Do "Times Change" .... or is it that "Time Changes" ... or is both

The Times they are A-Changin'

 The byline to the title of this post is of course, borrowed from one of the greatest hits of 1964, belted out by Bob Dylan, the winner of the Nobel prize for Literature in 2016. The panoply of the 'lit prize' victors boasts such luminaries as Ernest Hemingway, Rudyard Kipling, Bernard Shaw, our own guruji, Rabindranath Tagore, and more recently, high-brow giants like Gunter Grass, Orhan Pamuk, et al.

Traditionally, the PRIZE has been the sole preserve of writings like novels, short stories, poetry, drama, etc., that represented literary expression characterised by lyrical beauty, poetic intensity, and artistic power; hence the big names in the Valhalla. The fact that the selection committee had the temerity to step out of its comfort zone, and award the lit prize to a plebeian 'song writer' signifies that both the selectors, and the prize have come of age.

For sheer talent with language, Bob Dylan has no equal; but for a folk-musician to rub shoulders and join the roster of the winners till date - it was assumed that the snobbery of the Nobel would never let that occur. That, it has indeed happened, is an acknowledgment of the fact that art forms can be varied, expansive and modern. Further, it is an endorsement that "times indeed are a changin'." The quintessential proof of the pudding, ... in this day and age, to access a literature Nobel laureate's work , you rush to Amazon; to access Bob Dylan's work, you hit YouTube or iTunes!

Whatever be the compulsions of the times, the award being conferred on Bob Dylan, whose prolific versatility spreads across blues, folk, and rock-n-roll, would definitely be music to the ears of all his fans - yours truly included.

The Detailed Brief

 The Detailed Brief

There are oxymorons and oxymorons ... true lies, bug-free code, comfortable bra (this is garnered from responses of uncountable numbers (an oxymoron, itself) of women), considerate boss, elementary calculus (this one is a close second to the detailed brief), friendly fire, ... all of these present a veritable treasure-trove; then there are the rhetorical ones, ...  business ethics, military intelligence, male adult, bureaucratic efficiency, gunboat diplomacy, unbiased journalism, happily married, honest politician, ... but me thinks, the most oxymoronic of oxymorons, is the *Detailed Brief*. By *brief*, am of course referring to a document or report on a specific subject ... and not the other variety, that wraps a man's mystique and mystery ... aka mens' innerwear

A Brief, is supposed to be just that, .... *brief*. During Naval training courses on writing skills, we were taught the ABCLs of writing ... accuracy, brevity, clarity and logic. Then, that profound thinker, Aristotle, gave us the concept of ethos, logos and pathos, as a means of persuasive writing. Btw, I always thought *thinkers* had the world's greatest jobs, ... they just had to, think; I'd give my right arm, and some, to land that job. But then, I digress

Picture this ... you've just moved out of a high-level briefing from the Command Centre (Ops Room, War Room, Conference Room, ... call it what you want), and you're in the business of wolfing down your delayed lunch (delayed by that interminable briefing),  when the boss barges in, asking you for a three-quarter page, detailed brief, on the discussions at the briefing, .... to brief his boss (The sacro-sanctity of that page length is another anecdotal riot worth recounting, but I desist and resist the temptation of launching into it, for the sake of focus, to complete this narrative)

You know, you have your task cut out. You also know that it's impossible to fit in all the details of that  briefing in three-quarters of a page. On the other hand,  you don't dare extend that Lakshman Rekha, since any brief extending beyond that danger zone, is consigned to the garbage bin, or better still, confined to the *pending* tray. What happens to the stuff in the pending tray, is yet another story, well worth a brief on its own ... but, then, I digress again

So here you are, ready to bite the bullet, and attempt, what several others before you have attempted (as will countless others, after you) ... the hopelessly impractical task of sticking to the dead-line (the "line" here refers to that, dividing the page into three-quarters length ... crossing which, would leave you dead for all practical purposes). This calls for unleashing the most out-of-the-box, innovative ideas that one has ever had. That's when all the years of roughing it out in the trenches, case studies, best practices, on-the-job/ hands-on training, experiential learning, etc., come to your rescue ... in the form of Microsoft Word.

