One in a Billion

The perils of stationery shopping (in Mumbai)

2012-01-23T18:36:00.002+05:30

I was at a local stationery shop today, looking for an obscure product, so I decided to get some help. With no uniforms to guide me, I thought the nondescript middle-aged man idling on the shop floor might be an employee. So I asked him, "Do you work here?"

He got very upset.

"No, do YOU work here?!" He glared at me and added, "Do I LOOK like I work here?"

I tried to keep a straight face and asked him, "What do people who work here look like?"

"Not like me," he scoffed, and then turned around.

The man behind the cash register was less offended when I asked for his help. He was also wearing a Taqiyah, a traditional Muslim cap.

I will crush my new year’s resolution (will you?)

2012-01-03T09:18:00.001+05:30

“Efficiency is doing things right. Effectiveness is doing the right things.” –Peter Drucker

My goal this year is to recompose 20 pounds of my weight, i.e. the sum of fat lost and muscle gained should be 20 pounds or greater. I plan to crush this goal, and for once I am sure that I will.

I’ve been experimenting with productivity hacks and have finally found a technique that works for me.

Here’s my secret technique: I do not do ANYTHING before I finish my yoga workout, unless something directly makes it EASIER to do my workout.

Each day I wake up, make coffee, drink the coffee and if I’m hungry, eat a banana. I read about yoga while I’m doing this. When my coffee and banana are done, I start my workout. I put my phone on silent, in a drawer. These activities make my workout easier by boosting energy, reducing hunger, and neutralizing distractions. Even my reading material improves my workout.

Things that make my workout “easier” must relate directly to the activity, so, for example, adjusting the fan and playing some pump-up music would be allowed. While replying to an urgent email may take it off my mind, it does not make sirsanana (headstand pose) any easier, so it is not allowed. Shutting the computer off (not sleep, not hibernate), however, is a good idea.

I also make sure not to schedule any commitments after 10 p.m. so that I can get a good rest, or before 12 p.m., so that I always have enough buffer time. If I’m tired, I go slowly, or skip some parts. I don’t worry too much when this happens. I just focus on my one, simple rule – not doing anything else until I finish – and I usually wind up doing at least 90 percent of the two-hour workout.

I can use this rule for any activity that I deem the most important thing I want to do every day. For me, it happens to be the same thing every day, but I could also use a task list. To make the technique possible, I do need to prioritize (A recent injury created the necessary impetus to prioritize my workout). When my daily goal becomes writing a book, my rule will be, “I cannot do anything before I finish writing one sentence.”

I’ve used several additional tactics to further increase the odds that I’ll achieve my goal. One is to create pressure by publicly stating the goal, which I’ve done by writing this blog. Another is to make the goal into a competition with real incentives, so I’ve made a financial bet with five friends. The last is to consistently measure my results, which I’m doing with a simple spreadsheet.

Note: Tim Ferriss has been a great source of guidance. I’m currently reading his bestseller, The 4-Hour Body.

I don’t have a career path, and neither should you

2011-12-19T10:34:00.002+05:30

Somewhere along the line we bought into the paradigm of thecareer path. This is the notion that careers should be characterized by alinear route leading to a known destination.

A path is a pragmatic vehicle. The same path can be followedby droves of people, and in fact it is more efficient if we all choose the samepath.

Within this paradigm, I can assume that if I chart out a career path and amdisciplined in adhering to it, I can expect to attain increasing status, position,and income.

The problem with the paradigm of the career path is that itrests on a flawed assumption: that people know now where they want to be in thefuture.

Yet, it is self-evident that as we live our lives, we learnmore about ourselves, and become exposed to new ideas and opportunities thatcould drastically alter what we want in life.

I’m not saying that everyone should change careersconstantly. After all, the things we value and enjoy may not change muchthrough our lives, and it’s likely that certain career themes would remain constant.

I’m saying that maybe our wholesale acceptance of the careerpath paradigm causes us to turn down opportunities that will make us happier,simply because they do not advance us along "the path.” In fact, we may never evennotice or consider these opportunities in the first place. Like horses withblinders, we can only move straight ahead.

Suppose that today I’m an entrepreneur, but I’ve alwaysdreamed of going to China for a year to study the ancient art of Kung Fu, whichstrives to achieve balance through hard work.

Under the career path paradigm, I view the Kung Fu as adetour, a slower, non-optimized route to success. Kung Fu will not help me growmy company.

I prefer to think of my career as a dance or painting. When painting, it is acceptable to turn the brush in any direction at any time,or to another part of the canvas. There is no notion of forward or backward.

A dance or painting is a work of instinct and imagination, and mostimportantly, a unique manifestation of what’s inside.Careers should be like that too.

Under this paradigm, if I have Kung Fu in my heart, I oughtto do Kung Fu. If, after one year of Kung Fu, I no longer want to be anentrepreneur, then I have saved years of my life that I might have spentworking toward a false goal.

If, however, I still want to be an entrepreneur, I willpursue this goal without the regret that I subverted my Kung Fu dream toachieve it. And better yet, I will bring to bear the balance and discipline ofKung Fu in all that I do.

Why do you want to be an entrepreneur, anyway?

2011-12-14T16:14:00.000+05:30

"Success is going from failure to failurewithout loss of enthusiasm." – Winston Churchill¹

Around 2007, I decided thatI should one day become an entrepreneur. I reasoned that I was a creative person,always thinking of ways to improve things around me. I was comfortable withuncertainty. I liked the idea of being my own boss, of being free.

Yet, it took me years tobuild the courage to start my own company.

What if my idea wasn’t goodenough? What if I tapped out my savings? What if I became depressed working alone?What if I just wasn’t cut out for it? If I failed, would anyone still hire me?

As it turns out, I wasasking the wrong questions.

Having finally started acompany, I’ve learned that only one thing matters: Complete commitment to theoutcome.

By "outcome" I don't mean an IPO,a sports car and a mansion. I mean that an entrepreneur must be completely committed tosolving a particular problem for a particular group of people.

The commitment can come froma variety of sources – obsession, passion, need, discipline – but the completenessof that commitment is essential. In contrast, great ideas are relatively useless².

Imagine you are shipwreckedand stranded on an island. You have one flair. Your first survival strategymight be to shoot that flair in hopes of being spotted. But you will also tryto think of a hundred other ways to survive. You are completely committed tothe outcome (survival), and will try as many ideas as you possibly can toachieve it.

As an entrepreneur, yourideas will fail repeatedly. It’s a statistical certainty³. You will workwithout income indefinitely. You will mostly work alone. In other words,if you want to succeed, you will have to persevere in spite of being a poor,lonely, failure.

To summarize, I've learned two lessons:First, if you’re not completely committed to the outcome, then you will inevitablygive up. Second, if you want to be an entrepreneur, you should stop worryingabout your idea, and do whatever it is you’re most passionate about. You’llfigure out the rest⁴.

"Don't ask yourself what the world needs. Askyourself what makes you come alive and then go do that. Because what the worldneeds is people who have come alive.” – Howard Thurman

[1]   Why Ihire people who fail, my inspiration for writing this
[2]   Amazingessay about ideas by PaulGraham, Y Combinator Founder
[3] A websearch with the terms “what percentage of entrepreneurs fail”
[4]   Stellarcompilation of startup lessonsthat helps me figure things out

Twitterize Congress

2011-09-27T18:42:00.001+05:30

What if Congress had acharacter limit on new legislation? I think 5000 characters would do the trick.

Pork-barrelling would benext to impossible. Laws would be incremental and focused on single issues.Complex issues would be broken into pieces.

Lawmakers would have to usethe simplest possible language. The layperson (even school children!) couldunderstand (and therefore participate in) politics.

New laws could quickly bedrafted and understood. Debates would focus on few topics and Congressmen couldplace votes without compromising one position for another.

Best of all, the “iParticipate”app would hit the top 10 in the app store. Lawmakers could poll theirconstituencies in the time it takes for a floor debate. Instead of reading thenews on the train, commuters could weigh in with votes and opinions on thelatest bills. Those will long commutes could even draft bills en route to the office. Talk about crowd-sourcing!

It’s time for Politics 2.0.

Planning my day like a chimpanzee

2011-08-27T21:27:00.006+05:30

When you start your computer, what is the first thing you do? My answer, until today, was open the internet browser to check email, then Facebook. If you own a smart phone, you might not even wait until you reach your computer to initiate this ritual. I used to check my BlackBerry in my first thirty seconds of wakefulness each morning, and often before nodding off every night.

Today I realized the terrific folly of this arrangement: I am letting other people dictate the FIRST THING I DO EVERY DAY. This sets the tone for my whole day. Equally egregious, the last thought that enters my mind before sleeping is, again, someone else’s priority. Who knows how much sleep – precious unconscious time for problem solving – I’ve wasted sorting out someone else’s worries?

This is completely backwards. My own priorities should be my first priorities. Other people’s priorities should come after mine.

This sounds obvious to me now, and might to you also. But email and Facebook have a way of making us feel good. They give us something to do, make us feel busy, validate that someone else is thinking of us. When I boot up to find ten unread mails and five Facebook notifications, my ego is there in the background shrieking like an excited chimpanzee.

Starting tomorrow, BlackBerry charging will occur in the office, and my home page will be my Big List, a Google doc where I capture all the projects I’m working on, planning, or contemplating. I will check email at 11am, and remind friends and colleagues to call with any urgent matters. We’ll see how things evolve from there.

Credit for my revelation goes in part to Tim Ferriss. His book, The 4-Hour Workweek, illustrates how most of our assumptions about how to spend our time are wrong.

Riding in the Kingdom of Heaven - part 2

2011-08-27T20:21:00.000+05:30

Part two of our journey through Himachal Pradesh on two Enfields

Onwards, Upwards
My alarm sounds at five thirty AM. Nannu and Shishu are outside, working on the bikes. The damage includes a set of brake pads and shifter plates, a modest toll in light of what’s to come.

Day two is a short but technical 110km over two 16,000-foot passes. Two hours in, we’re staring down a 20-meter span of rushing water. Spencer doesn’t hesitate, bouncing like a rag doll, his front tire twisting left and right. Five long seconds later he pulls onto the far shore.

I’m halfway across when my front tire goes into a slide. Down I go, submerged in six inches of rushing, icy water. As I hold the 180kg machine off my leg, Spencer sprints toward me and together we haul the bike to the far side.

There’s only a moment for contemplation before I kick the starter and the bike sputters to life. We remount, soaked in glacial water.

Signs of life vanish as we ascend. Rocks and deep snow surround us. At one point, tractors have cleared four meters of snow, creating a dark, icy blue alleyway.

We’re battered by the time we arrive in Sarchu, our second camp. That night sleep eludes us – we’ve gained several thousand feet of altitude, and with a parched throat and pounding headache, I count the seconds until first light.

Sleepless, we cheer ourselves with the rising sun and hot tea. Day Three is our longest, a 250km journey to Leh. Queasy and bedraggled, we scrape our way through the day and reach Leh, relieved.

After a good sleep, we embrace the Leh tourist scene, including a Buddhist lunar eclipse festival and a night at Pangong Lake, a shimmering 125km spectacle hidden between giant peaks. We finish with a trip up the world’s highest motorable road, Khardhung La, at 18,380 feet.

The Return
The return ride can be done in two days, one-time national alpine skiing champion Nannu assures us. “Really tough riders” might do the entire ride in 13 hours, he asserts.

It’s nearly three in the afternoon when we reach the Gala Loops, a set of 21 switchbacks descending 1,400 feet. Nannu spots a shortcut, throws the Gypsy into low gear, Spencer follows and they vanish. When I catch up, Spencer is unscathed but the bike is less fortunate. He looks remorseful, but Nannu is laughing.

After lunch and nine hours of riding, I’m relieved to cross my earlier nemesis – the 20-meter wide stream. By five, the sky is covered in dark clouds and the temperature is falling fast. Shivering and near exhaustion, I stop for a few minutes before I spot a truck coming into view.

On a whim, I mount up, riding his tail to the next village, letting an imagined kinship between us buoy my spirits. Soon joined by Spencer and the Gypsy, we ride the last 30km together. As the valley descends the temperature rises, easing us towards Killong’s welcoming lights.

Crossing Rohtang Pass for a second time brings with it the same treacherous mix of rain, traffic, wind, mud and snow, but we’re prepared. I offer a few condescending looks to naïve city drivers as I negotiate the tiny gaps, and we joyride the two remaining hours home.

For India’s bike enthusiasts, this trip is a rite of passage unlike any other. However, it seems that Spencer’s feat – the foreign kid who rode to Leh on his third day on a bike – is already becoming local legend.

Also featured on: http://www.gqindia.com/content/riding-kingdom-heaven-2

Riding in the Kingdom of Heaven - part 1

2011-08-27T20:20:00.000+05:30

A nine day journey through Himachal Pradesh on two Enfields

I downshift the bike into first gear and brake hastily, a meter from the torrent of glacial water that has obliterated the section of road in front of me. My front wheel dips sharply into the water and the back wheel lands with a thud. I accelerate to maintain momentum, and notice too late that I’m perched atop a one-foot drop. The bike crashes into the rushing grey water, yet by some instinct or grace I move forward. I turn around to watch my brother, Spencer, ride through flawlessly. It’s day one of our trip, and I’m feeling a little tougher and a lot more alive than I did yesterday.

The Preparation
Monsoon rains bombard Mumbai as we board the overnight Rajdhani Express train to New Delhi. I call my mountain guide Arshdeep Sharma to ask about the riding conditions between Manali and Leh. Rohtang Pass opened three days earlier, meaning the ride is possible, but Arshdeep has never heard of a new rider (my brother) making it. We agree to meet in a few days’ time in Nagger, the still-quiet Himalayan village in Kullu Valley where Nannu, as the locals call him, grew up.

