Why I Love Mutual Funds!

Yeah, it is my profession. But I’m not going to rant about the risk-return factor, how they are so much safer than playing the market, or how they are so hot in today’s market…which is growing like Jack’s beanstalk…no end in sight. Or how they can be so much easier to monitor, how they can create a fully-diversified portfolio at much lower risk, how the workings are much easier to understand than the primary market, how professionally managed they are, how convenient and flexible they are…ok ok…I will stop... :-)

But this is not why I love them. I love them because I love to shop. You don’t have to believe me. But picking out the perfect fund is much like picking out the perfect pair of shoes. You have a certain design in mind. You have a certain in budget in mind. You visit a couple of stores, in a designated shopping area…possibly famous for footwear. You go to the best brand names…the brand pull is always a major contributor in the final selection. You try out a few pairs…you get a better idea of what you want – what is not only going to look the best, but also last the longest. You weigh the price against the quality. You see the material, the make, the finish, the color, how much it costs as compared to a similar pair elsewhere. The choice is immense. The variety is mind-boggling. You may have to see where the clearance sales are…yeah me talking about rollbacks here…in case the layman didn’t realize this similitude. If you want the classiest, sexiest pair, your research must be thorough. You have to look at what everyone else is wearing. You have to see what calls to you. You have to know what is in. You have to find out which brand is making waves. You have to find a salesman who treats your feet like her/his own, who can assist you in the perfect choice. For whom, the sale translates not just into commission, but also a sense of achievement in helping you find exactly what you were looking for. I have personally spent weeks looking for the perfect black, slinky number, and found it practically in my own backyard, and finally ended up buying three pairs, just because the salesman wasn’t pushing them on to me, but was at his wit’s end to help me look for the perfect pair. Of course, your friend/neighbor/cousin/roommate must have sworn to you about one brand or the other. If you are young, you obviously go for sassier choices, you take more risks. If you aren’t, you go for something tried-and-tested. Then you accessorize your wardrobe. You find the perfect belt or handbag or to match your new shoes. If the shoes are too snazzy, the rest of the outfit will have to be toned down. Or vice versa.

Yeah. It’s also that easy. You can tell me to go get a life, because, come on, how can I liken shoe-shopping to critical financial decisions? But you gotta understand a woman and her connection with shoes, and why I chose to liken it to shoe-shopping. If you are from Mars, do feel free to think of it as your latest attempt at gizmofying yourself. But for the average joe, it IS that easy, provided you have people like me! And when I say easy, I mean it takes a very similar amount of effort – hey, shoe-shopping needs just as careful an analysis of the market situations as gizmofying would need for the Martians…and don’t you go calling me a shoe-salesman…saleswoman…

And don’t worry; my less-than-traditional investment philosophy does not less of a principal banker make! I’ll show you…show me the money.

(P.S. Please note that I have not included the exact comparisons between footwear shopping and secondary markets. For any clarifications leave a comment.)

Bonus

The electricity was out all night. Delhi heat was killing. At about two in the morning I realized I couldn’t sleep. Lit a cigarette and tried to relax. But not possible, increment letter and bonus declaration due tomorrow. One year at my first real job! Quite a few milestones…appraisal, confirmation, increment, bonus…

Didn’t realize when I had nodded off…when I woke up with a start I realized I had been dreaming…of cheques! Of a net-banking screen, where the salary credited transaction was way higher than my normal salary! Of the increment letters that carried some kind of complicated code, which one had to feed into his or her systems to find out exact amount of bonus and revised packages! And I had dreamt that I got hold of all the codes for people in the branch, and basically was lording my knowledge over the ordinary mortals who didn’t already know! Man, I never knew I cared so much about money! I never knew I cared about how much money versus how much everyone else had!

When I joined this bank fresh from campus, I had not really cared too much about the package, the benefits, the hidden costs, the perks. Before placement, I felt the raw pressure of getting placed in a good brand. After placement, I was just excited about my profile, which would not only give me an exposure to the industry, but also let me utilize my creativity to the fullest (no I’m not faffing. I mean it!) . I wasn’t even aware of HR policies in the industry, rather I didn’t bother to find out. I anyway believed in taking things as they came. Learnt how to live alone. Crossed bridges when I came to them. Life was not pre-planned and charted out. I knew of people in MBA who had posters of dollar notes instead of Brangelina. I never got it. Not that I didn’t have ambition. I just wasn’t the kind who calculated her GPA after indiv subject results were declared. I didn’t even see what others had…after all it was all comparative…I didn’t even care about attendance, extracurricular GPA (yea we had that too!). I was just pleased that I could be of some use to my family after having mooched off them for 23 years! Even the ‘breaking news’ of the record salaries weren’t eliciting the standard response from me – ‘we should have got in this year!’ I was satisfied for the moment with a challenging job with a lot of potential and a comfortable lifestyle.

