Brest - Part Deux

I had warned my reluctant readers that Exchange Escapades would be back. So let me detach myself from the bizarre baroda-ings of present and teleport to half a year back.

We didn’t spend a lot of time in Brest, but it’s incredible how much there is to talk about.

Our Institute – ESC Bretagne Brest. It was total paisa-wasool. Firstly, it was wi-fi. And then, we met some interesting people there. All our courses were in English and our classmates were exchange students from other countries as well as locals who wanted to try their tongues at the language. The professors were mostly visiting faculty from another school or industry experts. And they were all top-notch. Well, almost all. They were knowledgeable and well-versed in the art of teaching – taking time, and giving many practical examples to drive a point home.

We were the kings though – we would come back from trips, complete projects overnight and make jaws drop by what everyone thought was exhaustive research and diligent hard-work. And the jaws would remain dropped when we revealed that a mere night-out had resulted in those histrionics. It’s not like the French are dumb. But we Indians have been through a very rigorous system, right from our child-hoods. We definitely have higher standards of output and much more practice at delivering them.

That said, I like the pedagogy there. Relaxed and non-competitive to a large degree. The class strength is small and there is something to be said for that. Individual attention is possible and is conducive to exploration and learning. Professors take much more effort to explain concepts, using visual and literary aids to ratify and emphasize. Sure, the education system we have here makes us hard-working and ambitious, competitive to a fault. But it doesn’t make us curious enough.

Our classmates were from all over. A trio from Slovakia – blonde and statuesque. The guy among them was extremely sharp - as quick as silver. A pair from China – they were strange. Disparate in age and life-styles, one was the perfect Yin to the other’s Yang. The guys in my gang came to know a couple of local fellows from the school Rugby team which even led to one unforgettable rugby-playing-session for them. There were some others we would talk now and then to, but maximum air-time has to be given to the Ruchis. Ruchi Jain and Ruchi Aggarwal - both management students there. We made friends with them early-on, and hung-out often. I even had a couple of girls’-nights-out with them. Wild times, will elaborate a little later. The thing to be noted here is that even for the short duration of three months - we could not keep controversy at bay and were soon privy to the tangled equations between these two girls. My take-away from it all - it’s tough, living in a foreign country, especially when you’ve never been away from home before. It’s like a crash-course on life. Ruchi Jain would know.

Memories are like the streets in Venice – crissing and crossing unexpectedly, way leading to way. Back to the present for now- it’s 1 o’ clock on a Sunday and I need to get going. I will try the whole sitting-alone-in-coffee-shop-with-book thing today. Can’t get over the romance of it.

Work-Life balance

I came to know today that when IT officials serve commissions to aapno distributors, they are ready to get bought-off in FMCG currency, at least in part. Dove, Ponds and Lakme - the missus beams as well, and after some regular usage, hopefully glows too.

Talking of distributors, the face of retail in India is going to be immensely different in a few years. While I may have read this before, I have come abreast of live examples only recently. Imagine a Metro Cash n Carry – the wholesaler takes home 15-16 percent margins. He is happy but somewhere the local distributor is tossing and turning in his bed. The same phenomenon – deep pockets, corporate-backing and economies of scale which translates into might, is threatening the kiranas and family grocers - in the guise of Modern Trade. They are concerned. They are caught in the maelstrom of change.

Going by some of my latest posts, one may get the impression that I think of nothing but work. True to a large extent, but not entirely. Sometime back I read that Salman Rushdie’s ‘Midnight’s Children’ is slated to win the ‘Best of the Booker’ award. I love the book and worship his writing. Am reading ‘Shalimar the Clown’ right now and it is rich. More than the content, I like the literary devices he makes use of. I remember being blown away by MC. Indian Mujahideen or whosoever you are – rot in hell.

As an aside – a thought, albeit borrowed - An intellectual is someone whose mind watches itself. Nice. Although, intellectuals may not really be the full-house they are trumped-up to be. Ask the self-taught ‘software-engineer’ who wrote the ERP being used by stockists all over Gujarat; you won’t catch him mouthing N=1 and R=G, but his nose for dhanda can tame the highest-flying Pinocchio.

Hoodibaba

All those who eagerly await my ‘Exchange Escapades’ better know that the series shall resume and soon. All those who are wondering whether there are any such eager-beavers in existence better go boil their collective heads.

Meherbaan Kadardaan - come to Baroda. Come one, come all. At any given point of time, especially when the sun is beating you into pulp, you may encounter a two-wheeler with a helmeted-n-mustachioed Maratha riding proud and a funny little thing sitting pillion.

Now listen close – all ye apples of mine eyes and I shall let you in on a secret – if that funny little thing sitting pillion is not me then there are no rings around Saturn and the Indian Film Industry is chock-full of innocent young girls who go home to their mammas at night. SSSso, me it is, albeit, with a unique contraption on my head which I shall christen as the half-helmet i.e. a helmet without a bottom - one that can easily sit on your head like a cap. Easier than two-minute noodles.

Thou shalt wear a cage around your head - so said the son of God or was it a Safety Officer at HUL? In either case, I agree. So if you come to Baroda tomorrow, you may enjoy the privilege of feasting your eyes upon aforementioned Maratha plus little thing with a full-grown-helmet on. The moral of this story being - do come to Baroda. We will party – there’s enough chhaas around for everyone.

