The foragers of Kollywood.

In a post on Kollywood, two years back, I had mentioned how the Indian film industry took advantage of the national obsession with swaying bottoms.

I have since done extensive research on the origin of this Indian fixation. I have discovered that it’s all to do with the birds and the bees, mostly the latter.

In the first quarter of the twentieth century, an Austrian scientist, Prof. Karl von Frisch, discovered that these insects are able to convey the precise information to their fellow bees about the source of food, whether it is nectar or pollen. Professor Frisch found that the basis for their communication system is their dance language that had remained an enigma until he decoded it in 1923.

Bees perform two kinds of dances - the round dance, used to convey that the food source is not far away from the hive; and the waggle dance to convey the opposite, i.e. the source is far from the hive. As soon as any worker finds the food source, it returns to the nest to tell about his discovery by a ritual dance, each movement of which gives precise information to the fellow bees. (source)

What has all this got to do with Kollywood, you ask impatiently. Hang on. You would have noticed that most of these modern heroines try to be slim, even skinny. In the process, they go on crash diets, to the point of turning anorexic. The net result is that they are hungry all the time and constantly crave for food. But, where do you find food, in the movie studios? The heroines have no clue at all.

Enter the hero. By moving his hips rhythmically and swaying it at different degrees, he manages to convey to the heroine, the precise location of the food and what type of food is available. For example, if he happens to know where Hyderabad biryani is, he executes a simple harmonic motion with amplitude of 61.3 cm, which somehow the heroine correctly interprets as biryani. Heroines who fail to read the signals starve to death and are akin to queen bees who have missed the buzz.

The whole ritual, confers an evolutionary advantage on human beings especially the actors and actresses, and is line with Darwinian predictions on natural selection.

Why do the heroines sway their hips then? After all, the heroes look well-fed and nourished and don’t need to know where food is available? Good question. But, that’s the subject for another blog post. I don’t want to reveal all in one post and overload your brains.

Some of you, I know, are not convinced with my theory. All creative geniuses who have preceded me have had to face the ire of such cynics and skeptics .So, I am not surprised by your reaction. After all, when Newton had the insight that the moon was held in orbit by the gravitational pull of earth, he was pelted with apples. (The culprit has never been nabbed, but the needle of suspicion points towards Leibniz, as he was the only other guy around who knew all the complex calculus involved in pelting projectiles). Similarly, when Einstein first postulated his theory on space-time continuum, he was described as a mad cap too, giving rise to the equation that Einstein= mad cap too or E= mc2.

Update 04/01/08 : Research by New York University, says this BBC article, has shown that to be attractive women must sway their hips while moving and men must move with a shoulder swagger.

The heuristic of the successful catcher

At cricket, back in my school days, I used to be a good fielder. In fact, I don’t remember to have dropped a single catch in my entire career. No, that’s not true. In one of the matches, running all the way from first slip, I failed to get my fingers on to a ball that was just crossing the fence over long on.

Anyway, the secret of my amazing skills as a catcher was that I always carried my geometry box with me, to the playground.

Gerd Gigerenzer, explains my methods, in his book, “Gut Feelings”.

Computing the trajectory of a ball is not a simple feat. Theoretically, balls have parabolic trajectories. In order to select the right parabola, the player’s brains would have to estimate the ball’s initial distance, initial velocity and projection angle. Yet in the real world, balls, affected by air resistance, wind and spin, do not fly in parabolas. Thus, the brain would further need to estimate, among other things, the speed and direction of the wind at each point of the ball’s flight in order to compute the resulting path and the point where the ball will land. All this would have to be completed within a few seconds- the time a ball is in the air….. Clearly, this is too complex a process and something else is at work.

Is there a simple rule of thumb to catch a ball? Studies have shown that experienced players use what is called the ‘gaze heuristic’ which works in situations where the ball is already high up in the air. “Fix your gaze on the ball, start running and adjust your running speed so that the angle of gaze remains constant.” The angle of gaze is the angle between the eye and the ball, relative to the ground.

Thus, good fielders, unconsciously rely on a simple rule of thumb that dictates the speed at which a player runs. Note that the player using this heuristic is not able to compute the point at which the ball will land. Yet the heuristic leads the player to the landing point.

What Gigerenzer does not mention, of course, is my name, but cleverly couches it in expressions such as ‘experienced players’; that’s because I did not give him permission to use it, till I broke the story myself in my blog. Another thing he does not mention, probably because he forgot to, is that , as I fixed my gaze on the ball and started running, I used to quickly open my geometry box, pull out the protractor and keep measuring the angle of gaze and adjust my speed in such a way as to keep the angle constant.

