Understanding the Reasons of Global Economic Pain Through the 'Age of Empires'

Prologue: I have been meaning to write this since a long time. What with all the news-flow about the global economies being in tatters often mentioning heavy-sounding phrases such as 'quantitative easing', I really wanted to get a perspective of what's the real problem. I mean, I work in finance - can't not know about all the big deal in the financial world right? So, I began reading. And after enough reading, this is the parallel I drew. Its not a boring theory seriously - read on! 


Ever played that brilliant game of strategy called the 'Age of Empires' or AoE? It used to be very famous back in IITD, where my fellow hostelers spent countless hours playing the game over the LAN. I did not play it that much I confess. But whenever I did, I personally found it to be amazing.


There were various 'modes' or ways in which this game could be played. Among them, the most detested mode among the pro-gamers was the 'cheat mode'. This is because, in a game with 'cheat mode', one could obtain infinite money (gold) and resources (wood, stone, food) by just typing in some words. This obviously means that none of the players need to worry about anything - everything is possible and the one who builds everything the fastest and amasses the biggest and most advanced army the quickest, stands to win. Utopia, ain't it?


Now what's this got to do with the Global Economic situation today?


Here goes. I ask you, Dear Reader, what cannot be created out of thin air in the real world? Its a simple answer really. Resources - the same as in AoE. You can't create food (agricultural commodities), stone and wood (basic materials needed for building - such as - metals and such commodities). What else can't be created out of thin air? Oil - or any depleting energy source for that matter. What else? Gold and Silver, the precious metals. There are loads of other things but for now, this will suffice.


On the other hand, what can be created out of thin air (or without much effort) in real world. Think think. Very easy. The answer is Bank-notes like the US Dollar or the European Euro. All the governments need to do is - press a button, and print more! This, Dear Reader, is called 'Quantitative Easing'.


What this essentially means is - Bank-notes which are common perception of wealth (please note that I have refrained from saying real wealth***) can be obtained in abundance. This, is the cheat code in the real world. It would have been fine had it been a complete cheat code. Everyone would have been happy and this world would have been a Utopia. But, it isn't a complete cheat code - for you can print bank-notes and thus, create a perception of more wealth where in effect, you haven't created any real resource. Resources are what constitute real wealth - Gold, Oil, Metals, Food. Not Bank-notes! This is where one of the two key problems lies.


The second key problem is of course very ably put into words by one of the famous Indian poets. What he said roughly translates to - 'one should stretch legs only to the extent of the length of the bed-sheet'. This is what consumers across the developed nations haven't done. They have borrowed and spent and borrowed more. Eventually, the wealth has to evaporate right? But what to do then? Can't change lifestyles so simply print more bank-notes, return your debtors these new bank-notes and whoosh - all the debt is gone! Or is it? This, Dear Reader, is the biggest issue the global economies are dealing with. How to cut the debt REALLY? The way ahead is what the fancy word means - 'austerity'. Easier said than done.


Time will tell what will really happen. So lets wait.. and watch.






*** To understand what I mean, just pull out a INR note from your wallet and read what's written on it. You'd notice that a INR100 note reads - 'I promise to pay the bearer the sum of one hundred rupees'. This makes the bank-note some sort of a deed or promise - not the real hundred rupees. But the question is, what are really those hundred rupees if not the bank-note?


Disclaimer: The above are my views and mine only. Acknowledgement due to the author while quoting the above will be appreciated.

Open Complaint to The Writer(s) of Open Letter(s)

Prologue: I have been reading so many open letters and open replies what not. The key reason I felt compelled to write this is the fact that I missed out by a hairline on the last open letter that caught the eye of everyone. Also, I figured, pointless free publicity must be fun! So well - why not?

Dear Writer(s) of Open Letter(s),

Hope you are doing well and find yourself in the pink of health. Consider this to be my first and final complaint to you. Open, that too, just the way you like it! 

