Shriram Iyer's Blog, page 3

Travelling The Road Less Taken

“Try spending thirty minutes alone with yourself and see if you like your own company. If you find that you don’t, then please don’t impose it on others!” – well-known spiritual guru.

Imagine this – you are about to start a journey on a road that you have never traveled on before. You don’t have a map or GPS and you don’t have an idea of the number and type of hurdles that have been placed in front of you. The doubters have advised you to take the road everyone else takes. The well-wishers know you are determined and give you their support, praying you get to the finish line.

All along the way every decision is yours to make. Every consequence is yours to bear. You might lose your way, but the job of retracing your steps sits squarely on your shoulders. Every turn, right or wrong will change your journey just that little bit.On top of all that, you have only yourself to talk to. Only your ideas and thoughts to give you company. And if you don’t enjoy being with yourself then the journey is just one giant walk through hell.

Many travelers might think only about the destination and forget to enjoy the journey. They might forget to take in the beautiful scenes in front of them. They might also forget the precious lessons from the mistakes they made while taking that journey.

When I started writing my first novel, I went through a similar phase. Little did I realise how lonely the whole experience would be. Over the countless hours when I cut through umpteen obstacles and questions whose answers lay only with me, I had grown to understand that in the world of writing  being able to work in solitude is the biggest requirement.

In my first book, I was writing about a deaf boy wanting to run a marathon. Now, I envy those who can complete the 42.2 kilometers of this event for I can never confess to actually running one. But after researching and talking to real marathoners a startling similarity between those who train for marathons and those who write, emerged.

Whilst they might sometimes train collectively, in an actual event marathoners are a lonely bunch. For nearly three hours of running, thousands of thoughts might pass through their minds. Some words of encouragement, and for others, countless doubts bounce away within. The job of keeping the morale up and slaying those demons of doubt is exclusively their responsibility.

Like writing, it’s a lonely affair and for those who train by themselves it’s even more so. It took me three years to finish my first book. With thousands of ‘blind spots’ and ‘curve-balls’, many doubters and few believers I walked on that lonely stretch of road. Even though I completed what I set out for after a long and tiring trip, I cherished the journey more than anything else. As much as they want, your believers cannot take the same journey for you and I carried them and their priceless support in my thoughts all the way across the finish line.

Take the road few dare to take. Who knows where you might end up! I am now a frequent traveler and as for the loneliness, I found myself pretty fun to be with.

The Attraction of Risk

There seems to be risk in every action we take. But there’s a certain type of personality that is heavily attracted to risk – there are those who thrive in a risk infested environment and enjoy it more than others.

What makes someone dive off a plane during a ski-dive taking a risk on the parachutes opening? Or someone who climbs Mt Everest knowing that only one in four make it to the summit?
Why do the ladies take a chance with the ‘bad boys’ out there? Nice guys who play it safe have typically been perceived to finish last.
What about the person who snubs the secure world of a well-paying nine-to-five job with the assurance of fortnightly payments to start his or her own business?

These examples bring forth a crucial thought – why do we engage in risk-taking behaviour? Does the answer just lie in the way we are wired?

Everyone knows the risks associated with smoking or drinking. And even drugs. But in the spirit of giving it a go, people take the risk of getting addicted. Some manage the risk well, but the less fortunate ones don’t.

After flight MH370, there are those who feel flying is risky. Hard to contest that, but there is risk the moment you take your car out on the streets as well! Risk cannot be allowed to immobilise us, surely.

I am of the opinion that a certain amount of risk is not only necessary but recommended to gain some big wins in life.  For me, risk has always been an interesting phenomenon and a difficult one to assess. A carefree, throwing caution to the winds attitude in the early years is now replaced with a calculated, more cautious approach.

Being involved in the creative field as a singer, songwriter and an author brings an important question – Should a creative individual play it safe and keep it as a hobby? Or should they chase their passion and convert it into a profession?

