Teesri Kasam

Investing as a theme pops up periodically here, a testament to my abiding interest therein. Success here can have a fairly direct correlation with material well-being. That said, in matters financial, it matters more what not to do than otherwise. In this, I am reminded of Teesri Kasam and its quintessential Bihari ethos.

Flashback 1966. Mare Gaye Gulfam, penned by the indomitable Phanishwarnath Renu, was turned to a film by some of Indian cinema's tallest. On camera were Raj Kapoor and Waheeda Rehman, but also Iftekhar, Keshto Mukherjee, AK Hangal and Asit Sen: names that veritably lit up the silver screen much as they did the faces of cinemagoers for generations. Rest of the crew was no less luminous: Renu himself, Basu Bhattacharya, Shankar-Jaikishan, Lata Mangeshkar, Manna Dey, Asha Bhosle, Mukesh etc. Perhaps above all was Shailendra, this being the only movie the lyricist extraordinaire ever produced. Thus, we got Teesri Kasam.

So how does Teesri Kasam connect to my investing experience, personal or observed? Simply that Hiraman, its bullock-cart-driving protagonist — idealist yet unafraid to try the new — makes mistakes in his pursuit of life's affairs, swearing each time never to repeat them. And in a fashion, his three blunders, which lead to the eponymous three vows, mirror my view of the most common slips in financial matters.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, Hiraman stumbles first in ignoring the risk-reward equation. His simpleton character tries to make a fast buck ferrying smuggled goods, managing only to land a brush with the police, and promising himself a long-term focus thereafter. Many of us, myself included, start life at the other end, content with managing money near-term and confusing a bank balance for financial security. We fret about market risk but assume inflation immunity. Consequently, savings go to FDs, PF contributions stay at a minimum, and equity action is confined to a rushed, year-end Sec 80 investment at most. Thus, the power of compounding is missed for years.

Hiraman's second folly is not planning for oversized loads. He picks up a consignment of bamboo, and — being inexperienced — rams it into a horse-cart, earning a royal thrashing. His kasam: avoid 'long poles'. Of such cargo, real estate is the most ubiquitous in our lives and the cause of much financial misery. I didn't buy my first until 12 years into my career (missing two Gurgaon booms); yet others buy too early, or too much, and some simply a 2BHK that they outgrow in no time. A similar case could be made for Insurance. The point is to tackle the big rocks as soon as one is able, which requires a financial plan.

Twice singed, Hiraman is then felled by the most confounding folly of 'em all. Tasked to transport Hirabai, a performer in the Great Bharat Nautanki Company, to the village fair, he is smitten by her beauty and (in his eyes) apparent virtue, during the course of their day-long journey. His consequent conflict with zaalim zamana and zamindar is typical filmi (the denouement is anything but), culminating in his third and final vow: say no to nautanki-walis. Cut to our financial lives; and how often have we similarly lost when appearances and emotions outbid logic and facts?

A tad more on that last-named. Its typical setting, interestingly, involves folks who spend a lifetime mistaking investing to be a spectator sport. They watch the market ceaselessly, debate it tirelessly, and wait for the 'right level' endlessly. Then suddenly one day, armed with an ostensibly hot tip (delivered over sips of 'Glen' perhaps), they rush in to bet the ranch. They may get lucky, but mostly they don't, only to slink back into the corner, cursing their luck, the market, or both.

Be it rooted in any of these mistakes, it is the dud that we carry too long that has the biggest bite (I have never lost as much money as I have selling late). Through pigheadedness, optimism, or sloth, we only invite peril home when the basic principle of stop-loss goes amiss.

These experiences aside, like most walks of life, success in investing must rest on the bedrock of hard-won lessons. "The four most dangerous words in investing are — this time it’s different", as one of the greats so adroitly put it. It remains a game where discipline and math plainly trump creativity and chance. Ignore this, and one is left to rue mare gaye gulfam.

Cinema Cinema

I love movies. At the risk of jeopardising domestic bliss, I can add that I haven’t seen enough lately. Lest I be misunderstood — IPTV is a godsend — but in a weekend I'm perfectly capable of watching two to four, maybe more — a prospect at which the W isn't exactly chuffed. Again, it is not as if good cinema is my sole preserve in the household. The difference lies entirely in my preference for remote control-driven (some may aver it’s the couch) variety versus the more social cinematic experience in a theatre.

Interestingly, I grew up to almost no moviegoing, nor much interest in films. Through school, cinema was regulated like fresh air on a chilly winter night — kept out if possible, or heavily rationed at least. I reckon this was mostly in keeping with a general bias towards discipline in our upbringing (to which I owe a number of my latter-day milestones). Economics may have played a part too (thrift is good); concern over my grades most likely did. Thus, I averaged less than two films a year in the 'hall' (as we called them) in this period. These too were mostly thanks to a friend who consistently planned one as his birthday outing; and the rare parentally endorsed gems (Dweep Ka Rahasya was one such — I loved it).

