Facebook Timeline of a B-schooler

Aravind Adiga in his brilliant second novel 'Last Man in Tower' writes that a dustbin tells the story of a household; its contents emptied every morning reveal the preceding day's activities. Years of technology, internet penetration and self-aggrandizement later, Facebook timeline is the modern day's dustbin.

With the exception of Subramanium Swamy, no one's Facebook TL follows a more predictable pattern than a B-schooler's - that supreme dispenser of gyaan, that inexhaustible reservoir of fundas, or as many a B-school's websites say, perhaps sardonically, 'thought leader of tomorrow'.

98.93
97.36

99.09

A blue-blooded B-schooler's facebook glory begins long before the academic year. Sometime in January, on a cold midnight, as the world sleeps, engineers and TCS-Infy coders awake to life and freedom. The numbers above would appear meaningless to an untrained eye. But to the largely discerning crowd, the message implicit in three numbers is loud and clear, sparking a torrent of congratulatory messages. In between, the B-schooler rues 'VA is a bitch', presents a detailed track record of mock scores, and concludes - 'Fuck Normalization!' 

<Enter B-school's acronym> it is.

Sometime in April-May, the public declaration is made. There'll be creativity as well; clever use of the school's name and symbols.

'Time to live life XL size!'

'Joka calling :)'

And the indigenous ivy-league, hallowed old IIMs do not warrant much deliberation.

'Finally, B'.

Of late, with the proliferation of awards and award shows, a new trend seems to be emerging. Facebook isn't just the new dustbin. Facebook is the new podium to deliver elaborate thank-you speeches. As the coveted call letter reaches the shores of mail inbox after a long and arduous journey in the seas of entrance exams, boisterous GDs and grueling PIs, the occasion calls for a 200 word thank you speech. The almost-there B schooler thanks his parents, friends, faculty at the coaching centre, benign normalization and fate. The religious amongst them also thank God, 'above all'.

First year begins. Education and location tabs of facebook profile are duly updated. The cover pic changes to a DSLR clicked image of red-brick buildings, surrounded by tall trees and lush gardens in early morning glory. Or the front gate with the school's name plastered across.

Early days of all new human endeavors are heady. And early days of first year see a flurry of activity on the B-schooler's TL.

'4 days and just 10 hours of sleep. Hahaha. This is insane!'

'Insomniac already. MBA has well and truly begun.'

The marketing enthusiasts enamored by Philip Kotler's theories and enchanted by popular advertising campaigns liberally share links.

'This is mind-blowing guerilla marketing from Unilever! Totally flanking P&G's frontal attack on its competitive advantage. The FMCG war continues...'

'No words to describe this. The collection of best ads ever...'

Meanwhile the finance guys vociferously dissect everything from happenings in global financial markets to RBI's monetary policy.

'Insightful op-ed in Business Standard. Core Inflation continues to remain within control. Totally beats me why Raghuram Rajan just doesn't go the Keynesian way and reduce interest rates.'

'Hmm. Interesting article this. Recent empirical data from emerging markets busts the long-held view that gold and equity markets move in opposite directions. Do read'

They say in life, two things are inevitable - death and taxes. In an MBA's life, it's four - death, taxes, EMIs and  facebook DP in a suit. An MBA student's suited DP announces his arrival at the altar of management in the glass and steel corporate world (Preferably front-end and middle level, with a dash of strategy). You will transform organizations, move markets, and change the world - provided you put on a suit and tie on starched white shirt. The suited facebook DP is a highlight of the B school stint and surely amongst the landmark facebook pictures like class II group photo, wedding day click, newborn's picture and the greatest of 'em all - selfie in front of a washroom mirror. This suited DP lingers on the TL for weeks together as friends and family and Farmville buddies lap it up, pouring compliments upon compliments, and long lost friends-acquaintances-strangers extend greetings for a successful future. This latter crowd is that section of your fb following which becomes active only on landmark events. The next time they'll like/comment on your fb post, it'll be when you upload a picture from your wedding album. Inevitably, suited DP is one of t he B-schooler's highest grossing posts.

In what are ominous signs of the future, as the MBA student moves ahead in his journey of becoming a 'manager', the facebook posts turn bossy and irritating.