So, here goes my list of grudges against you Open-Letter-types (stereotype intended): 

a) Limiting your stereotypes which led to my exclusion from all of them,

b) Hurting the sentiments of my brethren, Punjabi Delhi boys who drive SUVs,

c) Generating so much pointless interest in my fellow Indian boys and girls alike that it led to intense spamming, and

d) Making me waste my time.

Now, we'll deal with these complaints one by one. 

The most important one first. YOU LIMITED YOUR STEREOTYPE! Do you know how much pain it caused me and the likes of me? How hurt we felt that you ignored our contributions to your annoyance totally? Why would you do such a lowly thing, I ask. Am I not a Punjabi boy? Just because I am quasi-Delhi boy (actually I am Dehradun boy and now a quasi-Mumbai boy too) and do not have a SUV, I am not worthy of an open letter? Or an open reply? Or an open anything for that matter?! The likes of me feel extremely sad, I tell you, and demand an 'Open Apology to Those I Left Out' from you. 

Now, the complaints from my brethren who you stereotyped in your letter. Poor people, what's their fault if their folks are rich eh? I bet there was only one (or perhaps a single digit number) fellow who wronged you. But you went ahead and took out your ire on the complete set! Not even spared their 'mum-dad'. That's equivalent of giving mum-sister abuses in coarse hindi by the way. Pathetic! Ask yourself - would you like to be the cause of some poor fella getting teased and humiliated by your letter and all the people who side along with you in jeering at him? What if he hangs himself from his ceiling fan? (I know it is questionable whether a SUV-owner will ACTUALLY have a ceiling fan at his place anyway. Even so, play along shall we?) Imagine. You'll become a criminal overnight. So, please take back some (or all) of your words.

Next, the publicity and the resulting spamming it caused. Be honest. Please do tell if you intended it. For even if you didn't, you know what happened? My dear mailbox got so many 'have you read this open letter dude?

 messages. Sheer waste of Google's space I tell ya! And to add insult to the abovementioned injuries - my even dearer Facebook homepage got filled up with comments about your letter. The last time it had happened, the case was Mr. Anna Hazare - who I strongly support (Great man I say. Aroused the public in such a peaceful manner. Really appreciable. A hundred MPs like him and India is set to regain its historic glory. Look forward to it.). And all of this for what? Because a guy wronged you :| I will tell you what you should have done. You should have just walked up to him and kicked him hard, abused him, etc etc. Would have been easier - and my facebook and gmail would have been spared.

Last but not the least. You know its often said, time equals money (even more so in finance, my profession). I, unfortunately, got drawn to read thy pointless letter. This, in turn, consumed time. I am sure a lot many would also have done the same. Cumulate all this time - that, equals money. Hence, money wasted. And on what? Not a movie show, not a beer, not a tech gizmo, not even a date! But on pointless babble. 

Given the above, I believe my complaint is justified and I would request for a remedial follow-up.

Cheers and wish you a great future ahead,

A

Epilogue: With this, my wish of writing an open letter - a complaint in this case - has come true. Take matters in thy own hands (no pun intended), O Reader, and write one for yourself if it pleases you. In a world where life is becoming increasingly chaotic, I hope O Reader that this becomes the cause of some smiles and light moments.

The fine print (a.k.a The Disclaimer): I solemnly swear that all the babble above conveys my views and mine alone. In case I hurt someone's feelings, it really was unintended. Copyrights not protected but acknowledgement will be appreciated. 

Musings - III

How painful would it be for a butterfly if its wings are burnt? What would go through its mind (because I am sure it would have one - if nothing else, there would be sense in it) in such a cruel moment? Years hence when I was in standard first, I witnessed Gaurav (he lived nearby) setting the wings of a yellow butterfly on fire as it helplessly tried to free itself. The absolute cruelty killed me but since I was a small kid atleast in front of him, all I could do was to shout and call him heartless.

I still remember that sight very vividly. And whenever I remember it, I see a very sad facet of humanity - people hurt other people. The worst part though is, most of the times, it is for no reason whatsoever. At most of the times, it is uninitiated - maybe even done for kicks. Frankly, I have never understood why they do it.


