cell phone is better. Consider the one that they persuaded me to buy. Its from the Sony Walkman series whose selling point is that you can listen to music on your phone. When it was thrust into my hands and its features explained, I did something I don't usually do - I thought. "Guys," I said, "this is a silly idea. On the rare occasions that I listen to music, I like to do it in the peaceful surrounds of my living room, preferably in the company of a chilled bottle, not when I'm having a heated conversation about missed deadlines." The lads corrected me on this point. "Dad, this is really cool. Trust me", said Gautham, who's been watching too many American movies.
He did not speak a lie. It seems that the entire teenage population of the world thinks that this concept is cool. Sony is raking it in till its arms hurt and one or two of the dour faced Japanese elders at Sony corp are rumored to have actually smiled. If I was a Japanese elder at Sony corp, I would have been exchanging high fives in my underwear with other Japanese elders. Now of course all phones are a music special and allow you, should you fancy it, to listen to Eminem holding forth on Puke when you should be paying attention to the stern looking lady from HR.
But the real problem with cellphones is the service providers. I have my usual tiff with them once a month because they call up about a week before the payment is due and ask me if I have made the payment and if I have, to provide them with the cheque number, the name of my bank, my sixteen digit bank account number, my mother's maiden name, three distinguishing marks on my body and the name and gender of my childhood sweetheart. Really. And they usually get the timing down to within a minute of my having received a seriously pissed off call from one of my customers for having missed a deadline. I am really not in a mood to exchange light hearted banter with the lady about my commercial obligations with her cell phone company.The payment isn't even due, damn your soul, I yell at her. Even as I do it, I realize that its not her fault. She is just doing her job, trying to earn an honest living. Respect that, you ass, my conscience is saying to me. But even my conscience finds itself at a loss for words when we have one of those rate plan conversations. The phone rings. You pick it up. Nice lady coos to you and before you know it, she is explaining a tariff plan that apparently requires a PhD in abstract mathematics to understand. The main principles of a cellphone tariff plan are as follows
1. Like life, the universe and everything, it cannot be understood by mortals
2. It is better than your current tariff plan
3. You will end up paying more in the total but less per call.
The episode usually leaves me with a throbbing sensation in the temples. I retire to my den, curl up with a book and conduct some research into the therapeutic properties of chilled beer. Then the boys turn up with the latest news.
"Dad, the guy who washes the car has an i-phone."
My basic attitude towards buying cellphones is to get away with buying the cheapest one possible. I would much rather spend my money on fine alcoholic beverages, you see, than buy expensive cellphones so that the people who make them can buy fine alcoholic beverages. So when my finely honed instincts drag me towards the crap-phone counter, Sheela and the boys feel I'm being a cheapskate. "Dad", one of the boys said, "even the guy who washes the car has a better phone". There was much truth in that statement. The guy who washes our car is quite a happening dude.
I really can't understand, for the life of me, why a "better" cell phone is better. Consider the one that they persuaded me to buy. Its from the Sony Walkman series whose selling point is that you can listen to music on your phone. When it was thrust into my hands and its features explained, I did something I don't usually do - I thought. "Guys," I said, "this is a silly idea. On the rare occasions that I listen to music, I like to do it in the peaceful surrounds of my living room, preferably in the company of a chilled bottle, not when I'm having a heated conversation about missed deadlines." The lads corrected me on this point. "Dad, this is really cool. Trust me", said Gautham, who's been watching too many American movies.
He did not speak a lie. It seems that the entire teenage population of the world thinks that this concept is cool. Sony is raking it in till its arms hurt and one or two of the dour faced Japanese elders at Sony corp are rumored to have actually smiled. If I was a Japanese elder at Sony corp, I would have been exchanging high fives in my underwear with other Japanese elders. Now of course all phones are a music special and allow you, should you fancy it, to listen to Eminem holding forth on Puke when you should be paying attention to the stern looking lady from HR.