This is a fascinating exercise in personal career strategy and a classic catch-22. Being financially stable is important while pursuing creative careers but building a creative career needs time and effort of which a major chunk gets used in building a financially stable career! With what’s left, is it enough to achieve success in the creative field?

For every successful creative person there are thousands who have tried and failed, bringing down frustration and failure to them and their loved ones. But then can we let the fear of failure dominate so overpoweringly? Maybe the answer lies in ‘responsible risk’ (or calculated risk). But there’s only so much that one can calculate. The element of the ‘unknown’ shall always exist and being comfortable with ambiguity is the only way we can learn to tackle the vagaries of the unpredictable Mr Life.

Your Turn: Please do  share some of the risks you have taken in life and the thoughts that went behind it.

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Musical Dreams and Decisions: Heartbreak v/s Redemption

When I studied ‘Decision Making’  at the Melbourne Business School during my MBA, I was naive to think its applications would be limited to the corporate world. Decision-making skills are a core part of every aspect of life. And I can’t help but think of some decisions that have led to an amazing musical journey.

I was one of three singers in class who would break into song at every opportunity. With an ability to ‘Yodel’ (this was before my voice broke!) I would repeatedly get asked to sing ‘Chala Jaata Hoon’ (a song with many yodel friendly moments). A few in-class performances and a few competitions at school followed before I started my first year of University in India in 1999. It was time for the ‘Fresher of the Year’ competition (a version of Australia’s Got Talent at University level). Winning this title meant respect from the seniors and admiration from peers and a title I desired personally. Another song that had gotten me a bit of a reputation around that time was ‘Chookar Mere Man Ko’ which I duly performed at the competition and found myself in a tie for first position with another singer.

After what I thought was a lame tie-breaker method it was time to announce the winner – the judge dragged both of us to the front of the stage and asked the crowd, ‘Who do you think has won it?” The crowd vociferously roared my name and my hopes soared. The judge hesitated, surprised at the partisan crowd support and announced the winner.

IT WASN’T ME. In those few seconds of support from the crowd, I had taken victory for granted. The bitter feeling of dejection knowing that the crowd was behind me, but fate had chosen someone else, lingered on for weeks. To be so near, yet so far had hurt. This one moment had allowed doubt to invade my mind, shaking my confidence.

Shortly after, in the year 2000, I moved to Auckland with my father who had come to get me settled. He left shortly after to support my mother to dispose everything in India and migrate to Auckland. I spent three months with our close family friends – the Kumars, while my parents were in Baroda. Mr Kumar came home one evening, and suggested I take part in an Auckland-wide Singing competition. With nothing to lose, I took the contact details from him and decided to take part, ignoring the painful memories from the competition in India.

The man taking my audition was a radio announcer and the main organiser of this competition (now a good friend). In those days every expense made a difference and I walked to the radio station, auditioned and got selected. Meanwhile, my concerned parents duly reminded me from India that I should focus on my studies. I buckled down with the new subjects and the different way engineering was taught in New Zealand and attended just the one rehearsal for the competition.

Now, one of the crucial, game-changing decisions I make  much before I go on stage  is – what song(s) should I sing? For the competition, I had chosen a Nusrat Fateh Ali composition called ‘Meri Saanson Mein’.

In those days, much before the first American Idol, the competition rules were simple – 50% votes from the audience and 50% votes from the judges. I was doomed. Out of the 800 people attending and voting I did not know a single person and none of the four judges had ever heard me.

I took the stage and thanked the organisers – the crowd booed, wanting me to get on with it. I got on with it and within a few seconds the booing died down completely. I sang my entire song without a smile, finding refuge on a spot on the stage, remaining rooted to it during my entire performance! I can’t imagine performing like that now. But vocally, I had given it my very best.

And then it was voting time and I knew that if people wanted to vote for me they needed to be able to remember my name. So I decided to stand in the foyer in the break giving everyone a smile until people asked me for my name. I might have had the odds against me, but I wasn’t going down without a fight.

