To begin with the answer is darn simple. It’s only made complex by know-alls or know-nothings or know-half or know-half-but-don’t-know-which-halves. That means virtually all of us. Only a select few (one-in-a-million, according to some researchers) know what it is and benefit from it. Despair not, for now the secret will be revealed. Get ready to enjoy the alluring and elusive fruits of power, which till now, we only fantasized about. From the story of 5 brothers who lost everything in a bitter power struggle with their conniving cousins and had to spend 12 years in exile and 1 year in anonymity to learn the tricks of the trade to have a go at the throne. (You, oh lucky reader, need only the next 60 seconds to know what it takes).

For a good 11 years 11 months (to the 11th hour that is) the brothers kept shaking their heads in disbelief wondering what went wrong for such fate to befell them. Instead of enjoying the fruits of power they are on foot wandering in forests teeming with wild beasts, poisonous ivy, long days, dark nights and meandering thorny paths.

“What have we done wrong? We had everything going for us. We are the good ones. Lived by book almost and asked for what rightfully belonged to us. We are blessed by elders. Seen as a beacon of hope by our subjects. We were loved almost universally. Yet….”

Words failed them and they continued their journey part lamenting their fate and part taking in the beauty of nature, which the trappings of a life happily lived in palaces amongst seemingly well-wishers would have deprived them of. While musing thus and traveling further, one day they came across a tree with one fruit on it. It looked like a fruit for gods, and indeed it was, which they didn’t know at that time. Draupadi, their illustrious wife, feeling hungry by the long walk, said “I want it.”

Zip.

Her wish was their command and in a second the fruit made its way into her hand. She was on the verge of biting it.

Zwang.

Krishna, their mentor materialized there. “Stop” he said. “This fruit belongs to Durvasa, the angry saint. He alone decides whom he wants to give it to, and any ignoramus trying to savor it without his consent will get to know what living hell means. Put it back. Else you will have to face his wrath, for he is known to be short tempered.”

“How?” cried all in unison. “How on earth can we put the plucked thing back?”

Smiled Krishna. “Don’t worry. It needs to be offered the accumulated karma of your good deeds. Powered by that, this fruit here will go back and attach itself to the tree. All will be well.”

So first comes Draupadi, and offers her good karma, a result of her Chastity.

Zoom.

The fruit raises few feet in the air, well short of the branch it was plucked from. Shocked she looks at her husbands! “Oh, I thought the power of my karma alone would do the trick! Alas, such is not the case.”

The eldest brother Dharmaraja, epitome of Integrity, steps forward. Offers his bit and lo, the fruit still is far from being happily hanging in its original un-plucked state. One by one the remaining 4 brothers, each bringing to the table Strength, Valor, Humility and Trust do their bit, but the sum total of their contribution was still a few feet short. Steps forward Krishna, the wise mentor and offers part of his good karma and the fruit attaches itself to the tree, nothing amiss, everything as before.

“Wow! This is a miracle. How in heavens’ name did that happen?” The 6 voices rose in unison above the din of the forest sound FX.

Smiled Krishna. “Don’t worry; that there is Durvasa making his way to the tree now. We will talk after paying our respects to him.” Durvasa came. Durvasa saw. Durvasa conferred, the fruit unto the 5 brothers and their wife. “I know what happened. But you have collectively made the impossible, possible, so you have earned it. Eat it. The effects of it will last on you forever and you will enjoy the benefits of the throne shortly. Everything will work out smoothly henceforth.” Thus speaking the good and soothing words, the short-tempered but benevolent sage vanishes.

Content, with the vision of a good life ahead and the sweet taste of the fruit, the 5 brothers and their wife turn to Krishna their mentor, for enlightenment. Smiled Krishna. “Power”, he said, seating himself comfortably under the blessed tree, “is mistaken to be an easy prey to only one thing or the other from the following: Trust. Humility. Integrity. Strength. Chastity. Valor. (THIS CV).”

“You need a bit of guile to navigate through to the final course. In its absence everything else falls short of the ultimate goal. All the efforts come to naught. You are on the throes of Kaliyuga. The going will be tougher if you continue in the same naïve belief of THIS CV helping you. The dice will be loaded against you every time and you need to adopt new strategies. Add a dash of stealth and pepper it with practicality and the purpose will be served.

“I hope the path ahead is clear for you and that you have got your priorities right. Use this time to work on your weaknesses, add to your network, marshal troops and you will see what lies ahead. I as your mentor can see it. Glory be to thee!”

