Embracing my Indianness

The exchange students in my college last semester complained about how everything in India happens “tomorrow.” I chuckled like I always do when I hear jokes that I don’t believe are at my expense. “Oh how Indian!” I thought to myself. What I’ve come to realise lately is that I’m more Indian than I think I am. I have been meaning to study “tomorrow” for the last 15 years and I’m yet to get around to it of my own accord. What’s a 2-month delay in installing an internet connection compared to that? I also unnecessarily add “only” at the end of each sentence, as if my conversations are really chequebooks. I use present continuous tense where simple present would suffice. I have no notion of punctuality. 

I remember having watched one of Russell Peters’ shows where he said that Indians probably don’t find jokes with the Indian accent offensive because they don’t think they have it. “They think there’s one guy in the country with that accent!” I think that logic can be extended for most Indian stereotypes. We are a part of the crowds we so detest. We’re exasperated that nobody stands in line although we always break it. I think we consider it okay to break the rules. We complain because everyone else breaks them at the same time and that inconveniences us. It’s as if we think we’ve landed up, quite by accident, in a place that’s so full of people who don’t behave as we would like them to. That we’re one of them is immaterial. 

An Illusion of Fitness

I feel rather guilty when I get a seat on the metro. The guilt is partly a celebration of my youth and partly self-deception. I imagine that anybody who can create customised playlists while reading books, rush up staircases to the beat of a song and choose the most aerobic route possible to get to college doesn’t need a seat as much as, well, anybody else does. The metro tells me to offer my seat to someone in need and I wouldn’t dream of disobeying metro rules and requests, such is my tremendous respect for it. So whenever I see someone with a child, someone fighting a losing battle with age using hair colour, someone struggling with their laptop bag or other luggage, someone overweight, someone tired, or someone who has moved towards an empty seat unsuccessfully on more than one occasion, I feel obliged to offer my seat to them. Of course, following the rules so closely means that I rarely sit for over five minutes of the journey. I’ve found that it’s a lot easier to just keep standing. It helps me feel fitter than I really am, counts as a workout in my head and saves me the guilt of sitting when so many more deserving souls wish for a seat. Superfluous courtesies of this sort are all I can afford to be altruistic with and I’m too grown up to play musical chairs every day. 

Tipping my Imaginary Hat to old Astrology

I have decided to get a job by accumulating good karma. I’m helping a very dear friend with her university applications. I’m looking for a word that would convey the exact opposite of nostalgia but I haven’t been able to find it. Usually when people look back at things they smile and say, “Oh some things never change.” Now picture me saying the same thing but throwing my hands up and shaking my head wistfully as I speak. That’s exactly what I do when I look at the questions in such applications.

Everybody’s favourite question is, “Describe your strengths and weaknesses.” This is a rather dumb question to ask, because self-evaluation will almost always seek to mislead. It’s not that the candidate can’t help disclosing some useful information. No, not at all. When you include this question in your application, you reduce all your candidates to a single strength and a single weakness: they are all liars. They bend or stretch the truth. Some may take the liberty of extinguishing the truth altogether. Poor truth, everyone discriminates against it.

Not that my friend is a liar. I may be one, but she’s an absolute gem of a person. I couldn’t think of any weakness that would seem acceptable, so I googled weaknesses. It wasn’t very useful. But for the first time ever, astrology came to my rescue. I looked up weaknesses for different zodiac signs and astrologers are just so good at cushioning the blow, you don’t need to do anything more! I’m convinced that all these “What’s your personality type” and “Do you know your ruling planet” tests were devised expressly to help with application forms. I tip my hat to you, astrology. 

Maternal Instincts and Entrepreneurship

Entrepreneurs are people who want to have children who will do as they tell them to. Of course, this only happens with some probability, but it would be reasonable to assume that the probability is higher than that of your biological children doing what you expect them to.

Usually, less than 5 years after getting a job, the would-be entrepreneur’s biological clock begins ticking and they can’t see the point of meaningless associations with different employers. They crave something more. So they decide to have their own baby company. Often they look for partners, and unlike marriage, they are allowed to have as many partners as they please without society frowning upon their depravity.

And then it happens. Their company is incorporated. It’s a magical moment. Like most people with children they struggle with their finances. Unlike most people with children they can sell a part of their baby company to a venture capitalist who will give them the money to raise it properly. Often, companies that are not properly nourished at this point with all the love and attention they deserve grow up to be damaged sociopaths who go bankrupt and wreck many careers.

Venture capitalists are often people who have raised their own baby companies and understand the effort that goes into it, which is why they are so willing to share their wealth and experience, much like grandmothers teach the parents how to treat a baby with colic.

And finally, when the child comes of age, he is sold off in an IPO, much like an arranged marriage. Let’s call the subscription process the hunt for a suitable match (a company can have as many owners as it likes without getting into any legal or moral predicaments). Let’s call the IPO proceeds dowry. Some IPOs aren’t successful; others, wildly so. It’s all a game of chance. And the game nearly takes a lifetime to play. I see a bright future for entrepreneurship in India. 