Courtesy: www.reckontalk.com

Cutting-edge research is an absolute must to gather deep insights into contemporary marketing problems of FMCG-FMCD giants operating in India that the B-schooler seeks to address in trim-end projects. And what better platform to conduct a market research spanning across diverse age groups and socioeconomic classes than your facebook timeline? That strong community built from long years in school, coaching classes, engineering colleges and candy crush. Thus the thought leader of  tomorrow broadcasts google forms on the screens of 1167 fb friends, exhorting them to fill in responses.

'Hi, plz fill this google form on Fastrack. It is important for a marketing project i am working on. Won't take more than 2 mins of your time! Promise! Thanks ;)'

And then there are emotional appeals...

'I have duly filled *each and every* Google form shared. Please return the favour and fill this form on behavior of premium packaged food consumers'

To quote Adiga from Last Man in Tower again, 'Any good society survives on a circulation of favours'.

Charity begins at home, and promotion of college events starts from facebook TL for consumption of friends and family.

<Enter B-school Name>

Presents

In Partnership with

<Enter a free-coupon startup>

The Flagship Marketing Event of

<Enter a random Sanskrit word>

<Enter a permutation and combination of mar/mark/market with sutra/yudh/shastra/vista/smart>

 IS THE MARKETER IN YOU READY FOR THE GREATEST MARKETING CHALLENGE EVER??

 Prizes Worth 500000 to be Won!!

Register Now

A key part of most B-school events are competitions that challenge MBA students to think out of the box and come up with disruptive solutions to real world problems. There are competitions on next-generation digital marketing, and then competitions on creating powerful marketing communications. So many different competitions, one judging criteria - number of 'likes' and 'shares' on a picture, poster or video. 

And again, the hapless B-schooler turns to facebook.

'Hi! Our entry for 'The Next KRK of Marketing', the flagship marketing event of IIM Benaras. Please like and share and help us win!!'

Now, 'liking' this entry is an arduous task that involves wading through multiple links, 'liking' facebook page of the college, facebook page of the event sponsor and facebook page of the college's marketing club in order to arrive at the facebook page of that particular competition where, upon hitting the like button, you'll be redirected, God be merciful, to your friend's entry, for the 'like' that will be eventually counted.

Naturally, people take the easy way out and 'like' the facebook post instead, inviting the friend's ire.

'Guys do not like this post! *Go to the link* and like our entry! Team name: Dark Horses on Fire'

Soon enough, the B-schooler realizes it isn't working, and makes tactical changes in his bid to win the competition and conquer the ever-expanding marketing horizons as its poster stated. It is time to go direct. Where facebook timeline fails, free personal messaging succeeds. Thus, all and sundry 'active' on facebook chat and a thousand Whatsapp groups are pinged with the 'like and share' request.

The two years that an MBA student spends at college is marked by a spate of life-changing and earth-shattering landmark events - like presenting with the project group one last time before moving into second year. This occasion marks the end of an year of making atrocious PPTs stuffed with the most banal of SWOT analyses and BCG matrices - 'inspired' from cringe-worthy slideshare presentations -  that tortured audience members more than a loop Himesh Reshammiya songs on full blast. And thus, the august occasion deserves to be commemorated on facebook with a group pic and caption:

'Last presentation with Group 17, Division W. We came, we presented, we put them to sleep!'

Next up in the list of landmark events is, of course, Summer Internship.The irony is lost on the freshly minted interns as they post 'Started working at' updates on April Fools' Day. The facebook news feed undergoes a metamorphosis into LinkedIn for a couple of days.

'Started working at XYZ as an intern. Game On!'

Working intern? That's an oxymoron, boss.

Second year of B school, as it progresses, sees steep declines in the levels of academic rigor. The rigor translates into binge watching of Game of Thrones episodes and an 18th century racist American soap called 'F.R.I.E.N.D.S'. Facebook in the second year records multiple check ins at popular hang out zones within and on the outskirts of the city.