Yes, that was my technique. It’s out in the open now.

There’s just that solitary instance to be explained. Why did I drop that catch at long-on? What happened was that, as I ran from my position at first slip, I tripped over the fielder standing at mid-wicket and dropped my protractor on the ground. I picked it up in a second and started running again, but the angle of gaze had changed by a couple of degrees, rendering the heuristic unworkable.

Now, you know everything..

Dear heart, slow down

Apparently, elephants and mice, or for that matter all the other animals within the spectrum, have one thing in common. In an average lifetime, the heart beats 1.5 billion times and then they die. (source)

The reason the elephant lives longer than a mouse is because its heart beat is much slower. So it conserves energy and manages to stretch its quota of 1.5 billion heart beats over a much longer period.

By this reckoning, human beings ought to be dead when they are 40 years old (assuming 70 beats per minute, the limit of 1.5 billion is reached in 40.7 years). But, we seem to have defied the odds and beaten the system. So, if like me, you are over 40, you have outlasted the warranty that came with the product

The yogis of yore got their fundas right. I read somewhere that one of them could get his heart beat down to single digit and this was verified by medical personnel.

Somewhere, in this news item, I detect a terrific plot for a science fiction novel.

Cluck Cluck

“Have you ever had a fight with a friend that ended with both of you not talking to each other? And with the passage of time, you even forgot what you fought about?” Thus begins an article in today’s edition of Deccan Chronicle.

Yes, I remember a fight I had with a friend when I was in school. And I haven’t even forgotten what it was about. Friend is no more, meaning that he is no more my friend, after the incident that led to our fight. So, friend will hereinafter be referred to as my ex-friend.

It happened during the history class. Our regular history teacher was absent that day; so our science teacher was deputed in his place. Science teacher was making a desperate attempt to teach us all about the Maratha rule, and even asked us to draw a picture of Shivaji and name all the parts. In the midst of all this, ex-friend decided to liven the proceedings a bit and made a loud, funny noise that sounded like “cluck cluck”. Teacher turned around, looked at our faces, found mine with guilt written all over it and promptly asked me to get out of the class. Ex-friend did not even own up. I went out feeling like Sydney Carton.

Somewhat like the cheap trick that Tuppy Glossop had played on Bertie Wooster in one of the stories of P.G.Wodehouse.

Anyway, I never saw ex-friend all these years. I heard that he had settled in the USA and visited India only once in 5 years or so. But the incident rankled. The thought that the blighter would have been narrating this incident to his wife and children every second evening and laughing his guts away at my expense, was too much for me to accept.

So, imagine my shock when I bump into this ex-friend at a get-together of the alumni recently. He avoided eye contact with me throughout the evening. Naturally, shame and guilt would have been gnawing his conscience. Towards the end however, he summoned his courage, walked over to where I stood, held my hand, looked into my eyes compassionately and said,

“ Raj, you do remember the ‘cluck cluck’ incident that happened in school, don’t you?

“Of course, it is not something that one forgets easily” I replied coldly.

“ I know that the incident must have rankled in your mind, all these years”

“You bet it has”

“Raj, I want you to know that I have forgiven you long back. I know that it was some mad rush of blood that made you do that ‘cluck cluck’ noise and it certainly wasn’t your fault that that history teacher had punished me instead of you. This must have gnawed your conscience all these years. I hold no grudge against you. So, you can rest easy now. Bye”

And he walked away, sporting a halo over his bald head.

This was too terrible for words. Had I, all these years, mistakenly carried the version that friend had cluck-clucked me into trouble, when, in fact, I was the perpetrator of the plot and he the victim?

Had my faulty memory not reversed our roles, I would have been, all these years, laughing my guts out, at his expense, while narrating the incident, every second evening, to my wife and children, and the ingenious manner I had employed to get ex-friend into trouble with the history teacher. That was not to be. Sigh.

Questions:

1) What tone has the author adopted to narrate this whimsical tale? Identify the characteristics of the style which helps to establish this particular tone.

2) Study the manner in which the author has written about the science teacher taking the history class. Would anything be lost if this entire paragraph is omitted?

3) What purpose is the author desperately trying to achieve by placing the words “cluck-cluck” within inverted commas?

4) We must assume that the author has recorded only a part of the conversation that occurred towards the end of the evening. What filtering principles has he employed in making his selection?