An hour later it was time for the verdict. All the singers stood on stage. And these were no ordinary singers – these were singers who had mesmerised Auckland over the years with their vocals. The judge announced the second runner-up. I grimaced. Then the second runner-up. That wasn’t me either. And then a familiar moment – one that I had encountered at the ‘Fresher of the Year’ competition a few months ago.

The judge asked the crowd, “Who do you think has won it?” The crowd roared my name, a name that they had just heard that night. My heart sank as the ghosts of the past began to taunt me. I begged my hopes to not soar with hope like it had a few months ago. The judge cleared his throat. “What can I say when the crowd already knows. I give you this years winner…”

A series of fortunate decisions had seen a nineteen-year-old boy’s life change. And the doubts from that crushing evening in India were buried once and for all by an unforgettable night in Auckland.

 

 

Iron Man 4: A personal connection

In a Southern Indian state lies an imposing spiritual hill. Circling the hill on foot is considered to be a spiritual obeisance to the supreme. In that city a man held a reputation for making that round trip by foot in record time, faster than people a quarter of his age. In fact, faster than anyone. He was 84 years old then.

There was also the time when the doctor advised him that if he didn’t give up smoking four packs a day he would die that same year. In a typical display of iron will, central to his character, he kicked the addictive habit in a heart beat. He was 40 years old then. Then there’s the story of when he came to the western state of Gujarat with a pair of chappals and shorts, his wife and fifty-five rupees. He was only 19 years old then.

I still remember my class four project – my parents had chosen the wildlife photos and the storyline for my assignment. But we needed someone with pristine handwriting. It was he who wrote the creative captions for which I received numerous accolades the next day. He was 67 years old then.

Here was a man who redefined time –  if P.K Ramaswamy had just walked into work, it had to be 9 a.m – if it wasn’t, the clocks were wrong and needed adjustment. He was in his 30′s then when he earned this reputation. There was the story of how he would go to school – he would wade across the river to the school on the other side while holding his books above water. He was 12 years old then.

We knew him as the ‘Iron Man’ and as a kid I was terrified off him, being on the receiving end of numerous spankings. He used to forcibly drag me out of bed at 5:30 am and make me join him for his regular walks. As an 18 year old I couldn’t keep up with this man who was around 80 years old then.

I remember when I had visited him last and when he stubbornly walked me to the bus stop, even though he could barely walk. He kept waving at me as I shot out of view and this would be my last memory of him. He was 90 years old then.

I was in an MBA class in Melbourne in 2009 when the news floated in that he had died. I absorbed the new but didn’t shed a single tear. He was 92 years old then.

In 2010 I went with my CEO (who had recently lost his mother) to India on work. During a presentation I met an elderly man in Ahmedabad who to my surprise spoke about knowing my grandfather and the amazing things grandfather had achieved in his younger days and the hundreds of people he had helped. That night at a formal debrief with my boss I suddenly bawled my eyes out and cried for the first time since grandfather had passed away. My boss understood, saying he too cried often thinking about his mother.

Before I went to bed that night I recollected all that the elderly man had said about my grandfather and the lives he had changed. I realised one thing – he was timeless and ageless then.

 

 

 

Puss in Boots: An unlikely love story.

When I first started writing as a complete novice, I discovered that every story has an arc and the main characters in the face of conflict undergo changes towards the end of the story, thereby completing their own character arc. Think about it. Kangna’s character in Queen, Al Pacino in The GodFather, Tom Cruise in RainMan etc etc….

The interesting thing about writing is that even though I write fiction, I borrow heavily from real life, observing and paying closer attention to the wonders of Mr. Life. And I went through a stunning character arc myself.

I fell in love.

My wife and I recently moved house. It was a big change from the hustle bustle of the city to the charm of the suburbs. Unlike India, neighbours generally keep to themselves, whilst still being friendly and personable. In our first week in the new place, my wife was in the backyard, when I heard her shriek. I ran to the backyard wondering what had happened when I saw a cat with 50 shades of ginger stare at both of us.