Oh wise reader, the era of Mahabharata has long ended. Kaliyuga has indeed entered. THIS CV is now some 3000+ years past its expiry date. It was once a necessary condition but not sufficient to get you what you desired. Now it’s an invalid anachronism.

Not so long ago, when there were still prying but sympathetic peers abound (of which the later variety is a rare and endangered species these days) there lived an average Joe monk in a monastery. One day after his usual ablutions, meditations, chores done and frugal meals partaken, he set out to gather firewood in the nearby woods for the rituals at twilight. Then it happened. With both hands occupied, holding the bundle of firewood perched on his head, there was little he could do to defend himself when a wild dog dug its sharpest teeth into the fleshiest part of his rear end anatomy.

Smarting under the sharp pangs of his submitting so meekly before the lowliest of creatures and limping under the practicality of having to now shift weight to one leg that which didn’t have the honor of submitting itself to the cursed cur’s uncompromising and deep oral dalliance, the monk thought thus hurrying towards the tall and fortified walls of the comforting monastery beyond the reach of such wily whelps.

“Mm..let me see now….there are around 377 brother monks behind the blessed boundaries. This pronounced limping coupled with the not so nuanced painful contortions of my face are bound to draw both attention and sympathetic yet piercing questions about what transpired. There is no other way for me but to open up and give them a detailed account of the state of affairs. The more matronly of the fraternity will want to dwell on the shape, size, speed and stealth of that scourge on four legs. Not once, but many a tens of times will I have to go through this motion of explaining to each and every one. Reliving through those painful moment again and again with no prospect of the pain ever dulling. Or me finding time to tend to that tender part of self in the privacy of my chamber. I trust the better way out of this predicament would be to…”

Into the sight came the hallowed monastery, rising magnificently from the woods. Amid the chirping of the birds snuggling into their well feathered nests and the call of the wild, the monk could make out faint peals of the clear bell ringing in the dusk as it struck thunderbolt awareness into his hollowed head.

Like a hurricane in a hurry, shot the monk towards the monastery doors, throwing caution to the winds. Scurrying up the tower that housed the bell, lifting the otherwise half-a-ton weighing gong, he struck it against the bronze bell with all his might… all this was a moment’s work.

Surveying the surging shaven heads and their scrutinizing gazes, the monk turned around, bent over, lifted the ochre robe well above the mark that pumps blood into the sternest of cheeks and proceeded to recount the ordeal he hath passed through that unfortunate evening….

Now my dear friends; when did we not feel the strong urge to announce to the world what we have passed through in the wilderness of our respective corporates? Almost everyday I hear you all cry in unison. I know. I have been there. But thankfully I haven’t done that. For however much the temptation is to unburden myself of the travails I face day in and day out, I know there aren’t many kindly and brotherly souls around. So I shift weight, drag the feet and keep a smiling face. And I work hard at throwing a sympathetic glance in for good measure in hope that some numbskull will fall for it and entertain me with his tale of misery. And over and above that, I make sure to carry a sturdy staff and bide my time. For though there is a dearth of kindly hearts it’s more than made up by an overabundance of the blasted bowwows.

The following powwow I heard not so long ago and I am sharing it with you in 7 parts; for I know you can only invest so much time at a stretch during working hours while not getting distracted from playing solitaire or forwarding the latest jokes.

“I don’t know. I am elated and at the same time feel empty. Have been doing everything right. Performed well. Went beyond the call of the duty. I am part of all key implementation projects. Boss smiles at me once in a while. Don’t extend my lunch breaks or take multiple caffeine/nicotine breaks. Yet right from being served coffee at the table to being invited for Boss’s regular outings; from figuring in the grapevine often to being called in for board meetings — everything seems to be eluding me,” groaned the newly promoted executive (NPE), stirring the contents of the glass placed in front of the accountant who asked how it felt to be kicked upstairs, after languishing for 2 years at the same position.

The accountant did his bit indulgently, to cheer up the kid for he liked the lad. This here was a young man with a sense of humor who after seeing him surreptitiously browsing an adult site chose to include him in his spicy e-mail forwarding list. Where others would have not batted an eyelid in appraising the top management of the same or worse giggle knowingly during lunch-time; this man here did what a kid with a golden heart and a funny bone does. The accountant filled the pauses occasioned by the limitation of NPE’s lungs with encouraging words. “I know you have it in you to move into the corner office some day. Carve out your niche. Don’t give a quarter. Guard your turf with zeal. The future is yours.”

“Thanks old man. I was working hard for it and have performed beyond anybody’s expectations. Still don’t know how long it will take to get fast-tracked onto the road ahead that is promising and paved with gold. Can see my own cabin, corporate credit card, car with chauffeur and conferences overseas. But are they mirages?” The NPE was slowly slipping.

