An excellant slide presenation
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
After the huge success of youtube and being aquired by google for 2.4Billion dollar, lots of indian startups are coming on same domain to make it big like youtube. Not sure if any one can become as big as youtube but definately some of the companies would give birth to focused content for desi junta .
I have compiled a list youtube clones for desi content with there alexa ranking..
rajshri.com : 8,407
videodubba.com : 62,078
apnatube.com : 67,576
meravideo.com : 77,517
aapkavideo.com : 93,864
konkan.tv : 108,342
tumtube.com : 167,170
punjabitube.com : 210,495
toad.in : 332,292
infeedia.com : 411,612
canaravideo.com : 434,736
4indian.tv : 471,324
sixer.tv : 476,685
crictv.com : 537,556
connectfilms.com : 568,903
merovideo.com : 918,255
tubedesi.com : 952,068
motionflicks.com : 1,110,983
layfile.com : 1,696,130
nautanki.tv : 2,297,228
desiscreen.com : 3470,560
2. All leaders no followers.
3. Don’t hire spotless people, Look for spots in the people which matters the most.
4. Punish mediocre success and reward excellent failures.
5. Don’t award TOP 1% and create 99% people unhappy. Award TOP 99% and Fire rest 1%, create 100% happy employees.
6. Freedom to loose = Celebrate failures = Team which looses most wins on creativity.
7. Kill “Lick my ass” kinda managers.
8. Kill project meetings instead go for drink parties and fight over your creative opinion.
9. Don’t work on a project instead own project.
10. Bring design and creativity in all aspect of work.
11. Don’t work when your energies are low as your work requires the best times of the day.
12. Fire managers and buy Leaders.
13. Creativity is driven by stomach so don’t work with empty stomach instead eat best food you love.
14. Don’t earn money earn reputation.
15. First build the product than collect the requirement than do project planning than test it and if it sucks.
Repeat the above cycle.
An excellent article in Frontline about the Indias new celebrity - Aravind Adiga...
IN June 2006, in an essay titled “My Lost World” published in Time magazine, Aravind Adiga wrote about a personal search he made in the Indian city where he grew up. That city was Mangalore, nestled alongside the Western Ghats on the Karnataka coast. Born in Madras (now Chennai) in pre-liberalisation India, Adiga spent his early childhood years in that city before moving with his family to Mangalore, where his father worked as a doctor.
In Mangalore, Adiga first attended Canara High School and then St. Aloysius High School. Despite the loss of his mother to cancer shortly before his secondary school leaving certificate examinations, he reportedly stood first in the State. He knew the importance of education. “When I was growing up,” he wrote in the Time essay, “young men of all religions were united by shared values of hard work, enterprise and a desire to get out of Mangalore as quickly as possible. My brother left when he was 18. I left when I was 16. Many of those who got out never returned. There was no need to go back because the place never seemed to change.”
Adiga left Mangalore in 1991 when his father moved to Australia. Returning to the city 15 years later as a journalist with Time, he found it vastly changed. The population had doubled. Shopping malls and high-rise apartment buildings had reshaped the skyline. There were now five medical colleges, four dental colleges, 14 physiotherapy colleges and 350 schools, colleges and polytechnics.
The new affluence seemed to have come at a price, however, as Adiga wrote: “I met neighbours, relatives and classmates, and each had done well in some way – one had his own house, another a car. But each also had some sorrow we could hardly have imagined. A Catholic friend’s daughter had married a Hindu, and her family no longer spoke to her. A Hindu friend’s daughter had been divorced by her husband. Divorce, extramarital affairs, interreligious marriages, homosexual flings – the doors of experience had swung open in Mangalore. The small city had grown up.”
Looking around the transformed city, he also noticed “a group of drifters and homeless men, some carrying rolled-up mattresses” – part of the underclass who seemed to have been left out of the story of India’s growth. Adiga was curious and troubled by the sight, and during his travels in India as a journalist, he wanted to find out more. The White Tiger, Adiga’s Man Booker Prize-winning debut novel, is the story of this underclass and its life – begging for food, sleeping under concrete flyovers, defecating on the roadsides, shivering in the cold, struggling, in the 21st century, for its freedom. The White Tiger gives this underclass a voice: one that is intelligent, savagely funny and quite unforgettable. It is a voice that seeks out and understands the power of beauty: “If you taught every poor boy how to paint, that would be the end of the rich in India.” But it is also a voice of anger and protest, and it is almost completely unsentimental. “I did my job with near total dishonesty, lack of dedication, and insincerity – and so the tea shop was a profoundly enriching experience.”