First, the font size ... a Times New Roman 12 allows you to fill in far more than what an Ariel 14 would. But, one has to be careful ... if the font size is so small that the boss has to squint, it won't pass his muster ... much less, that of your boss's boss. The instinct and gut feel that you've built up over years of practise, bails you out here. You cross the thin dividing line, of the brief being read or shred, by settling in to the bargain of an unheard of font ... the Garamond 13

Next, margins. Many a career has seen make-and-break, by playing the right or wrong margin. The guys who got it right, made it, ... the unlucky others, were reduced to being *marginal* players. The standard MS Word 2.54 cm (or 1 inch) top-bottom-left-right, can be scientifically (and painstskingly, through trial and error), tweaked, to fit in far more than what Bill Gates (or Satya Nadella) and his crack team of software developers would have imagined

Finally, there's the page format or size. As a vetean, you would know that an A4 is a tad larger than Letter size ... so there you go. If you are the intrepid variety, you may even opt for a Legal size (trust me, you can pack in, in that size, with the right font and margins, far more than what you can in a decent booklet). This, of course, depends on your _sprezzatura_ quotient (look that up, pals, it's worth it), and the extent of your boss's sense of humour

A few words about line spacing, wouldn't be incongruous here; it's another potent and pointed arrow, in the quiver of the authors of detailed briefs. MS Word has the perfect answer for this, too. Space it to 1.15, and you've just about enough for corrections and annotations, while ensuring that the final version remains within that all important bottom line

When all else fails, you've the ultimate weapon,  the brahmastra, as it were ... Enclosures, Appendices, Annexures, ... call them what you may, but it can be put to very effective use, to save your skin, nay, emerge unscathed from that terrible war of wits. Shove everything that's beyond three quarter of a page, into Es, As or As. Nobody will be the wiser

You'll  notice here, that I haven't yet touched upon presumably the most important part of the detailed brief, viz., the content of the brief. But that's the easiest part of the job, since you have it on your finger-tips. It's the bells and whistles that kills

~ AlphaAlpha

Naval Customs and Traditions

 O tempora! O mores!

The Navy has some timeless traditions, honoured and respected, owing to the sweat, blood and tears that have been shed by officers and sailors, since the time the first intrepid man stepped out into the sea, to explore the unexplored, chart the uncharted and navigate the un-navigated. These tradions, for the uninitated, would seem strange, maybe even bizzare. But, they hold a cosy corner in the heart of every seafarer, past and present, and am sure, as long as the adventurism and glamour of the sea beckons, it will warm the cockles of the hearts of future mariners as well. (Btw, these traditions cut across the navies of the world ... I've been on French, Australian, US and British warships, and the experience has been the same, nay, identical)

Let me try to present a pleasant flavour of those traditions, ... a couple of them, that relates to the evening hours after sunset, when dusk has fallen, twilight has reluctantly given way to the soft darkness of the night, and sundowners are ready to be downed

Before we come to that, we have to address the change of rig

The rig, in Naval parlance, is the uniform worn by Naval officers and sailors (Tradition no. 1). There are dozens of uniforms that we wear, each appropriate to a day, hour, time, season or occasion, ... but, I'll keep that aside for another day.  At sunset, the national flag is lowered on board Naval ships and establishments (Tradition no. 2). Soon afterwards, in summer time, Officers jettison their day dress (it could be anything from No. 2 to 4 to 4A to 8 to 8A to 9 or 10 ... that's another story, for another day), freshen up, and slip into what's known as the Red Sea rig (aka 6Bs ... Tradition no. 3; btw, all the Navies of Commonwealth countries, have the same uniforms and ranks)

The destination now, is the Officers Mess. But, then, the Navy, strictly, doesn't have an Officers Mess; instead, it has what's known as the Wardroom (Tradition no. 4). Once in there, the officer is now bubbling for the bubbly, or for any of the amber or colourless fluids, depending on his preferred poison, to wet his beak and quench his thirst. That's when Tradition no. 5 jumps in. There're no bars in the Wardroom. Instead we have an Ante-room, with the choicest fluids lined up, for admiring, savouring or imbibing. There's a chair reserved for the Vice President of the Mess Committee (VPMC), the seniormost officer on board, below the Commanding Officer (CO)/ Captain. This chair is never occupied by anyone, much less, by any lesser mortal (Tradition no. 6). "Why not the CO," you may ask. "Simple," I say.  Because, the CO on his own ship, is never a member of the Wardroom (Tradition no. 7).  He can't walk into the Wardroom, and comes in, only if invited by the VPMC or any other member of the Mess (btw, all officers on board, are members of the Mess). Thus, the Wardroom is possibly the only place on the warship, that the Captain of the ship has no access to (Tradition no. 8)

Onward ho, now, to the last tradition for this post. Once the glasses are filled with the choicest fluids, a toast is raised by the officers, to the sound of *Cheers*. However, unlike at other social do's, no clinking of glasses here (Tradition no. 9). That's because, the sound of clinking glasses is uncannily similar to the solemn toll of the ship's bell, that's sounded, when a sailor dies and is buried at sea. It is believed that the clinking sound will herald the death of a sailor

Btw, a seaman who dies on board is not buried at sea. Instead  he's committed to Davy Jone's Locker  at the bottom of the sea

So much, for now. Godspeed, fair winds and following seas .... till we meet again

Yours aye,

AlphaAlpha

The Noblest of them All ...

