Tag Archives: travel

Why Virtual Should Continue Even After it’s Not Needed. At Least in Academic Conferences

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© Priya Narayanan, Assistant Professor of Marketing, IIM Kozhikode. Views are personal.

Recently I participated in the Association for Consumer Research (ACR) annual conference 2020 as a presenter. The ACR conference is a large and prestigious academic conference on research related to consumer behavior. The conference was held virtually in Paris. Participating virtually meant that one could not get the “feel” of a typical conference (which I will call a “venue” conference going forward). But it struck me that once I let go of my expectations of a venue conference, the virtual format was probably – no, definitely – more effective, at least for me. The virtual conference starkly revealed how costly venue conferences had been, when I counted the nonobvious costs of venue compared to virtual.

In this write-up, I have attempted to explain why, and hence make a case for all conferences considering going partially virtual even after the pandemic lifts. Towards the end I have given a set of options that conference organizers can consider when the pandemic has been managed and virtual conferences are no longer essential.

Note: this post is long, but is structured with numbered and titled lists for easier reading.

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The Extraordinary Lives of Ordinary People

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1. The Lady to Libya

“After 6 months, I will get a family visa, I can bring my children also…” She is a nondescript woman in salwar-kameez on her way to Delhi. It’s her story that merits mention. She is headed to Libya, as a nurse in a government hospital. The agency that arranged for her job and visa will pick her up in Delhi. “There are six of us from Kerala, some others from other places. The important thing is to somehow get through the first six months. After that I can bring my family.” Her husband and two children, aged three and one-and-a-half, will manage on their own till then.

“I have to go there and learn Arabi. Don’t know what the food will be like. But what bothers me is how the children will live without me.” Her soft eyes fill up in a moment, but then the tears go back in.

2. The Serious Young Lad

He sits clutching his bag, trying to be casual, preoccupied with something. “There was a death in the family – illness and old age, so nothing unexpected, but the date was unexpected. So I had been running around a lot for the arrangements.”

He has spent six years in the same company, a bank, after graduating with a degree in Math. He likes his life – a 9-5 job, some football, some volunteering – he is glad that he has a life outside work. “My job is changing now, I have to get sales and not just make sure that things are running smoothly.” He is with a group of management graduates now, who have experience in other banks. “Those guys are paid more simply because they have an MBA. What do they do differently?”

3. The Studious Cabin Attendant

She is studying for an exam on flight safety. As a cabin attendant, she has to give an exam every six months. The tests are more than academic. “We have to watch our weight – we can’t be overweight. We can’t be underweight either, because then we might fall ill. They give us time to come to the right weight, so it’s ok. It’s difficult when you eat food like this all the time,” she says, pointing to the sandwich.

The job pays well, but “the glamor is not as high as it used to be.” It is hard work as well, with 25-30 flights a week on average. “After five years on the job, you are not allowed to be a court witness. Because when you take so many flights, you tend to lose your memory. Your memory becomes unreliable.”

4. The Loving (?) Mother

The mother, the 6-year-old son and the 8-year-old daughter have all got middle seats. The children have settled down nicely in their seats, but the mother is restless. “Do you mind shifting? My daughter is very uncomfortable sitting alone. She wants to sit with me.”

The son stares at the mother across the aisle, with an uncomprehending look. The daughter turns back from where she is sitting with an open paperback novel – her discomfiture arises from the loud voice of her mother and the embarrassing topic of conversation. She wishes her mother wouldn’t make a scene, it’s only a couple of hours after all. But sometimes mothers miss their children more than the other way round and possessively try to allay imaginary worries.

5. The Entrepreneur’s Daughter

She is like any other college student, living with friends in a hostel. But her sights are set high. “I want to do an MBA abroad and then return to work in the family business.” Her father built up a pharmaceuticals company, and the responsibility to run the business will soon be on her shoulders.

The expectations are high – the father has won an Ernst and Young Entrepreneur Award for his work. The Award that let her spend a week at Stanford learning about running the family business. And made her more confident of her decision to learn business right after undergraduate studies, unlike many of her classmates. The father is an entrepreneur, but the daughter has to be a manager.