Nannu loans Spencer an ancient Pulsar to learn the basics. He sputters around in a dirt patch, stalling often, dropping the bike once, and accidentally accelerating toward a pile of boulders – that classic rider’s rite of passage. A day later, he shifts to the heavier Enfield and India’s chaotic roads.

Rohtang Pass: The First Climb
Arshdeep and his mechanic, Shishu, have loaded up the 4x4 Maruti Gypsy with three drums of petrol, spare parts, and water and snacks to last a few days. We head towards Rohtang Pass at eleven in the morning, naïve to what lies ahead.

After lunch we hit a traffic jam that would make any Indian proud – hundreds of ill-equipped vehicles squeeze past one another, their tires spinning in a foot of mud. Horns blare and voices are raised as spooked drivers skirt the precipitous edge.

Leaving the Gypsy behind, Spencer and I maneuver our way along until we reach an impasse – a 300 kg falling rock has lodged itself against the wheel of a tourist bus. A crew is working to dislodge both rock and bus, while smaller debris continues to fall from above. Shishu appears, signaling to us to park the bikes. We watch in awe verging on horror as he wrangles the bikes one by one up a wall of mud and past the falling rocks.

A few talented taxi drivers and weary truckers also make it to the top of the pass, where we pause to take in the beauty of the view. Nannu cruises by twenty minutes later, grinning like a cartoon hero who has slipped out quietly from under a heap of assailants. Following our arrival, though, no other cars manage to reach the top.

As we descend, it’s nearly six PM and the peaking snow run-off has turned the crumbling hairpin bends into creek beds. A shock of adrenaline hits me as I follow Spencer into a deep, rocky torrent. “Face shot!” I shout, as my helmet visor is doused.

Pulling up alongside, Nannu suggests more prudence. “I can’t stop,” Spencer muses. “I’ll get scared.”

At nine o’clock we roll into our first stopover, Killong. A modest 140km complete, we’re disillusioned and enervated but high on adventure. We stuff down butter chicken and roti and collapse into bed.

Also featured on: http://www.gqindia.com/content/riding-kingdom-heaven

Supervillain love

2011-07-09T13:16:00.001+05:30

A long time ago, I fell in love with a girl. The Girl was attractive, brilliant, sassy, independent, interesting – I was hooked. She also possessed a mysterious ability to see straight through the slightest posturing of my ego and to mercilessly poke holes in it. This was sheer torture, but it was perhaps the most attractive feature of all, evoking the way a supervillain loves a hero – a nemesis who creates a profound raison d’être.

If this sounds sane, it isn’t entirely. This nemesis love was insufficient to sustain us as a couple. However, over two years after our breakup we reconnected and a tight friendship instantly blossomed.

Though special, the friendship remained tumultuous – a state of affairs that I eventually accepted as destiny – but without the steroid of romance to inflate our conflicts. We both pursued other relationships, untainted by jealousy.

I was in the midst of ending another such relationship – I had reflected deeply and gathered a great deal of courage to do so – when it occurred to me that I still had feelings for the Girl.

Like many guys before me, I wondered, “Should I tell her and risk losing her friendship, or should I hide my feelings and maintain the status quo?”

Propped up by the courage (and adrenaline) that I had acquired for the breakup, I called the Girl immediately. First, like close friends do, I told her how the breakup went, and she comforted me. Then, I dropped the bomb on her.

She did not receive the news well. In her view, I had compromised a lifetime of friendship to serve my whimsical greed. She said she’d need time to recover. The conversation ended abruptly.

Two weeks later she called to tell me that she loved me – as a friend – but that nonetheless our friendship was over. “I do not want to communicate any more, in any way.” Years hence, both of us have kept this commitment.

A story like this one – guy and girl are friends, guy breaks the news to the girl that he loves her – was recounted to me recently over a drink. The girl was not only unaware of her friend’s love, but was also in a committed relationship when he approached her. The story, as told to me, portrayed the guy as a selfish perpetrator, lacking respect for the girl.

I argued that the guy had made the right decision – that he needed courage to tell the truth at the risk of losing her completely. The unpleasantness that the girl experienced was a cost of that truth, but it did not make his action wrong.

I sometimes feel sad that I lost a friendship that was once so special, but I do not feel guilt. If my decision was wrong, I do not regret it. Perhaps supervillains simply have an easier time forgiving themselves.

Mumbai demystified

2011-07-02T11:51:00.001+05:30

About a year ago my friend Hasnain asked me to write a blog about how to adapt as an expatriate. I never felt exactly qualified to write about this, since every city is different, but recently I wrote a piece about adapting to life in Mumbai, published at http://www.cnngo.com/mumbai/life/12-rules-expat-life-mumbai-373428.

Mumbai Demystified: An Expats View on How to Fit In (or Stand Out Less)

In Mumbai, being a “firang,” as foreigners are called, can be exhausting: from the traffic and pollution to heat and the rains. Foreigners stand out worse than Aamir Khan’s eyeballs, making us targets for unwanted attention. Still, after twenty months, I’ve succeeded in making this grimy gem my home. Here are some lessons I’ve learned on how to fit in, even if I can’t blend in.

1. Eat local grub

I arrived in India with orders to keep a safe distance from street food, raw vegetables and tap water. One of my Dutch ex-flatmates even brushed her teeth with bottled water (I couldn’t believe it either). This is rubbish. I recommend the street food, especially sev puri, pani puri, and the toasted veg sandwich topped with chutney, ketchup and sev. During Ramzan, the Muslim cooking on Mohammad Ali Road is not to be missed (unless you’re vegetarian). The ubiquitous roadside sugarcane juice that’s squeezed in front of you is like an IV of pure energy. The best way to stay healthy is to get a maid who cooks at home with fresh ingredients and dishes that you know are clean, and (damn the doctor’s order) to eat lots of fruits and vegetables. Extra caution when consuming street food during monsoon is advisable.

2. Wear what you usually wear

I don’t find it necessary to wear Indian clothes to fit in anywhere except weddings –although I am a fan of the Nehru collar on the kurta, and the lungi for lounging at home, especially in the heat. Mumbai has enough diversity to bear any fashion tastes, as long as they respect social boundaries for skin exposure. Note, though, that the people of Bombay seem to equate cold AC with high status: movie halls, restaurants and bars, and offices usually keep the setting at 17 or 18 degrees, so bring a shawl or a jacket when you go out.

3. Ride the local trains

The Bombay local trains may be dirty and crowded, but they are also timely, frequent and fast, and have rarely let me down. In a city where the traffic can give you nightmares, knowing the trains – and especially the times of day when they will be empty – has saved me many a headache and a lot of money (a general class monthly pass will cost Rs 100/-, first class Rs 500/-, roughly). Nothing has earned me more respect among locals, either.

4. Skip the directions

Early on in Mumbai I had a traumatic experience with directions: late for a meeting on the other side of the city, I approached a group of taxi drivers and produced a map of my destination. I watched them studying the map for a minute before I noticed it was upside down – none of them could read. After I ditched the map, one of them happily took my fare and helped me reach my destination, on time, by stopping every 500 meters to ask for help. This system can be summarized as follows: Know the major landmark near your destination, and triangulate directions to that landmark with the help of locals.

5. Branch out

In India, there is a saying: “The guest is god.” Though my ego was quick to take the credit, this saying explains why, with just a little effort to branch out of the expat circle, I have been rewarded with invitations from a home-cooked Gujarati dinner in Bhandup to a family Diwali celebration in Chennai to a private DJ battle in Film City. Tempting and fun as it can be to revel in the comfort of sameness – also known as “Expat Night” at a club with a one-syllable name (do other Asian cities have this problem?) – branching out is always more memorable and usually more fun. A few failsafe strategies to get started are food and Bollywood. A group outing can involve catching the latest Shahrukh Khan, Aamir Khan or Salman Khan flick. I ask for occasional translations, but it helps to pick a film in which the plot is obvious. Or, do a culinary tour of one of Bombay’s famous Khau Gullies, the street food alleyways, and share one of everything.

6. Learn where to shop

As an expat on a budget, I’ve often struggled to find what I want in Mumbai, for a decent price, tortured between the convenience of the overpriced premium options and the jungle-like mess of all the others. I’ve learned to abandon the American concepts of “one-stop-shop” and “do-it-yourself” and instead have adopted the twin rules of “ask a local friend where to get it” and “don’t leave the house until I know”. Rumor has it that Ebay.in is gaining traction and is useful especially for electronic accessories and even DIY, though prices are a little volatile.

7. Know when and how to bargain

It’s a myth that everyone cheats foreigners in India. Mumbai vendors are among the straightest in the country, with shopping treasures like Crawford Market, where prices are often fixed and always low. However, as an expat (i.e. not a tourist), I am usually aware when I am likely to receive a tourist price, e.g. if I am standing next to a five star hotel, an international heritage site, or a caged tiger. If suspicious, I ask another customer or a bystander for the price. If I know the price, then I don’t bargain. I repeat my price and I’m always prepared to walk away. (And, I try to keep morality and emotion out of the picture; business is business.)

8. Don’t romanticize the poverty

An entire industry – slum tourism – has been created because of people projecting preconceived notions and fears onto others. As a conspicuously non-Indian person with almost no local language skills, I’ve never felt unsafe in Dharavi or any other Mumbai neighborhood. It’s rare that anyone would spare me a wayward glance, outside of a couple of bored children (be careful – snickering children can hurt the ego!). If you want to familiarize yourself with the less affluent parts of Mumbai, you’ll be fine with a hat and a water bottle, and a few rupees to buy a sugarcane juice along the way. If you’re worried about being mugged, I find the best thing to do is to stop worrying.

9. Embrace Indian ways

Try the yoga. The Iyengar school of yoga was born nearby. Learn a bit of Hindi. I’ve learned enough to delight a few police officers when it counted. Get over the staring. Everyone stares at everyone, not only at foreigners. And most importantly, wag your head. I enjoy head-wagging with abandon, not only to convey the boring Western meaning of “yes” but also (with facial expression adjustments) to indicate “no”, and “maybe”, and to show pleasure, understanding, and even sympathy.

10. Cleanse properly

I’ve found that a high-quality face wash is a big winner. The idea that this city is a “grimy gem” isn’t entirely metaphorical, and your skin may react in unwanted ways. Preventive action is advisable.

11. Monsoon-proof your life

When I first experienced monsoon I was defeated in many ways. Clothes got ruined. Mold took over my house. Social life waned, as I avoided dealing with nights out in the rain. I found that investing in a few pairs of monsoon-worthy sandals, shoes and a champion umbrella was a great start, and having a couple of extras to leave at the office was good insurance against my faulty memory. Moisture absorbing packets for the bedroom are a must. Unfortunately the last, critical strategy is to grin and bear the muck.

12. Leave Mumbai now and then

Even the most hardcore Mumbai expatriate ought to leave the city now and then. For one, I find it necessary in order to recuperate and detoxify. More importantly, India has a lot to offer, from the breathtaking Himalayas to the hospitable South, both of which have provided me necessary reinvigoration to plunge back into the Mumbai haze.

Disagree? Want to add a point? Let me know in the comments.

Romanticizing entrepreneurship

2011-05-14T18:25:00.000+05:30

This blog also appears at http://www.gqindia.com/content/entrepreneur.

Jono is a struggling web entrepreneur and a successful analyst at a prestigious private equity firm in Manhattan. When I asked him which of those identities he chooses to present when he’s mingling at the bar, he was unequivocal: “web entrepreneur.” When facing the social microscope, Jono puts his less successful career on display.

Why? Because the entrepreneur is near the top of the social pecking order, just behind James Bond. It says something not only about what we do, but who we are. “Investment analyst” may connote his intelligence and upward mobility, but “entrepreneur” trumps this, evoking an image of a gutsy individualist, who sticks it to the man. “Entrepreneur” brings to mind Richard Branson, Mark Zuckerberg, Azim Premji and Desh Deshpande.

Underneath all the imagery, what truly distinguishes an entrepreneur from a career man? I’d say that there are five key characteristics.

Knowing the risks. Most people eliminate themselves as entrepreneurs either because they prefer the comfort of a supervisor telling them what to do, or because they fear the uncertainty of what will happen to them if they fail, and so distort the risks involved. An entrepreneur is no less likely to fail than anyone else (and ultimately most of them do), but he accepts the possibility.

Thinking creatively about what we need. Every minute we do things that can be done faster, cheaper, safer, better. Entrepreneurs can even create needs where none previously existed. Tired of taking all that time and effort to eat fruits and vegetables? Pop a multi-vitamin. Don’t know how to meet single women? Try online dating. The number of problems for entrepreneurs to solve will never run out, it’s just a question of tackling them.

Discipline. The Wright Brothers didn’t invent the airplane over lunch. They saw an opportunity and they kept trying until they succeeded. Twice a month I call my friend Collin in San Francisco and we share new ideas and research we’ve done on the market and competitors. We ruthlessly eliminate ideas that don’t pass muster. One idea out of one hundred has the potential to be great, but without the ninety-nine that don’t work, you rarely find the one idea that does. After finding an idea that seems viable, you have to keep that discipline. If it isn’t working, change course.

Delivering now. Entrepreneurs are doers. Seth Godin would say they “ship”, which means they plow through all the work required to ship their product to the customer. Mark Zuckerberg didn’t ask “should I get an MBA before I launch Facebook?” He built a website.

Have a vision – and convert others. The last and critical characteristic of an entrepreneur is the ability to inspire others to get involved. There is no great company with one employee. The second employee and the first investor need to believe success is within their reach, otherwise the company won’t grow.

Now, read this list again with James Bond in mind: Appetite for risk? Creative problem-solving? Discipline? Doer? Check. The only difference is that the entrepreneur, unlike Mr. Bond, can tell people what they do for a living and not have to kill them.

Vipassana anthem

2011-05-06T16:38:00.000+05:30

This article also appears at http://www.cnngo.com/mumbai/play/vipassana-i-survived-10-days-meditation-639422.