'Love the Pav Bhaji!' #Foodie #Connoisseur *Checked in at Juhu Beach*

'Not all those who wander are lost' #Travel #Explore *Checked in at Tiger Point, Lonavala*

The juggernaut of Google forms and like and share requests continues unabated for the two years. So does the juggernaut of pictures - pictures that have MBA student written all over them. An indicative list follows:

• Suited up, looking into the distance and speaking nothing in particular to a captive audience in a dimly lit seminar hall
• Suited up, beaming and showing certificates of merit at competitions
• Suited up, beaming and showing degree certificate in a convocation dress
• Suited up, beaming for no discernible reason
• Goa in Christmas week
• Goa after year-end exams and before summer internship
• Goa after summer internship
• Goa after final placements and before convocation
• Goa after convocation
• And of course, like their brethren, selfies on random occasions

Finally, as two years draw to a close, the fresh graduate posts a string of updates to mark Convocation. The posts could vary from a two-three para emotional downpour on making friends, facing challenges, struggling to clear GDs or abstract one-liners borrowed from top ranking search results on Google. Or they could be elaborate thank you speeches delivered from an imaginary podium, like the one delivered on getting an admit. And of course there are the convocation pics that chronicle the journey from getting dressed, getting dressed and putting on the robe, getting dressed and putting on the robe and the hat, receiving the degree certificate, throwing the hat in the air, one with project group, one with fellow members of the cell, one with fellow members of the division, one with BFFs, one with parents, one with a random set of people because frankly there can't be enough convocation pics and the mandatory pic - a mirror selfie.

#Convocated

Are we done, finally?

No.

Adios college! Time now to embark on a new journey. In a new city. In a new job. In a new office. At a new CTC. Under a new boss. At new tax slabs. #ToNewBeginnings

The Beauty of Indian Railways

There isn’t a public place that represents a city more truly than its railway station. The city’s railway station is its metonymic figure in life and blood, brick and mortar. With good reason, the railway station in the city of Jamshedpur is called Tatanagar Junction. A fading board affixed on a pillar at Pipariya station proudly proclaims “Alight here for Panchmarhi”. At 2 AM in the night, passengers in deep slumber – the one possible only in trains with their rocking motion and reassuring rattle – wake up to sounds of men selling sev at Ratlam Junction.

The late evening Kanpur railway station cut a microcosmic picture of the city. Dimly lit, dirty, and congested – its air putrid with intense stench of filth and human waste. The daily travelers awaited their train home, wary from travel on Kanpur’s potholed roads. Families spread their belongings, forming miniature households on the railway platform. The mothers packed and unpacked food, children alternately ran and cried, as the elderly perched on bags muttered advices. A destitute old woman spending her days and nights on a tattered plastic banner beside a food stand swung her arms violently at swarming flies. The railway station appeared as if expressing its sadness with the current state of affairs and its despair about the city’s future.

Running an hour late, the Avadh Express, on a long and arduous 3 day 65 stops journey from Gorakhpur to Bandra Terminus, rolled into Kanpur Central at quarter to midnight. The AC coaches passed by. Lights switched off and curtains drawn across their glass windows. Had it not been for the windows, waiting passengers on the platform could have heard men and women snoring smugly under warm blankets. Then, as if to serve as a reminder of India’s reality, followed the sleeper coaches. Young boys and men stood at the door with empty plastic bottles in their hand, their eyes searching for the nearest water tap. Lights from the platform briefly lit the insides as they rattled by. From Bihar to the city of Bombay, trains do not travel – they migrate. The coaches were full of people and their luggage. Two, or at times three squeezed into a berth meant for one. The ticketless slept on newspapers spread on aisles between seats. In dimly lit coaches, boarding passengers at Kanpur Central fought their way to their berths, shouting at those sleeping on floor to move aside and carefully watching their steps. A misstep could have crushed a man’s foot, a woman’s hand or a child’s face.

I found my side upper berth in S9 occupied by a tall and wiry man fast asleep. His bright orange hair stood out in the dark. He crouched to fit his frame on the short side upper berth and rested his head on his bag.

A man’s bag often betrays the story of his life. This trusted travel partner is a silent witness to his travails, and bears the brunt like his own blood and flesh. The color of fading green, the man’s bag had small square pieces stitched up at different places. Its cloth had worn thin from the years, much like its owner. I tapped him on his shoulder. He woke up, as if expecting a nudge or a tap any moment.