5) This incident that the author talks about happened when he was in school. Do you detect any evidence that pinpoints the exact decade when it took place?

6) In the structure of this essay, what is the function of the exclusive paragraph on Wodehousian characters? Doesn’t the para stick out like a sore thumb?

7) What do you think is the extent of irreversible memory loss suffered by the author?

8) What is your opinion of the author’s choice of newspapers to pick up ideas for his blog posts?

Group discussions:

A friend who turns into an ex-friend is no more a friend. Discuss the implications of this assertion.

Found : male model

A galaxy of female stars has modeled for Lux Soap, over the decades. Just two years back, Lux broke this tradition and cast Shah Rukh Khan as its first male model.

While watching the telecast of the second test match against England last week, it struck me that there is, at least, one Indian cricketer who has all the right credentials to model for this soap.

V.V.S. Luxman.

Why the sky looks blue

When I observe the manner in which science is taught to my daughters today, I am disappointed to find that there is hardly any change in the teaching methods in the last several decades. True, the subject is a lot wider now, lessons have changed and many things that I learned in college are included in the syllabus of the eight standard. But, the lessons are still imparted in the same boring manner; the teacher does nothing to fire the student’s imagination; both do not have the luxury of time.

These thoughts came to me when I read this piece written, in 1931, by Sir James Jeans, a reputed astronomer,. This was originally part of his book, “Stars in their courses”, but I found it in a book called “Province of Prose”, where it was showcased as an example of good prose writing and how a difficult subject can, in the hands of an expert, lend itself to clarification by analogy.

I remember the drab explanation that my own teachers had provided to explain why the sky was blue. With a smattering of Rayleigh scattering, followed by some long equations. Look how Sir James Jeans has handled the same question, seventy five years back.

Imagine that we stand on an ordinary seaside pier and watch the waves rolling in and striking against the iron columns of the pier. Large waves pay very little attention to the columns- they divide right and left and reunite after passing each column, much as a regiment of soldiers would if a tree stood in their road; it is almost as though the column had not been there. But the short waves and ripples find the columns of the pier a much formidable obstacle. When the short waves impinge on the columns, they are reflected back and spread as new ripples in all directions. To use the technical term, they are ‘scattered’. The obstacle provided by the iron columns hardly affects the long waves at all, but scatters the short ripples.

We have been watching a sort of working model of the way in which sunlight struggles through the earth’s atmosphere. Between us on Earth and outer space, the atmosphere interposes innumerable obstacles in the form of molecules of air, tiny droplets of water and small particles of dust. These are represented by the columns of the pier.

The waves of the sea represent the sunlight. We know that sunlight is a blend of many colors- as we can prove for ourselves by passing it through a prism, or even a jug of water or as nature demonstrates to us when she passes it through the raindrops of a summer shower and produces a rainbow. We also know that light consists of waves, and that the different colors of light are produced by waves of different lengths, red light by long waves and blue light by short waves. The mixture of waves which constitutes sunlight has to struggle past the columns of the pier. And these obstacles treat the light waves, much as the columns of the pier treat the sea-waves. The long waves which constitute red light are hardly affected but the short waves which constitute blue light are scattered in all directions.

Thus the different constituents of sunlight are treated in different ways as they struggle through the earth’s atmosphere. A wave of blue light may be scattered by a dust particle and turned out of its course, and so on, until finally it enters our eyes by a path as zigzag as that of a flash of lightning. Consequently the blue waves of the sunlight enter our eyes from all directions.
And that is why the sky looks blue.

Dear Diary-7

Dear Diary,

As someone cheerfully put it , today happens to be the first day of the rest of my life.

As someone else added a corollary to that statement, the day after tomorrow will be the third day of the rest of my life that starts today.

It has just hit me that yesterday was the second last day of the period of my life lasting from my birth till today. And the day before yesterday was the third last day.

So, though there is a fair chance that tomorrow may arrive, yesterday will never return.

Isn’t this a very sobering thought?

Am I slowly turning into Woody Allen?

R.I.P Series- 12

Liv Nomore who when told by his doctor that he had contracted an incurable ailment, asked him, “Give it to me straight, doc. How long do you think I will live?

Doc replied, “Ten….”

Liv cut him short and screamed, “Ten what, doc? Years, months, weeks?

The doc continued, “...9...8...7...6...5...4...”