In my mind’s eye, I stare at my throbbing kneecap. Above the knee, three strands of muscle are stretched to their limit, and the tendon below the knee is pulsing under pressure. I continue to move down my leg, scanning for sensations, still unsure whether I am succeeding or simply delusional in my efforts to observe my pain objectively.

When people speak of Vipassana, the meditation technique of the Buddha, they talk about rules. For 10 days, this means no talking, no reading, no writing, no music or singing, no eye contact; no killing, including mosquitoes; two light meals per day; and a daily 4 a.m. wake-up bell. For me, these rules were as carefree as a romantic Bollywood dance number, in contrast to the challenge of the meditation.

I start hearing the “you have to do Vipassana” anthem during my first trip to India in 2008. Something about the extremity of the silence appeals to me, and I am easily persuaded that the isolation will be rewarding. At that point, however, I pass up the opportunity.

When I return to Mumbai in 2010, I find myself surrounded by Vipassana again. Shraddha, once a stressed ad film stylist, has turned to yoga full-time after Vipassana (she’s now been twice). It helped her sister Sejal discover her calling as a holistic natural therapist. Alpana, a corporate hotshot, came back from Vipassana in an altered state of consciousness -- for four days she spoke softly, if at all.

When I leave my job, the moment seems perfect. So I register for the free, ten-day course at a Vipassana center in Pune, a few hours from Mumbai.

It’s strange to say I am excited to do a meditation course during which I will suffer, but I am dying to experience whatever it is that my friends have found so powerful, and to dispel whatever fantastical imagery I have in my head. I am tired of having conversations that end with, “you’ll understand after Vipassana.”

After I finish my first hour at Vipassana I understand why: meditation is agonizingly difficult.

In that first of the 100 hours I face -- 10 hours per day -- I confront the reality that my Western conditioning of long days at the office and La-Z-Boy chairs at home hasn’t exactly prepared my back muscles for more than 15 minutes of continuous floor-sitting.

During the first three days, the Anapana breathing technique is taught as a tool to practice subtle awareness. For me that means excruciating back pain, which I overcome only thanks to the faith that my friends had given me in the technique.

Meanwhile, I settle into the oddities of life at the Vipassana ashram. My commute decreases to the 15 meters between the dormitory, meditation hall, water cooler, bathroom and dining hall. I slowly become obsessed with getting the water cooler not to drip when I shut the tap.

I ascribe personalities to the other, nameless 25 meditators based on how they walk, sit, and wash their dishes (it takes me three days to forgive the bald guy for wasting so much water).

During meals, I begin putting my spoon down between bites, and counting my chews. I pass 40 several times.

In my spare time, I walk in short laps around the campus or nap. I stare at the moon, the trees and the birds -- the most stimulating objects I can observe without breaking any rules.

On day four, I am taught the Vipassana technique. Here, one applies the subtle focus learned through Anapana to scan the body for sensations such as pain, stinging, heat, moisture. The goal is to maintain perfect calm and objectivity. In theory, a meditator would learn over time to respond with equanimity to every sensation, no matter how strong one’s cravings or aversions might be towards certain people, experiences, sensations. This ability to respond with mental calmness and an even temper, can be equated to a happier and more contented life.

All the same, day four seems destined to be a day of disillusionment, close to my breaking point. Most unexpectedly, that day also proves to be the turning point. Minutes after I start practicing the Vipassana technique, I suddenly find my pain easing, practically vanishing entirely, to be replaced by an effervescent, tingling sensation.

Though the pain returns, by day five I can sit for an hour without moving. On day six I do two 90-minute sittings. My energy levels increase and I wake up at 3 a.m., ready to start my day. I can’t nap when I try.

And, finally, I start to experience benefits outside my meditation. I access memories of people with whom I had troubled relations, and feel calm and peace for the first time. I even send out vibes of peace and love (don’t snicker), hoping they might feel better too. I conjure fears and unmet goals and decide that the only option is to face these head on. A rock-climbing course and a swimming camp are in my future.

When my Vipassana camp ends, I am ready to resume normal life, including sleeping until after sunrise and consuming my share of pizza and beer.

The difference is in the small things. When I get cut off in the hyper-aggressive Mumbai traffic, I shrug it off; the cacophony of round-the-clock building construction fade; today, when I came home to a kitchen resembling a war zone, I still burned a little bit on the inside, but not for long.

Quietly, here and there, I’ve started to sing the Vipassana anthem.

To learn more about Vipassana, visit www.dhamma.org

Don't follow your passion

2011-04-27T17:33:00.004+05:30

This is a response to today's Acumen Fund blog by Blair Miller, entitled "Unlocking the Levers for Social Change".

Blair makes some suggestions for aspiring social entrepreneurs, such as the students she met at NYU, who wanted to know, "How do I become a social entrepreneur?" Her first, biggest point is that the pathbreaking social entrepreneurs did not wait for someone to give them permission to be a social entrepreneur, nor did anyone tell them the steps involved. They just did it.

She elaborates upon several other suggestions, which she summarizes by saying, "first, figure out your star in this emerging galaxy. Second, follow your passion. Third, deeply understand the system you are trying to change. Fourth, identify the levers that can unlock the tremendous potential that exists in our world today."

I strongly agree with her major point: don’t wait for permission. However I think that young people including me struggle to interpret the advice to “follow their passion”. I hear this over and over but there’s no widely accepted process for discovering one’s passion, let alone converting that into a viable social enterprise!

Firstly, I think I would instead offer up a slightly different spin: start paying attention to need. A need, or a problem, is the seed of a solution. And give yourself permission (back to Blair's first point!) to think creatively, even if 95% of the ideas that emerge are mediocre. In my short and undistinguished career as a social entrepreneur, I’ve found that, more than anything, cultivating the habits of observing needs and brainstorming solutions has been far more fruitful than any other approach to finding my so-called passion.

Secondly, I think ‘passion’ is an intimidating concept to consume; ‘project’ is bite-sized. What if I don’t have the passion of a Mother Teresa or a Mahatma Gandhi or a Bill Drayton? If all those eager students are waiting to be possessed by that kind of passion, they will be waiting a long time. As much as we need saints like these people, we need the everyday Joes of social enterprise who have a great project and who are ready to implement it and make it sustainable. It’s fine, and probably healthy, to set a precedent for these ‘only human’ change-makers. That should remove some of the egotism from the social sector, too.

For me, these mindsets have been the stepping stones that have helped unlock real passion.

A monkey’s guide to responsible giving

2010-12-14T12:35:00.001+05:30

In the past, I have done my charitable giving according to a very strict process.

When did I give? I gave pretty much every time a friend asked me for money on behalf of a nonprofit, unless a lightning strike temporarily erased my short term memory, or a pigeon flew through my kitchen window and started crapping on the dishes. (One of these two events actually happened this week.)

How much did I give? I usually gave between $10 and $100, unless it was a Sunday, Tuesday or Thursday, unless the sun was shining, unless it was an odd day of the month, and unless the wind was blowing. It's all very scientific.

The truth is that I have given money about as irresponsibly and erratically as a monkey with a wad of bills.

The problem with this giving strategy is that not all nonprofits are created equal, and while intentions are almost universally good, results vary tremendously. Some nonprofits are ten times more effective than others, but you and I don't know how to tell them apart, because unlike businesses, nonprofits don't file 10-Ks or go out of business when their customers aren't happy. So long as they know how to raise a buck, they keep on chugging. (And with monkeys like me out there, this is not necessarily difficult.)

What can we do to ensure that we are giving responsibly, without making nonprofits submit a ten page grant application in exchange for our twenty dollars? Here are a few things that I can consider in about ten minutes, to decide whether and how much to contribute.

First, evaluate their people. The quality of the management team of a nonprofit is usually a great indicator of the quality of their work. Check out the bios of the leadership team, and if they don't tell you much detail, then there might not be much to tell. If you have a friend or colleague who has an association with the organization, consider how much you would trust that person to spend your money effectively. Jim Collins articulates this concept in his landmark book, Good to Great, which says that the first step to building a great organization is to "get the right people on the bus". This is true for nonprofits.

Second, look at the quality of their other donors. Because of the huge variation in nonprofit performance, most of the foundations I've worked with are spending a lot of time and energy evaluating which causes to support. (I know this because I've answered their questions.) Without doing this diligence yourself, you can see whether a major foundation or philanthropist has supported the cause by checking out the nonprofit website's "supporters" page or their Annual Report. If you don't recognize the names, try using your search engine of choice. Searches on their top donors should always turn up unambiguous information within the top 5 results (or higher).

Third, look for serious and sensible efforts to measure impact. Responsible nonprofits know the perils of working without assessing results, and devise metrics to give them feedback on how they are doing. Be wary of nonprofits which focus only on how many people they serve, or how many centers they operate. Look for metrics which talk about how well they served those people: What percentage of 9^th graders entering the high school went to four-year colleges? How many grade levels did math scores increase during the summer program? How much did malaria contraction rates fall in the user group? Even if you don't know exactly what the results mean, you can and should distinguish between good and bad metrics. Mature nonprofits should be consistently reporting these metrics on their website and in periodic updates such as annual reports or impact reports.

By the way, one common misconception is that direct program expenses should approach 100 percent. Unless the ratio of direct expenses to overhead is WAY out of whack (like 50-50), investing in overhead can be a good thing, if done responsibly, such as building efficient IT systems or hiring more talented and experienced managers. Nonprofits go out of their way to hide overhead costs so that they can run campaigns saying "Every penny of your donation goes to a child in need." That's because some board member put up a few million bucks to pay for the office space and power bill, and the salaries of the support team, which are essential but not very sexy things to ask your donors to pay for. Don't penalize nonprofits because they invest in organizational development – odds are your money will actually go further in the long run with these nonprofits.

Happy holidays everyone. Party – and give – responsibly.

Ode to the universe

2010-08-13T10:36:00.006+05:30

I'm having a long few weeks at work, and hit the hay fairly early tonight to give myself a break. I started reading a book for the first time in months, an autobiography called Go Kiss the World, and on the first few pages the author Subroto Bagchi talks about how in the second "bend" in life, one's forties, many people find themselves on a career precipice instead of the pinnacle they set out to reach.

Twenty minutes after putting it down, I had this awakening to the fact that the universe has been sending me messages, and until now I haven't noticed. I realized that I don't want to spend the next twenty years climbing towards some pinnacle... or precipice.

When I look at the flatmates I've had since moving to Mumbai, from Samsukri (wayfaring investor, truly open minded world explorer, passionate learner), to Tarini (writer, prolific reader, animal rights theorist), and now Shraddha (stylist turned yoga instructor), it's clear as day that I'm being called to get off this career mountain trek altogether.

When I think about how Sam has taken the time to do things like mastering yoga, meditating, and now, a 3 month kung fu immersion in China, that Tarini is writing a children's book and taking a job in Africa as a walking safari guide, that Shraddha doesn't mind getting up at 5am for work because she's so in harmony with her body, I realize that doing these things (or similar) and more has to be part of my path.

I need to work less, take a more patient view of achievement, and learn some humility about my place in the world. I've known this increasingly well for the last few months, but it just gelled in my mind.

Thank you, universe.

The holy grail

2010-06-21T09:57:00.000+05:30

My friend Cynthia, who appears previously in this blog, spent several months in India as a Dasra Fellow, and we met a few days before her return to England. Despite having a job to return to, her transition prompted her to think about what it means to be satisfied in a job.

Her ideas reminded me of Maslow's theory of motivation, in which we strive to satisfy our needs according to a hierarchy: at the bottom of the hierarchy are basic, physiological needs like food, water and air. Then come safety needs like shelter, social needs like friendship, esteem needs like affirmation – and at the very top, if we're fortunate, we achieve self-actualization, a state of satisfied existence.

In Cynthia's view, a great job satisfies four needs; I've added a fifth. I've listed them in the order which I think represents a kind of hierarchy – most to least fundamental, and least to most rare – and have added a personal take on each one.

1. Autonomy. I think autonomy is critical in one's job in the same way that a sense of control is important in personal life. When I am being micro- and over-managed, I won't bother thinking for myself or engaging with the overarching goal of the activity, since I have not been empowered or trusted to do so. I become passive and de-motivated. Conversely, when I've been given the autonomy to think and act for myself, when I have ownership over a project, I feel I have an opportunity to showcase the best of myself, and I am motivated to rise to that occasion.

2. Professionalism. Maturity (or immaturity) is to the individual person what professionalism is to an organization. Professionalism is never explicitly taught, so we all show up on Day 1 with varying levels of intuition about it. Fundamental behaviors – like timeliness to meetings, basic accountability, not talking behind people's backs, and never letting business conflicts get personal – are all too rare. These types of unprofessionalism can make work stressful and exhausting.

3. Meritocracy*. Like professionalism, meritocracy in the workplace should be automatic, but for many reasons, including the difficulty in objectively assessing merit, it is not. Ultimately, how one defines merit is less important than feeling that when you've got it – merit – you'll be rewarded. That's Fairness 101.

4. Intellectual rigor**. In order to feel committed and motivated in my job, I need to know that my colleagues and organization are committed to making decisions based on rigor – not emotion, populism, intuition or favoritism. I need to know that if I put forth the best idea, there is a good chance it will be well-received. Moreover, when I get to engage with a serious intellectual challenge at work I'm not only helping the organization but also having fun (especially when it involves drawing diagrams on a white board).

5. A mission you believe in. As I've noted here previously, contributing to a mission which is greater than oneself is not only motivating but also fulfilling. If the conditions of autonomy, professionalism and intellectual rigour are all satisfied, having a mission you believe in would make the holy grail.