But the real problem with cellphones is the service providers. I have my usual tiff with them once a month because they call up about a week before the payment is due and ask me if I have made the payment and if I have, to provide them with the cheque number, the name of my bank, my sixteen digit bank account number, my mother's maiden name, three distinguishing marks on my body and the name and gender of my childhood sweetheart. Really. And they usually get the timing down to within a minute of my having received a seriously pissed off call from one of my customers for having missed a deadline. I am really not in a mood to exchange light hearted banter with the lady about my commercial obligations with her cell phone company.The payment isn't even due, damn your soul, I yell at her. Even as I do it, I realize that its not her fault. She is just doing her job, trying to earn an honest living. Respect that, you ass, my conscience is saying to me. But even my conscience finds itself at a loss for words when we have one of those rate plan conversations. The phone rings. You pick it up. Nice lady coos to you and before you know it, she is explaining a tariff plan that apparently requires a PhD in abstract mathematics to understand. The main principles of a cellphone tariff plan are as follows
1. Like life, the universe and everything, it cannot be understood by mortals
2. It is better than your current tariff plan
3. You will end up paying more in the total but less per call.
The episode usually leaves me with a throbbing sensation in the temples. I retire to my den, curl up with a book and conduct some research into the therapeutic properties of chilled beer. Then the boys turn up with the latest news.
"Dad, the guy who washes the car has an i-phone."
Friday, December 7, 2007
A Pooh-Poohing primer
"The Pakistan manager pooh-poohed the suggestion that his players were involved in match-fixing", said a major newspaper recently. This being one of my brighter days, I found myself thinking about this. Not the part about the Pakistan manager. Saying that they fix their matches is a bit like accusing Toyota of manufacturing cars. Core business, as they say in MBA speak. No, what interested me was the "pooh-poohed" part.
How do you pooh-pooh a journalist at a press conference? I can imagine the journalist standing up and asking the Pakistan manager
Journalist: "Is it true, sir, that you and your team are actively involved in match fixing?"
Pakistan Manager: "Pooh-Pooh"
Everyone that matters, everyone who is news worthy, is doing it. Manmohan Singh recently pooh-poohed journalists' claims that his government was anti poor. Dubya pooh-poohed allegations that the US was losing ground in Iraq. Even someone as lowly as the Mumbai Police Commissioner pooh-poohed the hell out of someone for saying that the crime rate was going up.
I have therefore taken it upon myself to educate the public in the basics of pooh-poohing.
Q. Can you pooh-pooh a proposal?
A. Not unless it alleges something
Q. What is the correct procedure for pooh-poohing?
A. You wait for a journalist to ask you something. Then you stand up, face him squarely and say "pooh-pooh"
Q. Will this kill the journalist?
A. Alas, no, but if you say it right, he will wish he was dead because all his brother journalists will nudge each other when he walks into a party and say "Don't look now, but that's the guy who was pooh-poohed the other night"
I have of course only scratched the surface of this fascinating and complex subject. Needless to say, it will take months of patient practice before you achieve any kind of expertise at pooh-poohing. Longer, for a doofus like you. But keep at it. Pooh-pooh everybody at every opportunity. before soon, the world will tremble when you walk.
One caveat, though. Dont say "pooh-pooh" to someone under 10 years of age. They will merely reply "Tigger Tigger"
How do you pooh-pooh a journalist at a press conference? I can imagine the journalist standing up and asking the Pakistan manager
Journalist: "Is it true, sir, that you and your team are actively involved in match fixing?"
Pakistan Manager: "Pooh-Pooh"
Everyone that matters, everyone who is news worthy, is doing it. Manmohan Singh recently pooh-poohed journalists' claims that his government was anti poor. Dubya pooh-poohed allegations that the US was losing ground in Iraq. Even someone as lowly as the Mumbai Police Commissioner pooh-poohed the hell out of someone for saying that the crime rate was going up.
I have therefore taken it upon myself to educate the public in the basics of pooh-poohing.
Q. Can you pooh-pooh a proposal?
A. Not unless it alleges something
Q. What is the correct procedure for pooh-poohing?
A. You wait for a journalist to ask you something. Then you stand up, face him squarely and say "pooh-pooh"
Q. Will this kill the journalist?
A. Alas, no, but if you say it right, he will wish he was dead because all his brother journalists will nudge each other when he walks into a party and say "Don't look now, but that's the guy who was pooh-poohed the other night"
I have of course only scratched the surface of this fascinating and complex subject. Needless to say, it will take months of patient practice before you achieve any kind of expertise at pooh-poohing. Longer, for a doofus like you. But keep at it. Pooh-pooh everybody at every opportunity. before soon, the world will tremble when you walk.