P.S.: All the above are snippets of conversations with fellow travellers on flights…

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Memories of Orissa

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A selection of thoughts and feelings from a recent trip to Bhubaneswar and Cuttack in Orissa, where I was

  • Awed by the granite structure of the Sun Temple at Konark, and awestruck when told that these were mere remnants and that the erstwhile main structure was more than double the height of the existing temple
  • Amazed at how each of the small dots, on the rim of each of the twelve twelve-spoked wheels of the chariot that is the temple, corresponded to exactly three minutes
  • Irritated at the mindless enthusiasm shown by everyone, including my friends, for photography – much more so than at the Taj Mahal: both the enthusiasm and the corresponding irritation. Clicking one picture for memories is acceptable, but going to a monument or scenic location does not transform you to an advertising model worth GBs of photos to be forgotten in a week
  • Struck by the realization, accompanied by a curious lack of surprise, at the Jagannath Temple at Puri, that God’s blessings can be bought, and that perhaps purchase was the only way of obtaining blessings there because you needed a ticket to reach the sanctum sanctorum. Which, as a philosophy taken to the extreme, would mean that the rich would become richer and the poor poorer. Not a sustainable belief by any means
  • Disappointed at the basket of sweets I bought because the 3-4 different items on the top didn’t reveal the fact that below the top layer there was only one kind of item (possibly the cheapest) that filled the basket
  • Drawn to stacks of brown sweets – fried layers of flour, coated with white powdery sugar that soon turned our fingers sticky and lick-worthy – at a roadside stall
  • Hungry but happy, as we sat on the floor eating tongue-scalding steamed rice and thick yellow dal and several side dishes from leaf-plates and earthen cups. The sale of this food, which was brought out from the temple after puja and which seemed to be meal offerings to the deity, was by itself serious business for numerous authoritative-looking raucous-voiced people
  • Visited by nostalgia at the sight of sewing machines in a handicraft shop at Pipli, where the old man explained that he and his wife had themselves made by hand all the bags and wall-hangings displayed in the shop
  • Intrigued, at the Buddhist Stupa at Dhaulagiri, by the sight of small boxes that served very effectively as printing cabins for quick photographs. The Stupa per se was hardly impressive but the printing set up intrigued me enough to take a picture and post it here:

Printer Setup at Dhaulagiri

The intriguing printer setup at Dhaulagiri: the little black object in the centre is a Canon colour printer!

On the Biscuit Trail, Sightseeing (Notes on Hyderabad)

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“I have orders for fruit biscuits from Karachi Bakery,” said my friend, as we set off from the guesthouse to the venue of S’s midnight wedding. “So do I,” said the third member of our party. By then, yours truly was torn between curiosity and the need to feign awareness.

“Karachi Bakery? I can tell you where that is,” said the otherwise reticent man who drove our car, suddenly becoming loquacious in describing the location of the apparently famous shop. So I was the ignorant one. But only for a minute longer. My friends soon told me how S used to bring those biscuits to their hostel whenever she came back from home, and how they all used to “just love it.” The next day, these two friends skipped a part of the post-wedding puja in order to trace Karachi Bakery and buy huge quantities of the said item. All this was why I decided to stop there on my way later from Salarjung Museum to Begumpet.

On Nizam Shahi road, the huge blue and pink signage of the bakery stood out, and the crowd in the store, engrossed in Christmas purchases, reminded me of Mumbai. The matter-of-fact way in which I was handed a sealed packet of fruit biscuits and a piece of the same to taste was a mild letdown: I had expected, quite unreasonably in hindsight, that such a famous item would evoke a sense of awe in its handlers. Nevertheless, I could see that customers in that particular section of the shop were reassuringly enthusiastic.

The welcome that the biscuits – square shaped cookies with tutti frutti and cashewnut– received at home was little more than lukewarm, perhaps because they were poor competitors to the thick home-made jaggery pudding prepared the previous day. The tales of visits to Golkonda Fort, Charminar, Birla Mandir and Salarjung Museum found more enthusiastic audiences.

To whoever would listen, I repeated stories that the guide had narrated, of the intriguing history behind various features of Golconda Fort, including how sound was transmitted from the gateway at the entrance and the reason behind the name of the fort. We could see that although large parts of the fort were destroyed by Aurangazeb, the existing structure was deemed worthy as a film setting, for we came across a full-fledged team shooting a movie and two youngsters repeatedly trying to record a short amateur dance video.

At Charminar, it was the apparent lack of functional purpose of the building that bothered our party initially. A little like the Gateway of India, said one of the viewers. But the bangles and pearls at Laad Bazaar made up for that.