Note 1: Meritocracy is my addition.
Note 2: For operations enthusiasts out there, the notion of intellectual rigor making the list might be offensive. A lot of people might argue that at the end of the day, what feels good is rolling up your sleeves and getting shit done. That's true, but it's unrelated to this list, which is not about the activities which are rewarding, but rather about the workplace conditions which must exist to foster a satisfying job experience.

The missing middle

2010-06-21T08:01:00.000+05:30

I was discussing a bit of everything with my friend Cynthia the other night, over a beer at Toto's Garage. Among other profound additions to human philosophical thought, we agreed that India suffers from a "missing middle" phenomenon. Yes, we decided, India lacks a respectable, middle-of-the-road, beer-drinker's bar scene.

Mumbai is full of two kinds of drinking venues. At one end are the super-elite clubs and lounges. Picture Aer: thirty dollar martinis served on the rooftop of the Four Seasons hotel (see photo). Some cookie-cutter DJ with an outsized ego is playing house music and re-mixed Akon. The clientèle are largely the children of Bombay's business tycoons – they grew up and went to the same elite private schools together, studied in the US or UK, and came home to help run the family business. (Aside: this showy privilege may be the most tangible way to directly observe the growth of India's economy.)

At the other end are the modest dabbas: low-end, open-air, music-less restaurants – a few of which have gone through the trouble of obtaining a liquor license. A few nights ago I dined at Vijay Punjab, a personal favourite. All around me tables filled up with groups of middle class men, unwinding with stories and laughs after the work week. The drinks, priced with almost no mark-up, are mixed at the table – the server brings the liquor bottle and mixers to the table. Most Indians take whisky.

The owner of Toto's Garage has clearly noticed this lack of middle ground. Toto's is a zealous attempt to create a lively yet plebeian environment. With the dilapidated VW Beetle perched over the bar, the wait-staff decked out in orange mechanics' jump-suits, and more neon than Vegas, this bar nonetheless leaves me slightly offended by how conspicuously effortful it all feels.

Cynthia, who is a Brit, sympathized as I lamented the lack of good watering holes; the dive bars, pubs and sports bars that are the bread and butter of the American and British drinking scenes. (The lack of quality beer is a gripe I'll leave for another time.)

Michael Jackson lives

2010-05-23T18:30:00.007+05:30

May 3 was an epic day. On the more modestly epic end of things, the day began with Teach For India welcoming the newest batch of 150 Fellows into teacher training Institute, and into this movement to end educational inequity – in fact a major landmark event. However, the real blockbuster would come later in the day.

Lest the newbies reserved doubts that the Fellowship would be tough, at 9:00am they were thrust into an experience our CEO introduced as, "for some of you, outside your comfort zone; for the rest, way outside your comfort zone."

Our project: visit a Pune slum, and spend three hours developing real bonds with individual children. The rules: spend no less than one hour interacting with a given child; do not acknowledge the presence of other Teach For India Fellows and staff; and do not buy anyone anything. The staff, of which I am a part, tagged along, ostensibly experienced in the matter at hand.

If this exercise sounds easy, my hat's off to you. I can remember how I felt the first time I was asked to visit a slum – I was queasy. (My imagination evoked that familiar state of discomfort – maybe walking home late at night, accidentally traversing an ill-reputed neighborhood – you walk purposefully and look ahead, trying to cover ground without looking rushed or nervous.) However, as I learned that day, slums can be darn friendly places, so as we set off on the bus, I was feeling good.

I spent the first hour at the home of Tararem, a 10 ^th standard boy with fluent English, who aspired, reasonably it seemed, to be an engineer. I learned that his hobbies include Rajasthani classical women's dance (he showed me photos of himself performing for his classmates; brave kid), and that he was married at age five to an infant girl. (I thought he was mis-speaking until he showed me photos of this also. He hasn't seen her since the wedding, but they'll reunite when she turns eighteen, in five years.) I met the charming sister and parents, learned some Marathi, and we posed for photos. My spirits were high as I carried on. However, my good feeling soon turned to great when I made an unexpected discovery: Michael Jackson still lives – he has been reincarnated as an 11-year old Indian boy.

I was standing in a circle with five or six boys, attempting to communicate with one of them about his Bollywood aspirations. (His hair was meticulously slicked back – he looked the part.) Naturally, the conversation turned to dancing, and the will of the crowd compelled me to bust a move.

Before I had even a moment to experience that form self-consciousness reserved only for dancing white men, there was an eruption of motion – I had unknowingly made the universal signal for "silent dance party".

When this would-be-MJ commenced with some leg kicks and spins, I saw resemblance; by the time he broke out the emphatic crotch grab and moonwalk, it was unmistakable. His friends tried various imitations, some impressive, but none quite so fluid and precise. In that moment I acknowledged the possibility that Michael Jackson may actually be the most beloved human to ever live.

Not much can put a person at ease more than a troupe of frolicking boys doing the moonwalk. I was feeling more than a little smug as I joined my Teach For India counterparts at the bus – "did any of you meet Michael Jackson?"

Photo 1: Mini-MJ, center-left. Photo 2: Tararem, right, and sister Laxmi.

The risk muscle

2010-05-09T21:03:00.008+05:30

Humor my ego for a moment as I assert that my risk-taking muscle has lately become pretty buff. Now, I haven't exactly scaled El Capitan, but in the past few months I have made steady strides against my personal benchmark: I went skydiving and did the highest bungee jump in the world, and I quit my cushy consulting job and moved to India to work for a start-up non-profit. (I'll leave the rest out, since my mom reads this page.)

Mind you, the risk-taking muscle is not all brawn – it's brains too. In its most evolved form, it becomes completely effective at an ostensibly simple task: accurately assessing risk, and making decisions accordingly.

Yet this is not so simple in practice.

What happens in the moments before you address an audience of 100 people? When you spot a pretty girl or handsome fellow at a cocktail party whom you'd really like to get to know better? When you go to speak a foreign language, in which you're shaky, to a native?

We're all human, and in these situations, our heart rate goes up; "what if" and FAILURE scenarios start flashing like breaking news on our TV sets. What these scenarios have in common is that they are all extremely low risk yet they arouse irrational fear in pretty much everyone.

My assertion here is that we all stand to learn to assess risk more accurately and less emotionally. Moreover, I would argue that the best way to do this is not by taking big risks, but by taking tiny ones, constantly. There is one simple reason for this: learning to assess and take measured risks is all about practice.

For most of us, the opportunity to even confront a big risk is pretty rare. How often does one consider a career change? Maybe once a year, in extreme cases? How often do you get the opportunity to invest half your life savings in a start-up? How often do you get stranded on an island and make the call, "make a raft, or wait it out?" The point is, if you want to practice by taking easily identifiable risks, you might not get too much practice. Not to mention, the stakes are, by definition, really high.

By contrast, small risks abound. The problem is, they usually involve such immaterial outcomes that we ignore them, or don't notice them in the first place. Say, the risk of starting a conversation with that stranger in the elevator. Or the risk of actually responding to your CEO's email asking for feedback on company culture. Or the risk of wearing that funky outfit to Friday's dinner party?

These are, like, epically small risks, and they happen to all of us, all the time. Pay attention. And take them.

Hedonism vs. altruism, part 2

2010-04-18T12:26:00.016+05:30

I have been nagging my younger brother Spencer for years now to study abroad, suggesting he pass over the clichéd glamour of the European experience in favor of a developing world destination. The argument goes: Barcelona and London are beautiful and fun, but Ghana, Haiti, Argentina – these places will change your life, for the better.

I've struggled to articulate to Spencer why it's so important that he live abroad, and to understand why I push him away from the glitzy places and towards the poor ones. After a modest but meaningful 7 months of accumulated India experience, I think I can begin to do so.

So far, I have identified three reasons why he or you, as people ultimately interested in self-actualizing, should spend time living in the developing world, serving others. I'll use the help of New York Times columnist Nicholas Kristof, who has consistently implored young people to go see the developing world.

Enlightenment. One cannot understand the world without living in it. In my mind, understanding the world means experiencing not only your corner of it, but the opposite corner as well – a place which differs fundamentally from what you know already. Putting a social impact spin on the same argument, Kristof explains: "If you care about poverty, you must understand it, not just oppose it. And understanding poverty comes from spending time observing it directly."

Personal transformation. Poor countries force you to leave home behind and embrace your new environs. When living abroad, many of us are most comfortable retaining some elements of home, but if we allow ourselves to embrace the uncomfortable aspects of a new place, it too can become home. The presence of extreme poverty itself affects culture and daily life so profoundly that even someone like the naïve 20-year old version of me is forced to confront it.

Kristof recounts an exchange with Sydnee Woods, who quit her job in Minneapolis to work at New Light, a shelter for trafficked women in Kolkata, India:

The experience (good and bad) changed me forever. I have become incredibly laid back and able to deal with setback and hardships much more easily… It's difficult to put into words – but I am a different, better person... India changes you – it makes you confront things about yourself that you may have chosen not to confront. As far as I'm concerned that can only be good. It was good for me.

Fulfillment. Giving is perhaps the most pleasurable act known to man-kind. Kristof cites the work of Jonathan Haidt, a psychologist at the University of Virginia, who shows that neither getting hit by a truck and becoming paraplegic nor winning the lottery will have much impact on your sustained level of happiness. What will make a difference is "a connection to something larger, a greater cause or a humanitarian purpose… We are neurologically constructed so that we gain huge personal dividends from altruism."

These three reasons hold 100 percent true for me. (There is a fourth reason – professional development – which we'll return to.)

If your experiences living, studying, working, traveling, serving abroad have impacted you in similar or different ways, I would love to hear your thoughts and reactions. Please also read Kristof's recent book, Half the Sky: Turning Oppression into Opportunity for Women Worldwide, from which I have cited here.

Hedonism vs. altruism, part 1

2010-04-18T12:26:00.015+05:30

My first foray into living abroad was in college, when I spent a semester based in Paris. I did what most 20-year old Americans do in this situation – I ate cheese, drank wine, partied late, went weekending in Europe's other fine cities on every possible occasion, making decent grades in my spare time. I am sometimes inclined to cheapen this experience, when comparing it to that in India, but studying abroad in Paris was transformative in its own right. I learned what it means to be scorned and welcomed because you are an outsider, and to live and travel independently.

However, most importantly, I learned the difference between staying in a place and living in one. In Paris, I was in the former camp, a hedonistic wayfarer, generally too busy ticking "experiences" off my list to actually have any of them. This critical difference was only revealed to me in the final days of my tour. I bid adieu to my erstwhile travel buddy, Blake, and ventured to Glasgow, to stay with some Scottish friends I had met several months before. (If you must know, I was on a pub crawl in Prague, at the bar of a hostel called the Clown & Bard, and three pretty girls were sitting at a table alone. I was compelled to join them.)

On the first night, Rory cooked dinner and along with Lena and Justice, we stayed up late chatting, making jokes, telling stories. Three days later when I was leaving Scotland, I had scarcely scratched the surface of its touristic depth, but for the first time, I felt I had actually experienced a place, by spending quality time with a few of its people.

After Scotland, I felt almost ashamed, looking back at the opportunities I had missed. I challenged myself not only to go abroad again, but to go live in a developing country. For me, a superficial experience staying in Paris is what galvanized me to try again.

Moments

2010-04-11T15:11:00.009+05:30

I purchased my first train pass, pictured. Highlights include: "Happy journey", my name, address, age. It's valid for 7 years, which is useful since it will last for about 2 months.
I was dropped off one night by an auto-rikshaw who, as I went to get change from my wallet, flipped the switch on a bright fluorescent bulb he had installed on the ceiling of the auto. I was so pleasantly surprised and impressed, I complimented him and he was clearly proud of his innovation.
Leaving early for work one morning, I encountered a special ritual: a dump truck was pulling into the lane, causing the half-dozen resident stray dogs to rouse themselves and give chase, tails a-wagging happily at the prospect of breakfast.
On my way home from work, a strawberry vendor approached my auto-rikshaw. I was starving and en route to see a friend, who I thought would surely enjoy sharing them with me. He asked for 50 rupees, a complete rip-off. I counter-offered a generous 30. He insisted. I declined. He dropped to 40. I declined. The light changed and as the auto began to pull away, he desperately tried to give me the strawberries, agreeing to 30 rupees, but I handed them back to him and we pulled away. I could feel his dejection and regret and tried to think of something else.

Ps. If anyone can help me with my photo-adding, let me know. I wrestled Blogger on this one for a while, but it insisted on rotating my image. When I tried to trick it by rotating the image before uploading it, it then did not rotate the image.

The first job: What to look for

2010-03-16T00:52:00.008+05:30

Because, as a component of my new job, I am now a career support professional (though a rookie), I will aim to capture or steal some 'best of' career advice I encounter and park it here on my blog. Today's topic: first jobs.

I believe there are four or five critical characteristics a first job should have. This applies to many but not all college graduates (See Exhibit).

(For instance, if Simon Cowell thinks you sing well, or if you have invented a search engine more intelligent than Google – i.e. if you have exceptional talents and ideas – these concepts may not apply. We'll also exclude people pursuing medical or law degrees straight out of college, as they have a more prescribed path than the rest of us.)

Cross-section of top university graduates: Where do you fit in?

3. Exceptional ideas (1-5%) You have an idea – maybe it’s original, maybe it’s not – for a product or service which the world needs: that is, you believe demand exists, and you’re almost certain you can prove this.	4. Exceptional skills, exceptional ideas (<1%) You’re the rare individual who’s got an idea plus the passion and resources to execute it.
1. The majority (~85%) You are an intelligent, competent graduate of a rigorous and challenging college program. You have performed well at most if not all of the projects you have undertaken, in and outside the classroom.	2. Exceptional skills (5-10%) You possess a skill which is both valuable and rare. Whether it’s a musical instrument, a basketball, the English language, a computer, or a group of people at a dull party – you have an ability to take something and bring it alive – and there is wide agreement on this point.