“Bhaiya, mera seat hai”, I showed him my ticket.

He climbed down the berth, put on what once, a long time ago, must have been spotless white sports shoes, pulled his fading green bag and walked away – all with swift, assured movements. Perhaps it was routine. Traveling ticketless, choosing an empty berth and waiting for luck to run out at some point in the night. Never mind the account books of Indian Railways. Never mind the breach of rules and regulations. Why does a man travel? Or a more pertinent question is why do the poor travel in this manner? On dirty aisles between seats, legs going over them all night; beside the doors of toilets reeking with the smell of human waste. The answer perhaps lies in hope – hope of finding work, a better place to live, enough food to eat, and in faint chance of it all falling into place, perhaps a brighter tomorrow for the children. That is why the poor travel, in the hope that a new destination holds the answers to their great miseries. The Indian Railways keeps this hope alive. While most public institutions utterly fail in their responsibilities, Indian Railways does a great service to the poor, by keeping their hopes alive.

I woke up with a start. The train had come to a halt beside a nondescript platform. Early morning sun reached into the coach through its grilled windows. The tall, wiry man was asleep on a patch of newspapers on the floor, crouching to fit his frame in the small vacant space, his head resting on a fading green bag. A few minutes later, the train rumbled to life. I drifted back to sleep.

Bolo Naashta! Naashta! Naashta! Garma Garam Naashta Bolo!

9:15 AM. A loud voice with a peculiar characteristic boomed across the coach. It belonged to a stocky, middle aged man carrying hot samosas and batata vadas in a blue plastic bucket on his head. His voice woke up a passenger sleeping on the opposite upper berth. The passenger stretched and his feet hit him in the face. Unperturbed, he walked ahead, delivering his breakfast time monologue in his peculiar voice. Years of shouting out the contents of a hot basket on his head, day in and day out, had rendered his speech utterly listless and indifferent. He could be nearby, but it seemed his words were coming from a distance – almost as if his throat had become one of those old sound players. A few seats ahead, the usual routine scene played out. One of the passengers inquired –

“Eh Samosa! Idhar aa!”

“Samosa kaise diya?”

“Bees ka do”

“Garam hai?”

“Garam hai”

“2 de”

Exchanging money, the passenger takes the samosas in a piece of newspaper, with a chilli wedged nearby.

“Eh! Yeh kahaan garam hai? Garam bola tha na!”

The passenger digs his hand into the basket, touching samosas to gauge their temperature.

“Sab ek jaisa hi hai saab”

“Jaa fir waapas le ja. Mera paisa de”

He fishes for the twenty rupees in the pouch made into his stained apron. Returning them to the passenger, he walks ahead, delivering his breakfast monologue in his peculiar voice, to run into another such passenger in the next coach, for another such exchange. Little wonder then that he spoke and walked like a robot. Years of catering to the thankless passengers on moving trains, of carrying oily snacks on the head, in a stained apron had drained him, his voice of human emotion. It was no longer capable of surprise, of joy and even grief. Perhaps there would be anger. Surely, there would be anger.

Courtesy: A day in the life of India (TOI)

Three young men occupied the opposite berths. They were different ages and traveling together. The oldest among them must be in his early twenties. He looked out of the window, at the passing landscape, digging the last bits of Rajshree from his teeth with the overgrown nail on smallest finger of his right hand. His well-oiled hair parted from the middle. The youngest of the three idled on the upper berth and got down only to fill his 1.5L plastic bottle with a Coke cap with water from platform taps. The third guy, dressed in a red t-shirt and dark blue jeans, hunched beside the elder brother, black earphones plugged into his ear. They rarely ate or talked amongst each other, each whiling away the time in his own way. At noon, as the train departed from Kota Junction, a couple, probably in their early forties, occupied the two berths vacated a while ago. The lady, a black shawl wrapped around her, settled beside the window. The man in a checked shirt and black trousers sat beside her with the day’s Dainik Jagran.