This piece was written as an after-thought, on the recent occasion of the graduation of a friend's daughter (Drishty Sen), from the Armed Forces Medical College (AFMC), Pune, one among the most credentialed medical institutes in the country. My dear friend of long-standing, Captain (IN) Sudeep Sen, had the proud privilege of witnessing his next generation being commissioned into the exalted wing of the armed forces - the Army Medical Corps (AMC). I wish Lieutenant Drishty Sen, the diligent daughter-doctor, dollops of doughtiness to do her duty.

Every profession, that contributes to the improvement, growth or development of the world, is honourable. Teaching builds the next generation by making them learn to think rationally, logically, ethically and morally, so that the world order moves on a progressive path. Civil engineering helps build structures, houses, bridges, airports, power plants, etc., for people to advance in their endeavours. Ditto, for other branches of engineering. Designers, scientists and technologists help conceive a future generation of tools and solutions for sustainable development. Accountants, analysts, bankers and consultants help build personal, enterprise and national wealth. Performing artists, painters, movie-makers, musicians, and their ilk, supply an endless stream of fantasies and illusions, that help us to indulge in our imaginative world, unrestricted by reality, providing a sort of an escape route to a temporary oasis, that helps people momentarily forget the drudgery and humdrum lives that they usually lead.

While all of the above professions, and many, many more that I haven't listed here (fir want of time and space) are indeed dignified, what separates these from the noble professions, is the fact that the latter saves lives, the most valued and precious commodity that humankind has. The picture that immediately springs to ones mind, when we talk of saving lives, is that of a medical practitioner (doctors, nurses, assistants, etc, but most often, a doctor). She/he is at it (saving lives, that is), 24X7, very often at one's own discomfort, many a time in critical cases, stressed out by the inevitability of not being able to live up to the expectations of patients and their relatives, who fervently hope for Lord Almighty to dispense a miracle routed through the doctor, a deux-ex-machina as it were. 

The demands of this profession are unbearably high. It calls for a heavy dose of diligence, perseverance, altruism, industriousness and above all, a relentless passion to hammer away at the ills that plague one's patients. No wonder, the practitioners of this profession are considered demi-gods.

There is yet another ennobling profession - soldiering - that saves lives, in this case, in an abstract manner. A soldier is entrusted with the task of protecting national security. It is always a passion, an intense emotion, possibly an irresistible desire (bordering on the irrational, at times), to save the lives of your countrymen and protect the nation's sovereignty against adversary's machinations. While this profession, as like many others, demand a high degree of dedication or devotion, determination and discipline, what separates soldiering from other professions, is the need, at times, to offer the ultimate sacrifice - one's life. No other profession offers *martyrdom*. 

In most other professions, the accolades that you win are for yourself, and you would more often than not, be able to participate in the festivities associated with your achievement. In soldiering, the laurels that one wins, is for one's motherland,  and many a time, the attendance of the dramatis persona, at the ceremony to celebrate it, is posthumous. 

So, Drishty, be proud of the fact that you're not only a doctor, but an armed forces one at that. It's a double privilege that not many would be fortunate to enjoy. In fact, in your case, it's a triple privilege, being a "lady" "armed forces" "doctor" (I'll save the gender part, the glass ceiling for ladies and such other stuff for a piece later). Ad interim, live up to the beatified status that your profession accords, and serve your motherland and patients with glory (in that order). God bless and fair winds!!!

Loads of Learning at the Age of 37

Recently, caught up with a video on whatsup, by Surf. The meat of the matter is a task to be performed by children and adults alike, a set of obstacles to be surmounted ... while the children who fail, try repeatedly and finally succeed, the adults give up on failing in their first attempt and are unsuccessful in finishing the task. The learning from the video is that children are not afraid to try repeatedly, while the adults shy away after a failure.