(Discl : Joke is borrowed)

Dear Diary-6

Dear Diary,

Week started disastrously. Landed in Bangalore and, sticking to standard protocol, drove straight to MTR, hoping to feast on some super-soft idlis and incredibly crisp dosas. Found, to my utter dismay, that the place was closed on Mondays. Have you heard such nonsense in your life? A restaurant closing on Mondays? I mean, don’t they know that people need to eat all seven days a week?

On the other hand, I am happy that somebody’s adopted the calendar that I had painstakingly and single-handedly designed some time back.

While leaving for the airport to catch my return flight, made a quick dash to Blossoms, that great place in Church Street for second-hand books and picked up a couple of classics. Realised later that books, being neither soft nor crisp, are a poor substitute for MTR idlis and dosas.

The ant and the grasshopper

Quite some time back, I had attempted to borrow the format of the golf stories of P.G.Wodehouse, that involved ‘the oldest member” and posted three stories here, here and here. At the risk of testing your limits of tolerance, I nervously add more to the same series.

The Walkie-Talkies were strolling down the pavement, along the Marina, blissfully unaware of the fact that they were blocking the passage for faster walkers and joggers behind them.

Nike Shorts was animatedly recounting how he had enjoyed the movie, ‘Sivaji’, the previous day and how Rajnikanth had surpassed himself. “That man is amazing”, he concluded. “What breathtaking style!”

Adidas track-pants agreed, but wondered, “Amazing all right. All he does is shake his legs a bit, fling a cigarette into his mouth, stroke his hair back nonchalantly and his movies go on to become big hits. Whereas, Kamalahasan, poor chap. Will don ten roles, will change his voice, weight, and mannerisms for each character, valiantly do all the stunts himself without a dupe, energetically sing quite a few songs and generally slog it out, only to see his movies flop in the end..

Polo T-shirt philosophized, “Yes, that’s life. Hard work is not always the mother of good luck. All this talk about success being 99% perspiration and 1% inspiration is pure nonsense”.

Bata Thatha interjected at this point and said, “Ha, let’s not fall into the popular error of supposing that hard work begets success. You have all been influenced by the Aesopian fable of “Ant and the Grasshopper” where the hard-working ant is shown to be better-off in the end than the lazy, fun-loving grasshopper. Whereas, the reality is that incidents in life tend to be more like what happened to Tom and George in Somerset Maugham’s version of the fable, if you have read it. Take the case of my neighbour’s sons.

My neighbour (continued Bata Thatha) had two sons. The elder one was hard-working, did his homework diligently, passed all his exams with flying colours, completed his engineering from IIT, went on to do his MBA in the USA and was grabbed by a top consulting company at a mind-boggling salary, for carrying out complicated financial analysis for clients .

The younger son fooled around in school, got into bad company and bad habits, never cleared his exams and was finally thrown out of school. He ended up selling tea in a roadside stall.

Lotto Shoes enquired with a quizzical expression, “But, doesn’t this validate the Aesopian fable? The hardworking guy has been rewarded with success, whereas the lazy one has been punished.”

Bata Thatha couldn’t contain his irritation at this rude and unwarranted interruption, when he was midway in his story.

“Wait, you haven’t heard it all. Two years back, the elder son lost his job, as his company had outsourced the entire operations to an IT company in Sholinganallur, near Chennai. Complicated financial analysis for the Wall Street Journal, these days, is done by kids in back-offices here. Poor chap tried to find employment elsewhere, but the reply was same wherever he sent his CV. All jobs in the USA had been passed on to India. He is still unemployed and is roaming around penniless, having lost all his savings.

“What about the younger son?” asked Polo T-shirt?

“The younger son, as good fortune would have it, had set up his tea stall just outside the IT Company in Sholinganallur. He is doing roaring business. He is looking for franchisees to replicate the business model outside all the companies in the IT corridor. He has quite graciously agreed to pay for an air-ticket for his brother to return home.

Dear Diary- 5

Dear diary,

Had to accompany a friend to the Blue Cross today. His pet dog was not keeping well. The lone veterinary doctor on duty said he couldn’t attend to the dog. He explained the protocol there. When animals such as lions, tigers or elephants are brought in, he is not competent to attend and so delegates the responsibility upward to his boss. When animals such as goats, cats and dogs are brought in, it is below his dignity to treat them and so he delegates the responsibility downward to his junior. As both of them were not there, he asked us to come back on Monday. Made a mental note to follow vet’s philosophy of delegation, in my workplace from next week.

Dear Diary- 4

Dear Diary,

I needed to go to the Bank today to deposit a cheque. I realized, to my dismay, that banking is an insignificant part of a bank’s work.