At Birla Mandir, I was amazed by the devotion shown by the crowd as everyone chanted “Govinda, Govinda” in a peculiar and catchy rhythm. The whiteness of the structure stood out in stark contrast to my memories of temples in Kerala made of dark granite. The art exhibition at the adjacent Birla Science Centre complex was worth seeing but hardly attracted visitors, who were more interested in watching the show at the planetarium and the huge skeleton at the dinosaurium, and in exploring the interactive science exhibits.

Salarjung Museum was huge and well-maintained. The various forms of Arabic calligraphy caught our attention, including the Tughra style where the letters are used to form the shape of an animal, bird or object. We stood captivated by the Veiled Rebecca, a life-like and delicate depiction of a demure woman, sculpted in white marble. In several rooms, the utility items and ornaments of the royal family reflected taste and indulgence, craftsmanship and lavishness. We returned from the museum having covered only the central block, leaving the eastern and western blocks for another visit.

Back home, most of the Hyderabad saga was forgotten amidst the holiday season. But I was in for a pleasant surprise when I casually offered the fruit biscuits to a friend. “Karachi Bakery!” he exclaimed, in instant recognition, although the biscuits were no longer placed in their original box. Here, now, was a very memorable brand! Going on the biscuit trail in Hyderabad was worth it, after all.

Changed but Still the Same (Notes from a Homecoming Trip to Wimwi)

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After the awe of seeing the red bricks subsided, one of the first feelings I remember from my day of arrival at Wimwi* is the intense disappointment on seeing the dorm* room allotted to me – old, nearly unfurnished, paint flaking off and falling to the bed along one entire wall. Dilapidated, in one word. To think that this was what I had “achieved!” I was immediately and very kindly allowed to change my room. And after that first day, I don’t remember ever having had a chance to reflect on the quality of my accommodation.

<Before we proceed any further, some comments are in order. In this post I have used terms commonly used at IIMA – these are indicated by * at their first occurrence and explained at the end of the article. This post is also on the longer side, so please be warned. But if it is as much fun reading as it was writing, you wouldn’t notice the length.>

Going back to campus after a hiatus of a year and a half, the overwhelming sense of homecoming eclipsed all other feelings. The dorm room I got this time was no better, but time had changed my perspective so much that campus felt like a nature resort. And the days passed by in a rush. I strongly suspect that time runs at a different speed at Wimwi. Time is also scarcer, and hence more valuable and more valued, at Wimwi than anywhere else in the world.

Fences and facilities

I noticed that the campus seemed demarcated by fences in an attempt to keep away the stray dogs, a vain attempt because the gates of the fences usually remained open. Indeed, there is something about an academic institution that makes spirits far freer than in an organization that pays a salary for working, for keeping your ideas to yourself and for doing what you are told. In the latter, the chaos of enterprising free human minds is mercilessly reined in by rewarding subordination.

It was heartening to see the new sports complex, with an indoor badminton court – so what if it was not equipped with the best of lighting? And the SAB, the Student Activities Block, which has been a long time coming; the new super posh dorms of rooms with attached bathrooms – a rare luxury for the students of Wimwi; two more ATMs, in the right places; more, and yet inadequate, signboards to indicate directions to dorms and facilities in a campus that seems like a maze even to seasoned residents.

Food and fauna

I spotted more eating joints – the expensive but healthy Joos has been relegated to the realm of memories and only the space remains, as if awaiting a new occupant; there is Falafal (think Hindi not Lebanese) aimed at the same I-care-more-about-health-than-wealth customers (I exaggerate, of course); a Nescafe right near the girls’ dorms; an enlarged Nescafe in the new campus. And KLMDC* still sells home-made cookies, these are still just as popular; the fruit vendor still enjoys a monopoly; tiffin deliveries take place as usual, of packed lunches that look unhygienic but taste genuine like only home-cooked food does; the food in the student mess has expectedly gotten worse over the years and subscription seems to have fallen each year.