One caveat, though. Dont say "pooh-pooh" to someone under 10 years of age. They will merely reply "Tigger Tigger"
Sunday, December 2, 2007
The stock market and I
“How do you make a small fortune on the stock market?" goes the old saying, "You have to start with a large fortune”
Stocks and stock markets are a sealed book to me. Some stocks go up. Some go down. Some, like the one’s I buy, go down so fast that you heave a sigh of relief when they reach zero. You see, they can’t go lower.
Still, there was a time when I was a big wheeler dealer on the stock market, way back in the late eighties and the early nineties. This was the Harshad Mehta Bull Market. The said Mehta was known as "the big bull" and was responsible for a heady time circa 1990. Every one regardless of age, sex and financial standing had become a gambler. Could one of my pronounced goofiness be far behind?
Back then, the stock market used to operate on the “outcry” system, where trades were verbal, noted down in little trade books and then settled at the end of the day. Not a computer in sight.
There would be a jobber who would give two way quotes for the stocks he was dealing in, adjusting prices according to demand and supply. For example, if there were too many buyers and too few sellers, he would keep upping the price till there was a match. Sometimes, if he upped the price too much, the buyers would go away, in which case he would have to lower the price.
This used to keep happening continuously and the whole thing had a buzz to it. Very audible. Only card-holding members of the stock exchange could go in and trade. We used to trade through a sub-broker who had a card. This guy was a good friend of ours and while he was a trifle prone to flinging food around when under the influence of alcohol, during trading hours he was the picture of composure.
And composure was sorely needed because when the markets were in turmoil, there could be a lot of shirt grabbing and vest pulling that would go on in the ring. He would regularly emerge from the trading floor with only a small percentage of his clothing intact, often to our great amusement. We once discovered, for example, that he had worn his wife’s underwear to work because he couldn’t find his own (he said), a fact that was revealed when he tragically lost his pant buttons in the process of purchasing shares of ACC.
The market those days operated on “tips”. The moves were made by the great Harshad Mehta and the rest of the herd tried to follow as nimbly and rapidly as possible. Everyone had a tip. Mine was “Radhakrishna Cement”. Someone, very possible the elevator boy in office, had told me about it and my information was to buy it as surreptitiously as possible so as not to tip off the jobber in the stock, because he would immediately up the prices and try to corner the stock himself.
The ruling price was 7 rupees a share. I formed a syndicate with three other friends and raised a corpus of the then incredibly large sum of 50,000 rupees. Five minutes before trading, we were at the exchange, striding purposefully to the entrance of the ring which was humming with activity. It took a minute to locate our broker friend and the need for discretion was explained to him. We told him to buy shares not more than 500 at a time. Play it cool, we told him, because this was BIG. He went in.
Hearts pounding, the four of us stood outside the ring. This was the pre-cell-phone-o-zoic era and there was nothing we would do but bite our nails. After about an hour, he came out for a smoke break. We rushed towards him. He told us that he was a little doubtful about the quality of the scrip. Apparently he went to the jobber for Radhakrishna Cement and asked for a quote. Selling seven rupees. Give me 500, he said. After about 15 minutes he went to him again and asked for a quote. Selling seven rupees. Give me 500, he said.
When he went for the third time, the jobber told him to take the whole damned company for seven rupees and stop hassling him. This should have told us something, but as the poet said, we were one and twenty and proud as peacocks. Do your job, we told him, and leave the thinking to us.
Well, we got our 50,000 worth of Radhakrishna shares and while I would not write it off as a dud investment, miracles happen, our little syndicate has often wished they had been printed on softer and more absorbent paper.
But we never fell out, the members of our syndicate, in spite of one dud investment after another. The fun of the whole thing kept our camaraderie up. Only after I was respectably married did my wife point out that I could do the whole thing faster by just burning up currency notes. And the little old helpmeet was right. What with one thing and another, the whole stockmarket experience began to lose its magnetism. Other than the occasional IPO or mutual fund, I ceased my endeavours to rock the economy.
