Too late for new beginnings,
Why does it seem a frivolous, meaningless life?
Values awash on a shore of pinings,
Short of comfort for breathing.
Today meant zilch,
Life wasted on a constant, unmoving warp,
Of time and unstoppable tide,
Over daft indifference and spent moments.
Riding on a carefree draft,
Feet screeched a halt at the comforter’s lair.
Shackles awaited their touch with coldness,
To engulf and numb a surviving soul.
Privilege it seemed for a while,
Soon to turn a point blank,
For there were no greater impediments,
Than those that slaved to cut a master’s moves.
As dawn arrived, a new hope lit up within,
Would it end today, stop now?
Answering them was a hollow echo;
For there was no one left to hear,
In a deaf and deserted town called heart.
August 14, 2009
April 27, 2009
IPL and Marketing Brutes
April 26, 2009
The Indian Premier League or the IPL is what seems to be on everybody’s minds these days in India, apart from the colourful bevy of candidates standing to win despite criminal records and/ or Bollywood movies on their resume during these general elections. Now the IPL, like the English Premier League, is an exciting whip up of cricketers from around the globe put in teams supported by the big daddies of Indian business. What attracts a marketing person to this extravaganza of splurge is that though the ‘sport’ factor is pushed to the background, it boasts of some tough, bouncer-like marketing brutes in the business.
It is completely understandable that events such as the IPL are a big catch for pitching one’s company and its products. But this time around, the condition is one of marketing overdrive to the hilt and above. Every cricketer wears clothes that are hardly different from the teams, as they are plastered with logos and punch lines of companies all over their jerseys leaving very little room for any kind of colour to seep out to register in the minds of viewers. The helmets, gloves, pads are not spared either. At the end of it all, the couture ends up looking like the ruins of battle ground of marketing pros who fought over how many square inches the ideal size of the logo should be, the strategic placement and how the cricketer should not wear any other clothing over the jersey as per contract, even if it was a raincoat! I imagine the argument would have to be a breathless one.
I do however fail to understand the kill the advertisers aim at making from the investment. For instance, I wonder if an average sports guy trying to watch a replay would be thrilled to hear the name of company prefixed to super shot, when in fact it was a sixer or a boundary. Or, for that matter, if the logos on the jerseys would have recall value. Trust me when I say that some companies with long names in the company logos tend to make a viewer disinterested in reading it after the first three letters! I believe the scene at the grounds in South Africa (where it is being hosted) is not very different. With stalls of companies sponsoring the events… oops, partnering the event, calling out to sports fans with beer, caps, flags and the jamboree, I reckon the event to be more of a fest, a mela as we say here. May be the fringes are what is attracting the crowd that’s turning up for the matches, which are otherwise lacklustre.
One of the funniest portions of these IPL matches is during the presentation ceremony, after the 20-20 match is over. The ‘Man of the Match’ trophy that is given out to the outstanding player of that particular match is something where the audience tries guessing the name that would be called out to get another cheque (which looks more like a poster for a trade fair), and probably the keys to a motorbike. The presentation party on the dais resembles the congregation for a G20 Summit lined up for a group photograph. Make no mistake, this is another marketing exercise, which no rep wants to leave out, and ensures that he/ she has the company CEO up on the stage, even if the name is mis-pronounced or given a wrong gender title! Now, I would like to talk to the sponsoring parties who have given out the MoM tropies to understand their metrics of calculating RoI. What is most depressing is when the team owner of the losing team has to hand over the trophy to the player of the rival team. Does it still remain a marketing exercise or help build brand? I am still trying to figure it out.
The IPL matches are underway and the marketing excesses have been out for all to see. Without trying to sound risqué, these professionals are quite the sons of guns when it comes to plastering the company names on anybody that even remotely has a chance of being covered by the cameras! As the scrips of the companies that have sponsored have not exactly sky-rocketed on the markets, I am hoping there has been an appreciation of some other sort, at least to cover the shredded venture that it would turn out to be at the end of the cricket cabaret.
The Indian Premier League or the IPL is what seems to be on everybody’s minds these days in India, apart from the colourful bevy of candidates standing to win despite criminal records and/ or Bollywood movies on their resume during these general elections. Now the IPL, like the English Premier League, is an exciting whip up of cricketers from around the globe put in teams supported by the big daddies of Indian business. What attracts a marketing person to this extravaganza of splurge is that though the ‘sport’ factor is pushed to the background, it boasts of some tough, bouncer-like marketing brutes in the business.
