Lead kindly

This last week The McKinsey Quarterly brought into focus factors for succeeding at open- source innovation, in the light of the whopping number of downloads of Mozilla's latest Firefox web-browser version. In an organization where much of the software coding, product development, distribution and what not depend on volunteers, it was interesting to read what these factors might be. In her interview with TMQ, Mozilla Corporation's Chairperson, Mitchell Baker commented on the management styles adopted early on at Mozilla, that were very unlike traditional practices, but key to open-source innovation. And the secret? 'A balance between maintaining control and letting motivated people run with their passions…’

This sounds like the most intuitive thing, almost common sense, doesn't it? After all, every senior manager, of even the most traditional industry and thesis advisor, must surely be expected to live that very balance in some form or fashion. But like most fundamental principles of sound management and effective leadership, they only sound simple. To practise them is certainly much, much harder to do and truly inspiring when done. The heroes and towering personalities of our times, however, do not instill a sense of urgency to imbibe those values. No, by their very stature they become far-removed from our immediate reality (mine at least); an idol on a high pedestal, an excuse to not aspire to that ideal. But the people in our lives- the people we can meet with, laugh and cry with, touch and hold, whose struggles and triumphs we have watched first-hand; people who seem like any one of us in their demeanor, in their station in life, in their hopes and fears; the same people whose qualities and actions set them apart from every one of us, truly inspire.

One such friend stopped by a few days ago.

In the course of our conversation, we touched upon her work and how rapidly it had expanded from a prototype for an online tutorial to a product now deployed by governments across the seas, inspiring social workers in several developing countries. ‘Her’ project had now become the foundation for multiple sub-projects, spawning undergraduate summer research material, master’s thesis components, a non-profit organization and that’s only part of it!

And as we marveled over this incredible growth, she remarked ever so casually that while she had had some experience with professional project management, her current work called for a very different approach to management. A student-led not-for-profit initiative, run entirely by volunteers and funded by angels (in the truest sense of the word) and supported by only the most sincere, giving and passionate people driven by nothing other than the promise of a better informed and hence, safer world. It called for her to at once be able to provide the guidance, knowledge, acquired painstakingly over the last three odd years, and vision to each new aspirant to this mission; and yet let go of execution, and completely relinquish ownership of the new direction each mini-project will inevitably take. And when she spoke of it, she did so with a smile of assurance and faith in her team, total acceptance of the individuality they are bound to mark their work with and an earnest desire to see the very best be done in every aspect, even if that means having to step back and let someone else take the reins.

A fresh realization of what detachment means emerged for me; a most gentle and generous form of leadership revealed.

Ps: Having nothing to do with the web-browser itself, the article and the recollection of a greater leadership made me, finally, switch from IE to Firefox over the weekend! Hurrah!

And then kids grow up...Shucks!

They're doing that all the time, you know. Kids growing up, that is. They're doing that next door, in that day care center; as they discover new people in this world, different from their parents- little people like themselves. They try to be valiant in this strange atmosphere, failing hopelessly at times and bursting into tears, gurgling mirthfully at others, forgetful of the newness. Yes, kids are always growing up...(Heck I grew up! Although my grandmother does not believe such an event occurred and has me at 21 still and does not think that's very grown up anyway; another 5 years and I will be grateful for that courtesy). But for my baby bbb to have grown up! No!!! It cannot be. She says so though, every chance she gets, that she's a near adult. (I only hear the near, mind you). She will be in college soon, moving away from home, getting a bank account, moving into an apartment... taking charge of her affairs, as she calls it. Affairs, my foot!
And so, I insist upon her talking to me everyday, for hours, if I could have my way (how wonderful that would be!) as if that way I could arrest this onward march somewhow and hold it where it is. Right here. Right now. I will have to get as much of her, in this child-like state now. Tomorrow it will be no more. She will be a child to me, ever. But in her own mind she will cease to be.
If I could only protect that precious wonderment within her, if I could give her that magical mix of feeling liberated as a child and self-reliant as a young adult, if I could preserve the child in her and nourish the woman in her...:) I shall say a prayer for her.