Of course, I caught a few on TV (courtesy neighbours, till we acquired our own in '84) but this too was not without a twist. Given that staying out late was not an option, several of these films were incomplete, missing the 'climax'! I vividly remember the festive air in our middle-class community too, when Doordarshan decided to telecast movies on Thursday evenings, thus doubling frequency to a joyous twice weekly (the first such offering was Vachan, and I believe I have good reason to forget all about it, save the name). In short, the uninspired offerings and fragmented viewership did little to stoke my cinegoer buds — though an ill-understood Achanak and half-seen Ittefaq did plant seeds of love for the crime-mystery-thriller genre that I have been unable to shake off since.

Later, the VCR came to town. It brought with it a rudimentary element of choice. Grainy picture quality (not that DD was much different) was a small price to pay for the ability to watch what you wanted, when you wanted, and how you wanted. Naturally, video libraries, parlours etc mushroomed all over town. At home, the Pater made decisions of his own though (likely inspired by my not-always-inspiring scholastic record) and this contraption only entered the Jha household once the son had been packed off to college!

Most of my movie-on-video, thus, was with friends. I emerged much enlightened from these soirees (I can hear your wicked smile, reader!) not the least of which was exposure to cinema beyond mainstream Hindi (a Khamosh or Prahar amidst The Godfather and The Medusa Touch). Not entirely unrelated, this included QSQT, a milestone in the sense that I saw it and understood it (ah those vague, innocent, vicarious pleasures)!

Come college. My means stayed modest but the joys of freedom more than made up for it, strained only by early stirrings of a sense of responsibility. Films played a part in this general process of self-discovery as always — occasionally as input, but often as a companion in the journey. The plot stayed true at B-School too, save for a mild sharpening of the pen.

The intervening years have taught me how much I delight in having (almost one too) many balls in the air. As in life, so in movies — or literature and friendships — eclecticism reigns supreme. Yet, I can watch almost any film once, and a few many times, to this day. And hence, the sovereign power of the remote control.

Today: 10-to-11

This Saturday, HT City carried a feature depicting eleven game-changing Hindi movies from the last decade. I am not sure if these movies — or at least all of them — were pathbreaking in the fashion described, but they nevertheless offer a fair representation of popular cinema between 2001 and 2010. It would also be in order to mention their marked commercial success, remarkable in the sense that box-office recognition is a clear shibboleth of mainstream moviemaking. But let us talk about the movies first.

Two on the list hailed from 2001. Ashutosh Gowarikar's Lagaan was a period drama that combined standard-issue patriotism, chart-busting music, and India's cricket-obsession to hold the audience hostage until a literal last-ball six symbolising victory of good over evil. It also spawned an early strain of MBA-speak (email forwards were in vogue then), touting it as a case study for teamwork and sundry management principles. Farhan Akhtar's Dil Chahta Hai was a coming-of-age story, set against a youthful, affluent urban setting long before our "demographic dividend" became policy boilerplate — though the economic prosperity subtext was already flashing neon. I know enough folks that identified with DCH’s college-and-after situations, or with one of the protagonists: the brooding Sid, perpetually-lovelorn Sameer, and merry-go-lucky Akash (for those of you that remember, I also know a Subodh!) in a fashion unprecedented for Hindi cinema.

Moving on, 2003 claimed two entries as well. Koi... Mil Gaya was a ritual Hindi movie saga of underdog triumph most notable for starring Jaadu, a pint-sized desi ET that brought director-producer Rakesh Roshan king-size success. Its gentle treatment of a developmentally challenged character was a modest baby-step, and the overt sci-fi setting a pioneering attempt in a cinema mostly known for its formulaic approach. Likewise, under Raju Hirani's baton, Munnabhai MBBS trod a new path, concocting a winning dynamic of two dons: one a do-gooder bhai, other a stickler university professor. A commentary on med-school exam system, lady love's hard-to-get-with-a-difference act, Bombaiyya lingo and avuncular humour in the otherwise morbid hospital setting — it was a class act.

Cut to 2006 and Rang De Basanti redefined cinema's societal impact. High on patriotism, the Rakeysh Mehra-helmed film was a brilliant expression of youth angst, starkly contrasting contemporary political rot with inspiring idealism from our Freedom Struggle. Much beyond storytelling, RDB’s veritable clarion call against corruption, or mobilisation of the collective aggrieved, remains no less pertinent today. Youth and the Great Indian Middle voted with their wallets and feet, the latter a glimmer of hope for causes lost in the sticky mire of vested interests in our country.

2007 secured no less than three spots. Imtiaz Ali's Jab We Met was an uncomplicated, lighthearted romantic affair — very accurately described by HT as 'a breath of fresh air' — with the spunky Geet driving the only heroine-dominant plot on the list. Shimit Amin made Chak De! India the same year, another nationalism-meets-athletic achievement drama that, at the very least, succeeded in getting our national sport back in public consciousness. Aamir Khan's fairytale directorial debut in Taare Zameen Par was a landmark too — challenging educational system stereotypes in our notoriously conformist society. Against the backdrop of our impending demographic dividend, its advocacy of innovative career choices and empathetic portrayal of special-needs children was outstanding.