Amidst the quintessential hustle-bustle on a long distance train, the quiet and silence in this section of S9 coach was stark and unsettling. Nobody ate anything for lunch. A few hours passed. The man, tired from reading sad affairs of the nation and the world, lied down and drifted into sleep. The lady continued to look out of the window, her eyes unmoving, her gaze fixed. She was looking at the farms and trees and wastelands rolling by without really noticing them. She was deep in thought and reflection. The constantly changing landscape, objects speeding past her eyes gave her the solitude to ruminate. It seems so strange, that of all places in the world, a moving train with its rattle and tattle should provide the seclusion to dive deep into nostalgia and reminisce unlike any other.

“Kahaan jayenge?” the elder brother asked me.

Kahaan jayenge… Often the first question strangers ask each other on a train – the question that is meant to break the ice. This simple question paves the way for long conversations and camaraderie. It could be an impassioned discussion on local politics, a general rant about scams and corruption, or a window into their private lives. It all starts with “kahaan jayenge?”

“Baroda”

“Naukri karte hai?”

“Nahi, ghar hai”

“Accha ek baat bataiye, Baroda…aur Vadodara ek hi shahar hai?”

“Haan ek hi hai… Aur aap?”

“Hum Vapi jaa rahe hai. Navneet factory me duty karte hai… Badi company hai”

In the hierarchy of jobs that low income households cherish for their young boys, the elusive sarkaari naukri takes top spot, followed by duty at a badi company. The word duty, with all its associations to a uniform, a work schedule and perhaps a cap, gives the job a comforting guise of dignity and stability. Naukri connotes unemployment – Naukri nahi mil rahi, Naukri ki talaash hai –while duty connotes a steady income.

“Hmm, badi company hai. Navneet ki kitaabe, copy acchi quality ki aati hai”

Acknowledgement of Navneet’s importance made the elder brother smile. He neatly opened a packet of Rajshree and lowered it in my direction. I politely declined. He emptied the contents in his mouth, and looked out of the window, chewing onto the gutka contentedly. The sky adorned shades of orange as the train speeded towards evening from a harsh summer afternoon. The air turned cooler and more agreeable. On the berths opposite, the man was now awake and sat upright as the lady, so many hours later, continued to stare vacantly outside the window. At long last, she turned and spoke to the man in a low tone –

“Phone karte hai usse. Pata nai bedsheet change kiya bhi hoga ki nahi”

A few moments later, the man replied,

“Kiya hoga. Humne nikalte waqt kaha toh tha”

“Ji… Maine makaan malik ko bhi kaha tha badalne ke liye”

“Dekho makaan malik bhi kitna accha tha. Aaj kal kahaan milte hai aise log”

The lady didn’t respond to this. She turned her gaze back to outside the window, as distant landscape obscured from view in the fading evening light. A catering services boy carrying biscuits, cakes, wafers and chocolates moved around cheerfully, loudly exhorting passengers to buy some. He moved quickly and cleverly paused to rearrange the contents of his basket near the section with kids to entice their attention and nudge this attention into stubbornness. A passenger picked up a Britannia cake packet. Its expiry date was next month. She refused to buy a packet due for expiry so soon. But the catering boy persisted – weaving vague stories and theories like a salesman keen to close a deal. He took ‘personal guarantee’ of the cake’s quality, explaining how companies always undermined the life of their goods. It doesn’t work out that way in India, he quipped. As the haggle continued, a now-familiar listless voice filled the air, as if leaking from an old loudspeaker in the distance –

“Khaana! Khaana! Khaana. Sabzi roti ka garam khana boliye!”

The difference between two men doing the same work couldn’t have been starker – one morose and mechanical, the other ebullient and enthusiastic. One wary and hardened from the years gone by, the other filled with hope and optimism for the future. That is the thing about youth; one thinks one can change the world.

“Kanpur kaahe gaye the?” the elder brother resumed conversation. He had noted me boarding at Kanpur Central.

“Interview”

His eyes widened. He leaned forward and asked “Naukri?”

“Nahi… Padhaai”

“Accha…” He slouched back into the seat.