I guess I was a thoughtful (in the manner of I-used-to-think, something, anything but something) guy right from the beginning. For instance, when it used to rain heavily (and that happens a lot in Dehradun), the sewage ducts would overflow and the whole road would get submerged in a stream of muddy water full of garbage. I distinctly remember standing at bauji's windowsill, watching the water flow, observing its movement and that of the garbage that would flow along in the stream. It used to fascinate me. I would sit for an hour or more maybe looking, through the window, at the water flow, thinking about it and maybe about many other things - who knows? I don't really remember now.


This overflowing stream of water, by the way, was a great entertainer. All of us kids in the lane used to make lots of paper boats out of all kinds of paper and in all kinds of looks possible. We would each sit at the entrance of our houses, outside the main doors (there was no entry gate - the houses were small, like individual apartments lined up along a road) and then race our creations in an effort to reach the big yellow garbage collection container that marked the end of the lane. One two three go! It was great innocent fun.

Come to talk of the big yellow garbage collection container, I am not sure whether you guys have ever seen something like this in your lives till date. Basically, imagine a small hut, similar to those we used to draw when we were really small, and instead of the door and the chimney and the windows, have four windows, two on each side along the slope at the top. That and four tyres to make it a movable structure. This was an excellent garbage collection system frankly - impressive in some respect too. The only downside however was that since there was one of these for maybe a hundred plus houses, it used to get full very quickly. Not all garbage would land inside this - and some would fall out, and that practically defeated the purpose of having the thing anyway. That, and the pigs that would come along in the heavenly location.

I was passing through the lane an year or so earlier and the garbage container was not there. And that had in a queer way, changed the look of the whole lane - it was able to achieve a kind of sub-urbane to urbane look, but definitely not the one I knew or the one that fitted. But well, change is a natural course of life and change happens. Can't challenge time, can we? After all, even I have changed so much - in fact, quite a good bit.

More...later...

Musings - II

29/1 Khurbura Mohalla was a small house in a narrow lane flanked by open naalis (open sewage ducts) on both sides. The lane served as a perfect alternative to a cricket pitch and somewhat rectangular ground equal in size to the width of the lane. Lets be fair to me and my friends of those times, the pitch was also somewhat hard and rough and uneven. And the ball used to find its way to the naalis many a times too (mostly the one on the other side of the lane from my house - most of the batsmen were right handed and leg side was eveyone's strength) Despite all this, we managed just fine.

Cricket was a passion among the Khurbura residents. And since there were lots of residents, there were many players. That too of all age groups. Had Kapil Dev decided to open his cricket academy in our Mohalla, it could have been a super-hit instead. Everyday at four forty five, Sunny used to come calling my name. Actually he used to call me ningi-tingi. Likewise, I used to call him singi-mingi. Now guys,. I have no idea in the least as to why we used to call each other that and wherefrom these names had sprung up, but they had stuck on. And we were happy calling each other that. Singi-mingi and Ningi-tingi. Sounds almost like Timon and Pumba!

Singi-mingi was a natural when it came to cricket. I am not even in touch with him now, but frankly he was the first person I really appreciated. I liked to see the way he batted and the way he used to spin the ball. Plus he was a good teacher and he taught me my first bowling lessons and taught me spin bowling. Of course, later on I learnt to play some decent cricket - but still, singi-mingi did a good job of getting me started. That, and cycling. Singi-mingi taught me to cycle as well. At least for the first few sessions where we would go and rent bicycles from that cycle shop near Blue Bells (my first school, which was located on the road above the huge chadaai-wali sadak, the road with a slope) for a rupee an hour and two rupees for two.

Of course, soon after I began my bicycle learning sessions withma. We used to take the cycle to the playground of Mahant's school (Mahant is a religious head of some sect in Dehradun) where from ma would hold the carrier of my bicycle and run along with me as I pedaled. I still remember the moment wen I told ma I want to pedal faster, and finding no reply turned my head to see her standing way behind me smiling and waving from a distance while realization dawned upon me as to what had just happened. It was a feeling of elation and joy and freedom that went right through me. Great moment. One of the most cherished moment of my life. Thank you ma.