On reading ‘Dreams from My Father’

I picked up this story of Obama's mixed inheritance to read on my flight to India. The longest transit of my life notwithstanding, I only managed to read half the book. That, however, is not the point; I had resolved to read nothing more intense than Calvin and Hobbes and perhaps a Wodehouse or two, just to recover from the trauma of back-to-back reads of first the God of Small Things (yes a decade late) and The Kite Runner. (Don't get me wrong; reading, I love. Human misery and the darker side of life, depicted in excruciating detail, leaves me reeling and yearning for balloons and blossoms) And so, I was half expecting to give up after the first chapter under the weight of the matter and could see myself desperately reaching for an escape- book when I packed this one into my carry-on. But that didn't happen. I am not making any claims as to to the read-worthiness of the book, nor to my skills on reviewing such. But I did feel the irresistible urge to share some (his) words of wisdom, all too familiar, but lost somewhere in the crevices of our memories, with anyone who might chance upon this blog.

In the last weeks leading up to the conclusion of the Democratic primaries, the media was cashing in on every aspect of the protagonists' public, publicly private and privately intimate lives. Not to be left behind, Costco had slashed the prices on 'Dreams...' and 'The Auacity of Hope...' Between his dreams for himself and America, and the dreams handed down to him from his father, I picked the latter. And I'm glad I did. What struck me was the ease and simplicity with which he peeled away the layers of human emotion underlying inexplicable behaviour, his understanding of the veneer of arrogance for what it was; a shroud covering fear and diffidence deep beneath it. But mostly his empathy and above all his honesty were deeply moving. This paragraph in particular hit a nerve somewhere and made me sit up straight as I read through. It hit hard especially because I had just returned from India, with a million thoughts about home, family, the ever-widening gap between between those reaping of the burgeonining economy and those to whom it made the mockery boom louder, flitting in and out of conscious thought; mingling with observations of common courtesy that was indeed quite common to see aboard Caltrain and wondering why it was painfully lacking back home on a similarly sweltering day, on a very similar train. It had captured in a few words the essence of what had happened to the many many faces that we collectively label 'bureaucracy'; it had summarized the resignation that we categorize as indifference, the same indifference that we were ourselves sucked into at one point, I was for sure, and that freshly shocks me everytime I return.

But before I rant on and on, the passage mustn't be lost, and here it is. The context, if you had not guessed already: his observation of the apathy that preachers, aid workers, men and women in public service, and sadly those needing the service themselves, inevitably slip into.
'....The three of them reflected the attitudes of of most of the people who worked in Altgeld: the teachers, drug counselors, policemen. Some wre there only for the paycheck; others sincerely wanted to help. But whatever their motives, they would all at some point confess a common weariness, a weariness that was bone-deep. They had lost whatever confidence they might have once had in their ability to reverse the deterioration they saw all around them. With that loss of confidence came a loss in the capacity for outrage.'

A loss in the capacity for outrage is a great loss indeed. A loss that can strip one of accountability, the accountability for our own complicity in having stood by.

However, as I am prone to, I searched for hope to make a comeback soon and that probably increased, briefly, my average reading rate (which in the last decade has fallen appallingly). And I arrived at this passage. Again, for context: it describes a scene at a public elementary school.
'... As the teacher tried to direct them up the stairs, I thought how happy and trusting they all seemed, that depsite the rocky arrivals many of them had gone through- delivered prematurely, perhaps, or delivered into addiction, most of them already smudged with the ragged air of poverty- the joy they seemed to find in simple locomotion, the curiosity they displayed toward every new face...'

Ah! Isn't that joy the birth right of every infant born into this world? And to keep that smile on every child's face from fading not a worthy cause to strive for? It reminds us of why we are here, why we cannot resign as if it were a day job and what purpose we have been called upon for; It reminded me that there is always hope, when there is a willing spirit.

ps: technically this should have been my second post since the Rising...just for the record.

All for some good coffee...

