What's In A Title?

Last week I was at a social function and got chatting with an elderly gentleman. Soon things turned to family and I queried him on what his son does.

Suddenly, I could sense the atmosphere becoming pregnant with excitement, and with the air of a conjuror who pulls the rabbit out of the hat, he leaned close to me, raised his eyebrows and conspiratorially whispered, “My son is a GM!”. And with that he leaned back, his work done, beaming at me, waiting for the gushing praise.

I really wanted to know more, so I started asking him stupid questions like where he worked, what he did and the like and it all seemed to irritate the proud parent no end. His son was a GM. Period. How does anything else matter? At some point during my quest to understand his son’s job better, he walked off, refusing to waste any more time on someone who could not appreciate the enormity of what his son had achieved.

I’m sure his son was doing something very meaningful, but I was still not clear how just two words – General Manager – did justice to all the stuff the high achieving son was probably doing.

Look around – this fixation on designations is breaking out like an epidemic - there is no getting away from it. And I think I know why.

Upto the ‘80s, the public sector was the holy grail – “Oh, he is in a government job. Respect.”

The ‘90s and early 2000’s were the era of the MNC – “Oh, he is with a Foreign Bank. Respect.”

Today, life is more complex. MNCs and large Indian companies seem pretty evenly matched in many areas. Even some of the public sector jobs are quite interesting. And then there is the entrepreneurial bug. So much so that it is difficult to actually understand where one is placed relative to others. “Grey hair” has ceased to be the marker with the advent of hair colors and transplants. Even the car (which was a dead giveaway some years back – the guy with the Esteem is by definition senior to the guy with the Zen!) is no longer a reliable predictor of a person’s worth.

But not to worry, we as a society have found a simple way to solve this conundrum – Designation. It looks like we now cut through all the cobwebs and go straight to the point – your standing is determined by your designation. What it means is that a VP is bigger and better than a GM, a GM is bigger and better than a Manager. If you are called a Chief Mentor, it is probably because you are out of a job!

What this also means is that, unless your designation keeps changing every few years, you are not making progress in the world. The simple HR solution – keep changing designations, but make people do the same stuff…

I think the Advertising Agencies had cracked it much earlier than others. In the 90s, when I started off my life in one such ad agency, I was a Junior Account Executive, was promoted as Account Executive, and then very quickly became a Senior Account Executive. Three designations in two years – I was on a roll! I was soon going to become a Junior Account Manager, then an Account Manager to be shortly followed by Senior Account Manager. Somebody stop me! I actually pitied the CEO of the company (some bloke named Alyque Padamsee) who was the CEO when I joined – he remained the CEO till I left – while I had been promoted two times. What a loser!

One of the more creative HR spins I’ve encountered in corporate life is “Internal” and “External” designations. Forget that, once we even had Domestic and International designations. So, I was a Director when I was dealing within our Desi boundaries, but became a VP when I got onto an international flight. This is because in the US a VP is senior to a Director, but vice versa in India. I wonder why? Maybe it’s because in India when you say Director, you are probably thinking Mani Rathnam, while when you say VP, you are probably thinking someone who reports to Pratibha Patil – ugh! Give me Director any day!

And this obsession seems to be taking firm roots. I have seen examples galore of people refusing great job opportunities, better salaries and roles just because the designation was not to their liking.

The brighter side of all this is that it is still confined only to the corporate world. Imagine if it seeps into other spheres of activity. Virender Sehwag and Gautam Gambhir would be Senior VPs of the Indian Team (and not Openers, which is exactly what they do!). In which case, how can Kohli ever become the captain – he is just an Assistant Manager!

I wonder at what point the designation ended up relegating other aspects of a job to relative unimportance. How does what you are called become more important than what you do? To the extent that the title reflects the job, it’s fine. But being called something different, while doing the same job? How does that help? I think it’s just creating a notional sense of progress to an entire gullible generation.