Without further ado – the five criteria, in order of importance:

Colleagues. Surround yourself with intelligent, competent professionals comprising a range of experience levels. Your co-workers are your primary source of enrichment, professionally and personally, and will dictate the quality of your experience. To be precise, we're talking about who you work with day in and day out. The head of your business unit may be the best in the company, but your boss and immediate team are the ones that will matter most – thoroughly vet them.

Challenge. Find an organization that is ready to give you responsibility for important deliverables and hold you accountable for the results. In many cases, the leanest (i.e. most resource-efficient) organizations are the best at pushing responsibilities down the hierarchy to junior employees. What and how much you learn will be a direct function of what is asked and required of you.

Structure. Work in an organization geared to transfer knowledge and skills to young employees. It's no coincidence that consulting firms, investment banks and Teach For America are a perennial force in undergraduate recruitment. They know the potential of entry level talent and their business models hinge on their ability to bring it out, which they do in deliberate manner.

Brand. A strong brand on your CV can vouch for the bullet points underneath it. When you say, "Conducted a market sizing for a new detergent product" – that means something very different at Proctor & Gamble than it does at Joe's Laundry Business. Once you're in an interview, you'll have the chance to explain in great detail how rigorous your assessment was, but first your CV has to get you into the interview. (The other way to get an interview is your network. See no. 1: Colleagues.)

Heart. I'd be negligent if I didn't add this one, and it is by no means the least important criteria. Your early twenties are your prime opportunity to pursue your dreams. One of the most interesting, intelligent and happy people I know dropped out of a Physics PhD and moved to South America to pursue his love of mountaineering and travel. If you can incorporate nos. 1-4 into following your dreams, great. If not, chase them anyways – you won't have a better chance. (Personally, I'd suggest going to live in the developing world – more on this topic in an upcoming entry.)

Do you speak Indian?

2010-03-15T09:19:00.002+05:30

"Do you speak Indian?"

This is a question which has been posed to me three or four times in the past year, by Americans. They are inquiring, with curiosity or compassion, whether I am able to communicate with the locals, in India.

[Let us now clarify: Indian is a nationality, much as American is a nationality. For you grammar whizzes out there, those are adjectives. Like Americans, Indians speak many languages – at least 22 major ones – foremost among them Hindi and English.]

We will put aside, for now, the implication these interactions have for American culture and educational standards (i.e., ethnocentric and generally lacking).

Hold on a moment – there's a new message in my inbox, from a real estate agent. What language is this? Could it be... Indian?

K/Attn : - Mr. Taylor

Dear Sir,

Greetings for the day !!!

With ref 2 our telecall, we r pls. to offer u as under : -

02 bhk Apartment at Rizvi Complex, Shirly Rajan Road, Bandra (W) - fully furnished comprising of Plasma TV, Aircon, Refrigerator, Wardrobe.

Req. kndly advce us 4 inspection as per ur convinence. Awtg. 4 ur knd n +ve response. Lkg. 4wrd 4 lng. trm. relationshp. Assurg. u of d best of d services n best of attention at all times.

Cheers!!! Thanx n Sincere Rgds

Sai

This email is not spam, or a farce. It is written by a professional (and personally recommended) real estate agent. This form of English is pervasive. I have even received emails from job applicants which use this bastardized English. They are apparently unaware that their choice of "words" induces my gag reflex. In this instance, I suppressed the desire to write back, "Thank you for your email. This time in English, please." After all, I should be practicing cultural sensitivity.

PS: What's your favorite part of the letter? We have the irony of the "lng. trm" relationship. Then there's the "02" bedroom apartment: in case you didn't catch it, that's the classic real estate trick of making a property appear larger than it actually is. And then there's Sai's heartfelt Thanx n Rgds. Forgive me if I'm being needy, but don't these sentiments feel at all, well, in-Sincere?

The first encounter

2010-03-07T11:46:00.001+05:30

“FIVE! FOUR! THREE! TWO! ONE!”

The forty-nine students in Saurabh Taneja’s fourth standard math classroom scrambled to find their seats.

As of March, 2010, eight months into the school year, Saurabh’s students have progressed, on average, 1.7 grade levels in math. A girl approached the board to write down that evening’s homework, which the students copied down – some in two minutes, some in five – but all in English, a feat not possible when Saurabh and Abhik Bhatacharjee, who teaches English, took ownership of this classroom. (“When we started, the students were reading nine words per minute. Now they’re at sixty-one,” Saurabh told us.)

As the students finished writing down their homework, Abhik strolled into the classroom. “Are you ready to sing?!” he proclaimed. To draw a close to the day, he led the class in a forceful rendition of an old classic: “If you’re happy and you know it clap your hands” rang through the hallways.

When I left India in January, 2009, we did not yet have any Fellows – they were just a concept on paper. (In my absence, Shaheen Mistri, our CEO, raved to me about how incredible the Fellows were. But Shaheen raves as rivers flow. Enthusiasm is her nature.) Saurabh and Abhik were my first Teach For India Fellows, theirs my first classroom.

Part of our development (fundraising) strategy is to bring prospective funders to schools to observe Fellows teaching and to speak with them about their experience, impact on students and goals for post-TFI. The purpose of this visit was to get Sujat, a Private Equity fund manager, on board.

After class ended, we huddled up on some stools in the teacher lounge (more like a closet) nearby. Sujat’s first question was about impact. Abhik grabbed his laptop and showed Sujat the spreadsheet where he tracks each student’s performance, grouping them into skill-level clusters so he can provide content targeted to each student’s needs. “These students, I need to not bore them with what they already know. I give them 3 hours of homework per night,” he said, pointing to his top performers. He explained his strategies for each segment. With Sujat seeming pleased, Abhik and Saurabh turned to some of their more qualitative efforts.

“We have six alcoholic parents,” Saurabh explained. He told us of one single father who he calls “six times a week.” “We’ve told him that he’s going to kill himself if he continues. We’ve gone with him to AA meetings.”

Abhik turned to a lighter topic. “We want to give [our students] as much exposure as possible. I try to bring two guests to class every week,” he started:

It doesn’t matter who it is – I met someone on an airplane and the next day he was in my classroom. Last week we had a rag picker and a pharmaceutical researcher. Before they met him, they had no idea where medicines come from. They thought medicine just existed. Now they know that there are massive companies and lots of people who make these medicines. We want to teach them how to dream big too. When I first asked them what their goals are, they told me: “I want to drive an auto-rikshaw like daddy. I want to sell vegetables like mommy.” I thought, “Ok, these are fine, respectable professions, but this is completely wrong.” Now, one of them wants to be a photographer of only reptiles. Another wants to be a ‘fashionable designer.’ I don’t know what that means!

Sujat turned the discussion to the Fellows’ own goals. “What will you do after your two years?”

Saurabh explained his desire to improve teacher quality. “I believe this is the fundamental issue in the education system. I am not sure yet what role I will play in addressing this, but after Teach For India I want to study public policy.”

Abhik began shaking his head. “This is my two years of social service, of giving back. After this, I want my life back!” My colleague, Gayatri, looked surprised. She pressed him: “What are you doing this summer?” Abhik’s eyes lit up. Abhik is going to Hyderabad, in Central India, where he will shadow Sunitha Krishnan, founder of Prajwala, which fights forced prostitution and sex trafficking. His plan is to write a book about her work. “She is in such a precarious situation,” he explained,

She puts her life on the line every day – all of the mobsters in Hyderabad want her dead! If she were to die, no one would know about what she is doing. Child abuse is one issue that I can’t stand – I want to work on student discipline. When we started at this school, I remember watching one student get beat in the hallway, and I had tears in my eyes. The teacher must have thought I was crazy, and the student had this look on his face like, “I’m the one getting beat. Why are you crying?” It was a delicate situation at first. I’d ask a teacher, “Why are you beating that child?” I’d explain an alternative and ask them, “Please, try this way just for one week.” Now, none of the teachers beat students.

Saurabh chimed in:

We’re working with parents also to teach them techniques for discipline. I tell them, “Warn your child, if he is bad, you will tell the teacher to take you off the Exclusive Club at school.” When I say the words “Exclusive Club” the students go bolt upright in their chairs. Today, seven students met Sachin Tendulkar [the biggest star in India’s most popular sport, cricket]. We’ve also taken them to a water park. They want to be in the Club.

Saurabh stepped out to teach his next class, and Abhik continued. “I’m also big on creativity, finding ways for kids to make things. They have such incredible talents, you have to see what art they have made!” Abhik told us about the non-profit he is launching in Hyderabad, which will partner with top galleries to showcase and sell student art at premium prices.

Suddenly, a light bulb went on in Abhik’s head. “Sujat, do you have any spare office space in Hyderabad? I need somewhere to store art materials.”

“Sure Abhik, whatever you need.” Sujat shook his head. “I only wish a program like Teach For India had existed twenty years ago!”

Gandhiism 101: Learning to be the change

2009-05-14T09:18:00.001+05:30

http://www.oliverwyman.com/ow/12691.htm

Entrepreneurship essentials

2009-04-05T03:11:00.006+05:30

I recently attended the Wharton India Economic Forum in Philadelphia. Like most conferences, it suffers from trying to do too much; packing as many bigshots into the agenda as possible and attempting to cover the most fundamental and challenging topics in 80-minute panel discussions. (The student organizers did a fabulous job on both counts.)

Amidst the star-gazing and shameless networking, I also gathered some concrete takeaways. The most striking was from the panel on entrepreneurship in India, in which Sabeer Bhatia, co-founder of Hotmail and venture capitalist, enumerated his criteria for being a successful entrepreneur:

1. Have a great idea. Mr. Bhatia put it this way: “If you can do something ten times better, faster or cheaper, come talk to me – I will invest in your company. If it’s less than a factor of ten, I’m not interested.”

2. Have a great team. Another online entrepreneur, founder and CEO of Yatra.com Dhruv Shringi explained: “You can’t do it alone, but only work with people who are smarter than you. That’s the only way you’ll get value out of your team.”

3. Pressure-test your concept. “Listen to critics. You’re most certainly biased and you need critics to help you address the flaws.” Bhatia talked about how he’d made the “team cynic” responsible for coming up with strategies for addressing each of the weaknesses in the Hotmail business plan.

4. Spend carefully. “Running out of money is a sure way to fail. Do as much as you can to make sure you’re investing your capital wisely.”

Bhatia emphasized that it's not worth bothering with 2-4 unless you've addressed #1.

"Search by caste"

2009-04-05T02:15:00.010+05:30

I gave a presentation at the office a few weeks ago to share my experience at Teach For India with my colleagues. Afterward, another analyst asked me how influential I perceived caste to be in modern India.

In the U.S., caste is one of those concepts you learn in high school history class – one of the five “key terms” at the end of the chapter on India in the world history textbook.

Yet it didn’t occur to me until that moment just how hidden the influence of caste had been to me. I can count on one hand the number of times it came up explicitly in conversation. But each time the general theme was: “don’t underestimate the influence of caste.” I can remember one of my friends recounting her experience at another NGO where poor women in rural areas prepared meals for even poorer school children. Some parents had refused to accept the meals for their children because the women preparing the meals were of the lowest, “Untouchables” caste.

I told my colleague that I had hardly encountered caste at all and wasn't qualified to answer her question.

Two days later I was perusing a website launched by one of my friends, www.secondshaadi.com, a dating website for divorced Indians (shaadi means marriage). The taboo on divorce in India means that anyone who has not only divorced, but who is also looking to remarry, is by definition very progressive.

On first glance, SecondShaadi.com looked like any other dating website. Then I noticed a link just below the main console: “Search by caste.” As I’ve now come to expect, even amidst India’s most liberal bastions, old traditional India is near at hand.

Top 10 Myths about Sustainability: Scientific American

2009-03-18T22:50:00.001+05:30

Top 10 Myths about Sustainability: Scientific American

Posted using ShareThis

Finding my Mecca

2009-03-06T07:01:00.011+05:30

March 1, 2009 – 9:05 pm EST

In the summer following my college graduation, I taught at Student U., an academic enrichment program for underprivileged youth in Durham, North Carolina. When those eight weeks were over, I was exhausted yet invigorated by a newfound sense of career aspiration.

I had discovered a passion for education, with an understanding of the challenge and vitality of classroom teaching.

The greater discovery I made, however, was how different and good I felt by surrounding myself with such an inspiring crew. Student U. teachers – people whose conversations were idealistic, challenging and pragmatic – demanded the best version of me. Not only did I enjoy being around them, but I found my own sense of purpose and focus augmented by their presence.

This weekend I attended the Social Enterprise Conference at Harvard Business School (which I highly recommend), a kind of mecca for change agents. Five minutes into the first panel discussion, my mind and heart were both racing. I was giddy.

I hadn’t forgotten the lesson I learned at Student U., but it didn’t hurt to be reminded either.

Over the hill and onto the next one

2009-02-28T20:37:00.005+05:30

February 27, 2009 – 4:02pm EST

I boarded the subway yesterday at 7am en route to work. The train was practically empty and I sat down across from two of its sole occupants – older men, on first glance, who I’ll call Bill and Frank.

I quickly realized that Bill and Frank were not exactly old men, but rather old dudes. Bill, on the left, wore a thick goatee and a skull cap, and the kind of utility vest that says, “I’m hardcore so I need a lot of pockets.” Frank, on the right was trying to pull off a more refined look: he wore a button-down shirt, a leather jacket, and shiny leather shoes – all black – and what was left of his hair was slicked back.

They were close to pulling off the look they were striving for, but Bill’s preppy dock shoes and Frank’s tacky white tube socks betrayed them. I got off the train hoping I would one day be as cool as these two dudes, over the hill, but charging up the next one.

Reverse culture shock

2009-02-20T02:25:00.002+05:30

February 17, 2009 – 8:25pm EST

In the few days before I flew to Boston people said, “Do you think you’ll feel much reverse culture shock?” I thought these people were being melodramatic. I would confidently reply that this “reverse culture shock” was most likely pretend. “It’s only been 5 months. It’s not like I forgot what Boston is like.”