The novel is structured as a series of letters written to the Chinese Premier by a former car driver from Bihar. Why the Chinese Premier? “Because,” the narrator Balram Halwai, now based in the city of Bangalore, writes, “the future of the world lies with the yellow man and the brown man now that our erstwhile master, the white-skinned man, has wasted himself through buggery, mobile phone usage and drug abuse.”
Balram explains, further, why he is writing in the language of the “erstwhile master”: “Neither you nor I speak English, but there are some things that can be said only in English.” Things like Balram’s story of “entrepreneurship”. The Premier of “the Freedom-Loving Nation of China” is apparently interested in the story of Indian entrepreneurship; Balram, the narrator of the novel, is an entrepreneur based in the city of start-ups. His story, he assures his addressee, will not be found in the white-washed version or the cellophane-wrapped pirated copies of business bestsellers that are sold at traffic signals: “Don’t waste your money on those American books. They’re so yesterday,” he writes. “I am tomorrow.”
He is, furthermore, “The White Tiger” of the title: “A Thinking Man/And an entrepreneur/Living in the world’s centre of technology and outsourcing Electronics City Phase 1 (just off Hosur Main Road), Bangalore, India.” The India of that address is actually two countries in the novel: one of “Light” with access to education, health care, good roads, electricity, running water, as well as hope and justice; and the other of “Darkness”, where there is only deprivation and injustice. Balram’s story is about how he clawed his way out of the Darkness into the Light.
Balram, or Munna as he was named by his parents in the Darkness where he was born, is the younger son of a rickshaw-puller, “a human beast of burden”, in Laxmangarh, a tiny village in Gaya on the banks of the river Ganga. One of Munna’s first lessons in growing up comes when he follows his family members on his mother’s funeral procession. “My mother’s body had been wrapped from head to toe in a saffron silk cloth, which was covered in rose petals and jasmine garlands. I don’t think she had ever had such a fine thing to wear in her life. (Her death was so grand that I knew, all at once, that her life must have been miserable. My family was guilty about something.)”
Refusing to call him “Munna” because that is not a name at all, the teacher at the local primary school gives him a new name. But Balram is not destined to remain in school for very long: there is a wedding in the family, they have the girl, and therefore, as Balram writes, they are “screwed”. The family has taken a loan to pay for the wedding and the dowry, and they must now work for the moneylender to pay off the loan. So Kishan, Munna’s brother, takes him out of school and to the tea shop where they will spend their future working as “human spiders”, mopping the dirty floors or smashing chunks of coal against a brick.
Years later, while telling his story, the narrator reflects on this part of his life: “Me, and thousands of others in this country like me, are half-baked, because we were never allowed to complete our schooling. Open our skulls, look in with a penlight, and you’ll find an odd museum of ideas: sentences of history or mathematics remembered from school textbooks (no boy remembers his schooling like one who was taken out of school, let me assure you), sentences about politics read in a newspaper while waiting for someone to come to an office, triangles and pyramids seen on the torn pages of the old geometry textbooks which every tea shop in this country uses to wrap its snacks in, bits of All India Radio news bulletins, things that drop into your mind, like lizards from the ceiling, in the half hour before falling asleep – all these ideas, half formed and half digested and half correct, mix up with other half-cooked ideas in your head, and I guess these half-formed ideas bugger one another, and make more half-formed ideas, and this is what you act on and live with.”
If we see the physicality of poverty (“My father’s spine was a knotted rope… cuts and nicks and scars, like little whip marks in his flesh, ran down his chest and waist…. The story of a poor man’s life is written on his body, in a sharp pen.”), we also see the carefully protected lifestyle of the ultra-rich: security guards, Alsatian dogs and, literally, bags of money.