P.S – The helmet is not dangerous in any manner. It does have a strap that I can buckle around my chin, ensuring protection from man and motor. A cute little thing - made to size. That is not to say that I don’t have the intellectual prowess of King-Kong. Or Stuart-Little.

With love from Baroda

It’s been some time. I am, as of this moment, in a three-star hotel room, in Baroda. The television is on and some prannoy-roy-sound-alike is belting out pop-news. Yes, my dears, I am on my sales stint and my area of rampage is Gujarat. Dry-days are ahead, in more ways than one.

The above was jotted down by me four days ago and today is the second time in five days when I have the time and inclination to write some more. I am still in my hotel room. But the television is off. Have watched more of it in these five days than the whole of last month combined. It’s that and the mobile phone that keep me company when I get back from the grind. Long live technology.

Baroda is a nice city. Spacious and broad, the rickshaw guys here are a gentle breed. They are chivalrous and not as abrasive as their counter-parts in other cities. Have realized how much that contributes to the feeling of well-being one gets. It is a small place and I dare say, you can traverse the length of it (not that I have, yet) in less than Rs 60. Sayaji Gaekwad is to Baroda what Shivaji is to Mumbai. Omnipresent.

My work - is all that I had expected from it and more. Most of my day is spent at the distributor-point. The salesmen come and go. I, sometimes, hang around in the godowns, familiarizing myself with the mind-boggling array of goods that adds so much complexity to the range; but is taken in such a non-chalant manner by the layman - for whom it’s as simple as asking for the ‘naano Lux International’ instead of the ‘moto Lux pink’. Naano – small, moto – big. Dear readers, I have added another language to my less-than-impressive kitty-bag of spoken-tongues. Or, at least, am in the process of doing so. So, work is exhilarating, although a steep-uphill-climb at times. But I don’t believe in easy. Easy is like junk-food.

I went for a market visit yesterday. And saw what good salesmanship is all about. Customer-focus is, in fact, all that it is vaunted to be. The guy in-charge of half of Baroda worth a monthly turn-over of two crores – the man who is currently training me, is also a salesman par excellence. He is quite a colorful character. Jitendra Patil aka Jitu Patil is a proud Maratha, based out of Baroda. Cracking at numbers, smart with people, his post is one that I shall be joining as boss of, once I am done with my training. I have yet to discover why I am better than him. I guess it has more to do with the opportunities I got, and the training which enabled, encouraged and equipped me to look at the larger picture. Sounds like quintessential-mba-jargon. But nothing in mba is jargon when coupled with strong execution.

Enough banter. Today is a Sunday and the malls in the city shall be seeing some of me. Wheel and Knorr are all okay, but the system requires some pampering.

Brest-Part Uno

Let me talk a little bit about our life in Brest. Having completed our first trip with flying colors, we returned to Brest, but not to rest. Some heavy-duty accommodation-search was in the offing.

It’s like this – we spent the first week in firangland at Hotel Balladins, as I have mentioned before. After that, we had booked ourselves into an establishment called Apartcity - a hybrid between a guesthouse and a hotel. A woman who called herself Sabine presided over its affairs and ruled with an iron-fist, some would say. We had this roof over our collective heads for a month and after that, were relying rather heavily on serendipity to lead us to our next abode. Apartcity was a great place, having more than all the conveniences of modern living, but we were having to pay a tidy sum for it. It had to go - as the Red Queen would say, although not in so many words.

Elucidating a bit on life at Apartcity – it was an era. One of the boys in my troupe, Rahul Pal turned out to be a master-chef, also possessing the willingness to provide the rest of us with gastronomic delicacies. We would sit down to a hearty meal of chicken and chawal almost every night – much missed. The rest of us did play our bit-parts too. Som would help with the cooking at times. Chandan was the self-appointed chawal-champ, and to watch Bobby cut onions was like being mute witness to a symphony being played. Okay, I exaggerate, but he is a pretty-darn-quick cutter of onions, among other things. Yours truly, would try her best to be useful, taking charge of the ‘Ready-to-eats’; the culinary-challenged would know that this is not a particularly demanding undertaking and the alert reader would be abreast with the fact that these space-age and time-bending eatables were by no means central to our diet and well-being.

So anyway, we had to look for another place inspite of all the rollicking fun we were having there. Various agencies were hounded; numerous apartments were visited as a result. But to no avail. We did not have too much time, since another trip - this one to the rest-of-Germany and Netherlands was looming on the horizon. More on that later.

To sum - Brest was the good life. We went house-hunting; did the whole setting-up-of-household thingie upon finding it; lived a bountiful existence in that home of ours with plenty of food, booze and discussions; and also partied like bohemians. We made some friends too, interesting ones at that – some firangis and some desi-atarangis.

A few posts it shall take to talk about all of the above in the detail that they deserve. And if Ruchi Jain is reading this – stay tuned, you will figure.

The sun

Setting out
In search of the sun
The journey is new
With many a twist and many a turn

Looking back
It all seems hazy
There is a pattern
Even though it’s mostly crazy

But the person who stares back
Was somebody else
He was wearing more clothes
And some shiny stuff and bells

The sun is a glorious thing
Life, also fire
Hope wings aren’t made of wax
And hope arms don’t tire.