Well, it’s not pretend. Almost a month has passed and I’m just beginning to recover from an emotional state equivalent to the physical phenomenon of sea-legs. When I’m not antisocially lost in thought, my conversations are full of inane links to India, like: “you eat dinner a lot later in India than here.”

The challenge for me is not adjusting to the culture, but rather sharing my experience with people who are interested. I am trying to package up my experience for mass consumption, but I’m not yet done processing it.

Being American

2009-01-19T16:58:00.010+05:30

January 19, 2009 – 2:22 PM IST

Yesterday, discussing politics while stuck in Mumbai traffic, my friend Klaas asked me if I felt disconnected from the U.S., being abroad during Barack Obama’s election and now inauguration.

Unequivocally, I answered “no.”

It’s true that I have been disconnected in some ways. I can’t tell you how any of the Boston sports teams are faring, and I missed the wedding of two close friends and a family reunion. But, being in India has in fact increased the connection I feel to my country.

Previously, living in the U.S., I always thought identity tags like religion, race, gender and nationality just shouldn’t matter. Why not judge one another on character alone? Or as John Lennon put it, “imagine there’s no countries... no religion too.”

My upbringing made this ideal tenable. My parents are American with ancestry from at least six different countries. I was raised Jewish but celebrated some Christian traditions. My household was half-Democrat, half-Republican. The list goes on.

So why do I now feel so strongly American?

Living in India, I wear my identity on my face; it precedes my every interaction. Here in Pune, I’m an American before I’m anything else. It’s in what I know and what I don’t at my job and in my career-focused life goals. It’s in my pride in tomorrow’s inauguration of America's first black President and sense of possibility about the future. It’s in the privileges I’ve had through my education and the privilege I have to be here in India. It’s in the way I look at arranged marriages, gender roles and women’s issues. It’s even in the way I laugh when Aamir Khan, “the Brad Pitt of India,” takes a time out in the midst of his latest Bollywood flick to sing and dance.

In the process, I’ve discovered that American isn’t just a superficial tag dangling around my neck – it’s who I am.

Ready, fire, aim

2009-01-19T16:53:00.007+05:30

January 19, 2009 – 1:48 PM IST

Yesterday I interviewed Shaheen Mistri, the CEO of Teach For India, to learn what it takes to lead a non-profit.

Without hesitation, she said that belief in your purpose is the most important factor. “It doesn’t matter if we achieve the objective in my lifetime or in three lifetimes – what matters is that I believe in where we’re going.”

Shaheen does whatever it takes to achieve her mission. Whether she is speaking to an audience of skeptical recruits, imploring another CEO to sponsor Teach For India or asking a team member to work through the weekend, she looks the person in the eye and doesn’t hesitate.

Second on her list is ability to take risk. Throughout my initial conversations with the team, the message was clear: “we are flying by the seat of our pants.” In my first call with Shaheen back in August, she tested my stress threshold. Ten minutes after the call she emailed me to re-emphasize: “I want to make sure you are okay with the lack of structure you’ll be coming into.”

It was a fair warning. Yet, in my first month here, grappling with what we were trying to accomplish in the given timeline, I thought she was simply a little crazy. I was well out of my comfort zone.

A college professor of mine, Tony Brown, taught a leadership course and was known for his unconventional style. When a class discussion got too academic, he would interject: “ready, fire, aim!” Now I understand what he meant.

New Year’s resolve

2009-01-02T11:11:00.005+05:30

January 2, 2009 – 11:06 AM IST

The muses must have felt slighted when they discovered I was feeling low on blog content, because they delivered me a rotten story on a platter last night.

I was walking late at night, as I often do, down a familiar and quiet alley, and two young guys on a moped rammed into me from behind. At first I thought maybe they were drunk New Year’s revelers and would just carry on, so I gave them a scornful look and kept walking. However, they hopped off the moped, approached me and demanded my wallet.

Just a few weeks ago I chatted with my friend Dan about the various times people had tried to rob him during his 11 months of travel in Asia. He noted that he found people in India to be generally non-violent, and thus felt comfortable being confrontational when a few young men in Delhi tried to rob him.

With Dan’s words echoing in my mind, I said “no” and kept walking. The resolve of these two men to obtain my money was apparently not completely superficial. Thief number one grabbed my shoulder and demanded my wallet again. I pushed him and a shoving match ensued, reminiscent of a fourth-grade playground scuffle. Thief number two joined in for a moment and then, for whatever reason, thought better of it.

At this point thief one reached into his pocket and started coming at me again. I am not completely stupid, nor fearless, and the threat of a knife sent me backpedaling. Though it was dark I soon realized his hand was empty. We played fisticuffs once more until they apparently figured they were making too much of a scene and gave up.

I turned around and continued walking, belongings intact, but not before offering the two of them an emphatic “fuck you.”

A dry spell

2009-01-02T11:10:00.014+05:30

January 2, 2009 – 10:22 AM IST

I hit a dry spell for blogging in the second half of December. It’s hard to say why with any certainty. There are a few possible reasons.

1. My thoughts have been turned inward lately. Or forward. I’ve been fixated on and distracted by the impending end to my stay in India, and whatever is next..

2. The well of content has been dry, or at least I have perceived it to be dry.

3. I have been insufficiently diligent. I’ve been spending my time with people – talking, doing, being – but not writing. I have learned that writing can happen only when I sit down and do it. Sometimes I forget this and wait around for the words to come before I make the time to write.

I am currently reading Steven Covey’s Seven Habits of Highly Effective People. Habit one is proactivity – spend time thinking about only those things that you can change, and then take action. Covey would tell me that reason three is the culprit here, and I suspect he would be correct.

Tragedy of the commons

2008-12-31T11:23:00.004+05:30

December 27, 2008 – 1:45 PM IST

Crossing Yerawada Bridge on Friday morning, I watched a man on a bicycle take one plastic trash bag, then another, and toss them into the Mula-Mutha River below, like a newspaper boy making his morning deliveries.

In this man’s decision analysis, there were no costs, only benefits, to discarding his trash in this way. The Mula-Mutha is already so polluted that his trash will have an infinitesimal negative impact on the river and zero negative impact on him, personally. The convenience of chucking his garbage en route to work is, by comparison, significant.

In most of the developed world, people do not pollute so flagrantly. It’s not because the rich are more ethical. It’s because our society’s collective conscience and knowledge about pollution creates social pressure to behave in a certain way. Submission to social pressure has benefits, like acceptance; breaking social norms, likewise, has costs, such as scorn.

The difference between India and the wealthier nations is easy to model using the basic economic framework above, of costs and benefits. What’s more difficult to understand is how these societal norms come to be, and how to change them.

On terrorism

2008-12-31T11:20:00.014+05:30

December 27, 2008 – 12:18 PM IST

Yesterday I was forwarded a note, “Stop Think Cry Love,” written by a high school girl from Bangalore in response to the Mumbai terrorist attacks. A few excerpts:

“These people are our age. They are people who we see in movie halls and at street corners. They are not aliens of another race. Terrorism was not brought in from Mars. It breeds within us. The worst part is that we created it…

“It is discrimination when the age-old story of Hindu parents refusing to marry their daughter into a Muslim family repeats itself. It is discrimination when parents of Muslim children refuse to sing Hindu bhajans. It is discrimination when Christians refuse to participate in Hindu and Muslim festivals. All of this is discrimination. And every form of terrorism and extremism finds its roots in this kind of discrimination, which is practiced in each and every one of our homes. That is why we need to look at our homes and our thinking before we cry out in rage…

“We can go on talking about stepping up security, straightening out our coast guards and eradicating terrorism. But the problem lies not in our security system but in us. It lies in our madrassas, in our temples, in our schools in our homes and in our minds. And until we realize our role, until we open our eyes to this truth, not a thing will change.”

I was in Hyderabad last weekend, driving to dinner with a brilliant and experienced social entrepreneur, David Kyle. In the first five minutes of our acquaintance, the thread of conversation went from Hyderabad to living in India to American perspectives abroad to his experience of watching 9/11 from India.

David said that, in his opinion, Americans have a horribly skewed perspective of 9/11 and of terrorism; that despite American outrage, 3,000 people is just a drop in the bucket on the global scale of terrorism.

His point is more nuanced though: Unless we put 9/11 in perspective first, we as Americans we have no right to be so indignant about one attack on American soil when terrorism is a fact of life for countless millions of people. The storyline of 9/11 is more dramatic, certainly – hijacked planes and toppling skyscrapers – but at the end of the day, one life is one life, and each life has significance.

He talked about how he had watched the towers collapse through his office window in downtown Manhattan on 9/11. Having worked around the world as a banker for 20 years, he responded by taking personal responsibility for ending terrorism through a career change. He is currently building a for-profit fund that makes loans to low-income Indian private schools to build critical infrastructure like classrooms and girls bathrooms. He is party to the belief that education is the determinant of life outcomes and is at the root of the solution to terrorism.

The shared theme of these two anecdotes is to take individual responsibility and action. Individual action is, in fact, the only kind of action one can take.

For me, with just 34 days remaining until Teach For India’s final application deadline, the salience and importance of this message is now coupled with a similar urgency.

Urban donkey herding

2008-12-16T13:19:00.009+05:30

December 16, 2008 - 12:24 PM IST

In early October I was exploring M.G. Road, Pune’s main shopping district, for the first time. As I waited to cross the street, a dozen donkeys came running down the street, swiftly moving with the flow of traffic.

I suspected that somewhere nearby were one or more “donkey herders,” but their presence was not apparent. Moreover, these particular donkeys were speckled with purple paint and adorned with sparkly ribbons. Was this some breed of creative, intelligent donkeys?

This morning as I walked down North Main Road towards Kalyani Nagar, three white donkeys emerged from a side street and hung a left, coming straight towards me at a steady clip.

Important to note here: Traffic dynamics in urban India can be summarized using the two-party game known by economists and children alike as Chicken. In other words, hold your ground as long as possible in hopes of getting the other party to “chicken out” first, but don’t get hit.

I held my ground, hoping the donkeys would play by the rules.

Sure enough, the donkeys shifted their course. However, to my surprise they also veered into the center of the road as if carried by a sudden gust of wind, threading their way through the rush hour traffic, completing a U-turn, and coming to a standstill on the other side of the road.

A split second later two young men on bicycles appeared. They exchanged worried glances and started yelling at the donkeys from across the street.

Crisis averted, donkey mystery debunked.

Feels like home

2008-12-10T17:49:00.002+05:30

December 10, 2008, 2:29 PM IST

On Tuesday night I worked at a Café Coffee Day in Koregaon Park until I got kicked out at midnight. I moved to the curb out front while I crafted the punch line to the article I was writing. When I finally looked up, I noticed a young man was sitting beside me.

“Working hard?” he asked.

“Too hard.” We laughed.

His name was Samson. He and I sat and chatted for a few minutes before the late hour compelled me to take my leave. I set off on my thirty-minute walk home, encountering mostly night laborers and stray dogs along the way.

Last night I was out in Koregaon Park again, this time meeting a friend, Shibani, for a drink. She told me about her exciting but daunting potential transfer to New York; I told her my thoughts on possible long-term opportunities for me in India. We went our separate ways around 11:30 p.m. and I set out on my walk again.

At the halfway point, there is a dark alley that’s usually empty and silent. A motorcycle (better known as a two-wheeler) broke the silence, approaching from behind.

The driver sidled up next to me: Samson. He asked me where I was headed and offered a ride. I hopped on the back, and as we cruised along with the night air blowing in our faces, we swapped stories from our work days and I had the distinct feeling of home.

Principled hypocrisy

2008-12-04T11:35:00.006+05:30

December 3, 2008, 11:09 PM IST

I’ve been working at Café Coffee Day for the past five hours, and in that time I have been approached by a number of beggars: Three times since I sat down, a boy of six or seven has approached and knocked on the window to get my attention, and I have ignored him.

I’m trying to make sense of the thoughts colliding in my head. On the one hand:

This is a homeless, possibly-orphaned street kid, who belongs to one of the most marginalized demographics in the world
I consider myself a thoughtful, giving and idealistic person who cares about how I treat every individual, especially children and those historically mistreated by society – a category he falls into – and I have come to India expressly to act on these values
The adverse affects on this boy of concurrently observing my wealth and my apparent indifference are definitely negative

On the other hand:

Giving money hand-to-mouth is the worst form of philanthropy, creating no long-term impact and fostering dependency
Giving money to beggars reinforces the behavior of begging, and in India my demographic (foreigners) are most guilty of this offense

The de facto policy of the circles I travel in is to never give to beggars. I’ve adopted this approach, despite the misgivings above, with some exceptions (I went through a brief phase of giving pocket change, 1 and 2 rupee coins).

The reason we have a policy is to reduce the cognitive dissonance we feel when withholding money we have aplenty from those who lack it. Making up our minds and sticking to a rule makes it easier to say, “I am not giving to you because you are a beggar, and I do not give to beggars.” End of story.

The problem is that this isn’t really the end of the story. I am not someone who looks a homeless, hungry six-year-old in the eye, does nothing, and feels nothing is wrong. My “policy” makes me feel a bit like a hypocrite.

I suspect there’s no easy answer. For now, I will remain a hypocrite, albeit a principled one.

My yoga teacher’s son

2008-11-28T13:45:00.008+05:30

November 28, 2008, 1:45 PM IST

I got the first call yesterday at 2 a.m. – my father, his voice trembling, checking to make sure I was safe. He was the first to tell me that terrorists had attacked Mumbai just a few hours earlier.