I  have a completely different take on the wisdom imparted by the Surf video ... entirely based on personal experience. I started learning to play the violin - western classical - at the Delhi School of Music, at the ripe age of 37. I have always wanted to play that instrument  ... finally decided 'it's now or never'. For a start, my teacher (Mr Biju Lawrence), a great violinist (ex of Trinity College, London), and an even greater soul (as it would unwind later), was possibly about a decade younger to me. I used to attend classes at 9.00 AM on Saturdays (being holidays). The earlier class (from 8.20 to 9.00 AM) used to be attended by a 14 year old girl (who became a very good friend of mine, and so did her dad, the owner of a high-end exclusive luxury bar in Gurgaon ... but that's another story, for another time). The student who succeeded me (from 9.00 to 9.40 AM) was a 7 year old Romanian girl, naughty, witty, chirpy and as  loquacious as a 7-year old can be. Daughter of the first Chancellor at the Embassy of Romania in Delhi, I fathomed after repeated attempts at sweet-talking, that she would rather run around the luscious lawns of the music school than wield  the wood. But then, I guess, in Europe, playing the violin, or the piano, or the harp, ... is a sign of your sophistication and having 'arrived', especially if you belong to that class of society where it is considered de rigueur, so she had little choice, poor girl.

Enough of that digression. Let me just confess that I had to bear the ignominy of being sandwiched (in my classes) between a toddler and a teenager ... and all three of us, at around the same stage of learning.

The school had a practice of having monthly concerts on the last Saturday of every month. About 6 months into my classes, my instructor asked me if I would like to attend the forthcoming  one as a spectator (I suspect, since I was nowhere near to even playing the beginners 'A' Scale in tune, despite his best efforts). I sat through a memorable and mesmerising experience of an hour or so ... of kids of various ages, shades, colours and in different grades of their music lessons, presenting their prowess on the violin, viola, piano, drums, guitar, clarinet, saxophone, bassinet, keyboard, synthesiser ... the works. I began to be a regular at the monthly concerts from then on. A couple of more months down the line, my beloved teacher silently exploded the most deafening bombshell next to my ear (this despite the fact that I had been in the Navy for more than 15 years by then, and explosions from an anti-ship missile here and  a rocket launcher there, had been par for my course in my Naval career). He said,  'how about playing at the next monthly concert?'. I was stunned and stoned. The fact was that I was just a couple of weeks into my first melody  (Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, in 'A' Major Scale, for those interested) and had never in my scariest dreams imagined that  I would ever have to perform (on the violin). Couple that with the rather contrary fact that my other class- fellows (the toddler and the teenager) jumped at the idea.

I refused point-blank ... no amount of coaxing and cajoling by my teacher, my better half or my kids could make me change my mind to subject myself to the public humiliation and mortification that I imagined I would face, were I foolish enough to wield the violin publicly.

Good liquor, often has this uncanny ability of pushing false bravado into your soul. Two drams down and it makes you commit or commit to carry out the most outrageous acts of courage ... one that you wouldn't want, in your stable state of mind, even your most stubborn enemy to take on. Long story short, in a moment of weakness induced by the spirited waters of Isley (Glenfiddich, for the curious), I committed hara kiri (Seppuku, for the Japs amongst us), by acquiescing to perfom at the forthcoming monthly concert. Next day, when sober, the import and the impact of the earlier night's decision whacked me so hard that I had no time for a hangover. But being a 'fauji', you learn it early enough to take it smack on your face. So I got on with the daily preparations with vigour.

However, nothing had prepared me for the stage fright on the day of the performance. Mind you, I had built quite a reputation by then in the Navy, of being a mean guy with chic presentations to the highest level of hierarchy, without flinching or batting an eyelid. So, I was myself taken aback by this new-found fright. That's when my very-learned-but-young violin teacher unleashed two pieces of wisdom ... he said: -

(a) "As far as I am concerned, you and the two young girls are both in Grade 1 of violin, the equivalent of Class 1 in school, so if at all you want to compare, don't look at the age of your co-students, look at what Grade they are in and try to match up."

(b) You're scared to perform because you're scared to make mistakes ... the kids are not scared, because it's expected of them to make mistakes and learn ... as you grow older, you feel you're no longer eligible to make mistakes, because it might prove costly. While that may be true in your professional life (you may be reprimanded, taken to task, or worst case, you may lose your job, depending on the severity of the fault), and even in your personal life (for instance, society won't pardon you for making a mistake with your kids' education or their lives for instance), in this case, you're in Grade 1, Class 1 in school, and unless you make mistakes, you won't learn.  You're scared becayse you feel the spectators will judge your performance based on your age and not on the Grade of vioiln schooling you're in. That's true as well ... because they are entitled to look at you as an adult, and an adult is not expected to make mistakes. But you press on, and give it your best shot, make mistakes, learn from them, and improve your performance."

I was shocked, enlightened, and humbled at that piece of wisdom. Suffice to say that, I went on to actually carry the day flawlessly with my performance ... all thanks to that sage piece of advise. Thank you, Biju.