Yes, it was almost so good that it prompted me to consider blogging after a 2 year hiatus! Hi blogger! :)

A month ago, I was so excited to be flying back home after more than a year that nothing, not weeks of 12 hour days at work, banking glitches, car trouble, an impending dinger from b-school, no nothing, could take away the spring from my step nor wipe the silly grin off my face. And then came 9th evening, the evening I'd been waiting for ever so eagerly. It was supposed to be a simple affair: go to the bank, withdraw some cash, go home and check luggage and apartment one last time, and be on my way to the airport !!!...Sure!

Step 1, bank. Got the cash, easy enough. Backed car out of bank, and BANG!!! Not me!!! (not this time!) (As a side note, it always fascinates me how the human mind conjures up a zillion vivid images and thoughts within seconds and then springs right back into present time! Dear God! Exchange numbers, call insurance, won't be in town for 3 weeks? Great! Then don't count on insurance! Another trip to Auto Body repair....wait!) The pleasant pat on the back was from a gentle old lady whose spectacle rim got in the way of her clear sideways vision and a blinding glare completely eliminated my car from her view! Was this a fore-runner of things to come??? I'm not normally superstitious...but you'll see...The good part, if one might call it that, was that there wasn't so much as a scratch on either of our cars and the poor grandma was so nervous and apologetic, that I got moist-eyed. Phew, thank God for small mercies. Anyway, slightly distracted, but back on track to simple town...

Step 3: A breeze to SFO international? Uh huh. It did seem that way initially, but 15 minutes into the ride, traffic on the left lane of 101 N had suddenly built up out of nowhere and we were barely moving. There'd been a 3 car crash close to San Mateo and CHP had the lane completely blocked. News suggested we might enjoy the balmy breeze for close to an hour. Not panicking! We were still early. But you know how one hour can become 3...At any rate, a small miracle happened and we were able to inch out on to the right lane after half an hour and were finally cruising to the airport...And nothing of import really happened for the next several hours as I flew from SF to HK to Singapore. I even took the customary city tour and, sadly, slept through all of it. I briefly awoke and remember thinking how very alike the commotion outside a temple there was to its Chennai counterparts! (It's a small wonder that I actually slept through every single hour of every flight until I reached Singapore! Just as well, it was.)

Where's the coffee, you ask. Well, it's coming.

The flight to Chennai was to leave at 9.00pm. And waited, we did till 9.40, IST and all. What else can one expect with Indian Airlines. The transformation from international travellers to fish market- mongers took place within seconds of boarding IC558. After what seemed like an eternity, the captain warmly welcomed us aboard and wished us a very pleasant journey with IA. I was duly thrilled. But nothing happened. We were served some apple juice and asked to remain seated with our seat belts fastened. Not that anyone paid attention to that, least of all to the request to keep cell phones turned off. A few minutes later, we were once again told we would be taking off in just a few moments. This time the wheels started to turn. As we taxied out and picked up speed, the engine to my right shuddered and sighed, the pilot braked with all his might, till the wheels nearly burst sending sparks flying. Completely rattled as I was, I reached out to steady myself against the seat in front, only to find it wasn't tightly bolted to the floor and was now rocking back and forth! Horrors! This time round, my mind couldn't nearly conceive of every possible consequence of what might have been that it just went blank.

After many agonizing minutes, we came to a standstill. Out came the cell phones and a dozen voices narrated the story of the failed take-off to anxious spouses and families, peppering it with their vivid imagination for good measure. In the midst of this mayhem, the PA crackled to life and the kindly captain announced that there may have been a slight issue with the engine and they were looking into setting it right and we would be on our way soon!!! Nobodoy was convinced. Twenty minutes later, the captain once again introduced himself and this time announced that we would we would be served dinner, at Changi. Just what I'd hoped for.

Now that it was official that the flight was in dire need of repair, people were in a mad hurry to exit the cursed boeing...in case it should go up in flames all of a sudden eh? One wonders, at least, seeing people elbow one another in the narrow aisle. In the chaos that ensued, a neat little package was delivered onto my nose from above. There was no time for apologies, you see, this was an emergency!