Text messages flew back and forth for most of the rest of the night, until I had heard from almost all of my friends. I finally fell asleep around 5 a.m., only to find myself being attacked by a dog in a nightmare. A phone call from a friend’s mother saved me. I managed to assure Lisa that her son Daniel was safe, having headed away from Mumbai when I last saw him. I didn’t mention that we had eaten dinner at Café Leopold in Colaba just a few days earlier; one of the half-dozen locations at which the terrorists had opened fire, targeting Americans and Brits.

Despite the urging of several friends to stay indoors, I decided the best thing to do would be to go to my usual morning yoga class – my mind was racing and I knew nothing better to calm me down than the firm instructions of Mrs. Kamdin, a subtly powerful woman whose admonishing looks could put an army general in his place.

When I arrived to her building the security guard shook his head and said simply: “Mumbai.” No class.

I found out last night that Mrs. Kamdin’s son is one of the 172 dead. He was a chef at the Taj Hotel. I keep trying to picture how she is handling this, or how I would console her, but I’m drawing blanks.

I did yoga alone in my room this morning.

Breaking through

2008-11-22T15:50:00.000+05:30

November 13, 2008, 10:53 PM IST

In my last post I discussed my frustration with the haves versus have-nots dynamic in India, as reflected by my relationship with Rajendran, the caretaker of the guest house I’m lodged at in Delhi.

Rajendran often stares out the window onto the street while I’m eating breakfast. He’s got the air of a daydreamer, when he’s not dutifully attending to my every need.

Yesterday I decided to brave the language barrier and try to actually connect. I can’t even remember what I asked him, but it didn’t take long for him to open up. His wife and thirteen-year-old son are in Nepal, I discovered, along with the rest of his extended family. He’s been apart from them for six years.

Breakfast ended and I thanked him, as usual.

This morning, work stress and a prohibitively slow internet connection put me on edge. I was sitting on the couch with computer in lap, contemplating chucking it against the wall. Rajendran walked over, presumably to ask if I wanted tea or water or anything else.

Instead, he extended a tin box with a photo on it. “My family,” he said, pointing.

He kneeled alongside me and handed me his family photo album. For the next hour as we looked at the photos together, I lost my stress somewhere in Rajendran’s tacit narrative.

(Un)comfortable luxuries

2008-11-14T22:42:00.003+05:30

November 9, 2008, 10:03 AM IST

It’s Sunday, mid-morning at the corporate guest house where I’m staying in New Delhi. The thirty-something caretaker Rajendran knocks on my door.

I open the door. “Lunch?” he says, asking me whether I would like him to make me lunch today.

“Yes, 1pm?” I answer, knowing his next question will be “What time?”

“Non-veg? Veg?” he asks. In India this is a critical question. A significant portion of the population is “veg only,” often for religious reasons.

I tell him I’m veg, thank him, and close the door. A minute later he pokes his head back in my room: “Market, one hour.” He’s heading to the market to buy food to cook for me. I say “thank you” again.

As he leaves, a pang of guilt washes over me, a reaction I’ve come to expect from daily interactions like this one. I want say something else – invite him to eat lunch with me, ask him how old he is, what his hobbies are and what it’s like to work here, tell him I’m sorry he has to wait on me. But the language barrier stops me.

Rajendran smiles politely and closes the door.

The theory of in between

2008-11-14T22:41:00.005+05:30

November 9, 2008, 8:03 AM IST

By the time I was a teenager, I found it so pleasantly easy to fall asleep and wake up well-rested when staying in hotels, that I consciously looked forward to the opportunity to do so.

In high school, I began traveling alone more frequently, and it became apparent that I found equal solace in air travel. While I witnessed the bustle, urgency, and stress that emanates from airport terminals, what I felt was tranquility. I even sought occasions to fly alone to avoid the risk that my travel partner’s anxiety would ruin my relaxation.

This phenomenon is widespread in my life. There was the three-week camping trip in Colorado when I was fourteen. (Upon returning home, I tried sleeping on the floor in my sleeping bag in a failed attempt to preserve the esprit of tent-dwelling.) There was spring break my sophomore year of college, when I borrowed my dad’s car and drove around upstate New York for a week. I look back on that as one of my best vacations ever.

It’s no wonder, then, that when looking for a job, I found the busy consulting travel schedule mildly appealing.

I look back on my first year on the job, living in Boston, as the best year of my life; I was really at peace with myself. I’m certain that the fifty-some-odd flights over eighty-plus days on the road actually helped me somehow. (I had just two really bad days that whole year, and can tell you the dates and the cause of each, but that’s another story.)

My question is, why?

My current theory is that being “in between,” as I like to call it, removes the emotional clutter, the accumulation of meanings and experiences, good and bad, that color each moment spent in a familiar place. Being somewhere new allows me to live in the present.

If my theory is correct, my next question is, how can I bring this serenity into my daily life without moving around constantly?

Note, I write today on my 60th day in India, having spent 37 of those on the road. I am currently in New Delhi, at the midway point of 17 consecutive days of travel.

Delhi smog

2008-11-14T22:39:00.002+05:30

November 9, 2008, 10:27 AM IST

On the rikshaw drive home from dinner last night, the street light hung in the Delhi smog, giving the night an eerie yellow hue. The thick air and buzzing motor muffled the street sounds, and the city seemed strangely empty. For a moment my rikshaw driver became Charon, the ferryman of Greek mythology, slowly paddling me to the underworld.

Cultural pyromania

2008-11-14T22:37:00.003+05:30

October 29, 2008, 8:34 AM IST

My first Diwali, the biggest festival in the Hindu year, begins at 5:30 a.m. when a cracker explodes in the driveway 10 feet from my window. It’s Monday in Chennai, the city in South India where I’ve come to celebrate with my colleague Kavita’s family. I decide I am grateful, as she has not come through on her promised 4 a.m. start.

We spend the day eating and relaxing, then at 8 p.m. the house begins filling with more friends and relatives. Dinner is an afterthought, as the thirty-odd guests gather in the driveway and spend the evening lighting firecrackers and telling jokes.

My apathy toward lighting firecrackers is somewhat incongruous with the local firecracker obsession. I stand on the front steps of the house, vicariously enjoying everyone’s euphoria and the up-close-and-personal show. I am joined by two little girls who apparently identify with my ennui. An older woman stops to chat with me and seems amused. I’m tempted to clarify that I’m simply bored, but I think back on July 4 celebrations with my brother (“Taylor, you’re such a downer”) and I decide to laugh along with her.

After all, I am enjoying myself, and also pleased to have been included in this distinctly Indian cultural experience.

India Unbound, by Gurcharan Das

2008-11-14T21:37:00.008+05:30

October 12, 2008, 6:51 PM IST

India Unbound was an initially daunting prospect. I had little faith that I could engage myself in a presumably dry discourse on Indian history. However, my ignorance on all topics Indian was impetus enough for me to start reading.

With this book, Gucharan Das proves my assumption wrong – Indian history is anything but dry. India Unbound tells the story of India’s recent past in a way that helps me feel connected to and part of India today.

Das’ youthful optimism in describing his sense of possibility after independence evoked the impending U.S. presidential election and my hope for the future of America. He traces the increasingly realist path of his own world view, as India’s first prime minister’s legacy became a series of leaders whose blind adherence to faulty ideals bridled India’s entrepreneurial and intellectual spirit. Short stories from his life show his frustration in witnessing how his country squandered forty years of opportunities. These accounts stirred up my feelings towards today’s stagnant U.S. policies on climate change.

Das writes a regular column for the Times of India, India’s pre-eminent daily newspaper. He will be writing an article about Teach for India as part of the Times of India’s support for our launch. I might even get to meet him!

My ignorance, unveiled

2008-10-29T13:28:00.004+05:30

October 28, 2008, 10:49 IST

I’m walking back from a session with my Hindi tutor and I must look particularly out of place today. A third rikshaw driver honks his whiny horn and veers toward me, offering his services as if I can’t see him, as if a tall, blond kid walking down the street in Pune must be looking for a cab. An elderly man hobbling along in the other direction stares at me as if my hair is on fire. Two teenage kids lean out of a bus as it sputters by and yell at me in Marathi, amused by something I can’t understand. A ragged, barefoot woman with a sickly infant appears out of nowhere, tugging on my sleeve, grabbing my hand, begging.

My impatience bubbles to the surface; I just want to be left alone. If just one of those encounters had pushed me a bit further, I might have justified the stereotype that Americans are rude and self-entitled, which would have only made matters worse.

As I walk, I keep thinking. What if I contended with such nuisances every day of my life? And what if they weren’t always so paltry? I wonder, would I learn to shrug them off? Grow a thick skin?

It dawns on me – in my life I’ve just skimmed the surface of understanding the concept of prejudice, of being treated differently because of how you look. Suddenly the concept takes on a new, more personal meaning.

Inane bureaucracy

2008-10-29T13:27:00.003+05:30

October 23, 2008, 10:54 PM IST

Our lawyers notified us today that law prohibits us from incorporating under the name “Teach For India” because it has India in the name. Apparently only governmental organizations can use this noun, our using it would imply that we are trying to take on governmental responsibilities. In essence, we are.

Ironically, we can still use the Teach For India brand name, as long as we conduct all official legal business under a different title.

Complaining in cyberspace

2008-10-28T18:16:00.003+05:30

October 12, 2008, 11:19 PM IST

Life here has been challenging. The incessant roadblocks to progress are frustrating. The organizational politics are stressful. The unending stream of next steps (that were supposed to happen yesterday) is exhausting. And the paid-guest living arrangement I have is an aggravating constraint on my independence.

Don’t misunderstand me – the place and the work suit me well. But I’m accustomed to feeling la joie de vivre darn near all the time, and frankly things have not been going this way of late. I began to demonstrate an abnormal proclivity to complain to everyone and to no one in particular via Google instant messenger.

A minor spat with a co-worker on Thursday got me thinking. Life has been coming at me a little too fast for my comfort and I needed to step back, get some perspective. So I grabbed my backpack and headed on foot to Pune Central to pick up some groceries.

As I was perusing the aisles, singing along with the Billy Joel song playing (Indian mall music is stuck squarely in the 80s and 90s), my spirits began to lift. It occurred to me that such a simple solitary act, grocery shopping and singing a song I knew, was exactly what I had been missing. I had accepted the professional and social status quo of the team and let myself become overly reliant on others. Although this may have made sense initially, I was increasingly missing my usual sense of self.

On Friday I dove headlong into me things. It was a major success – I found a yoga instructor, who I’m meeting early on Monday before my Hindi lesson. I celebrated this with a small solo dance party. Between Saturday and Sunday I spent hours walking around Pune, expanding my mental map tenfold. I toured the famous and mysterious Osho Ashram. I did some shopping, picking up my first yoga mat, a couple simple kurtas (traditional Indian men’s wear), and a two albums of South Asian rhythms. (It took some time to persuade the owner that I genuinely wanted her to tell me her favorites.) I exercised (twice!). I stayed in at night and read. It was a huge step in the right direction.

So here’s to the first day of the rest of my India.

Be bold

2008-10-14T18:00:00.002+05:30

October 8, 2008, 8:40 PM IST

We’re at a recruitment event at S.P. Jain, a top management institute in Mumbai, with about one hundred final-year grad students in attendance – all prime candidates to become Teach for India Fellows.

Shaheen’s presentation explains how the tangible benefits of a TFI Fellowship – increased likelihood of securing posts with top MNCs and grad schools – and the intangible benefits – development of transferrable leadership skills – are directly related to one another. “Corporates are telling us they want our Fellows,” she declares.

One student objects: “I don’t think most Indian students will be willing to take such a risk.”

Shaheen rebuts: “Like I said, this program isn’t for everyone. This year we’re selecting just one hundred of India’s most outstanding graduates. We want only the best, because a problem of this magnitude – providing educational opportunities to all of India’s children – requires the best to solve it.”

Shaheen’s reply is compelling but this student’s concern is real. Like most social enterprises, Teach for India faces many obstacles.

First, in India to choose teaching after university is to throw away your career in one fell swoop. Here, where achieving economic stability is paramount, the norm is to find the best corporate position possible. India’s top graduates view teaching as something mundane, simplistic and alien.

Second, Indian college graduates are far less independent than their American counterparts. As late as age 30, they may defer to their parents, who play a major role in the decision-making process. This means that even if we can capture the passion and idealism of India’s best graduates, they still have to contend with objections – or outright rejection – from their parents, who often espouse more traditional viewpoints about teaching.

These obstacles mean we have an uphill battle. However, they also mean that Teach for India has the potential not only to change education in India, but also to start a revolution in the way people think about social responsibility.

“Be bold,” Shaheen implores her audience.

Be the change

2008-10-14T17:58:00.001+05:30

Post-dated: October 5, 2008, 1:48 PM IST

“If you can see the problem, then your mind works. If you can see the opportunity, then your heart works.” – Jayeshbhai Patel, founder of Manav Sadhna¹

In honor of Gandhi ji’s 138th birthday on October 2, I write this blog with one objective: I want you to care.

Yesterday I met an eight-year-old, Sanjay, in a Bandra slum. He told me he wants to be an engineer when he grows up. I sat down on a dilapidated bench with some paper and crayons and was quickly surrounded by a half-dozen other kids. I wrote my name in big block letters on the top of the page and then passed the sheet around. One girl, Sunita, jumped at the opportunity to show off her beautiful handwriting, and a few others quickly grabbed at the paper. Two girls shied away, embarrassed.

In India²:
- 1 in 7 children never enter primary school.
- 1 in 5 school children is completely innumerate and 1 in 8 class eight students cannot do basic arithmetic
- 1 in 8 secondary school children is illiterate, unable to read a level 1 paragraph

When we look at figures like these it’s easy to think the problem is so big that you or I simply can’t make a difference. But to Sanjay and Sunita and these two illiterate girls, one teacher could make a lifetime of difference.

Development economics research is largely inconclusive, but there is one consistent finding: Education – empowering an individual with knowledge and the ability to act in his or her own best interest – is at the core of the solution to virtually every global issue, including health and violence.

