5.2 Vir
I was in the middle of a 'rap session' when the emergency call came.
'Rap session' is what we call our brainstorming meetings at Virtual Reality Systems Inc. We had this giant contract to develop operational software for a chain of US amusement parks owned by a Hollywood entertainment major, and it was taking up many more hundreds of manhours and grey hairs than I'd expected. Whenever we were stuck on a problem, we didn't just sit around and bang our heads against the walls--we called a 'rap session' and banged our heads against each other!
Since the average age of our staff is 23, these 'rap sessions' are often similar to a Friday night get-together of coeds at a pub. There's always music playing, food and non-alcoholic beverages floating around, plenty of caramel popcorn, pool and snooker balls clicking together at the four full-size tables, a basketball bouncing off one of the two backboards--one at either end of the office, giant TVs playing DVD movies, other screens showing the current cricket ODI or Olympics or KBC or whatever show people want to watch at that particular time, and general mayhem and madness.
As I said, it's a lot like a teenage pub hangout, but without the alcohol. And amazing as it sounds, we do get a lot of productive work done this way. Except when one of our projects turn out to have more glitches than glitter. Those rare times (sigh) when that happens, we just add an 'e' to the word 'rap' and you can imagine what those sessions are like.
But this wasn't one of those times. This was a total victory. My Hrithik Roshan team--our workteams named themselves after their favourite celebs, however unlikely--had come up with a set of applications that delivered everything we'd promised our clients, and then some. It was a zinger of a winner, and the mood in the office was celebratory. Half a dozen of the Hrithiks were desperately trying to convince me to relax the office rule on no-alcohol during office hours. Their argument was that since the staff at VR works in shifts, the office is working around the clock.
"So, like, Vir, that means it's always office hours," said Sajal, a bright young programmer who had dropped out of LSE to come back to India to ride the new IT boom.
"Which means, yaar, that there's never a time when alcohol is allowed here," grumbled Geethan, a wiz designer who hadn't even gone to college yet but intended to do so after earning her first crore.
I winked at them. "You got it!" Raised my mug of chai and said, "But you can get high on thiamine too, you know. You should try it sometime."
They were speaking ominously of a mutiny when my cellphone rang. I glanced at it: one of our home numbers. It was our new maid, and she seemed hysterical. I had to hold the phone away from my ear, she was talking that loudly.
I left the main office area and went into my cabin. We have an open-door policy at VR, and my cabin is actually just a glass cube, but I shut the door to get as much insulation from the hubbub outside as possible and tried to get the maid to calm down.
Finally, I understood what she was trying to tell me.
"Kya?" I understood what she was saying but I couldn't believe it.
She repeated it, obviously in tears now.
"Theek hain," I said. "I'm leaving right now."
I left the cabin, speaking the word 'Anant' into my cellphone. I shook my head at the various people who tried to stop and speak to me. As the phone auto-dialled the number, I scanned the offic and found Shoma, my COO. I beckoned to her. She came over smiling, but saw instantly from the look on my face that something was wrong.
"Family emergency," I said. It was all she needed. She nodded and walked me to the exit. Anant came on the line as I punched the button for the nearest lift. Shoma walked over and pressed the buttons for the other two lifts as well. For the first time in two years since I'd moved into this new office I wished it wasn't on the 37th floor of the smartest new downtown office complex. It's only in a crisis that you realize what big barriers space and time can be.
My brother's voice was friendly and relaxed as always. For all I knew, he was in the middle of a delicate surgery procedure right now, but he sounded like he was sitting by a pool with a pinacolda in his hand. That's the kind of calm and nerve it takes to become one of the country's best neurosurgeons.
"Vir, hi," he said.
"Anant, Sarla's been injured. She's being brought by ambulance to Hinduja ASAP. Are you there?"
His response was instant and unruffled. "Right here, just out of surgery. Where are you?"
"I'm just leaving office, on my way. Can you--?" I didn't have to finish the question.
"I'll make sure she gets the best attention immediately. What exactly happened?"
I paused, aware of Shoma standing by, watching me with concern on her face. "Anant, I don't know for sure. She's unconscious and I only spoke to the maid. Apparently, Sarla was able to call the ambulance before she lost consciousness and the neighbour is waiting downstairs to direct the medics up as soon as it arrives."
The lift came just then and mercifully it was empty. Shoma gestured, asking me silently if I needed her to come along. I shook my head and gestured to her to go back inside, hold the fort while I was gone. She gave me a thumbs up sign for good luck as the lift doors slid shut. I'm blessed to have a great staff.
As I rode down, my mind raced through what the panicked maid had told me on the phone. She must have been mistaken somehow--but she had repeated herself thrice or more. Each time she had said the same thing.
That Viveka had attacked Sarla and wounded her badly before running out of the house.
But it just didn't make any sense.
Why would my daughter attack her own mother?