Which is why the Ambani brothers are where they are.
Stocks and stock markets are a sealed book to me. Some stocks go up. Some go down. Some, like the one’s I buy, go down so fast that you heave a sigh of relief when they reach zero. You see, they can’t go lower.
Still, there was a time when I was a big wheeler dealer on the stock market, way back in the late eighties and the early nineties. This was the Harshad Mehta Bull Market. The said Mehta was known as "the big bull" and was responsible for a heady time circa 1990. Every one regardless of age, sex and financial standing had become a gambler. Could one of my pronounced goofiness be far behind?
Back then, the stock market used to operate on the “outcry” system, where trades were verbal, noted down in little trade books and then settled at the end of the day. Not a computer in sight.
There would be a jobber who would give two way quotes for the stocks he was dealing in, adjusting prices according to demand and supply. For example, if there were too many buyers and too few sellers, he would keep upping the price till there was a match. Sometimes, if he upped the price too much, the buyers would go away, in which case he would have to lower the price.
This used to keep happening continuously and the whole thing had a buzz to it. Very audible. Only card-holding members of the stock exchange could go in and trade. We used to trade through a sub-broker who had a card. This guy was a good friend of ours and while he was a trifle prone to flinging food around when under the influence of alcohol, during trading hours he was the picture of composure.
And composure was sorely needed because when the markets were in turmoil, there could be a lot of shirt grabbing and vest pulling that would go on in the ring. He would regularly emerge from the trading floor with only a small percentage of his clothing intact, often to our great amusement. We once discovered, for example, that he had worn his wife’s underwear to work because he couldn’t find his own (he said), a fact that was revealed when he tragically lost his pant buttons in the process of purchasing shares of ACC.
The market those days operated on “tips”. The moves were made by the great Harshad Mehta and the rest of the herd tried to follow as nimbly and rapidly as possible. Everyone had a tip. Mine was “Radhakrishna Cement”. Someone, very possible the elevator boy in office, had told me about it and my information was to buy it as surreptitiously as possible so as not to tip off the jobber in the stock, because he would immediately up the prices and try to corner the stock himself.
The ruling price was 7 rupees a share. I formed a syndicate with three other friends and raised a corpus of the then incredibly large sum of 50,000 rupees. Five minutes before trading, we were at the exchange, striding purposefully to the entrance of the ring which was humming with activity. It took a minute to locate our broker friend and the need for discretion was explained to him. We told him to buy shares not more than 500 at a time. Play it cool, we told him, because this was BIG. He went in.
Hearts pounding, the four of us stood outside the ring. This was the pre-cell-phone-o-zoic era and there was nothing we would do but bite our nails. After about an hour, he came out for a smoke break. We rushed towards him. He told us that he was a little doubtful about the quality of the scrip. Apparently he went to the jobber for Radhakrishna Cement and asked for a quote. Selling seven rupees. Give me 500, he said. After about 15 minutes he went to him again and asked for a quote. Selling seven rupees. Give me 500, he said.
When he went for the third time, the jobber told him to take the whole damned company for seven rupees and stop hassling him. This should have told us something, but as the poet said, we were one and twenty and proud as peacocks. Do your job, we told him, and leave the thinking to us.
Well, we got our 50,000 worth of Radhakrishna shares and while I would not write it off as a dud investment, miracles happen, our little syndicate has often wished they had been printed on softer and more absorbent paper.
But we never fell out, the members of our syndicate, in spite of one dud investment after another. The fun of the whole thing kept our camaraderie up. Only after I was respectably married did my wife point out that I could do the whole thing faster by just burning up currency notes. And the little old helpmeet was right. What with one thing and another, the whole stockmarket experience began to lose its magnetism. Other than the occasional IPO or mutual fund, I ceased my endeavours to rock the economy.
Which is why the Ambani brothers are where they are.