Thankfully, I wised up to this racket a while ago and am happier for it. While I may be called Investment Director, that means little to me – the work I do is more important, and I’ve stayed focused on that. The fact that a Partner is senior to Director doesn’t bother me any more.

I do hope that we all reflect about what we really should be going after. Thanks for reading…

Venkat.

PS – Though, I must point out that – not that it matters, but just for information – an Investment Director is senior to Principal, VP, AVP, Manager, Associate and Analyst. No big deal - just, you know, like I said, for information…

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"Happy Holidaying" - An Even Bigger Oxymoron!

Finally, another holiday trip wears down to an end and I’m back home tomorrow, wind, weather and flight delays permitting. Shortly thereafter, I will show up at work, supposedly de-stressed and rejuvenated, ready to face all the challenges that have been lurking, awaiting my return.

Funny, isn’t it? We holiday more these days than before, but it seems like hard work. The problems with my current attempt were seeded five months ago, when I did nothing. Nothing! I did not plan the holiday, was sitting blissfully in January, wondering whether the stock markets would ever revive – the summer vacation seemed like a faraway concept, not really something that needed to be accorded any mind space then. What I did not know was that the seasoned holidayers were already making their plans and reservations.

I toiled on through February and March, little realizing the disaster that had already happened but was waiting to announce itself to me. Come April, I finally got on the phone and realized I had not the slimmest chance of finding a place in any of the better resorts. And then began the series of compromises that seem to characterize most of my vacations.

The Location. Given the complete lack of preparation and promptitude on my part, the location is never a question of what choices I make, but of what options remain. And these would be typically third and fourth tier options. Then the question of how we get there. Again, the alacrity shown by my brother travellers in booking hotels apparently extends to Railway tickets. So, here goes – look at the low cost airlines. Low cost? You got to be joking! In fact, note the cunning use of words – they call themselves “Low Cost Airlines” and not “Low Price Airlines”. A few days are spent in ranting and raving about the high price of the low cost airline tickets till the options start vanishing there too – suddenly the flight ticket went up by another 1,000 per head from the previous day. As the price starts to mount by the hour, the airline tickets are grudgingly booked.

But we are still not good to go. There is the matter of packing. And much as you think you have it all, there is always the one day of mandatory shopping. Followed by the “which suitcases to carry?” question.  Our family can never agree on the “one large suitcase versus multiple smaller ones” puzzle. Finally after much hustle and bustle, with checklists and stuff (all important elements of creating the “going on vacation” environment), the packing is done, and we are now good to go.

The check in is always an extreme event. You are either thrilled with the room or you are totally disappointed. I have rarely seen a middle path. For haphazard holidayers like us, chances are that, for example if we are in a beach resort, we will get the cottage that is well inland, with a view of the backside of the resort kitchen from one window and, from the other, a small slice of blue in the 10 centimeter gap between cottages 101 and 102 being the only proof that we were anywhere in the vicinity of a beach. Which is ok. You get used to anything. But, there are times when, in the quest for the “room with a view”, you ask for the sea facing cottage, and then you are told that it is available for only 3 nights out of the 5 that you are booked in. And what’s worse, the 3 nights are the first, third and fifth of your 5 nights stay! Now the pressure begins to build. You don’t want to be moving rooms three times over a five day vacation. On the other hand, you would feel pretty silly when your colleagues dismiss your entire holiday with a comment like “Oh???!!! You mean you went all the way to Kovalam and did not stay in the sea facing cottage? What a pity, man…”. I don’t like to be the butt of ridicule any more than the next man. So we gloomily agree to the prospect of infinite shifts over the next 5 days, but at least we can get back to work later and face our colleagues with a brave face, and fewer chinks in our armour.

Anyway, we are all checked in and good to go ahead and enjoy the vacation. This is where the trouble peaks. I have never seen two people agree on what an ideal vacation is. I myself am the relaxed, R&R variety (aka slothful!). Give me a few days of peace, late mornings, laze around in the pool till lunch, snooze post, do some fun activity with the family in the evening, get to bed. Take a couple of half days to see some of the local stuff, gather enough nuggets of info so that I am not wrong footed when later someone asks me what the local language is.