At any rate, an hour or so elapsed. After some comic relief provided by fruit thieves at the dinner party, an urgent voice beckoned us all back to terminal C21, or some such. This had to have been a record of sorts. The IA engine repaired in under 2 hours?!...Ah! The real story emerged; the engine had failed, the damage irreparable, and the solution? Spare parts to be flown in from Chennai! (It should've made us proud. No spare parts to the rather state-of-the-art air craft in all of Singapore...) Better yet, no flights in the forseeable future to Chennai. I sincerely regretted taking the city tour already, asleep or not.

We were then read out our rights and privileges; We could request seating on the already over-booked early morning flight out, we would however not be guaranteed any space! Not to be disheartened- a luxury suite in the aiport lounge awaited us till kingdom come. I am not entirely sure what I was thinking, but I believe I agreed to the luxury suite option and trudged out of the boarding area. I was half aware of some passenegers, 3 in particular, employing all means of persuasion, in turns, to convince the now weary Mr. Suresh of why they absolutely deserved to be on that flight to Chennai. In fact one of them had now taken on the role of that gentleman in fending off irate passengers to the lounge to end all distraction from his immediate goal, and I must admit did a much better job at it.

As I sat down to fill in my immigration forms, a strain of conversation from the babel came back to me and I realized an option to fly to Bangalore instead had been offered. What in heaven's name was I signing up to the airport lounge for?! I ran back to the boarding area and managed to get assigned to that flight just in time. While s1 and s2 came out beaming with me, relieved to be on a flight headed anywhere in India, s3 , our very able public relations cum logistics expert lingered behind to make his final pitch...

Our altered itinerary demanded an additional 6 hours at the airport. I spent the first two making frantic calls to my parents, already perplexed after a 3 hour wait at Anna International to no avail, and then rousing from sleep my uncle and aunt in Bangalore. Very pleased with the way things had turned out (it could have been much worse, you know. Much.) I emailed the adventures to my friends back in the BA. Finally exhausted from all the action, and with no clue as to what time zone my body was operating on, all I knew was if I had to be awake to get on that fated flight, I would need a ton of caffeine. And starbucks won't do.

At that precise moment, s3 strode out into the transit lounge, looking very smug. I knew it couldn't have been the thought of Bangalore that was having this effect, there had to more. Cautiously I asked him if he had managed to get on the flight to B'l anyway. Of course, he said. Now that the flight is re-scheduled and everything, we have plenty of time get some coffee and toast as well. In fact that little coffe pub called Toastbox over by the kiosks serves some excellent coffee, he added. Re-scheduled?! Doesn't matter. Excellent coffee- a more pressing matter. I unceremoniously ended our conversation right there and made a bee line to the Toastbox.....

Words cannot adequately describe the exquisite aroma and the rich flavour of the gourmet coffee made from freshly ground beans, foamed with full cream and condensed milk, and sugar to top it off. The boy serving at the kiosk even had the accent intact (likely a Singaporean one, but to my ears, it rang like music from the land of filter coffee) when he said 'kopi-ya?' and whisked out this incredible intoxication, with a side of thick toast buttered on both sides, nay, soaked literally and yet crisp...I believe the very act of sipping into that manna set things right with the world; as s3 came and sat down at my table, and narrated the story of how he'd badgered Mr.(another) S (I'm afraid) into summoning an IA representative out of bed and into re-routing the flight to B'lore via Chennai, it confirmed my belief. This called for celebration. The news was relayed to s1 and 2 and a third set of boarding passes made for the night (or morning or who cares!). And what better way to celebrate than over another cup of kopi! :).... Bliss- served in a cup.

Streams...
Drops of pink paint.
Perfectly formed, perfectly rounded.
Glistening liquid buds, about to cast its seeds,
into clear water fall,
not without a tinkle, nor a nervous quake.
Bouncing off the satin of white and blue,
for a moment in mid-air;
As if unsure, as if undone,
before its surrender, into the rippling crests...
Drops of pink paint.
Momentarily pink.
Soon to be engulfed by ever widening reams.
With the next shining pearl following in its wake,
attempting a brief renewal, asserting its own hue.
Alas! Very brief, is this defiant affair.
Trembling as it were, towards it's eternal path;
A new identity forged- of all merged in one, as one with all it rests...