The two worlds intersect within the strict bounds of the master-servant relationship. In Laxmangarh, the rich landlords are a pack of animals – stork, buffalo, wild boar and raven – who feed on the village until there is nothing left for anyone else, and the rest are forced to climb onto the packed buses that lead to the world outside – Dhanbad, Calcutta (Kolkata), Delhi – to find work.
In Delhi, the rich are driven around in air-conditioned cars, protected from the pollution that takes years off a man’s life. But Balram, as he drives the rich around in their cars, will always be a member of the world outside – a member of the servant class. The servant who washes his master’s legs in a bucket of dirty water and massages them; the servant who pours out the drinks while keeping one hand on the steering wheel and an eye on the road; the servant who can be smilingly cajoled into taking the rap when his employer, in a drunken haze in the middle of the night, drives the car over a small, dark ragged shape that might have been some sort of small animal but actually turns out to be someone’s child.
Aravind Adiga with the 2008 Booker Prize, in London on October 14.
Born in Chennai, brought up in Mangalore, writing about Delhi, and living in Mumbai, Adiga loves Tamil, speaks Kannada and writes in English. And in this language of the “erstwhile master”, without exoticism and without sentimentality, he has written a profoundly Indian story. It is not as if other writers have not written about the other, forgotten side of India.
For example, Amitav Ghosh, whose novel Sea of Poppies also appeared on the Man Booker shortlist for this year, has written memorably, with rich detail, compassion and wisdom, about those on the margins of history and geography as has Kiran Desai, in her Man Booker Prize-winning second novel, The Inheritance of Loss. Adiga’s prose is not quite so elegant, but the force of his writing comes from its savage humour and its strength of feeling.
The pages of the 34-year-old Adiga’s novel, however, are different, in their dark humour.
They are also incandescent with anger at the injustice, the futility, the sheer wrongness of a life such as the one from where a bright little boy called Munna, who was later called Balram Halwai in his school records, and then called the White Tiger of the jungle because of his good performance during a school inspection, was pulled out of school and told to smash coal for a tea shop. Where private armies roam about the fields, men and women live sad and stunted lives, and dreams are cut short even before they are fully formed.
this article are personal.
Aravind Adiga's The White Tiger was praised for highlighting the injustices and poverty present in the rapidly changing India when it won the Man Booker Prize, but now many Indian critics have expressed outrage at the judges' decision.
For some, Adiga's savage indictment of the way the rich treat the servant class panders to western prejudices.
"I felt the book took us back three decades," said folk art expert Ritu Sethi. "It had every stereotype going in it. The BBC used to show nothing but cows on the roads for years. We're back to that with this book."
Others criticised the novel for being dull and demeaning. Author and playwright Manjula Padmanabhan dismissed it as "a tedious, unfunny slog".
She agreed that much of the recent hype about India as an emerging superpower was dishonest and complacent but asked: "Is this schoolboyish sneering the best that we can do?"
Having bought the book, affluent Indians may shift uncomfortably in their seats. The daily inhumanity shown by the rich towards their domestic staff in The White Tiger is something of which many will realise they too are guilty.
The fearful crime which the protagonist Balram Halwai commits will send a frisson of fear up their spines.
Adiga says the Indian middle class is paranoid about servants and their "laziness", "greed" and "thieving" tendencies but expresses amazement that, given the huge disparities of wealth, so few actually commit any crime.
"Look at the intimate access that servants have to their masters in their homes, and yet there are very few murders or attacks. But that doesn't reassure the middle class. It is becoming more insecure than before because it is richer now and has more to lose," says Adiga.
The White Tiger marks a new departure in India by portraying the emotions, sorrows, and aspirations of the hitherto invisible poor. For Adiga, his achievement is capturing "something new" in India, a stirring, a glimmer of a refusal by the poor to accept the fate ordained for them by their masters.
But this flicker of an "awakening" does not mean the end of the current social order where the poor slave 24/7 as cooks, cleaners, drivers, nannies and maids so that the well off can feel comfortable.
"The system is beginning to deteriorate but it remains. It will remain, but with higher levels of crime and lower levels of security," says Adiga.