And then there are the absolutely high-enthu holidayers like my wife, whose idea of a vacation is to get up with a whoop and a holler at 5 am with camera in hand and hit the local sightseeing spots by 8 am. Visit all the places of interest, do all the treks that the resort has to offer, participate in every resort event, and generally go native. And while doing so, amass a huge trove of information on the local history, geography and every other conceivable titbit, which all gets dictated into the camcorder as commentary to the video.

But there are battles you fight and some you don’t - so, more often than not, we leave at 7 am, having hurriedly wolfed in a meager breakfast, to straddle back in around 6 pm, so that we don’t miss the resort fun activities in the evening. Have shower, dress quickly, it’s time to go again, so that relaxed evening cocktail will have to wait till the next day. And the days wear on… till it’s time to pack again and return.

Finally, we are heading back and I am tired in every bone. I have had two half days of travel at the two ends of five days of non-stop sightseeing. I have been getting up at 5 am every day and am seriously sleep deprived. I have spent five hours every day in rickety SUVs traveling to beaches, waterfalls, viewpoints and what not. I have trekked about 10 miles through thick woods, with the photograph of the hoofmark of an alleged bison to show for it. I have not had one beer on the beach, or one relaxing cocktail in the evening. Those long, romantic strolls under starlit skies with my wife seem more likely to happen on Boat Club road back home. The quality time with my kids? Hey, didn’t see much of them – they were busy having fun! And in the process I blew up some serious cash.

So, forgive me if I sound stressed. Right now, as we fly back, my wife is already obsessing about the maid turning up in time to clean the house before we return. And whether the cyclone that’s just hit Chennai will lead to a few days of rain, in which case, how the hell is she supposed to wash and dry all the accumulated clothes of the vacation? What a nightmare?!

I am wondering how I am going to shake off all the stress of the last few days in time for my return to work which is less than two days away. I need about 50 straight hours of sleep, 20 waking hours of doing nothing and a few stiff drinks. And then some time to get over the hangover. And all this to be achieved in 36 hours! In between all this, I need to take time out for a three hour session of video watching, where we all relive the fun moments of the recent vacation, just in case it is not fully etched into ones memory. Aaaargh, the stress is really building up. I think I need a vacation!

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New Car - The Agony & The Ecstasy

10.08.2011 : Dear Diary, I am so excited! Today, I took possession of my new car. The salesman proudly claimed that this was the first vehicle of this model to be sold in Chennai, and went on to describe how he had to fight with his boss to make sure that I was the Chosen One. This, he said, was out of love and affection for me. I believe him. He is a nice guy, and seems genuinely interested in my welfare.  

11.08.2011 : Dear Diary, what a bundle of joy my baby is! I love the mocha color and the superb finish. The envious looks from the neighbors helped. First stop at the local temple, Puja and garlanding ceremony done. All set now.

Started out for my office, full of anticipation of all the pleasures ahead of me. I have been driving for some years now, so one would have thought that I would be perfectly comfortable with my new baby. But you know how it is. The protective instincts that had long dulled while driving my battered old car had awakened with a vengeance. I was committed to protecting my new baby, and the goal I set for myself that morning was that that “First Scratch” would never happen to my baby. As I made this resolve, I could feel my entire self being elevated to a higher level of purpose. What a noble goal! After all, this car came into this world through me. Everything paternal in me rose to the fore.

It’s funny, but in hindsight, I thought the drive to the office was extremely stressful. The entire world seemed to have resolved in reverse – do harm to my baby. After many near misses, I arrived, but perspiring from every pore and quite spent. Luckily, I keep a bottle of deodorant in my office!

14.08.2011 : Dear Diary, today, I saw the enemy. It is called "Motorbike".