Talk to the Hand

In my experience, the smartest people have perfectly awful handwritings, barely legible, almost as if the brain is too engrossed in more complex thoughts to care about aesthetics. This observation bothered me. What gets you a slap on the wrist with a ruler (not that I was in that kind of school) when you’re young is perceived as character and the willingness to be different when you’re older. This was a matter of great concern for me because my writing has always been more than legible. I was quite worried that I would come off rather dense, as I probably do in this neatly typed post.

Lately, however, I’ve changed my mind. Yes, a lot of smart people I know do have dreadful handwritings. But any handwriting that’s legible and doesn’t look like it’s straight out of a cursive writing book is a mark of artistic ability. I write like crap when I’m “not in the mood.” Can a person with a lousy hand write well when they “feel like it?” More choice means better optimisation. So there.

Sometimes I can’t help feeling that 2 years of economics hasn’t done much for me other than adding the words “optimisation” and “equilibrium” to my daily vocabulary. 

Innocence Found

A lot of our childhood games encourage us to develop skills required to be a good criminal. We run away, dodge and escape from the catcher in pakdam pakdai and its regional variations, hide from the catcher in hide and seek, destroy a neatly stacked pile of stones in pitthoo and then set about rebuilding it before we get caught and work as a team to distract those trying to catch us out in gallery. Maaram pitti is probably preparation for prison life where you unnecessarily hit each other to get everyone out of the game. We also acknowledge the fact that being a cop isn’t half as fun as being a robber – the catcher gets to hide again once he finds someone else to blame.

Are we shaping future criminals, acknowledging the fun of doing something unlawful or just maintaining skills that would be required in the wild in case of an evolutionary turnaround? 

The Waiting Game

I’m not the sort of person who is usually on time. I have a rare condition. I once arrived so late that one of the people I was supposed to meet, having waited for me for over an hour, went home. I didn’t notice. I also frequently lie about my location to make it easier for the other person to endure the wait. Of course, when it becomes apparent that I lied because it doesn’t take 2 hours to reach anywhere from Connaught Place, they get a bit annoyed, disregarding the fact that I did it for their own good. Nobody appreciates how considerate I really am.

I do, however, have very strict rules about waiting for others. I don’t like to do it, so I don’t. I make sure I’m adequately late so that I don’t need to do so. In addition to my natural gift for being appallingly late, this determination helps me time things to perfection. Of course, this means that I have no idea of how to reach a place on time, say, for an interview. I turn up freakishly early, try to while away time, lose track of it and end up being late anyway.

Recently, one of my friends turned this habit into a two-player waiting game and lied about her location as well as the time we were supposed to meet. Imagine her astonishment and my indignation when I was the first to reach. Obviously, this means that I will have to further delay my arrival in future to account for the possibility of her lying. The only optimum that exists is for everyone to tell the truth while I do as I please. Otherwise, as a cursory study of any cheap talk game will tell you, there will only exist a babbling equilibrium. 

The Kiss of Death

It was an ominous day when I was appointed to the placement cell of my undergraduate college. Within weeks it became patently clear that there would be a financial crisis. Indeed, the following summer saw a global food crisis, uncontrollable oil prices, spiralling inflation and an economic recession looming in the horizon. When the placement season began, I was asked to call all investment banks. The first bank I called was Lehman Brothers. After that, every company I called shut down within weeks. I decided I had done enough damage and quietly bowed out.

During my Master’s, I was careful not to be affiliated in any way with the placement cell. However, when the placement season started, I thought it wouldn’t hurt to apply to a couple of companies. So that’s what I did. I applied to exactly two companies. Both of them decided not to recruit anybody at all from our campus. I’ve decided not to apply to any more firms because it wouldn’t be fair to the rest of the students.

I’m wondering if I can blackmail firms with this unique skill I have. But what good would it do? If my calls can cause firms to shut down and my resume can cause a hiring freeze at every organisation it enters, what would hiring me do to the company?

Spiritual Progress and Deals with God

I have a friend who has her head firmly planted on her shoulders. It’s what gives her the confidence to shrug so frequently while others have to make do with a twitch of the eyebrows. So when she told me she had made a deal with God, I was sure it was no ordinary deal.

At the outset, allow me to clarify that I’m all for deals with God. He’s the ideal party to draw a contract with because you can always be reasonably sure that He’ll hold up His end of the bargain. It used to bother me at first that such deals are similar to bribery. But when you think about it, it’s just payment in kind for exercising specialised skills. God is so efficient that once you’ve agreed on the contract, you can relax and be sure that it will be taken care of. You can propose a deal costlessly. You can choose your own terms, although you don’t really receive a rejection letter if He finds your terms unacceptable. But most people seem to know what would seem fair to Him. He doesn’t object to sudden modification of terms. If you don’t fulfil your obligations under the contract, you will be penalised in ways you could never imagine, the uncertainty over the form the penalty will take being a potent motivating factor to make you honour the agreement. He’s all right with performing His end of the deal first, without any guarantee or advance payment from you because of His immense power to enforce contracts. For instance if you promise not to eat chocolates for a month and you violate the terms, He can give you diabetes.