“Listen. I know you are one of the best performers and the brightest chaps around in this organization, and god knows if all goes well, in little over a couple of years, instead of me passing your vouchers, you will be signing my salary cheques. But…” The accountant paused for the bearer to replenish his glass.

“But what? Do you think I will not make it?” ejaculated the NPE.

“NO!” Like numbers and revenues, the accountant, with equal dexterity, can mask the ugly underbelly and paint a beautiful picture. But there are occasions when he too can call a spade a spade. And this was one such occasion.

“And I will tell you why. Tell me, what do you think will get you promoted continuously and takes you to the high seat of power”?

“Multi-tasking. Ability to raise flag at the appropriate time. And provide solutions before others even identify the problems…” the NPE was like a man in possessed, banging his half-full glass (for he was an optimist albeit a naïve one) on the table. He could have gone on and on, for he was a man who never bunked a lecture at the business school or never failed to memorize key quotations from any self-help or career building guides.

The accountant knew that and moved in quickly.“That’s precisely what the donkey thought before he got a good hiding and was kicked out by his master whom he served loyally all his life,” said the accountant.

“What donkey? What rot is that all about, old man?” NPE was confused and slightly worked up.

“Okay, I know you dig management consultancies, self-help gurus, chicken soups with moving cheese, matrixes and clever acronyms more than anything else. So at the cost of the readers not following the 6 other stories beyond this one; for they will now know the formula for attaining power; I will proceed to lay it out.” He took a paper napkin and scribbled legibly (for accountants like doctors are not known for their calligraphic skills) to put down the following equation:
Power = Position + Positioning + Proximity + Personality + Perceptions + PR + Performance

“I don’t understand. I thought…” mumbled the NPE.

But he never got to complete the thought as the accountant interjected, “I know you won’t. So here munch on these peanuts and listen to the story.” Downing the contents of the half-empty (for the accountant sees things for what they are) glass and acknowledging the bearer who moved in quickly bringing in reinforcements, proceeded the accountant:

The Donkey who cared not for Position and put purchase on Performance
“In a small listless village, a fair representative of both listless and listed villages that dot our vast landscape lived a Dog and a Donkey working for a washerman running a profitable venture. The Donkey used to wake up early in the morning, nibble fast on little bits of grass leftover from the previous night to get ready to carry the dirty load. The Dog on the other hand, though wide awake used to rest its head on the crossed fore-legs, close its eyes and lie down till the washerman came in and patted on its back, played with its ears, left a freshly made roti and a bowl of milk in front of it, commending it for the long hours it has put in during the night and the successful outcome of its vigil (for his money and valuables were safe in the morning when checked).

At mid-day, the Donkey used to pass its time eating the grass that grew on the banks of the river, alone with no company, while the Dog relished its rice and soup with the washerman household. And then it would retire under the shady neem tree in the backyard, nibbling on a bone left to it by the doting daughter of the washerman. A completely sedentary and envious lifestyle. The most it used to do under the heading of ‘work’ was wag its tail to shoo the free-riding flies away.

During evening, when the washerman came home it used to lunge onto him, sniff and lick at his feet (for the Dog though shameless was never short on the shrewdness department). The Donkey used to amble in carrying in the washed load and its own fodder, never a murmur or a word of complaint. Subjugation personified.

Dinner was no different, the Dog was fed to the gills, for it had a long and arduous and most critical part to play while the Donkey ploughed through the forage before thinking of the day ahead. It thought the perseverance it showed and its performance would reward it in the long run. It was happy doing its bit for god, countrymen and its master. It reveled in the knowledge that its diligence is what kept the people close to each other and the world peace prevailing.

But for him, the whole world would have been one big bad chaotic place. Thus thought the good Donkey. The Dog along with its fellow dogs had formed a network, wherein only a few of them had to keep vigil across the village every night and raise a robust woof when anything unusual was spotted. This would alert the other dogs who would chip in joining the chorus; driving the unusual thing away and thereby meet their K-9 Performance Indicator. This usually helped the Dog catch more than its 40 winks during which it hated to be disturbed at all. On the day of its vigil, though, it condescended to spend time faffing around with Donkey. The faffing was mostly centered around how the master can do more to it for all the feet-licking it does day in and day out.

The Donkey though surprised, for it thought the Dog had it all, lent a patient ear mostly. On occasions, it used to berate the Dog for not doing its duty diligently, for instead of engaging in long conversations, it should be doing couple of rounds around the house. It (the Donkey) said it was thankful to the boss for letting it do its job without interfering and giving it timely fodder.