It is completely understandable that events such as the IPL are a big catch for pitching one’s company and its products. But this time around, the condition is one of marketing overdrive to the hilt and above. Every cricketer wears clothes that are hardly different from the teams, as they are plastered with logos and punch lines of companies all over their jerseys leaving very little room for any kind of colour to seep out to register in the minds of viewers. The helmets, gloves, pads are not spared either. At the end of it all, the couture ends up looking like the ruins of battle ground of marketing pros who fought over how many square inches the ideal size of the logo should be, the strategic placement and how the cricketer should not wear any other clothing over the jersey as per contract, even if it was a raincoat! I imagine the argument would have to be a breathless one.
I do however fail to understand the kill the advertisers aim at making from the investment. For instance, I wonder if an average sports guy trying to watch a replay would be thrilled to hear the name of company prefixed to super shot, when in fact it was a sixer or a boundary. Or, for that matter, if the logos on the jerseys would have recall value. Trust me when I say that some companies with long names in the company logos tend to make a viewer disinterested in reading it after the first three letters! I believe the scene at the grounds in South Africa (where it is being hosted) is not very different. With stalls of companies sponsoring the events… oops, partnering the event, calling out to sports fans with beer, caps, flags and the jamboree, I reckon the event to be more of a fest, a mela as we say here. May be the fringes are what is attracting the crowd that’s turning up for the matches, which are otherwise lacklustre.
One of the funniest portions of these IPL matches is during the presentation ceremony, after the 20-20 match is over. The ‘Man of the Match’ trophy that is given out to the outstanding player of that particular match is something where the audience tries guessing the name that would be called out to get another cheque (which looks more like a poster for a trade fair), and probably the keys to a motorbike. The presentation party on the dais resembles the congregation for a G20 Summit lined up for a group photograph. Make no mistake, this is another marketing exercise, which no rep wants to leave out, and ensures that he/ she has the company CEO up on the stage, even if the name is mis-pronounced or given a wrong gender title! Now, I would like to talk to the sponsoring parties who have given out the MoM tropies to understand their metrics of calculating RoI. What is most depressing is when the team owner of the losing team has to hand over the trophy to the player of the rival team. Does it still remain a marketing exercise or help build brand? I am still trying to figure it out.
The IPL matches are underway and the marketing excesses have been out for all to see. Without trying to sound risqué, these professionals are quite the sons of guns when it comes to plastering the company names on anybody that even remotely has a chance of being covered by the cameras! As the scrips of the companies that have sponsored have not exactly sky-rocketed on the markets, I am hoping there has been an appreciation of some other sort, at least to cover the shredded venture that it would turn out to be at the end of the cricket cabaret.
April 26, 2009
Shopping in the time of woes
April 26, 2009
Writing constantly in keeping with a particular underlying emotion at the centre of each piece can become quite tedious for a human in a writer often gets intertwined in circumstances beyond control. It seems more tedious when humour is at (or at least tried to be maintained at) the epicentre of a blog.
During the past few months, the usual haunts that feed news and information for writing has been nothing but depressing. No matter how hard one tries, it is difficult to write anything humorous. Dissociating myself with the cataclysmic terror strikes that I almost missed by a thick sliver of time does not seem to work either. At one point, I considered stopping to read dailies (though it would have been catastrophic to my job and addiction to newspapers), having repeatedly sifted through web pages of terror unleashed just about everywhere in the world. Whenever I tried to jot down my thoughts, verses sounded like lyrics of a Linkin Park song. Fearing it would sound too lamenting, I did force a few words of hope in them, almost like a weeping circus joker’s wild get up to evoke some laughs from a juvenile audience. But in this entire awkwardness, there was a little flame burning in the hope that there would be a return of happy words. Perhaps, as it happens to everybody else, there has been a realization. At the risk of sounding boastful, it may be due to efficient stress management. No, it wasn’t because of a book of a priest who sold his hot wheels. Just good old ego massage and some binge shopping!
Now shopping is not what I would usually pick for a weekend activity for many reasons- a. it involves lot of time in travelling up to the mall, b. the energy spent on looking through each design, colour, fabric, fall and fit per visit can almost be used to write a month’s blog – back-to-back, c. when you wake up from the hypnotic stage of being shopaholic, a question – a rather soap-opera rhetorical – immediately springs in your mind- ‘What have I done?’