The place was swarming with all kinds of creatures such as touts and agents, out to nab me. One guy wanted to sell me mutual funds, another some RBI bonds and yet another- some gold bars. The gall. Did they think that a seasoned salesman like me will fall for such obvious gimmicks?

When I finally managed to extricate myself from the bandits, a seedy looking guy buttonholed me and asked if I was interested in medical insurance cover. I said sure and asked if the policy covered terminal illnesses. Without giving me a proper reply that I deserved as a prospective customer, he dematerialized from the scene. Rude fellow.

Dhirubhai's descendant's dull daily diet

I just got the complete details on what Anil Ambani gets to eat everyday.

Apparently, he gets up at 5.00 am, jogs till 6.30 am, and begins his day with a banana and some cereals washed down with protein milk at 8,00 am, At lunchtime, he gets to be a little hungry and so indulges in some sprouts, a cup of dhal and two chappatis . He repeats the same menu for dinner. He goes to bed at 10.30 pm sharp.

What’s the point in accumulating all that wealth amounting to Rs 50000 crores, if all you get to eat are some meagre sprouts and an uninviting banana? Can someone explain?

Dear Diary-3

Dear Diary,

My over-exuberant auditor called this morning to remind me that I had to file my Income Tax returns before July 31st.

I commented wryly that I didn’t see any reason why they should call it ‘returns”, because tax amount, once it leaves your hands, never returns.

Auditor promised me that he will go to Delhi tomorrow, to personally point out the misnomer to the FM.

FM ? Wonder if auditor meant 98.3 or 91.1.

Conversation with daughter- 16

Daughter came back from the bookshop yesterday at 6.45 am, triumphantly clutching her copy of the 7th book in the Harry Potter series. I have rarely seen her up before sunrise, but recognized that this was a special occasion.

The whole of Saturday, she was lost in the book and refused to stir from her sofa. Wife and I wondered whether we should administer some nutrients intravenously and maintain her electrolyte balance.

At 6 pm, I sat down next to her and asked, “Tell me, why is it so critical that the book must be read by today? Tomorrow is Sunday and you will have some time on your hands. Surely, one more day won’t matter?

Daughter gave me the stare which she reserves for her parents and which, if she had been Medussa, would have reduced me to stone and replied, ‘Duh, because, by morning tomorrow, everybody else would have finished the book”.

That figures. Millions of people, in the privacy of their homes, racing to finish the book the same day it was released, because everyone else is doing it.

Geriatrix

So, 72-year old Pratibha Patil (or Pratibha Patti, as my daughter calls her) is the new President.

I can imagine the standard routine that dignitaries visiting India will be subjected to and their resulting plight. First, they will hold wide ranging discussions with Dr Manmohan Singh, who will keep that deadpan expression of his, right through. The humorist, P.G.Wodehouse used to describe how the strict rules of the Butler’s Guild prevented Jeeves from breaking out into a full smile; the maximum, upward movement of the lip allowed was only 1/8 of an inch. It is improbable and even inconceivable that Dr.Singh is a member of the Butler’s Guild, but I simply can’t fathom what stops him from smiling. Hell, the man is quite lifeless; I am sure that if an ECG were taken while he is talking, it would register a flat line. Whatever may be his other merits, this factor alone should get him banished into oblivion. We simply can’t have as PM a man , in whose ECG, the characteristic P-Q-R-S pattern is conspicuous by its absence. We ought to demand from our leaders, clinical evidence of life.

Anyway, let’s get back to our visiting dignitary. After this encounter with the lifeless Dr Singh, he or she will have to follow the protocol of meeting Sonia Gandhi. From the TV footages, it is clear that she is utterly clueless and humourless. Besides, I haven’t heard anything remotely intelligent escaping her mouth, though I admit I like the way she waves her hand as the dignitaries depart from her house. Good riddance, that’s the message that wave conveys.

Next, of course, the dignitary will be whisked away to the Rashtrapati Bhavan for a tea party (a British custom that has outlived the British), where the company of Pratibha Patil will have to be put up with for an hour or so. No doubt she take it upon herself to entertain and regale the guest with stories of Ouija boards and how she communicates with spirits of dead people.

I don’t know if a visit to the Raj Ghat is part of the regular itinerary these days. But, it is reasonable to assume that this ritual is also inflicted on the hapless soul- I mean the visiting dignitary’s, not Gandhi’s. But I will be fair and charitable to Gandhi and consider the extenuating circumstances that he is dead.