The animal kingdom at Wimwi has not diminished even one bit. At Falafal, a bold squirrel approached till the seat opposite mine, and stood poised to land in my plate with its next jump. I threw a yellowed neem leaf to the floor and the squirrel, well-trained as it must have been from numerous titbits thrown by residents, ran towards the leaf. But very soon it was back, and this time I broke up a corner of my bread slice and offered that. The squirrel sniffed around, but could not (deliberately did not?) spot the meal, and returned to its pose, again ready to jump onto my plate. In the meantime, another squirrel grabbed the bread piece and ran away. I have a feeling that squirrel one often helps its brothers this way. In the land of RG-giri* this was a refreshing sight.

Reading, living and studying

The best-kept secret of the Wimwi campus, VSL, or the grand old Vikram Sarabhai Library, is still majestic and well-maintained. It hasn’t lost its charming effect on me – within minutes of entering the welcoming silence, I noticed and picked up Stephen King’s ‘On Writing’ in the new arrivals section and Peter Drucker’s ‘Adventures of a Bystander’ in the shelves, both of which I had been planning to read.

In dorm 3, the same old almost shelf-less fridge reigns over the pantry, but the new microwave oven has stolen the spotlight from the old one; the basement, known lovingly among current and former residents as the dungeon, still has some of the least wanted rooms and the most well-bonded group of residents; the erstwhile cleaning lady has been moved out, but the mildly servile attitude has remained, now shown by the new cleaning lady.

There is no more a WAC run* because electrons run faster and the Internet has taken over the work of fast feet. But Turnitin* does its job just as skillfully. And the 2.30pm surprise quizzes are back in the system (after having been displaced when first year classes were held in the afternoon as well because a new section of students had been added), with the additional caveat that the announcement comes only at 1.45pm! All those who thought it was a good idea to skip lunch because of (the possibility of) a quiz might consider eating because the suspense would not be broken before 1.45pm.

Outside the classroom

For students, placement is still the ‘top of the mind’ question. Professors, as has been the norm, show no recognition that the third slot* is the “killer slot” with classes in full swing, placement talks to be attended and placement preparation to be carried out by fachchas and fachchis* who are only just about getting used to the system. Some courses are no longer being offered but others are being offered in two sections due to overwhelming demand from students. Professors, I am glad to notice, are still sensible and high-thinking as they were in my time! The FPM* students have not moved out but they have moved on, just as I have, and they talk as easily of research as I would of client meetings.

That there was no Onam celebration on campus this year was surprising and unpardonable. Malayalis the world over are known for two things – for quickly bonding with fellow Mallus and for celebrating Onam wherever they are. The best aspect of such bonding, perhaps the one aspect that allows a seemingly insular relationship to flourish, is that the resulting group is very open to non-Mallus. Of course, only those who try joining the group will realise the warmth of the welcome they will receive. In my batch, our Spam* treats often included a friend who hailed from another state in South India.

Outside campus, there’s a flyover under construction, heralded by traffic jams and dusty roadsides; wayside eateries have moved to give way, but the taste of the roadside poha has not reduced one bit! Good old Ahmedabad is still the same – reckless driving on the roads; sarees worn the Gujarati way; a well-functioning BRTS (unlike in Delhi); and the winter approaching slowly, with its cold fingers reaching the dorm 3 dungeon first.

On the way back to the hustle and bustle of consulting life, I realised how true the cliché was: you can take the Wimwian out of Wimwi but you cannot take Wimwi out of the Wimwian!

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The jargon

Here’s my attempt at describing the meaning of the slang terms that have crept into the post. Naturally, it is impossible to convey the complete sense of any slang. I haven’t given away much of the reasons for the terms, although there are traditional reasons for every term, nor have I expanded abbreviations. The terms are listed in the order in which they appear in the post.

Wimwi: IIMA

Dorm: A standalone set of 30-40 single rooms that has a culture of its own

KLMDC: The management development centre in the heritage campus (aka the old campus)

RG-giri: A kind of unhealthy competition prevalent among students of Wimwi, especially in the first year

WAC run: The process of running from dorm to classroom in order to submit in time a printed copy of a particular written assignment in the first year

Turnitin: The software that detects plagiarism

Slot: Half of a term; six slots make a year

Fachchas and fachchis: First year students

FPM: The doctoral programme

Spam: The Malayali students group

A Land Uncannily Like Kerala!

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There is something very intriguing in the view from the aeroplane as it descends over Udaipur. The sheer greenery of the land below makes me wonder whether this is a verdant hillside of Kerala. And the roadsides bear a sight so familiar on the roads of Thrissur – wild creepers growing complacently on electricity poles and on the stabilizing steel wires joining the poles to the ground!