But a visit to the clothes section with the intention of buying some can bring out interesting observations. Couples shopping in the ladies section is the most delightful to watch. People who shop with their partners almost end up like the two faces of a drama school. The person who is shopping – mostly the woman – usually seems like she’s on a double dose of Red Bull or a mug full of Espresso! With eyes wide-open and firm mouth, she glides from hanger to hanger, section to section with gay abandon (forgive the old usage of the phrase- fyi, it has nothing to do with sexual orientation), completely oblivious to the store helper who is right behind asking her to enrol in another phone call trap card/ membership and/ or a lucky draw, which would be as lucky as the asteroid of youth that passed 10 years ago. Phew!
The partner – mostly the man – is usually the ideal ambassador for the Frowners’ Club, if there was any! His despair moves from level 1, which is when the lady chucks a lavender pick for mauve gradient, saying that the former is too loud for her taste; to level 3, which is when she tries an asymmetrical top and asks her partner for opinion – ‘Is this alright?’ That in most cases is the point of acomodador, the point where the partner gives up, who by now is carrying a shopping bag of clothes, accessories, and a certain some things the nomenclature of which is as alien to him as a 3 eyed monster; wait- perhaps stranger than aliens.
It must be conceded that the most interesting part is the opinion seeking ceremony of sorts outside the fitting room. The mostly clueless partner transforms himself to be a face reader at this point (that is, if he has not already given up and left the store). Looking at the creases on his partner’s face and head tilt of the reflection of his other half in the mirror, he decisively volleys back answers with flourish. What many ladies in the fitting rooms do not realize is that the man’s answers are all on the fence; almost all nearly don’t care. Yet, somehow decisions are taken and the couples hit the billing counter. The total time spent on the complete exercise of a normal evening easily beats the time length of any Hindi movie. Go figure!
Shopping teaches one lesson though- you may forget your harsh memories for a while, but that need not mean the pain has left you. If there are more clothes in your shopping bags than spaces available in the closet, do not worry. It can certainly mean that you are getting over your woes and sympathy is on its way!
Writing constantly in keeping with a particular underlying emotion at the centre of each piece can become quite tedious for a human in a writer often gets intertwined in circumstances beyond control. It seems more tedious when humour is at (or at least tried to be maintained at) the epicentre of a blog.
During the past few months, the usual haunts that feed news and information for writing has been nothing but depressing. No matter how hard one tries, it is difficult to write anything humorous. Dissociating myself with the cataclysmic terror strikes that I almost missed by a thick sliver of time does not seem to work either. At one point, I considered stopping to read dailies (though it would have been catastrophic to my job and addiction to newspapers), having repeatedly sifted through web pages of terror unleashed just about everywhere in the world. Whenever I tried to jot down my thoughts, verses sounded like lyrics of a Linkin Park song. Fearing it would sound too lamenting, I did force a few words of hope in them, almost like a weeping circus joker’s wild get up to evoke some laughs from a juvenile audience. But in this entire awkwardness, there was a little flame burning in the hope that there would be a return of happy words. Perhaps, as it happens to everybody else, there has been a realization. At the risk of sounding boastful, it may be due to efficient stress management. No, it wasn’t because of a book of a priest who sold his hot wheels. Just good old ego massage and some binge shopping!
Now shopping is not what I would usually pick for a weekend activity for many reasons- a. it involves lot of time in travelling up to the mall, b. the energy spent on looking through each design, colour, fabric, fall and fit per visit can almost be used to write a month’s blog – back-to-back, c. when you wake up from the hypnotic stage of being shopaholic, a question – a rather soap-opera rhetorical – immediately springs in your mind- ‘What have I done?’
But a visit to the clothes section with the intention of buying some can bring out interesting observations. Couples shopping in the ladies section is the most delightful to watch. People who shop with their partners almost end up like the two faces of a drama school. The person who is shopping – mostly the woman – usually seems like she’s on a double dose of Red Bull or a mug full of Espresso! With eyes wide-open and firm mouth, she glides from hanger to hanger, section to section with gay abandon (forgive the old usage of the phrase- fyi, it has nothing to do with sexual orientation), completely oblivious to the store helper who is right behind asking her to enrol in another phone call trap card/ membership and/ or a lucky draw, which would be as lucky as the asteroid of youth that passed 10 years ago. Phew!
The partner – mostly the man – is usually the ideal ambassador for the Frowners’ Club, if there was any! His despair moves from level 1, which is when the lady chucks a lavender pick for mauve gradient, saying that the former is too loud for her taste; to level 3, which is when she tries an asymmetrical top and asks her partner for opinion – ‘Is this alright?’ That in most cases is the point of acomodador, the point where the partner gives up, who by now is carrying a shopping bag of clothes, accessories, and a certain some things the nomenclature of which is as alien to him as a 3 eyed monster; wait- perhaps stranger than aliens.