I was gifted my first bicycle by my chachu. It was a Hero make and had cylindrical pads that went around the frame and got attached by velcro. I used to love it! I remember that whenever we used to wash the bicycle, I would carefully detach the pads and keep them aside before commencing the washing. Come to think about it, I suppose it was my favourite bicycle out of the three I ever had - better than my Ranger Swing too that had 15 gears.

Of course, by the time I got off Ranger Swing, there was papa's Hero Honda CD100 SS. I began driving it in standard eleventh - and yeah, it was too good. If I were to compare a moment equaling the one where ma left me all to pedal by myself, it was the one where papa let me have a go at the bike in standard tenth. We were in FRI (Forest Research Institute) and pa gave me a long lecture before letting me have a try. It took me three tries before I finally whirred the machine into motion and it was wonderful when it happened. And in that moment, I felt that release, that freedom once again - and it was worth every millilitre of petrol in it and each moment of the adrenaline rush in me. And when I came back and brought the bike to a halt in front of pa, he was smiling too just as ma had some ten years or so earlier.

But this is racing too far ahead in time. Back to the old days the next time.

So long...

Musings - I

Now I really don't know whether you have ever been to Dehradun. Neither do I really know whether you know anything about Bindaal Bridge. I for one have known Bindaal Bridge since I was a small kid. I loved having ice-cream or gol-gappe or papri-chaatstanding outside the Bindaal Shopping Complex (which is named after the Bindaal Bridge) with papa. It was a great experience everytime. To feel the cool breeze of the summer night, look at people skating in the skating rink in the Complex and watch the few cars zoom past me.

I remember I had always wanted to have a car and to learn how to skate. Of course, now papa owns a car and I have driven quite a good number apart from that. I have two pairs of skates, both inline and rollers (the latter is dumped somewhere in the Vijay Park home and the former in the box of papa-ma's bed), though I am still at the same level of skating prowess where I was some seventeen years hence.

Bindaal Bridge, now that I think about it, has been a very important landmark in my life. It has witnessed me growing from a small Mohalla kid (colony, or rather a cluttered colony) to a teenager ready to embark upon this life I am living now.
That and to some extent, Khurbura Mohalla.

Khurbura Mohalla was the name of that colony, where it all began for me. Since you guys may or may not be familiar with it, in short it is one of those inconsequential places in DD (atleast it was then; they tell me its changed a lot now) where you would definitely not want to live unless your budget is very small in quantum and/or you are coming straight from some partially modernized village. Truth be told however, famous or no, consequential or no, important or no, Khurbura occupies a special place in my life, maybe not as special as Bindaal Bridge, but it does.

It began on 28th December, 1986, a Sunday afternoon when most people were busy having lunch and had probably just gotten up from watching the famous Ramanand Sagars's Ramayana. I was born in the Doon Hospital, the landmark public hospital of DD. And I was then brought straight to our Khurbura Mohalla home in a rented auto-rickshaw, as Calenders were being changed in many a houses, including ours. Ma tells me, everyone in our family was very excited. I was the first child of a new generation in our family, and a son to top it. My dadi, even though she still maintains it doesn't matter to her that I and the rest of the kids are boys and would have been equally good if I or the rest of the kids were girls, always wanted to have a grandson (and grandsons later on, but a grandson to begin with for sure). 

Ma  has loads of photographs of that time stashed in the bed-box. Sometimes when I go to DD, me and ma just sit flicking through the albums chit-chatting about something or the other. I have the questions and ma has the answers. Its great and I love talking to ma about it. My childhood and the early years of my life that is.

I used to call ice-cream aatap and Parle-G glucose biscuits toodap when I was small. I have tried to work out the logic behind those names. But then, that's the beauty of it all anyway - there is not logic. Who would have though so much about logic back then anyway. Not me.

And yeah, I am told I was mortally afraid of cotton, rui. Apparently, I used to make a very funny half-afraid half-confused face on seeing rui and with a uuuuu sound, would cry out loud. I still don't know why! I guess, no one can really guess that part anyway.


More...later...