“Hum soche ki hum yahaan Lucknowve se Gujarat aaye hai… koi Gujarat se U.P. kaahe jayega 
naukri ke liye”

There are articles and statistics galore highlighting the poor economic growth and rampant unemployment in the Hindi heartland of India. But the momentary disbelief on his face, upon hearing someone going to U.P. for a job interview, captured gravity of the situation like no written word can.

The lady turned her gaze away from the window to speak to her husband –

“9 ghante ho gaye…”

“Hmm, 9 ghante ho gaye. Kal subah ek poora din ho jayega. Isi tarah din aur mahine beet 
jayenge…”

Silence ensued. She looked out of the window. It had turned pitch dark by now. One could barely see the outline of trees and hillocks passing by, beyond the lights from the train. The elder brother reached for his bag beneath the seat and took out a rectangular box with a shiny sticker on its head. Bold letters in dark green majestic font read “Lucknow Bakery”. He opened the box and offered –

“Lijiye bhaiya. Lucknow ke mashoor”

“Thank you” I took one biscuit and ate.

“Hum jab bhi Lucknow aate hai, do teen box zaroor le kar laut te hai Gujarat. Chote ko kaafi pasand hai” He looked at the upper berth.

“Kitni baar jaana hota hai Lucknow?”

He sighed and looked out into the dark as he spoke –

“Saal me do teen baar. Jab bhi ghar me kaam aata hai, chale aate hai. Baaki samay wahin Gujarat me. Factory waale room diye hai just factory ke bagal me. Wohin par khaana, peena, sona”

“Lucknow me hi naukri lene ki koshish nahi ki?”

“Lucknowve me kahaan bhaiya. Naukri milegi bhi toh paisa nai milega. Aur Lucknow, Kanpuri ke aage kuch nai hai… Yahaan Gujarat me paisa theek milta hai. Parivaar ke 6-7 ladke yahin kaam karte hai. Iss baar Chote ko bhi lekar chal rahe hai. Bade saahab bole hai Chote ki duty lagwaa denge”

Forced migration and its perils – that explained the youngest brother, Chote, spending the day alone on the upper berth, not talking to anyone, not gazing out of the window or listening to songs. He even refused to eat Lucknow Bakery biscuits. He was making the journey from home to an unfamiliar place, filled with strangers and an alien language. He was making the journey from friends to fellow workers, from freedom to ‘duty’, from cricket in the gully to stacks of white blank paper in a factory.

The lady spoke again –

“Khaana khaya hoga ki nahi?”

“Nahi khaya hoga toh kha lega…kyun itni fikar karti ho”

“Pehli baar ghar se alag, apne aap rahega. Pata nai kaise…” Her voice cracked.

The man sighed.

“Reh lega… Bacche sikh jaate hai. Buwajaan ka ladka Feroze bhi toh reh raha hai ek saal se”

He continued –

“Kal se class shuru ho jayegi. Fir padhai me hi samay beet jayega uska. Ghar ki yaad nahi aayegi”

He spoke as much to himself as to his wife, consoling his own uncertainties and fears he chose not to give words. It all became clear now. They had boarded at Kota. They had come to drop their son for his studies at the hub of IIT JEE and AIEEE preparations. Every year, thousands of students migrated to Kota to realize the ultimate dream – IIT – the passport to unbridled success and prosperity, the bragging rights for life.

The lady concurred –

“Aakhir uske future ke liye yahi theek hai”

She opened a bottle of water and drank a little. The man called his son. He had finished dinner and changed the bed sheet, about to sleep to be up in time for the 7 AM Physics class next morning.
The rattle of moving train became more pronounced in the silence of night. Cold wind gushed in from the open windows. A space of six train berths, and three different stories – one, of flight from home to earn a living for the family thousand miles away, the other, of separation from lone son in hope of a better education, and yet another a journey in search of newer pastures. And yet the three disparate stories shared a common theme – hope, hope for a better future.Therein lies the beauty of Indian Railways. Each train is a microcosm of quintessential Indian society.

The unforgettable voice, peculiar in its complete lack of emotion, like sound leaking from an old loudspeaker could be heard from the distance.

“Kha lo sabzi roti ka garam khana. Kha lo sabzi roti ka garam khana”