It must be conceded that the most interesting part is the opinion seeking ceremony of sorts outside the fitting room. The mostly clueless partner transforms himself to be a face reader at this point (that is, if he has not already given up and left the store). Looking at the creases on his partner’s face and head tilt of the reflection of his other half in the mirror, he decisively volleys back answers with flourish. What many ladies in the fitting rooms do not realize is that the man’s answers are all on the fence; almost all nearly don’t care. Yet, somehow decisions are taken and the couples hit the billing counter. The total time spent on the complete exercise of a normal evening easily beats the time length of any Hindi movie. Go figure!
Shopping teaches one lesson though- you may forget your harsh memories for a while, but that need not mean the pain has left you. If there are more clothes in your shopping bags than spaces available in the closet, do not worry. It can certainly mean that you are getting over your woes and sympathy is on its way!
March 17, 2009
Glory and Grief
A scheming world sneers,
At the psychopath’s grumpy glory,
When he wakes to delusional clarions
And walks on rose strewn paths.
He was once full of light,
Hope lit him with lively wisdom,
His dreams were multi colored,
Friends envied his triumphant glee.
One by one they consumed,
All dreams that ever showed themselves,
Negating his self, the trusted extinguished
Every trace of confidence that ever was.
Suddenly, the world around seemed grey,
Cold gaze replaced what was once soft,
Words were short, voicing no say;
Sounds dissolved in faint muffles.
Games of mind made the man shut off,
Windows to all energies positive,
Aching grief plunged him to abyss of desperation,
Smothering out his faith.
Now a reflection of disparity,
His actions are suspect,
A slice of insanity he seems to the community
That predicts his silent actions to be militant.
More than speeding anger and blind conspiracies?
More than reckless temper and communal lunacies?
Divya Rao
March 17, 2009
Mumbai
At the psychopath’s grumpy glory,
When he wakes to delusional clarions
And walks on rose strewn paths.
He was once full of light,
Hope lit him with lively wisdom,
His dreams were multi colored,
Friends envied his triumphant glee.
One by one they consumed,
All dreams that ever showed themselves,
Negating his self, the trusted extinguished
Every trace of confidence that ever was.
Suddenly, the world around seemed grey,
Cold gaze replaced what was once soft,
Words were short, voicing no say;
Sounds dissolved in faint muffles.
Games of mind made the man shut off,
Windows to all energies positive,
Aching grief plunged him to abyss of desperation,
Smothering out his faith.
Now a reflection of disparity,
His actions are suspect,
A slice of insanity he seems to the community
That predicts his silent actions to be militant.
More than speeding anger and blind conspiracies?
More than reckless temper and communal lunacies?
Divya Rao
March 17, 2009
Mumbai
February 09, 2009
Evolution Revisited
Void swells up a young heart,
Searing an uncertainty within.
A loving draft doesn’t embrace,
All the nervous chaos out.
Impenetrable the life seems,
What was once a welcoming garden.
Prickly thoughts disturb,
The landscape of equilibrium.
Regressing to childhood in a blink,
Blossoms of needs spring crowdedly;
It’s back to deciding which of the million parts to play,
Satisfying a bloating girth of wants.
Selfishness progresses, jealousy pervades,
Juvenile silliness of anger wrecks.
The mind that until then was in control,
Now gallops unbridled.
Does childhood ever evolve to a higher level of understanding?
Does inner evolution guarantee mind’s peaceful landing?
Answers resound from silent moments.
Elusive as an echo, the solution remains.
Divya Rao
February 8, 2009
Mumbai
Searing an uncertainty within.
A loving draft doesn’t embrace,
All the nervous chaos out.
Impenetrable the life seems,
What was once a welcoming garden.
Prickly thoughts disturb,
The landscape of equilibrium.
Regressing to childhood in a blink,
Blossoms of needs spring crowdedly;
It’s back to deciding which of the million parts to play,
Satisfying a bloating girth of wants.
Selfishness progresses, jealousy pervades,
Juvenile silliness of anger wrecks.
The mind that until then was in control,
Now gallops unbridled.
Does childhood ever evolve to a higher level of understanding?
Does inner evolution guarantee mind’s peaceful landing?
Answers resound from silent moments.
Elusive as an echo, the solution remains.
Divya Rao
February 8, 2009
Mumbai
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