It is difficult to believe that I am in the state of Rajasthan which I have associated with deserts since learning about the Thar desert during standard 3 in school. Clumps of multicoloured lantana (kongini in Malayalam) on the roadside, an abundance of wild grass with yellow and violet flowers, fresh foliage on trees – the rain seems to have worked magic on the land!

I notice that shop fronts are covered with writing in Hindi, so is the wall space between shops, possibly because hoardings are yet to make their way into this place. Is this a land where people don’t talk much? And if they do, they perhaps speak in full sentences? I wonder, because the typical shop sign reads “groceries and household items are available in this shop” instead of the ubiquitous laconic “groceries and household items” that you see elsewhere.

While Udaipur is known for its lakes and palaces, there is more to the place. On our trip to Kumbhalgarh Fort, we pass roadsides so scenic that I have seen them only in old calendars: a gentle river meandering its way over stones rounded by years of flowing water, flanked on both sides by flowering shrubs and trees, and green mountains in the distant horizon. Knee-high man-made walls of weather-hardened cut rock crisscross the area, reminding me of some of the last scenes in ‘The Shawshank Redemption,’ and young shepherd boys guide their goats to grazing land. Schoolgirls wave at us as the bus passes; I remember reading somewhere that we are obliged to wave back, if only to keep hope alive in the minds of the enthusiastic children.

The Fort itself is well-maintained, its 36 km long wall stretching out ahead of us, encompassing several Hindu and Jain temples. Our guide is a small boy who goes to school in the morning and leads tourists through the Fort in the afternoon, regaling them with stories of the seven-and-a-half-foot tall king who reigned in the Fort’s heyday. We gasp and pant, our knees rebelling, over the rock-paved incline at the beginning, and wish there were banisters to hold while descending steps, but the boy is lithe, almost impatient, as he waits for us at the next interesting spot.

We sit on the stone steps in front of a temple and the mild breeze cools down the weary tourists. After a picnic lunch by the riverside, we are on our way back to civilization and pollution, honking horns and dusty air. But the enchantment stays with us, and before we leave Udaipur, we have all, with varying strength of intention, contemplated visiting the place again. I, for one, would like to see again this land in North-West India that uncannily reminded me of Kerala!

Before the Taj, Spellbound

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This is about an impromptu visit to the Taj Mahal – a visit motivated by sceptical curiosity rather than by a sincere interest in historical monuments – and how it left me more amazed than usual.

The first sight of the Taj Mahal takes my breath away. Nothing in photographs or gushing praise from friends has prepared me for the sheer beauty of the white structure. It is solid yet weightless, rooted on its pedestal yet floating against the backdrop of the off-white sky, reaching up to the clouds. It is unearthly.

I am so captivated that I stand awestruck, to simply stand and watch and not take a step closer. The incredible lightness of the monument seems to arise from the fact that there is only pure sky behind the Taj, no greenery, no other visible buildings, no mountains. I am in the presence of something bigger than, almost untouched by, humanity’s everyday trifling cares.

Image of the Taj Mahal against cloudy skies

When there’s only the Taj and the sky

And the inside was as incredible as the outside: intricate patterns of flowers and leaves and creepers, all etched in delicate white marble using coloured stone. Even if they were paintings, these etchings would have been works of art. That they are made of resilient stone makes the achievement astounding.

When the setting sun shone down, the subtle play of light on the domes made the Taj glow as if it were made of pearl, the side facing the sun giving off a sheen that only white marble can. At times, the building seemed to shimmer and float. As the sky grew darker with rainclouds, the white structure stood out even more, pale and light yet unshakeable.

I wondered at the vastness of the mind that envisioned such beauty before it was manifest through the monument. And I sat at a conveniently located bench, simply watching. Every school child must be sent on a sponsored trip to visit the Taj, I thought magnanimously.

On the way back, I puzzled over what made the Taj unforgettable: the building seems light as a feather floating up to the skies, and yet it seems solidly rooted to its own base. This sheer presence of opposites embodies the very real and very human paradox of wanting to belong while also wanting to stand out, to be different but also to be part of a group. We want to be up in the air, with its attendant excitement, but soon enough we long for the ground beneath our feet, and the familiar safety.

Quite clearly, the Taj Mahal can make poet-philosophers out of its beholders!