[1] Manav Sadhna is an NGO providing health and hygiene, education, and employment services to India’s underprivileged since 1990. Click here for an inspiring film about Jayesh Bhai and his work.
[2] Statistics from the World Bank website and the Aser Report, 2005.

The indispensable rupee

2008-10-14T17:56:00.000+05:30

Post dated: October 4, 2008, 7:44 PM IST

Today I got a phenomenal haircut for 40 rupees (that's about USD 90 cents) which concluded with a scalp massage. This is a good example of the awesome stuff you can buy for really low prices in India.

Example two was my lunch on Wednesday. I bought two hot, fresh vada pao (fried spicy mashed potato patty sandwiches) from a street vendor for 5 rupees each. Consuming street food is ill-advised for your health, but I'd made it 3 full weeks without getting sick (read: diarrhea) and I was starving. You can get a really high quality Indian meal for 50-120 rupees so it's not really necessary to indulge in the 10 rupee variety. You can't beat a bargain though. I didn't get sick so I bought street food from another vendor the next day, at which point I realized I was being a total moron. I have put this behavior on hold for the time being.

More so than haircuts and street food, or virtually anything except water, I am a consumer of cab rides. This means I'm constantly haggling with drivers who are optimistic about my ignorance. Negotiating an auto-rickshaw driver down from 80 rupees to 40 last night (my starting point was 30) was a very gratifying victory.

The Song of India

2008-10-05T16:17:00.004+05:30

Post-dated: October 1, 2008, 11:14 AM IST

I was perusing ProFlowers.com this morning in search of a plant. Selecting a plant online is a bit of a crapshoot, so when I came across a modest but pretty orchid-looking thing called “The Song of India,” I decided it was a sign.

Then I got to thinking: What is India’s song? I thought back on my encounters of the past three weeks.

Hotel lobby music. I spent several nights at a classy lodging called Hotel Fariyas. After finding that the internet signal only worked in the lobby, I was privy to several consecutive hours of a 90-second jingle that can only be described as maddening. After I relocated to the Gordon House for a brief stint, things went from bad to worse. They had opted for a remixed, electronic version of the Aladdin soundtrack.

Elevator music. I have discovered that the Law of Elevator Music extends across international borders. Having spent a great deal of time coming and going from team meetings at Surjeet’s 17th story Bombay apartment, I can tell you that Kenny G is indeed a great musician when compared to the cohort of elevator music composers.

Street sounds. I’m convinced that Bombay drivers are connected to their horns by nerve pathways; no sooner has the notion of the honk been conceived in the driver’s mind than the horn is blown. And what constitutes an occasion worthy of a honk? A local cab driver wouldn’t understand this question. What occasion isn’t?

Bollywood music. My exposure to Bollywood movies has been limited by the scarcity of good new flicks lately. However, the radio stations are always abuzz with Bollywood classics, new and old. Bollywood movies are a bit like musicals, full of song and dance, so I suppose the American analog to Bollywood music would be showtunes, the difference being that in India, Bollywood music is by far the most popular genre.

Indian idol. Last Saturday evening I ventured into the unknown – Indian TV – and was rewarded with Indian Idol, an exact adaptation of the American version down to the personalities of the judges, save of course for the music, which is all Indian. Is it too late for me to jump on the bandwagon?

The sound of home. On Thursday night I went to watch a co-worker's son's cover band play. There's little that can beat a bunch of Indian kids covering American grunge music. Her son had Kurt Cobain totally nailed.

It seems that the Song of India, mirroring the diversity of the country itself, is an incredibly eclectic mix.

Les personnages

2008-09-23T11:59:00.004+05:30

Post-dated: September 22, 2008, 7:44 AM IST

Kavita provides the comic relief, mocking Sheela’s sorry attempts at an Indian accent or my consulting-speak. She is the only Indian national on the team besides Shaheen (the CEO), making her a scarce and precious resource.

Mariyam is both the realist and the team mom, helping us navigate the confusing world of Maharashtra (the state containing Bombay and Pune). She serves as the liaison between Teach for All, a network designed to support the launch of the TFA model in other countries, and the team in India.

Shikha is the social butterfly, the only person on the team to successfully branch out so far. She has spent most of her career in the non-profit world, and is the first person I’ve ever met who is from Las Vegas.

Shaheen is the passionate advocate for poor youth. She dropped out of Tufts University at 18 to work with slum children in Bombay and her network of supporters – in the slums and in board rooms – has been growing ever since.

Sheela is the spark plug, the organized chaos. Her boundless enthusiasm coupled with her planning ability is one of our most valuable team, especially when the work week spills into the “overwork” week.

Surjeet is the diplomat, carefully navigating the complex political waters that we’re encountering in these early days. She has a background in non-profit and government, having returned to non-profit in what she describes as an effort to save her optimism and idealism from the bureaucracy monster.

That leaves me. I’m the consultant. The only guy. The white kid. The youngster. And, as Kavita has charmingly dubbed me, The Teej.

Re-discovering community

2008-09-23T11:55:00.006+05:30

Post-dated: September 18, 2008, 10:31 AM IST

I spent two hours yesterday evening in a Bombay slum, commonly called a “community”. When I first heard this term a voice inside me shouted “euphemism!” After my experience, I can tell you that the term community is incredibly apt.

A community is a city unto itself – twenty thousand people living in the space of a large city block. Every inch is occupied. People, dogs, and bicycles flow around one another like water molecules.

A small boy, no more than four, slipped in a mud puddle as he walked past us. His sister, perhaps six, firmly admonished him. When you have few clothes and no running water, it’s important to stay clean, even if you are surrounded by filth.

A tailor sat in an alcove he’d fashioned with a tarp and a small table, a light bulb dangling over his sewing machine, a bin of cloth scraps at his feet. We bought 5 colorful handkerchiefs from him for 10 rupees, about 22 cents.

We followed Shaheen into a dark alley just wide enough for two people to squeeze past one another. After just 100 yards or so winding left and right, up and down, I had a moment of complete disorientation and felt anxiety wash over me. Then I turned around and noticed I was being accompanied by three smiling little boys.

We arrived at the home of a young woman and her daughter, who proudly invited us in. Shaheen explained how the woman had been one of her first students, only five or six years old at the time. Her one-room home was immaculate, and we pulled our shoes off outside the door, awkwardly trying to avoid stepping in the wet alley without falling over. This home was relatively spacious and comfortable, which is to say it was about the size of a large cupboard, with a solid roof overhead and a small, buzzing TV mounted to the wall. The six of us barely fit inside.

As we walked back through the alley, I peeked into another home where half a dozen kids sat on the floor, learning to write. Their huge smiles beamed out at me. “Keep studying!” I told them.

A new kind of homogeneity

2008-09-18T12:12:00.012+05:30

Post-dated, September 11, 2008, 10:40 PM IST

Today I met briefly with Shaheen and then took the first of many 4-hour train rides between Mumbai and Pune. Upon arrival, I met Shikha, Kavita, and Mariyam, which leaves just Sheela. The team is all young Indian and Indian-American women. Oddly, this will be by far the most homogeneous work setting I’ve been part of.

Mumbai is a bewildering and amazing place

2008-09-18T12:12:00.011+05:30

Post-dated, September 10, 2008, 19:16 IST

Mumbai is a bewildering and amazing place. On my cab ride from the airport to Surjeet’s apartment, there was a “close call” on the road every 16.3 feet, and a horn honked every 0.6 seconds, approximately. I’m guessing that we covered at most five miles in the 90 minutes we spent weaving in and out of traffic. Note that traffic is used loosely to include trucks of all sizes, cabs (miniature in nature, my head was firmly pressed against the roof), auto-rickshaws (smaller yet, with a buggy-like character), motorcycles and dirt bikes (fearless), cattle-drawn carriages, bicycles, pedestrians, and stray dogs. It seems that it’s normal for a ten-year-old girl to weave through six lanes of moving traffic.

On advice and books

2008-09-18T12:12:00.010+05:30

Post-dated, September 6, 2008, 10:27am EST

In preparing for India, I have accumulated far more of two things than I had anticipated: advice and books. Two observations therein:

Indian-Americans are far more prevalent in my life than I realized. In the past few weeks, at least 30 emails have been sent on my behalf by Indian-Americans who are within two degrees of separation from me.
Books are really heavy. I fear my intellectual eagerness may have been excessive – I brought approximately 60 pages of reading per day of my trip, excluding a massive GMAT study book. We’re talking Tom Friedman, Jeffrey Sachs, Ayn Rand, Amartya Sen – yikes.

Dare to be true

2008-08-30T23:56:00.008+05:30

Post-dated: August 28, 2008, 15:42 EST

I vividly remember practicing for those daunting case interviews during the fall of my senior year in college, trying to hone my skills. When all my interviews were done, I’d come out of the fray with a job, but I still felt a competitive pressure when I started. The differences between me and experienced analysts, only a year into the role, were stark. The learning curve climbed steeply in front of me.

Fast forward four months, and I’m sharing a 2 a.m. cab ride home with a colleague, Anton. As can happen at 2 a.m., our conversation turned away from consulting. Anton, commonly recognized by my colleagues as a “Rockstar” (high performer) discussed his interest in social venture capital, and I felt a tension somewhere inside me relax a little.

At the end of that project Anton gave me some advice. He told me to let my true self out a little more on the job; that people would remember me for being real. That piece of advice was a turning point for me. I realized that being good at my job didn’t mean I had to be my job. It was alright to just be me. Since then I’ve tried to be open about my desire to leverage my consulting skills to do something besides consult. Sometimes I still balk – there’s a right and a wrong time and place for everything – but more and more I’m finding Anton’s advice ringing true.

"Dare to be true. Nothing can need a lie: a fault which needs it most, grows two thereby."
- George Herbert

Speaking English

2008-08-30T23:55:00.003+05:30

Post-dated: August 28, 2008, 15:20 EST

Today was the last day of my project, a 7-weeker helping an international hotel group make the business case for a major systems transformation. Usually on the Thursday drive from the client to the airport my case manager Raj and I would talk case work and client politics, or theorize about social dynamics and international relations. But the last day is different. Driving out of the parking garage that last time, we both exhaled a little longer and drove in pensive silence for a bit.

Raj was first to bring up my impending fellowship: “you’re really going to learn a lot from this experience, Taylor,” he told me matter-of-factly. “I’m even a bit envious of you.”

We got to talking about India, where he’d grown up. When we landed on the topic of multilingualism he recounted a line one of his teachers had often used: “You can’t speak English until you think in English”. That one line, more than anything, had enabled his successful transition to life in the States. I’ll try to take that lesson with me to India.

Naming a blog

2008-08-30T23:52:00.001+05:30

Post-dated: August 28, 2008, 13:44 EST

Have you ever named a blog?

This ostensibly easy task of writing six words took me over a week. My first instinct was that naming a blog was like naming a child; that I’d have to find a name with the right ring to it, and a deeper meaning. After all, a blog’s name, like a child’s, is forever the instrument of the first impression it makes.

So I dug into my archives of special words and quotes. I played with the word eudaimonia, a word combining the notions of happiness and virtue. I asked friends for advice. One proposed ubuntu, a term in a South African dialect whose meaning pertains to the interconnectedness of all people. I’m grateful for having learned this word, but could I really give a blog the burden of such a powerful name? I continued in this vein, experimenting with titles about deeper meaning and purpose and values.

I realized that I was trying to capture the essence of my soul in the title of my blog. That sort of thing can be tough to capture in a few words. I’ve now accepted that if there’s to be any distilling of my essence, it will have to happen over the course of many words, many blog entries, many days.

I’m pleased to say that after trying on many blog titles, I’ve found one that fits. If to have or are struggling with the process of naming a blog, I empathize, and wish you luck.

The knot

2008-08-30T23:44:00.004+05:30

Post-dated: August 26, 2008, 11:40 EST

Today is Tuesday, August 26, which is technically six days before my NPF is scheduled to begin. The confluence of several factors is creating something of a knot in my stomach.

Pre-emptive nostalgia. The past 15 months have been, without question, the best time of my life – stable, happy, rewarding, fun, and full of growth – and leaving for India is a definitive pivot. Sure, I’m only leaving for 5 months, but I can feel the seismic plates shifting beneath me already. I tell myself that the time is right, though, that I’m ready to leap.

Anticipation. I’m excited! Helping launch Teach for India – leveraging the “consulting toolkit” I’ve theoretically assembled – is at the intersection of so many of my career interests. The underpinning is that my future vision of myself is as a social entrepreneur using education (building infrastructure, creating policy, disseminating best practices) as a vehicle for change. More on this in later posts.

I love traveling and exploring new places. I’ve never spent significant time in a developing nation, though, and the longest I’ve lived abroad was the semester I spent in Paris during college. I’m ready for the next degree of cultural immersion.

Uncertainty. I’m not prepared to leave, and I don’t mean mentally. I need to get vaccinated, but I’m not sure which vaccines I need, where I’ll get them, or most importantly, when. That’s the challenge of traveling on casework up until the last day.

I haven’t booked my flight to India yet. I’m waiting to transfer all the rewards points I’ve accumulated from every source into my British Air account. I’m not holding my breath, but I am counting on the transfer happening faster than the “up to 6 weeks” indicated in the fine print.

I don’t even know yet when I will roll off of the project I’m on! (“Roll off” is a term used by consultants for “finish a client project.”) It may be this week – or it may be 6 weeks from now.

I don’t have a job title or description with Teach for India, or a place to stay in Pune (the city I’ll be living in), or even a book about India. What I do know is that the TFI team’s enthusiasm and vision have inspired enough confidence in me that I don’t mind. It doesn’t hurt that two of my future colleagues, Shaheen and Surjeet, will meet me in Mumbai when I arrive on September 10.

I’m comfortable with uncertainty, which is good, because there’s plenty of it to wallow in at the moment.