I've been thinking about this for quite a while now and the thought fills me at once with amusement and dread.... The first time the idea crept into my mind, I remember it was a regular Wednesday morning....
Barely two weeks after I had started working full-time (rudely thrust out of the coccoon of student-life for more than two decades). Half the working week had gone by in a blur and I can't say I was eagerly awaiting the rest; the aroma of Starbucks coffee wafted through the bullet train expressing on to Redwood city, the caffeine seemingly charging the drinkers with a nervous energy that I am convinced is what feeds into the bullet, a little different from the inertia that would cause them to lurch ahead at two feet above the ground as the train pulled up to its stop.
Two new members had joined our coach that day. That it was the very first coach is no small matter. One, a blunette (for lack of a better description of the plumes) who gives a curious start every morning just as she boards the train at Palo Alto, as if she cannot fathom what makes the conductress so chirpy! And the other an elderly gentleman, who seems quite content to ride the entire way standing (I suspect he was in the not-so-eneviable position of being faced with an empty seat and the blunette at the same time).
The landscape zipped past as the train pulled out, changing from college town to cozy suburban downtown becoming increasingly nondescript with every passing minute. Close to 7 minutes into the ride, the scenery, if one can call it that, takes an abrupt turn to relentless concrete as we zone in on Redwood city, only to be interrupted by enormous dumpsters or unused parking lots that serve the same function.
As the train slows to a halt at the Sequoia station, itis as if the commuters want to remind the conductress to preempt the announcement even before it is due with their mere presence, as if doing so would get them to their destination even sooner. And once there, the impatience of 8 people crammed into the vestibule waiting to disembark is comical in its antithesis to the unhurried mechanical motion of the doors opening. The simple pleasures of basking for a moment in the unfiltered rays of early morning sunlight, watching tens of pigeons fly out in waves at the commotion, marvelling at the misplaced semi-European cobbled-stone pathway with street-side cafes just opening their doors, sigh! seem entirely lost on the milling crowd.
The blunette and I take the same bus to work from the train station, oh yes, the commute is far from over. And I can't help but wonder if she might not hesitate to elbow her way through if the mass waiting to board at Sequoia did not part like the Red Sea did for Moses when she clumsily gets off- three bags in tow , and a jacket she flings over with scant regard for the unsuspecting coffee-holder unfailingly trapped behind her! In any event, we plow ahead through the throng, and from there on it's a race to the shuttle: the test of Darwinian principles every morning as 10 commuters from 2 arriving trains scamper to get a space to sit in the 16 seater already filled with smug riders from the previous trains! (There is one exception though, the roller boarder, who swagggers in, as if he couldn't care less if a double decker careened to a halt as he glided across from the platform to the shuttle in one smooth manouevre, startling squirrels and the limping ragpickers in his wake).
With the distinct advantage of youth speeding my gait, I usually make it effortlessly to the shuttle, although never failing to wonder why I am compelled to make the dash while tracking this parallel thought. Ah! the thought...I wonder if the blunettes of Sequoia spare the time for thought and such things. Not the kind that cracks the genome of a mustard seed or the one that luanches a hundred synchronous missiles, or the one that plots the dollar against every greek letter and third world currency, I am sure that mankind has been thinking furiously about these matters for so long now, that it would be heresy to suggest they didn't think. No, but the kind of thoughts that must cross the minds of wide-eyed wondrous eight-year olds.? Ack, in any case, that was an aside.
Back to the subject of the musing that makes the corners of my lips curl up and twitch uncontrollably every morning. It is almost preposterous, as if I was transported by some strange quirk of fate to observe this age, some time machine from the past (or the future? or are they the same?) What am I doing thinking such things, the very windows of the bullet seems to scream at me, when the world about seems to have dismissed such notions, nay, has not even entertained the possibilities as it goes about its business. The thought, I must hold on to it as my source of inspiration and delight...before I ramble on again...here it is...What would happen if invisible lead weights were somehow magically tied to everyone's feet, and I mean but everyone?