Even after settling in my role, I didn’t know what was to come at the end of the year. I never understood why people got so crazy about who got how much bonus. People covertly trying to check each other’s accounts for what amount has been credited…after all bankers, them! Uska bonus mere bonus se zyaada kaise?

The branch is buzzing. In about 10 minutes the letters get distributed. No one has been able to work today. I still can’t figure out what the big deal is.

So why am I on tenterhooks?

Long Live the Goddess

Apologies for the slew of posts...but had no access to blogger for sometime...anyway, will be underground for sometime again, so enjoy till then...Long Live the Goddess of Wanton Love!

Men are like Taxis

I did think of listing out the men in my life once. Not like dad, bro or chacha-mama, but the romantic links. But at the time I had thought of it, there weren’t that many. Today, at this juncture of life, I can boast of having seen enough men, naked and otherwise. And I still can’t find a common thread between them. Everytime I dumped a guy, or a guy dumped me, I would say the same thing – All men are the same! Trouble is, they are not. Each one is a namoona in his own right. Though there is one thing. They pride themselves on being exclusive distributors of LOGIC. Go figure. And another. There will never be a man who is trying to win you over, and will not say, I’m a born masseur. Wanna try?

The first guy was that first crush in school. The first ever. He was definitely the cutest kid in my grade. I had a crush on him even before I knew what a crush meant. Or even what I was supposed to do if we ever did get together. It was just being happy that he looked at me a couple of times in class. And happier that he wasn’t pulling my pigtails, and pushing me down! Although yeah, that would have meant he liked me, but I was willing to give that one a miss. Would have been too embarrassing in the schoolyard in front of everyone. Anyway, in later years I got quite a reputation as a ball-buster…had he pushed me down I may have started right then and ruined any chances we had. But sadly enough, a year later this girl joined my class…who would later become my best friend, but at that time, all I wanted was a voodoo doll. I met this guy again later in life. Merchant navy. Tall, fair and handsome. But he had lost that childlike sweetness in his face which I had fallen in love with in the first place. There ended my first romance. Twelve years later.

Then came S. He was devilishly handsome, yet had this centered, mature aura about him. But he brought back painful memories of my childhood, when he also fell for another girl, who sadly again, became another one of my closest friends. They made the perfect couple – fair, light-eyed, just perfect. I always had a strange feeling since then, that the babe and I became friends only through our common loathing of S. As fate would have it, the man took up the sciences as we progressed. And forgot to shave after that for the rest of his life! I mean, what good is being handsome if it’s all under the dark, coarse bush of a beard? She lost interest, definitely, and I developed short-term amnesia. Heard he has become a dentist these days. Chalo, I do hope he shaves now, cos his women patients would really have a good time in the chair.

Of course, every woman has that one bad boy she would die to sudharo-fy! This one was the basketball team captain, tall, dark, muscular, positively divine. I never saw him in anything but the blue team uniform (showed a lot of skin, I must add – it was part of the charm). Mahogany skin, glistening with beads of sweat, bright, shining eyes, and a killer grin, even white teeth, I remember every detail, as I was a part of the group of junior girls who would sit by the court and secretly lust after her respective team-member. But he was older, and nothing ever happened as his sister was another goddamn friend (I think this is why I stopped befriending women – they always came in between!) But one time he did bring me chocolates, and to this day I wonder what would have happened had I not been such a prude! Last I heard of him he was off representing the country in Busan. Sigh…

Now I was growing up. Men were becoming less of lust objects and more of utility appliances. Someone to hang out with during break-times, be my date for the dances and farewells, and generally be around when required. And this was becoming tough to find. I found one almost-eligible candidate, but he turned out to have this remarkably irritating strut, so he had to be eliminated. Otherwise he was perfect in every way, just that he thought he was god’s gift to schoolgirls.

At one point of my life (this was to be repeated later), I was torn between two perfectly wonderful men. One was a downright charmer, a total Aladdin-lookalike, I mean, he wasn’t a cartoon, but I find that also one of the more good-looking cartoons to be seen. That rogue, he could make anyone laugh. The other one oozed sex-appeal, again a basketball player. Apparently these days he is doing more weed than women.