The author looks at India with the perspective both of an insider, having grown up in India, and as outsider, having emigrated for years and then returned.
"As an immigrant in the US and England, I was an outsider. I spent a lot of time being confused, trying to figure things out. That was how I understood how Indian villagers feel when they move to the big cities for work," Adiga says.
William Green, former Time Asia Edior understands why the book has raised Indian hackles. "It is an unsettling novel, it touches very raw nerves, but I think he captures the complexity and subtlety of India in fiction in a way that you don't see in journalism," he says.
For some Indians, The White Tiger is an appalling regression. Just when they thought they had finally shed the old image of India as a land of poverty, cows and snakecharmers and started being respected as a hi-tech, prosperous nation, along comes Adiga to, as it were, rub their noses in the dirt again.
"I used to hate Naipaul for talking contemptuously about India, about how cleaners mop the floor in restaurants by crouching and moving like crabs and all that talk about Indians defecating in the open," said a freelance editor, Anjali Kapoor. "Adiga is the same, focussing on everything that is bad and disgusting."
Monday, October 20, 2008
TWO roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference
Today is one such day again in my life. I was offered a permanent position with one of a company that has its HQ's in England. The place in question being Scotland - Dunde. I've never been there earlier (never been anywhere for that matter) So strange that this reminds me only of the cross-roads the Robert Frost's words....
But for some reason that I can't put to words I say No not even to the thought of it. Maybe I love things as they are, maybe I love being here, may me im not adept enough, Maybe the Economy is booming.. Maybe the India is the best place to be at this moment..
Friday, October 17, 2008
The more public it is the better for those would-be assassins who, for the sake of stirring controversy have the comfort of their offices or studios in which to sit and fire sniper-like vitriol at the intended victim.
It was in early December 2004 during the Kanpur Test that involved South Africa when NDTV asked me to become involved in a discussion on Sourav Ganguly, his perceived lack of form as well as leadership skills.
The way questions were posed brought the realisation that on the other side was a hit squad with an obvious grudge against Ganguly. It also made me wonder why I had been asked to take part in this show and in the firing line of Raj Singh Dungarpur, who came across as someone who didn't enjoy the Ganguly style at all.
Maybe because articles I had written much earlier, as well as those during the 2003-04 Australia tour for the Indian Express, had praised Dada and the way he had not backed off from a challenge against the Australians on that tour.
It has rarely ceased to surprise me that in the past fifty years or more, how players who have performed well for their country have been ridiculed by those who have not played a club game let alone a Ranji Trophy match or in a Test. Yet they sit and pontificate as though they have scored over 6,000 Test runs and taken more than 100 wickets.
There was also an awful feeling earlier this year in Sri Lanka that there were those media types who wanted Ganguly to fail. Want to point fingers and loudly say, "We told you... We told you... He is finished. Good... Good. Get rid of him now; forever."
Yet this was in a three-match Test series where most batsmen, not only Ganguly, fudged their lines against mystery spinner Ajantha Mendis and Muttiah Muralitharan.
In Port Elizabeth, before the start of the fractious second Test of India's 2001 tour of South Africa, and following the defeat in Bloemfontein after centuries by Sachin Tendulkar and that on debut by Virender Sehwag, I asked Ganguly about the enraged reaction in India to that particular defeat.
He was precise in his comments by saying he did not worry what his critics felt, or would say, or likely to say as they would not change their criticism even if India had won that first Test.
As with the NDTV episode with Dungapur, you felt they want him to fail, so that they could get out their rusty sabres and use his back as their personal dart board.
Forgotten is how months earlier he had defied a rampant Australian attack by scoring 144 in the first Test in Brisbane: walking out to bat with the top-order a mess at 62-3, Tendulkar lbw to Jason Gillespie for a duck, and later 127-4. But India still managed a first innings lead because of his century.
Also forgotten is how he led India to a World Cup final in South Africa when there are those on the subcontinent who wanted India to win but Ganguly to fail. The poison from that defeat in the final, it seems, still flows as swiftly as the Hooghly River.