One day, on its vigil, while engaging in such a conversation, the Dog failed to notice an unusual movement near the boss’s house. The Donkey though caught it from the corner of its eye and alerted the dog to do the needful. The Dog said it was none of the Donkey’s business to tell him what he should be doing, and anyway it’s much better catching the thief with the loot, red-handed than scaring the thief off before he did any noticeable damage when the boss won’t be any wiser to the incursion. The logic didn’t go down well with the Donkey, as it believed that prevention is better than detention.

It rose to the occasion and let go in full throat that which its ilk is best known and derided for. It brayed aloud. The thief of course jumped a few inches higher in the air, for it was a new alert system that he came across, but nonetheless made good on foot, in the process upsetting the well lined flowerpots of the house. The whole household got up, the washerman was out with the stoutest of staffs in hand, bracing for for an intrusion if any, for the Dog hadn’t barked.

The Donkey, seeing the boss come from inside, ran towards him for a pat or hug or a piece of roti; for one doesn’t know what goodies a good and honest performance brings in. Drinking in one sweeping glance, the upset flowerpots, the nothing-wrong-with-the-world lackadaisical demeanor of the Dog, the boss deduced that the Donkey went out of its line. THADOOM… came down the staff on the hapless and unsuspecting lowly creature. “BRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAYYYYY” a gut-wrenching cry reverberated through the air, making even the stoutest-at-heart Dog to wince a wee bit.

A wise owl perched on top of the neem tree, witness to the whole, clucked his tongue and thought aloud, “Multi-tasking blah. Raising flag blah blah. If only we all render what our respective positions demand from us rather than being slaves to conscience.”

“I get it, so you will suffer if you try doing good for the boss,” said the now sober NPE.

“You got it from the Donkey’s perspective, which is good but not great. Look at it from the Dog’s point of view if you want to be on the winning and powerful end of the bargain.”

“Mmm…there’s something in that,” admitted the NPE.

“Hang on, here comes our patron saint of spirits to serve another round of salvation. By the end of it all my boy, you will be a true man(ager),” promised the accountant while adjusting himself comfortably in the chair. He then proceeded to enlighten him with another story.

But there are exceptions. Ones which are better left untouched. At least till the time one finds one’s way around the system and its accompanying loopholes to enjoy happy, frequent and extended coffee-break moments 9 to 5. Of this hierarchy of horrors – the recasting of an old project that’s gathering dust is the most potent of plagues that has ever stunted the careers of many a bright and starry eyed broom-wielder. Don’t agree? Read on.

Long ago. One ashram. Four friends. Fast learners. Sharp brains. Guru’s pets. Complete education. Flying colors. Honor rolls. Campus placements – none then. Take blessings. Step out.

(A vast world! Make way. Roll carpet. Shower perks.)

Jungle ahead. Hack through. Path made. Deep inside. Bone seen. Intelligent all. Exchange glances. Opportunity beckons. Grab now. Showcase skills.

Bright Fellow (BF) – Number One: “Me topper. Redraw vision. This here. Is Lion.”
BF Two: “My specialty. Is Re-engineering. Skeleton built. Jungle King.”
BF Three: “Image builder. That’s me. Flesh, blood. Body, ready.
BF Four: “Turnaround specialist. Breathing life. Rise, Roar.”
Happy Lion!
Hungry Lion!
Learned men. Wise men. Bright men.
Know all – but one. How to climb trees to save ass.
They couldn’t.
End story.

Begin Moral.
Temptation is good; it spurs us to stoop to levels which we never knew existed; to soar to heights that any self-respecting executives can only dream of! But it should be gulped down with a pinch of caution. Especially when it comes to long dead projects that the previous management has dropped like a hot brick or potential fan-hitter in their occasional lapse into reasoning moments. For you know not why they were stowed aside or shoved under.

A viability report is the most you are allowed as a shining knight who is set for higher things. Not volunteering to execute the project, akin to breathing life into the beast.
Adamant still?
Reach now. Higher position.
Happy beginning.

Monitors left on in a non-power save mode, all lights switched on in-spite of the streaming sunlight, and A/C units blasting full-on and you know we are back in business. In the pantry, coffee shots from the vending machine are foamier and thicker. Teabags (ginger, lemon, mint and honey — the whole lot) came out of the locked cupboards for the benefit of the whole gentry. Rest rooms have the same cheerful telltale signs. The toilet paper thickness has increased and once more air fresheners are discreetly tucked in strategic locations. Result? Fewer people walking out like ducks treading gingerly on shredded glass.