As the days left in school dwindled, the number of guys that were in heat was going up. There were these arbit men who tried to kiss you, or touch something, or ask corny questions. ‘Can I feel you tonight?’ Feel this, dude. (Pity you can’t see what finger I’m holding up). Once we were all playing dodgeball, and by chance, in the middle of all the running around, some guy’s hand brushed against my chest. I think he dreamt about that one for nights after that, as the game had to be suspended for a while till he got his breath back from all the coughing and giggling and blushing!

In college, I found the perfect man.

Or so I thought. He was a genuine guy, yes. He was honest, caring, sweet, protective, had oodles of talent and charm and wit. He was well read, his vocabulary was widespread, his grammar impeccable! He was ambitious, sporty, elegant, and smelled good. Even now, if he’s anywhere around, I’ll be able to tell him by his smell. The whole package, basically. But a man that perfect does not exist now, not ever. Slowly, but surely, the tantrums surfaced. The constant whining for space. The escapist attitude. The pure selfishness and cruelty of a Bluebeard, If I tell you, I’ll have to kill you! It’s rather sad, he was otherwise quite an angel, but a baby angel. And I was not old enough to handle a baby yet.

When you have slept with the same man throughout college, you need some flavor in post-grad! And boy, available there is a lot! I was almost depressed that I was the kind of chick who needed to form an emotional connection with a guy before she did him, even if it wasn’t a major connection. A number of meaningless romances ensued. Where both parties were trying to figure out the connection, but apart from coursebooks and movies and cheese dosas, nothing worked. Of course, there was that one knight in shining armor, who’d sing I’ll be there, when I should be around, and to his credit, he was. But just in college.

A special mention here for my two best friends, and possibly the two most important men in my life. Very few people, let alone men, can truly stand by a person through thick and thin, have their share of fights, and get on with their friendship with dignity and respect. One can’t buy people. But these two people can. Of course, they don’t need money.

These days again I found two to ponder over. Sweet men. One is so responsible and reliable and trustworthy, that you just feel like sleeping in his arms. You feel safe, protected. But don’t expect any passion, any fervor, any feeling. The other has the most incredible smile I have ever seen. It makes him look so yummy, I think it’s his smile that lights up his entire persona. He can make anyone laugh, and few men possess the kind of creativity and sparkling wit this guy has. But he’s the kind you send out on an errand on Monday, and don’t expect back till Thursday.

‘Tis but human nature to not realize the worth of what one has and ache for what she can’t have. I am still into the wrong man. Haaaaaaaaaaaaaalp!

A Job for Setia Uncle

Last year, when I was getting placed, the retail boom was supposed to be in the nascent stages. No one really wanted a job in retail…no matter what the newspapers/profs said. It wasn’t paying as much as you expected from a job out of B-school, it wasn’t as glamorous, and it was certainly nothing to write home or tell your friends about. And in the age of celebrity placements (just a term I coined for those placements which make you an instant celebrity, whether just in your college or plastered all over TV is irrelevant), retail still didn’t have much favor. Until today, when Reliance’s retail venture is shopping all around and picking up the goods. All for a higher price, of course. Head honchos from all over are in talks for some of the key positions in the ventures. What the hell, they haven’t spared the kirana guys either. Oops, sorry, it is the kirana guys who have stopped worrying about where their shops will go, as long as they can land a plum position with Reliance. Lol.

However, apparently these kirana guys are not skilled enough to do justice to the positions that they hope to land. With 97% of the market in the unorganized sector, is it not a bit silly not to realize that resources within the unorganized sector will be the key to organize the market? Have they not serviced household communities for years? Have they not spent their lifetimes anticipating the demands of each particular household they serviced? Have they not perfected their skills in being the customer interface? Have they not seen the kids grow up and do the shopping instead of the parents, seen the generation shift enough to realize the importance of moving with the times? Are these not the faces that are going to be the catalysts in the weakening of the consumer resistance to the newer formats? So the other skills can be imparted easily right? The product knowledge is already there, the sophistication can be learnt. The service has already been learnt, the quality will follow. The loyalty has been achieved, the consistency will be picked up.

The words are already there, the language can be learnt.

Sure, get the big guys for the big jobs, you need em. I still don’t want a job in retail. I will not add much value to that store you are opening, but Setia uncle might just.