It was not love at first sight for me. If anything, it was annoyance and a bit of fear. I yelled and shooed it away and it expertly jumped across the fence and disappeared, making us wonder who it belonged to. The cat was persistent; after it had failed to charm me in the backyard we unexpectedly found it waiting at our doorstep the next morning when were about to go to work.

Before we could react the cat bounded into our house with a desperate me chasing it around the living room and kitchen. I ordered it out and it meekly obeyed me while I got into the car and muttered, “stupid cat!”

Now I’ve always been wary of cats and their unpredictable nature. Walking on a dark street, with a pair of shining eyes following me has always been my worst nightmare, fearing that it would spring at me unleashing its claws!

On a bright sunny morning I went to my letter box and there he was. He walked up to me and repeatedly circled my legs, walking in between them sometimes and rubbing himself against me.I had never experienced affection from a cat before.

“See, he likes you,” said my wife, not happy with the way I was ignoring him.

“I don’t care,” I said shrugging my shoulders, leaving him all by himself. That day my wife named him ‘Cassie’ after the street we lived on. Yes, I know, a girly name for a boy, but I couldn’t be bothered arguing. Later we found out that he belonged to our immediate neighbours.

It was almost a month before I saw him again. And interestingly in that month I would linger a few seconds after parking the car wondering if he was around. During walks with my wife, she would catch me checking out our neighbour’s house, looking for him. But there was no sign of the cat. “I wonder if something’s happened to him. I hope he is not sick,” voiced my wife. Though I didn’t answer I must confess I had the same feeling.

And then when we drove into our driveway on a Sunday, he was there bathing in the sun on our front lawns. “There he is!” I screamed pointing at him, with a broad grin on my face. My wife was smiling at me with raised eyebrows. Caught, I changed my expression and said, “What’s for lunch today?”

That afternoon, our gardener came and used the front door repeatedly. After he had left I went upstairs to my study only to find Cassie  sitting by my room. When and how did he get in?

Slowly Cassie became the highlight of my days and I excitedly showed him off to all our friends. My four-year old nephew thought he was a stuffed toy that could come to life and sat on him! Cassie wasn’t very happy about that. He would spend a lot of time in and around our house, showing lots of interest in what we cooked, but wasn’t keen on paying the mortgage though.

Recently, our neighbours moved out about ten kilometres away.  We knew the day was coming, but managed to be in denial for some time. With a heavy heart we said goodbye to our neighbours, but the real reason for our sadness was that we wouldn’t see Cassie again.

The day after they had moved and had taken everything with them, I parked my car on the street and crossed towards my house, wondering if I would ever see him. My eyes fell on something curled up in the neighbour’s empty garden. It couldn’t be! I ran into the house and dragged my wife out. Cassie woke up, walked to us and we hung out with him for a while, petting him fondly. “The neighbours must have come to finish cleaning up. Must have brought him along!” I said, not bothering to check if that was indeed the case.

That night around 10 p.m, our ex-neighbours knocked on our door. “Just wondering if you had seen our cat,” they said.

I gulped at the heavy realisation of what had happened. That little rebel had escaped from their new house, crossed freeways, busy roads, multiple intersections and had somehow found his way back to what he thought was home.

And now he was gone. We felt sick in the stomach at having seen him earlier and to have assumed that he was safe. We all went looking for him and after an hour he came scurrying back home to his family, thankfully.

We haven’t seen him since and now we are convinced he has adapted to his new home. He might not miss the old place and the street he used to walk on like a king. The little fella might not even miss us.

Wish I could say the same for me. Glory to the creator for giving every little living being the ability to touch our lives.