HR folks have lost their pre-eminence at the lunch tables as purveyors of juicy tidbits. Pink is still the color of the season, but only with reference to tickling that subordinates are subjected to and the Boss’ lame jokes are back in circulation. Everybody is chirping away to glory, discussing aloud the projects they are on, and they those they wish to get to so that they don’t have to work hard like they pretended to, during the last 8 months or so of the economic turmoil.

I am as happy as any underpaid, overworked employee who has ever swiped his card for all the above. But being a person cursed with a bit of extra memory that crams in unwanted trivia, I am slightly worried too. Occupying the lower rungs of the corporate ladder, it is very important for all of us to remember lessons that the recession hard-knocks diploma (it will last 18 months elsewhere, and a little over 12 months here is my prediction) have taught us. And here’s one that I learnt not so long ago.

Once upon a time, there was a washerman who had few asses working for him, carrying a mountain of dirty laundry of the entire population of the village and dutifully taking them to the cleaners. It was a prosperous time and every member of the village was extravagant, using three changes of clothes every day and wearing each only once before they sent them for cleaning. Business was brisk, the W-man could and did look after his asses pretty well, treating them to best of the fodder, choicest nibbles and outings every weekends. The asses too were extremely happy and many a occasion used to raise their braying to an absolute crescendo during the once-too-often bacchanalian revelries that the W-man threw. Life was one long beautiful song!

But all good things have to come to an end. Recession hit that idyllic village and everyone fell on hard times. People migrated or were forced to leave due to the conditions of the day. From an indulgence, getting one’s clothes washed turned to a luxury. It was a good week, if they were able to give out one set of clothes for washing. People got used to wrapping themselves in sweaty, stain dotted threads. The stench was reaching high skies but hey who cares! A penny saved is a penny earned.

That spelt doom for the W-man. With business drying up and money running out to feed all the asses even for sustenance, he had but few tough and heart-wringing choices before him:
• Let some asses go or
• Keep all asses
From being a mentor the first choice effectively turns him into a heart-less tormentor in the eyes of the asses. The second will make him an easy target for the ruthless taxmen of the king (cost-controllers is the other title they go by); or worse get the villagers’ vitriolic tongues wagging about his supposed extravagance. Alas, it also pits his asses in direct competition with a handful horses and loads of bulls that populate the ranches of other working class folks of the village. And if there ever comes a time of rationing out the grass in the village he very well knows where the asses stand.

Prudently the W-man did away with a few of his asses thereby taking the moral high ground. Over the next few weeks, the asses talked amongst themselves on the future course of action. All but one ass thought it wise to find greener pastures to eke out a course on their own. ‘Entrepreneur-ass’ they were dubbed, by a lone ass which lacked both courage and wherewithal to take that step. So it came to stay back with the master, not much work to do, still getting enough grass and water to get through the tough times.

Some more time passed, and the recession seemed like a cold and inferior cheese dragging on and on without a break in sight. It was getting difficult for the W-man to maintain the ass; for the load now was such that he alone could carry it. Thinking about it and wandering hither and thither he walked well into the adjoining jungle and found a dead tiger. Aha, the W-man had a lightning thought and swung into quick action. The thought was simple. Use the tiger skin to cover his ass and send it into the fields of other villagers and let it feed to its heart’s content. That way he gets to offload the cost of employing (err..feeding) the ass but he still gets to keep it. To act is but the work of a moment. He skinned the tiger (dead and cold, it sure was) skillfully and threw the skin over the ass. Perfect. The ass turns into a tiger! While letting it lose in other’s fields, the W-man had just one advice for it – “SHHHHH!”

The plot worked well and the ass got more than its worth in grass! It could taste different things everyday without ever getting detected. Few who could see through the dark night, feared this new breed of tiger that fed on grass and were happy that at least they didn’t have to face a man-eater.

But alas, good times don’t last. Especially for that creature whose DNA is that of an ass. All the green and tasty grass, coming free and surreptitiously as it did, made the ass get above itself. Throwing caution and the W-man’s prudent advice to wind, one full moon night at the end of a perfectly fulfilling meal, it thought of celebrating the occasion with a full-on song and dance! And how! Within moments of the said lapse of reasoning (a rare commodity by itself in an ass) its cover got blown and all the villagers descended upon it with vengeance.

It’s not for me to get into the gory details and aftermath. Will spare you folks the same but for the lesson that small yet moving story taught me. When a good thing is going and you are sneaking in and snacking on it, you are well advised to curb your enthusiasm and make the most of it. Thanks, My Ass!