What has been amusing in this latest Ganguly episode is how newspapers run interviews on half-baked supposed comments and offer them as being genuine. Anyone who stooped to this level to sell papers should be asked to account for his honesty. In another country, his job might be on the line.
All Dada can do here is refute the allegations that he made such comments while the reporter now has a credibility problem. What is known is that he has long been the fall guy when it comes to India's middle-order failures and you don't need the former captain to tell you that. It has been a known fact for a long time.
Now joining those snipers is some typically bad-mouthing Aussie who is doing his own ludicrous pantomime act.
To suggest that Ganguly had indulged in time wasting is an excuse for ignorance of the laws. The Channel Nine loud mouth overlooked that there were no overs lost, despite the interruptions. So why the fuss?
That the target was an impossible one is overlooked by such media bullies who snarl and snap when they can't get their way and attempt caricature humour to make a non-valid point.
How many Aussies in the past have also been involved in such a tactic to prevent defeat? Memories of a Perth Test against New Zealand in December 2001 resurface. Apart from several appalling umpiring decisions, they were calling for gloves and pads and other time-wasting tactic they could conjure.
The Kiwis didn't grumble, but you knew they weren't too happy either. There was Aussie criticism of Steven Fleming's plus 300-minute long century; no praise either for Daniel Vettori and his six wickets in the first innings that helped the Kiwis a good first innings lead. No honesty among thieves.
What needs to be appreciated here is that there is far, far more to Ganguly's style of play than statistical jargon and metaphorical branding.
He needs neither a register of meaningless allegories nor statistical lists that categorise who he is and from where he comes.
Yet for some peculiar reason, universally the Indian media, always seeking new cult heroes outside the outlandish tinsel confines of Bollywood, have this arcane obsession to indulge in such inane metaphors and clichés when discussing a man whose individual stylish left-hand batsmanship as well as leadership showed that Indians can take on the bullies from Down Under and elsewhere.
Those so fond of rehashing the meaningless 'Lord Snooty' as a way to unjustly caricature and pillory the man, or Prince of Calcutta to explain his elegant strokeplay, fail to understand his innate competitive drive.
There have been times when watching him place a cover drive suggests the soft growl of a Bengal tiger on the prowl. Here there is the impression of his sensing the mood of the bowler and by scoring a boundary in such a way it evokes an instinctive habit of his stalking of the bowler, seeking to hunt down the next ball as well.
There is a finesse about the Ganguly cover drive that hints how its execution is unique; it has nothing to do with textbook technique but his style of adventurism. He has had that trendy manner since before he was selected 16 years ago and sent to Australia.
Yet as he is about to say adieu to a Test career, Ganguly deserves fresh descriptions and a new landscape as a tribute to his skills and leadership: not old clichés or tired metaphors that have long failed to describe his style of game or intense personality.
There was agony in Australia in 1991-92 where he was largely misunderstood by a self-indulgent team management system; then a heroic debut century at Lord's a little more than four years later. These are all part of the often haphazard journey.
It is one though that deserves a far better epithet than it is receiving from a malevolent sniping media.
Sunday, October 12, 2008
Each day we find ourselves being pulled in different directions, with conflicting needs and wants crying for our attention. Work priorities, life commitments, personal needs and desires, friends and family- all need our time and consideration, but with only a limited amount of time to spare, how do you ensure that you are able to prioritise, do justice to all those requirements, and to yourself too?
A simple computing of how much your time is worth can help you understand the value of it, showing how you can be more productive, more efficient, manage your time better and get more value for it. Here is how to go about it.
Start with the total gross income you have earned from your job for the past year. From this, subtract taxes straight away. Then deduct additional expenditure incurred by you on account of the job. This can include rent, living expenses (if you have relocated to be closer to the job), childcare, work related expenses and bills, petrol and vehicle maintenance, office supplies, even the amount spent on your work wardrobe and doctor’s expenses if the job is stressful. This gives you the actual income you get from your job.
Calculate the number of hours you work each year. This not only includes the number of hours you devote to actual work, but also the time you spend commuting to work, meeting clients, speaking on the telephone and other job related activities.
If you don’t have an exact estimate of the time, log the time you spend on each activity for a week and multiply that figure by 52 to arrive at the yearly total.