Welcome to the O.C., Bitch

I never miss the O.C. It’s the most hilariously boring ‘original drama series’ there is in the world of telly. And yet, I watch it. And I’m hooked. It moves fast, it has a high level of diversification in each episode, it’s unpredictable (OK, not that much, but with every twist one thinks…Ugh! Omigawd!), and it helps that Benjamin Mackenzie is the hottest thing since the microwave. (OK, lame old _expression, but it’s true). The first season ended recently, with Ryan leaving the O.C. And I will not tell a lie. I wept!

Do feel free to judge me for watching this, (and even some Jassi and Anjaani Ladki once in a while). But it is really funny. The only thing that comes close is Takeshi’s Castle on AXN I think, where LOL is real. One can’t help but roll on the floor laughing. I mean, a girl gets inseminated by mistake, then decides to keep the baby, not knowing who the father is, meanwhile facing multiple, life-altering accusations/tribulations, and yet, smiling through it all. No wait, that’s merely an _expression again, because people cannot stop crying on that show. I’m not heartless, but watching such pointless bawling can make you feel really good about yourself at times. And oh wait, all this while she’s falling in love with the real father of the baby, which she doesn’t know! This is good TV!

Coming back to the O.C., some slick and sexy times on Newport Beach…the bad kid tries to steal car, public defender is one do-gooder who can’t leave him alone, bad kid gets thrown out of house, calls public defender and gets picked up and finds himself in the thick of action at the high-and-mighty Orange County, where kids talk of Champs Elysees as a next-door retreat for the boring afternoons, sail to Tahiti while running away from home, couples split and get remarried to their friends’ parents, no less. And our friend from Chino keeps up the brooding-bad-boy act to get through this confusing phase in his life…possibly getting his ex pregnant in the process.

I love how unreal the show is. How the Cohens are so understanding about everything is beyond me…from bringing juvenile delinquent home, to husband being hit upon by gorgeous colleague, wife being kissed by ex-boyfriend-current-criminal, wife lending millions of dollars to ex-boyfriend-current-criminal, wife’s father being a tight-ass-son-of-a-bitch, and the list goes on. Another unreal bit is the transition from one partner to another – for everyone in damned Orange County – is as smooth as a hot knife slicing thru a slab of butter. No one looks back. No one thinks of the past. Very progressive, forward-looking people I say! Tell me, which employer gifted you a surfboard after a successful interview? And the most unreal bit is how Anna Stern can bounce her neck with every word she speaks! I’m glad Seth didn’t go for her, otherwise she’d have had to sleep with a crick in her neck for a long time to come…it’s a cute character quirk, once in a while…I love how Ryan can beat up people and burn down houses with equal aplomb. I love the fact that the point of the show is to prove that no matter how rich and happy you look, no matter how many Porsches and ponies you have, no matter what a perfect bod you have from all the yogalates, and the perfect highlights, there are dirty secrets in every household and you gotta learn to deal with it, and the only ways they can demonstrate it are old romances and dads coming out of the closet.

Welcome to the O.C.!

From DIDI to AUNTY

Today an incident happened that forced me to think of the characteristics of the women I called ‘Aunty” my whole life. Not ‘Aunt’, but ‘Aunty’. You guessed right. A kid on the street called me ‘Aunty’!!! Right, I’m mortified.

Don’t do unto others…and that’s how the saying goes…I called Mom’s friends ‘Aunty’ all the time. I called her boss that, I called her few thousand relatives that…when I forgot what they were actually supposed to be called. I called any lady in a sari that. Called our household help that. Called my friends’ moms that. In fact to this day, at a ripe old age of…ok never mind…I still call those women ‘Aunty’. When I was younger, it applied to ladies above 30 I suppose, mainly married, with kids. Women in salwar-kameezes were generally ‘Didi’. To think that the kids in the neighborhood where I grew up, are calling me that! I’m not fat, I’m not married, and I don’t have kids! I don’t go to kitty-parties, I don’t wear saris, I don’t cook. I dress crisp, I have short hair, and no mehndi. None ever on my hands either. I don’t wear worn-out kolhapuris, I speak with a slight accent, I don’t spend hours in the beauty parlor! Never spent hours in the winter sun outside in the park either, with more ‘Aunties’, knitting, peeling oranges, and shouting at the kids occasionally. I have never worn jewelry beyond a pair of studs in my ear and a chain around my neck. Am not centered, focused, holier-than-thou. Oh, did I say I’m not fat?

It’s sad that I based my judgments solely on appearances. I’ve learnt my lesson! But the kid today could not have based her judgment on my appearance! I should not be subject to this agony of being likened to women who did all of the above, whom I called ‘Aunty’. I vow to not call anyone that from this day forward. Aunty mat kaho na!