At the end of the day, the dignitary is in the severe grip of ennui and swears that he or she will never come back to this wretched country again. When there are far more exciting ways to die, why would they choose to be tortured to slow death through sheer boredom?

It would appear that the whole rigmarole is carried out for the sole purpose of making a documentary for Films Division, or for the news round up on Doordarshan, to be read out by a bearded, Tolstoyish character with a grim, solemn, melancholic voice.

In most other countries, leaders need to demonstrate youthfulness and energy, to stay at the top. Including China and Russia that used to venerate old politicians. Whereas here, we still mistake old age for wisdom and put up with ancient dodderers, who should have long been pensioned off.

Today, with the march of technology, one peaks at the age of 30 or 32, in whatever field one is in. Those of us in the corporate world have certainly realized this. In the sports arena, of course, it is much earlier. If you need to keep learning beyond this age, you don’t look up to people older than you, for distilled wisdom to flow down. You look down and get splashed by the fountain of youth.

It is amazing that a country whose demographics show a very high percentage of voters below 25 years of age would choose to nominate representatives, three times their age, in Parliament.

Dear Diary-2

Dear Diary,

I am just back from the RTO, after renewing my driving licence. After I submitted my forms, along with my birth certificate that clearly and unambiguously certifies that I was indeed born, I was summoned to a seedy little place where they quickly took a photograph of my face.

When the licence was given to me, I noticed that the photograph was terrible. I protested and demanded that they take me to their leader, so that I could get justice.

A second-hand car dealer, who had come there to register a few cars for his clients, took me aside and told me to stop making a fool of myself as , out there, all transactions were on “as-is-where-is” basis.

That was quite a humbling experience.

Dear Diary

Dear Diary,

I flew down to Mumbai today, as I had some urgent work there. Flight was extremely uncomfortable. Lot of turbulence. Thick clouds right through. Poor visibility too.

I decided that I will never again fly when the monsoon spell is on. The next time, I will go in a plane.

Irresponsible reporting.

In one of their editions last week, Deccan Chronicle carried a news story of an illiterate woman in Bihar, beating up her husband when he came home in a drunken state. The accompanying photograph was quite graphic and showed the man badly mauled, poor chap.

I really feel that the media must exercise restraint and desist from publicizing such gory incidents. It has been scientifically demonstrated that stories such as these manage to stir some basic instincts and incite hatred and violence.

Just for the sake of argument, imagine that my wife has just finished reading that story in Deccan Chronicle and is now in the kitchen, where her olfactory senses tend to be in a heightened state of alert. I am a strict teetotaler, but let’s imagine for the sake of this argument, that I am coming out of the bathroom, after applying Gillette after-shave lotion on my face.

Somehow, wife gets the impression that the smell of Gillette after-shave is actually that of Scotch whisky. With her impressionable frame of mind, she quickly makes an association between the story of the Bihari woman in Deccan Chronicle and the strong smell of perfume which she assumes is whisky. In a flash, she lifts the pressure cooker from the stove and whacks my head with it. Slow motion replays later show that the pressure cooker cracks into two at the point of impact. The cooked rice spills all over the floor. What will we get to eat then? What will we mix the sambar in?

That’s why newspapers must practice self-censorship and cut out such stories. If cigarette ads can be banned and if names of castes/religion can be withheld to prevent communal flare-ups, why can’t they leave out stories of husbands getting bashed up by emotional wives?

Balancing the Budget

In the circles that I move in, I am known for my awesome skills in balancing my finances and in my amazing ability to get the best bang for every buck that I earn. It’s only fair that I share some of my secrets with you.

Here’s how I apportion my income between essentials and non-essentials.

House maintenance, food, petrol, medicines, milk, newspapers, electricity and telephone bills, salaries for maid, cook, driver, etc consume a full 10% of my salary.

Coming to essentials, I make sure that my daughters limit the expenses on hair clips, bracelets, ear rings, necklaces, anklets, bandanas, shoes, sandals, handbags, lipsticks, eye liner, hair brush, etc to not more than 50% of my salary.

Also, I exercise strict control over the expenses on semi-essentials such as jeans, T-shirts, shorts, tops, salwars, kurtis, dupattas, three-fourths, Bermudas, long skirts, short skirts, visits to beauty parlour, Harry Potter movies on first day of release, purchase of CDs, Airtel re-charge cards, etc. Daughters are forbidden to spend even a rupee more than 50% of my monthly salary.

Shrewd ones among you would have quickly calculated and found that the total comes to 110% of salary. You are right. I borrow 10% every month. Deficit financing as the economists would put it.