Divide your net annual income by the actual amount of time you have devoted to the job. This is what each hour of your time is worth. The figure can come as a shock for most people, but it has a way of putting things in perspective.
This simple computing helps you to work out whether or not it is worth to do a task yourself, delegate it, or simply not do it at all. If you spend a lot of time doing low-yield jobs, then you can streamline and manage your time better by employing an assistant or giving it up altogether.
When spelt out in black and white monetary terms, it is easier to rationalise a lot of otherwise confusing decisions. If, for example, your job is making you good money, wouldn’t you rather you spent an hour working, than frittering it way chatting or checking your email? If on the other hand, your job makes you miserable, then perhaps you may wonder if you would be better off trading it for something that pays less, but leaves you feeling healthier, happier and more satisfied. You can even use this figure as a benchmark to compare against when accepting an offer. When the value of our time is converted into measurable monetary terms, we tend to respect it more, and are more careful about how we use it.
There are only 24 hours in a day and 365 days in a year. And you still need to spend a fair amount of time eating, sleeping and taking care of your basic living needs. After all this, you will be left with very little productive time, and it is important that you put it to maximum use. Time and tide, as they say, wait for none.
Friday, October 10, 2008
all there is to it. the hard part is to carry on..
They say, there are few men every now and then after whom
the world will be changed forever
proud I am to see such a man in my lifetime
so virtuous and passion personified
To him winning is everything
The ever spirited fighter who lives his dreams
Rising often from the ruins with a never-say-die attitude
pushing his own limits, erasing his boundaries
the elegant strokes he played
And the powerful hooks he swayed
Throwing the bowlers tottering in tantrums
As a cold-blooded predator prying its Prey
so relentless are his display of courage, exuberance and style
A prodigy of valour whose contribution to the game will be ever lived
His aggression is synonyms with his name
whose eternal grandeur can never be quashed as his fame
The Bengal tiger snarls a little
while all those who faces him runs belittle
so powerfully he hits the balls
that dreadfully thumps into the foemen's walls.
An innate leader with a unique calibre
That made him the best ever a country can have
Who faces the victories in par with the loss
Even when all his works gone for a toss.
One cannot forget the blistering innings he played
Both with his contemporaries and critics
The all-round performances he displayed
That only goes to show his commitment to the game
But nothing was smooth for this storm rider
who has been the man of action both on and off the field
For a man who suffered the most due to politics and policies
He endured the most and still inspired a lot to who me meant something
Such a quality he possessed as a sportsman
whose willow speaks more than his words
Though his critics found it hard to swallow
He is the man the cricketing fraternity can never forget
For every fall he had, he bounced back and made his mark
The harder he hit, he hit back
If only the jokers had known they can't stop the shining sun with their bare hands
For it only grows with time..
He is simply a man out of time
whose integrity has been tested more than a time
have we honored him enough and gave him the respect he deserved ??
We cannot help but vacuously wondering why ??
will time heal the wounds he suffered
will the pain of the scars he bears ever abate
Only time will tell what remains to be seen
for we all know he is a fighter with a never ceasing attitude
An emotive final that he ever played
Awaits him amidst his protagonists and admirers
the greatest gladiator of our times
who resurrects himself every time out of nowhere
Its very unfortunate for him to call it quits and ever retire
a whole new conspiracy in its own attire
as the curtains draws for a final time in nagpur
Herez me wishing him. may a new life dawns on him altogether
the man of unquestionable integrity, commitment and passion
that had made him to the lords hall of fame
the ruthless display of him swaying his shirt
again only goes to show his aggression and passion for the game
He greatly inspires everyone with his flamboyance
and the remarkable display he exhibited as a scrapper
That makes everyone learn the lesson: No matter how harder you are hit,
The harder u push, the harder u can hit back
A true believer of hard work, determination and courage
he is the infinite pond amidst the mirages
The undisputed DADA of the cricketing world,
The epochal prince of the modern day cricket
one would only run out of adjectives
for he is a finesse display of class and courage
Whose prodigious life is an inspiration to everyone
Sourav Ganguly - I bow to thee...