I had stopped at a signal. There was a small gap between my car and the one in front, but that did not prevent all these bikes from driving through this crack and winning their way ahead. As each of these bikes passed through, it was like watching a brick falling on my head in slow motion, knowing that it’s going to hit, but hoping that it would vaporize before contact. I couldn’t back up as there were more bikes pouring into the gap between me and the car behind. So, I just sat there biting my nails, turned down the audio system with ears pricked for the smallest of sounds that indicated contact between metal and metal. Luckily, my baby survived the onslaught.

One learns parenting as one goes along. The next signal found me more prepared. I moved so close to the car ahead that the gap was too narrow for even a pedestrian to squeeze through. I sat back, threw a triumphant glance at the frustrated bikers around me, and turned up the volume!

20.08.2011 : Dear Diary, nothing prepares you for this bizarre phenomenon called Autos! They seem to be made of some sort of solid metal, but equally possess the ability to flow like liquid through any opening in the traffic, and the gas they emit would make a Leather factory chimney blush with shame at its own inadequacy. They defy the laws of motion, can turn within a half meter radius, move laterally at high speed and seem to delight in doing the unpredictable. And given its aerodynamic shape, the only thing the auto driver can see in his rear view mirror is his own mug!

My hands were trembling as I won through to my office yet again. Mental note : replenish the bottle of deodorant.

25.08.2011 : Dear Diary, thick traffic today, blaring horns. It’s amazing what you can communicate through the language of horns. The deceptively simple alphabet consists of two letters – the short blast (like the Di of the Morse code) and the long blast (like the Da of the same). Based on different combinations of these two letters, every conceivable emotion can be communicated. Sample provided below.

Horn Sound	What it means
Di	I am coming, watch out.
Di Di	Hey, didn’t you hear me the first time? I am coming, man!
Di Di Di Di Di	Hey Rahul, we are waiting for you. Move it man, we are already late for the movie.
Daaaaaaa Daaaaaaa Daaaaaaa	You fool, the signal turned green 0.2 seconds ago. Why don’t you just run over the guy in front of you and get going??!!
Daaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa	You piece of &@#@$, I am parking in that vacant slot. Now back off!

Ever since I got into the skin of my new, protective parent avatar, I have been quite sparing in my use of the horn. But I find that I am constantly under-communicating, and consequently being unfairly misunderstood by my brethren on the roads. I am beginning to feel lonely. But the good news is that I got 50% off yesterday on my new bottle of deodorant!

05.09.2011 : Dear Diary, I’d like to confess that I don’t feel too well these days. In fact, I am not far from being a nervous wreck. The constant pressure of saving my baby from the perils of the road and preventing that First Scratch is choking me. I miss the carefree days of the old car, where the thing was so badly dented that any further dents would only improve the overall shape! 

I feel hunted. I have lost 5 KGs in the last month. My BP has shot up. I am going bust buying deodorants.

10.09.2011 : Dear Diary, finally, it happened today! I was passing by the same temple (refer entry dated 11.08.2011) this morning, where a chap was going about the cheerful task of breaking 108 coconuts. Probably, he was close to finishing and therefore a little fatigued, thus throwing his aim astray. The coconut in question split into two halves, ricocheted off the road and made straight for my car. One half struck the bonnet. The other one cracked the windshield. There was stunned silence in the road for a few seconds.

I got out of the car beaming, like Atlas who had finally shrugged off the crushing load, looked over the excellent bumper dent and the artistic windshield cracks with a benevolent eye, ending my inspection with a firm clasp of my savior’s hand, and profusely thanked him. He probably thought a splinter of the coconut had caught me on my head. A stout fellow, but one who could not appreciate the enormity of what he had achieved with only one of his 108 coconuts.

The weight had lifted. The bike that was coming towards me on the wrong side of the road was asking for it and I swerved sharply towards him before avoiding him, and was rewarded by the sight of his discomfiture. What a wimp I’ve been these last 30 days! The protective parent was gone, replaced by the lion tamer. I looked ahead at the road, taking in the buses, autos, bikes, cars, pedestrians and even animals with a careless eye as I cheerfully shifted into high gear and felt the surge of the Beast.