PS: Since then two cats, ‘charlie’ and ‘little one’ have also walked into my life. More about them later :)

***

  

Brand ‘Bachchan’ and My Big B Moment

“Humility is a strange thing. The minute you think you’ve got it, you’ve lost it” 

On the first of May this year I had a partially unexpected, yet supremely memorable moment – I recited a few lines from a Harivansh Rai Bachchan poem to the great Amitabh Bachchan himself  in front of a capacity crowd at the opening night of the Indian Film Festival of Melbourne. An opportunity to share the stage with the legend, for which I must profusely thank the festival organisers.

Why is Amitabh Bachchan such a monstrous icon whose name brings an astonishing array of adjectives and fan-following across multiple generations?  This is a big question and there are numerous answers, but I have attempted to tackle this with some brevity.

If we were to look at it purely from marketing parlance – what makes brand ‘bachchan’ tick? How does he deliver to consumer  needs, while building on his core capabilities and overtaking the competition? Let’s take a look at some of his distinct strengths. This is purely my observation, so pardon me if you differ.

1) The unique baritone – apparently in his early days a filmmaker said he didn’t have the voice for a hero. It is hard to imagine him deliver high-impact dialogues that stay with us for decades without this point of difference. (The Deewar dialogue with Shashi Kapoor for example)

An enabler of this is his command over the Hindi language (come to think of it I don’t know many who have such command over both Hindi and English) – for this a lot of credit must go to his father whose works of poetry have inspired many things including the famous movie ‘Agneepath’ (the poem was also of the same name).

2) Mastery of the craft – the man knows how to entertain. For example at the Film Festival at my request, he recited lines from the poem Madhushala to the full house. When asked to sing ‘Ekla Chalo’ the jet-lagged megastar improvised – he recited the famous ‘kabhi kabhi mere dil mein’ monologue instead. The crowd roared its approval.

3) Appetite for risk – As is the case with risk sometimes they pay off, sometimes they don’t. With every big banner film he also took on the unknown. Don was refused by every star until he said yes – the rest is history. Very few would have the guts to do a ‘Black’ or a ‘Paa’.

4) The ‘bounce-back-ability’ – he just doesn’t go away! Financial crisis, flop films, age catching up – these don’t know how to stop him. His ability to re-invent himself and adapt is his greatest strength. And he is the perennial marathoner (lambi race ka ghoda) and the phoenix rolled into one.

I don’t know about you, but I certainly got to learn a lot from my few minutes on stage with him. When I sought his blessings and wanted to touch his feet, he gave me a bear hug instead! And there I learnt that to win in life you must win people’s hearts.

Mr. Life has smiled on Mr Amitabh Bachchan and in doing so has inadvertently smiled upon all of us. (the Big ‘B’ear hug :))

A snippet of my time with him on stage - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=znix80ULwXo&feature=em-upload_owner

 

Giving Life

What is it that is so satisfying about giving life?

Think about the time when you first sowed a seed. And then the next day when you watered it. Hopefully you continued that for some until the first little plant grew. Barely centimetres tall, but still it was something you created (or a creation you enabled, if you want to be specific).

Or the time you assembled your first computer on a bare desk. Or when you wrote your first poem on that blank page. Or when you filled that empty canvass with such colours and strokes like only you could. Or when you composed your first song, your own precious little baby.

What about those sculptors who were able to create something from ordinary clay but is still something that stands for centuries? The dancer who choreographs steps that no one has seen in this world. The filmmaker who brings to life a story through wonderful, moving imagery when it was only an idea at first.

Think about the marketing professional who develops a stunning campaign from nothing. The builders who construct a palace where at first there was only rubble. The mothers who conceive us when we had no physical form at all.  We could go on and on. And on.

The elements are all there. Provided to us by the ultimate creator himself. But when we are able to use and mould these existing elements to create something of our own, there is a unique warmth in the blood that flows through our body. We feel like we are a tiny little creator, within the gigantic scheme of things of the ultimate creator.

Create. Nourish. Build. Sustain. The gift of Mr. Life.