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
I'm going the Dostoevsky way
In my quest to become a serious and mature writer, I have decided to stop the frivolous stuff and write metaphorically and purposefully. Rather like the great Russian masters who could hold you spellbound with 400 pages of exciting descriptive prose of a moujik killing himself and some of his family, though not necessarily in that order. My writing probably won’t be that dramatic – indeed, swatting mosquitoes is about the only violence that you will see – but prepare yourself for poignancy and get a bunch of Kleenex.
I have started going to the gym again, after a hiatus of 2 months. It was as inevitable as the night follows the day, given my medical condition whereby 97 percent of the calories consumed by me are added to my waistline.
Doctors and other practical jokers have racked their brains and come up with a most suspicious quack remedy called exercise.
I’m quite certain that it does not work. For many years, the medical fraternity told everyone that ulcers were caused by stress till an intrepid scientist battled skepticism and ridicule to prove that ulcers are caused by H. Pylori which is probably responsible for my waistline as well. I mean, think about it. If you have a practical joker like H. Pylori who can think of no better way of passing time than giving people ulcers, is it going to pause for thought when the opportunity of increasing people’s waistlines presents itself? I think not.
But this is not what I wanted to write about. Pylori, H or otherwise, have our attention and respect but at the moment, our gluteus maximus is hurting bad. This is the direct result of performing a maneuver called Lunges which involves carrying a heavy load on our shoulder and stepping forward, then bending the knee, rising again and returning to starting position. This is supposed to tone up the gluteus maximus, a blameless muscle which spends its life being sat on and occasionally kicked by foes and superiors at work. For all these years, my g.m. suffered in silence, never acting up and taking its trials and tribulations in good spirit. But these lunges have broken its reserve and it has been complaining in the strongest possible terms.
My gym instructor was not satisfied with the pogrom against glutes, as he calls the gluteus maximus. He further required me to carry out a maneuver called squats, which resulted in the quadriceps joining the glutes in protest. Soon, my hamstrings and calves joined in and at the moment of going to press, I am walking in what is known as the “Marathon Horse Rider” style (impolitely also known, for mysterious reasons, as the coconut balls style).
Currently I am surviving. With difficulty, granted, but surviving nevertheless. But I do not vouch for tomorrow. The wife is dragging me to Spinning Class. Well, it was nice knowing you folks. As Dave Barry would say, The Aching Glutes would make a great name for a rock band.
I have started going to the gym again, after a hiatus of 2 months. It was as inevitable as the night follows the day, given my medical condition whereby 97 percent of the calories consumed by me are added to my waistline.
Doctors and other practical jokers have racked their brains and come up with a most suspicious quack remedy called exercise.
I’m quite certain that it does not work. For many years, the medical fraternity told everyone that ulcers were caused by stress till an intrepid scientist battled skepticism and ridicule to prove that ulcers are caused by H. Pylori which is probably responsible for my waistline as well. I mean, think about it. If you have a practical joker like H. Pylori who can think of no better way of passing time than giving people ulcers, is it going to pause for thought when the opportunity of increasing people’s waistlines presents itself? I think not.
But this is not what I wanted to write about. Pylori, H or otherwise, have our attention and respect but at the moment, our gluteus maximus is hurting bad. This is the direct result of performing a maneuver called Lunges which involves carrying a heavy load on our shoulder and stepping forward, then bending the knee, rising again and returning to starting position. This is supposed to tone up the gluteus maximus, a blameless muscle which spends its life being sat on and occasionally kicked by foes and superiors at work. For all these years, my g.m. suffered in silence, never acting up and taking its trials and tribulations in good spirit. But these lunges have broken its reserve and it has been complaining in the strongest possible terms.
My gym instructor was not satisfied with the pogrom against glutes, as he calls the gluteus maximus. He further required me to carry out a maneuver called squats, which resulted in the quadriceps joining the glutes in protest. Soon, my hamstrings and calves joined in and at the moment of going to press, I am walking in what is known as the “Marathon Horse Rider” style (impolitely also known, for mysterious reasons, as the coconut balls style).
Currently I am surviving. With difficulty, granted, but surviving nevertheless. But I do not vouch for tomorrow. The wife is dragging me to Spinning Class. Well, it was nice knowing you folks. As Dave Barry would say, The Aching Glutes would make a great name for a rock band.
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