From 2009, HT's choice of Hirani's 3 Idiots was a shoo-in. Well-deserved questioning of learning-by-rote and over-hyped, narrow definition of scholastic achievement was at the film’s core, tempered by a subtle Roarkian undercurrent championing excellence, blended with a humourous take on college hostel life. Unsurprisingly, the movie captured the imagination of far broader demographics than just the youth anchoring its frame.

The only movie from the list I have not seen (unintended; to be corrected shortly) is Shankar's Enthiran (Robot) from 2010. It is also the only feature — and it is telling that I can aver thus with complete confidence, without having actually seen the film! — incomplete without a panegyric to its hero, the inimitable Rajinikanth and his flair for shattering box-office records.

I shall pause here. Dabangg, is presumably too recent to need me to jog those grey cells. Save for a much-hyped item number, I found it passable fare at best — not in the league of the others listed (no elitist rant, just that Salman rarely steps out of the banal). Equally, lest I be accused of lead actors overly influencing my rating, I present Aamir Khan, a bigger presence in this pastiche than any other, yet one who taught me the lesson of not judging a book by its cover. But that’s a story for a later day...

Baal Ki Khaal

This one is dedicated to two childhood friends, each with canine companions that went by the name Snowy. Both wore crowns of flipped-up tufts of hair that settled into a more orderly mop by the time it reached the back of their heads (though one believed he took after Shashi Kapoor!). Both wore their principles on their sleeves, embodying all that was thought good in boyhood — much the sort that mothers made examples of. And both were only too willing, in their inimitably individual ways, to battle lengthening odds in a world where childhood innocence was rapidly fading away.

The first of the duo now sports a mildly sparser mane, perhaps in deference to the ravages of time. Even as his contemporaries get cynical with age, his spunk has not dimmed much: he remains almost idealistic to a fault. Peddling counsel in a premier brainwasher outfit (AKA strategy consulting), his worldly ambitions revolve around Pedder Road, desiring future lodgings in its vicinity. Meanwhile, he plays proud papa to a precociously gifted child. On meeting old partners in crime, he debates residential choices in modest Mumbai versus garish Gurgaon (purely in sq ft terms), but mostly signs off ruing lost opportunities to ride the real estate boom at either. The script has, alas, not altered much in a few price correction cycles. Yet, the world would be so much a better place if even a fraction of his fantastic ideas were to change address from his first-class brain to take up abode in the world without. My best to you, Mr M — and here's hoping that, some day, the letter does not stand for Muddle too.

The other hero, equally principled but a tad more action-prone, has the privilege of staying unsullied by tests of time accorded only to fictional characters. He occasionally comes to mind, larger than life, when trying to hook my 14-month old to Cartoon Network for a few moments of domestic calm (and yes, we shall rue this TV pitch later). Meet Tintin, who last week made it to Indian mainstream media with news that his canon is to be translated into Hindi (whatever took them so long!).

Those good tidings came with some trepidation too. For the sake of the hordes of new friends — née fans — he shall inevitably add in the new Indian avatar (he already does Bengali), one hopes that Tintin stays Tintin, even as his supporting cast and the books adopt new name tags. This is important — this space has argued against avoidable tinkering with Enid Blyton's legacy earlier. Equally, word-play is intrinsic to the pleasure of reading Tintin: its characters indulge in malapropisms, spoonerisms, cuss-words-that-aren't, et al (google them if needed) hence in great danger of being lost in translation.

Fortunately, two differences can be discerned upfront. Firstly, the Famous Five body of work existed and was accessible to the young English reader; and changes focused on style rather than substance, presentation tweaks presumably due to audience inability to appreciate the books' context. Tintin in Hindi, on the other hand, explores new readership vistas. Secondly, the English versions, where my friendship with the evil-fighting Belgian reporter took root, too were (brilliant) adaptations from the original French. The Tintin team has been there, done that (Hindi is translation # 58, with over 200 million endorsing sales).

Given all this, my sense points to largely unaltered plots, even as some props take into account Indian sensibilities. Hence Snowy, originally Milou, becomes Natkhat and Thomson and Thompson (AKA Dupont et Dupond) turn Santu-Bantu without much ado (unless you believe that Bianca became Mallika Castafiore for Sherawat reasons — her crooning 'Abhi To Main Jawan Hoon' perhaps for our other protagonist, the adorable Mr M — we ought to easily settle that one)!

And what better way to test the hypothesis than to check for Captain Archibald Haddock's colourful curses — 'dus hazaar tadtadate toofan' (ten thousand thundering typhoons) is easy; 'karodo karod kasmasate kaale kacchuve' (millions-and-millions-of squirming-black-turtles, replacing the iconic billions-of-bilious-blue-blistering-barnacles) sounds a wee bit of a compromise. There may be more (difficult to replicate 'Thomson with a P like in psychology' in a Santu-Bantu milieu) but intent remains the ideal touchstone (one learns from you sometimes, Mr M) of my vote today. A thumbs-up for the Tintin effort, therefore — and no elitist position caught up in (what Tintin's catchphrase 'Great Snakes' has changed to) 'baal ki khaal'!