'Rap session' is what we call our brainstorming meetings at Virtual Reality Systems Inc. We had this giant contract to develop operational software for a chain of US amusement parks owned by a Hollywood entertainment major, and it was taking up many more hundreds of manhours and grey hairs than I'd expected. Whenever we were stuck on a problem, we didn't just sit around and bang our heads against the walls--we called a 'rap session' and banged our heads against each other!
Since the average age of our staff is 23, these 'rap sessions' are often similar to a Friday night get-together of coeds at a pub. There's always music playing, food and non-alcoholic beverages floating around, plenty of caramel popcorn, pool and snooker balls clicking together at the four full-size tables, a basketball bouncing off one of the two backboards--one at either end of the office, giant TVs playing DVD movies, other screens showing the current cricket ODI or Olympics or KBC or whatever show people want to watch at that particular time, and general mayhem and madness.
As I said, it's a lot like a teenage pub hangout, but without the alcohol. And amazing as it sounds, we do get a lot of productive work done this way. Except when one of our projects turn out to have more glitches than glitter. Those rare times (sigh) when that happens, we just add an 'e' to the word 'rap' and you can imagine what those sessions are like.
But this wasn't one of those times. This was a total victory. My Hrithik Roshan team--our workteams named themselves after their favourite celebs, however unlikely--had come up with a set of applications that delivered everything we'd promised our clients, and then some. It was a zinger of a winner, and the mood in the office was celebratory. Half a dozen of the Hrithiks were desperately trying to convince me to relax the office rule on no-alcohol during office hours. Their argument was that since the staff at VR works in shifts, the office is working around the clock.
"So, like, Vir, that means it's always office hours," said Sajal, a bright young programmer who had dropped out of LSE to come back to India to ride the new IT boom.
"Which means, yaar, that there's never a time when alcohol is allowed here," grumbled Geethan, a wiz designer who hadn't even gone to college yet but intended to do so after earning her first crore.
I winked at them. "You got it!" Raised my mug of chai and said, "But you can get high on thiamine too, you know. You should try it sometime."
They were speaking ominously of a mutiny when my cellphone rang. I glanced at it: one of our home numbers. It was our new maid, and she seemed hysterical. I had to hold the phone away from my ear, she was talking that loudly.
I left the main office area and went into my cabin. We have an open-door policy at VR, and my cabin is actually just a glass cube, but I shut the door to get as much insulation from the hubbub outside as possible and tried to get the maid to calm down.
Finally, I understood what she was trying to tell me.
"Kya?" I understood what she was saying but I couldn't believe it.
She repeated it, obviously in tears now.
"Theek hain," I said. "I'm leaving right now."
I left the cabin, speaking the word 'Anant' into my cellphone. I shook my head at the various people who tried to stop and speak to me. As the phone auto-dialled the number, I scanned the offic and found Shoma, my COO. I beckoned to her. She came over smiling, but saw instantly from the look on my face that something was wrong.
"Family emergency," I said. It was all she needed. She nodded and walked me to the exit. Anant came on the line as I punched the button for the nearest lift. Shoma walked over and pressed the buttons for the other two lifts as well. For the first time in two years since I'd moved into this new office I wished it wasn't on the 37th floor of the smartest new downtown office complex. It's only in a crisis that you realize what big barriers space and time can be.
My brother's voice was friendly and relaxed as always. For all I knew, he was in the middle of a delicate surgery procedure right now, but he sounded like he was sitting by a pool with a pinacolda in his hand. That's the kind of calm and nerve it takes to become one of the country's best neurosurgeons.
"Vir, hi," he said.
"Anant, Sarla's been injured. She's being brought by ambulance to Hinduja ASAP. Are you there?"
His response was instant and unruffled. "Right here, just out of surgery. Where are you?"
"I'm just leaving office, on my way. Can you--?" I didn't have to finish the question.
"I'll make sure she gets the best attention immediately. What exactly happened?"
I paused, aware of Shoma standing by, watching me with concern on her face. "Anant, I don't know for sure. She's unconscious and I only spoke to the maid. Apparently, Sarla was able to call the ambulance before she lost consciousness and the neighbour is waiting downstairs to direct the medics up as soon as it arrives."
The lift came just then and mercifully it was empty. Shoma gestured, asking me silently if I needed her to come along. I shook my head and gestured to her to go back inside, hold the fort while I was gone. She gave me a thumbs up sign for good luck as the lift doors slid shut. I'm blessed to have a great staff.
As I rode down, my mind raced through what the panicked maid had told me on the phone. She must have been mistaken somehow--but she had repeated herself thrice or more. Each time she had said the same thing.
That Viveka had attacked Sarla and wounded her badly before running out of the house.
But it just didn't make any sense.
Why would my daughter attack her own mother?
posted by Ashok K. Banker at 12.10.05
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