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Password Protection? What an Oxymoron!

********.

“Wrong Password” blinks the screen in glee.

Aaaaaargh!!! There I go. Another password forgotten. One more try. Same result. The final one – I know this one could be the end of the road, and take my time, racking my memory, and enter the one I think is it, but with a sinking heart. “Wrong Password. You are now locked out.” That’s it. I am now banished, and I need to go through a little bit of torture to be able to have the pleasure and privilege of getting back in.

The story goes that Kasim, after entering the cave and loading his horse with all the jewels he could gather, forgets the key words – “Open Sesame”. Such a simple password, and he couldn’t remember it to save his life! So, how are we expected to cope with all the complexities of our multi-password world?

In the early days, when we just had to remember one or two passwords, it was actually quite cool. Conventional wisdom goes that the first girlfriend becomes your wife, failing which she becomes your password. I’ve checked this theory out with quite a few people and believe me, it’s more true than you would think. I’m quite sure it works the same way for women too. I keep a close watch on my wife’s password! Incidentally, if any of you know of someone called Tom Cruise, please let me know – I need to have a serious chat with the bloke.

All this is fine as far as it is just a password or two. Soon you start hitting critical mass. You now have accounts for e-mail, bank, the credit card, the airlines, Facebook, Linkedin. So what’s the big deal, just maintain the same password for everything and that’s the end of the matter, right? Wrong! One day, when you log on happily, feeling superior to these damn machines, they suddenly want you to change your password. It’s all in the name of security and in your best interests – keep changing your password every 3 months. Sure, will do - anything to stay connected…

But it doesn’t end there. Now the password has to conform to certain rules. It has to be long. You need some numeric characters in it. You need to include some of the funnies like # and &. There is even a Strengthometer sometimes – a bar that measures the strength of your password. And this one can really make you feel inadequate till you hit upon a horrendously complicated password with all kinds of funny and easily forgettable characters and achieve the “Strong” rating.

So now we are deep into the muck. From a time when the only user ID and password I had to remember were Venkatshankar and Aishwarya_Rai (remember the girlfriend theme?), I have moved well beyond critical mass. And with about a zillion passwords to remember, I get 3 chances to guess the right one on each login! Mostly, I do not. And then what? I click on the most clicked on link of all times – “Forgot Password? Click here.” And then the password is sent to me. Except that, it is sent to my mail so that it is secure. And guess what – I need to remember the mail password to get to my inbox. And so it goes…

There is another infuriating phenomenon for a while now – all the user ID’s have been taken. Now, when I try to get the monster to accept my name, it is taken. Taken! With a weird name like mine, I thought there would be too few of us in the world – but puzzlingly, Venkatshankar1 to Venkatshankar1000 are all taken! Including all the variants with underscore, hash and @. So now, apart from passwords, I have to remember a few hundred user IDs along the lines of FGS358_VL8$3. And don’t even get me started on T-PIN and other such related scams. Forgot password? Obviously! Forgot User ID?  All the time! In fact, forget the whole online thing – I think I’ll just leg it to wherever and transact with a human being of some sort…

I know people who seem to have it much easier than me. Maybe they have a memory like an elephant.  Maybe they store all their passwords in one file. Catch is, this file is probably password protected. And since your entire online security resides in that file, chances are that you follow the usual best practices and set a suitably convoluted password for that file – in which case you are already back on the old slippery slope!

So where do we go from here? Being the paranoid kind, I am getting weighed down by my conviction that this is a conspiracy by the Machines. This password racket is the Machines World’s way of ultimately locking me out of my bank, my credit card, my airline, my social network and so on, till I am alone and isolated. You may scoff, but if you do, I recommend you watch Terminator and Matrix.

I am tired now and am shutting my laptop down. I only hope that, tomorrow morning, I can remember my Power On password and my mail ID and password so that I can send this message out in the hope that it reaches someone who can save the world.

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