My friend, as I mentioned before, is rather smart. She formalised this whole system so beautifully for herself that I had to marvel at the religious progress the current generation is making. She decided that God’s jurisdiction should be clearly defined. For His convenience and her own, she decided that her promises are enforceable in a geographic area specified in the agreement, which conforms to existing political boundaries so that any doubts she has can be resolved by worldly authorities.

She’s also very exacting in her requirements and reduces the reward when God doesn’t show the panache she has come to expect of Him. For example if it turns out that she had merely misplaced something and she remembers where she had kept it later, then it doesn’t qualify as a miracle, so she allots credit to God on a pro-rata basis and modifies the contract accordingly.

I’ve also noticed that nearly everyone who makes deals with God appears to believe that He will reward those who deny themselves something they like. I’m not sure how this works. It’s not tenable for everyone to believe that He is a sadist. Does He consume what the devotees forgo? If so, is it correct to assume that His preferences are aligned with our own? Or perhaps He just wants everyone to have a sense of balance in life: you can only have one or the other. It helps one practice constrained optimisation on a regular basis and prevents devotees from becoming hedonistic parasites to society.

I was marvelling her ingenuity but she seemed to mistake it for sarcasm. “What do you do when you want something?” she asked, eager to know more about my spiritual inclinations. I usually convince myself that I don’t want the thing in the first place so that I’m not disappointed if I don’t get it and if I end up getting it, I do my best imitation of an Oscar acceptance speech: “This is such a surprise!” Then it takes me a few minutes to reverse all the brainwashing I’ve done to myself.

But then I wondered what I’d do if I lose something where there’s no question of wanting it. Say, I lose my passport. I suppose I’d worry, whimper and lose sleep for a couple of days and then pass the buck to my parents since I’ve done all I could in the matter. That’s probably why my parents never tell me where my passport is.  

Oh Shopping, why must you be a Nightmare?

I recently went to Great India Place (GIP) mall. Let’s just say my sisterly concern caused me to be roaming around a part of what isn’t Delhi. I felt more claustrophobic than one would on Blueline buses that ply on what is Delhi.

The said sister was slightly upset with me. I had misled her into believing that I would arrive an hour earlier than I did and I was also dreadfully tardy in responding to her queries about my location because I wasn’t in the mood to put my book down. I wondered why she messaged me with such regularity from a mall. Sure, it’s boring to shop alone but not so much as to have to send messages every 8 minutes? Turned out she was waiting for me at the metro station, hoping against hope that I would indeed arrive at the agreed time.

It wasn’t entirely my fault. All right, it was mostly my fault. I tried to explain to her that I had done everything I could to be on time – skipped the lens routine, reached the metro by car, ran up the stairs and took the train to Vaishali even though I needed to go to Noida because I couldn’t stand to be doing nothing while she waited for me. She pointed out that I should’ve left early, writing all in caps to indicate her displeasure. Unfortunately that idea hadn’t occurred to me. I had already decided to have a lazy morning so it was a bit difficult to change the course of things. She didn’t know it at the time, but I saved her life by making her wait.

You see, GIP isn’t a mall so much as it is a poorly stocked labyrinth of colourful signs with girls who are no longer teenagers humming the tunes of 90s boy bands and short boy-men who wear too much cologne cheap deodorant. It also has more children on a weekend than the average pre-school on weekdays. Most of these children have a delightful way of slamming themselves into passers-by, doing their child-launched-from-a-cannon-at-a-moving-target imitation.

When I did enter the mall, it had so many people that I thought there must be something really wonderful to buy there. Every shop was overflowing with people but nowhere did I find anything that I would be caught dead wearing. They couldn’t possibly all be keen social scientists observing behavioural patterns like me.

Thankfully, I wasn’t shopping for myself. My sister asked me if it isn’t the most wonderful thing to be shopping for someone else, even more so than shopping for oneself. I thought for a minute. She must be making some less obvious point because she most certainly isn’t an altruist. I nodded. “Yes it is,” I said. “When you shop for someone else you get the satisfaction of buying something that you consider worth buying without the guilt of having spent your money.” “Exactly!” she smiled happily.

At one of the shops we wandered into she found a sweater that she considered pretty. I noticed that you could see through it and observed that it probably wasn’t very warm. “Who cares about warmth?” “Well, it’s a sweater, isn’t that what it’s supposed to do?” I asked, somewhat naively. “No! It’s supposed to look good!”I put my finger on my chin thoughtfully and asked her why she didn’t just buy a t-shirt in that case – it would certainly not be bulky, it would be cheaper and probably more stylish. “But then I wouldn’t be dressed for the weather,” she shrewdly pointed out. “Ah! I see it now!” I said. “You want to look like you chose comfort over style but you’re really choosing style over comfort.” “Exactly!” And I always thought it was the reverse.

The best thing about the day, other than all this worldly wisdom, was the plate of golgappas I ate outside the mall. Not just because they were quite good, but because it was a refreshing change to be surrounded by cars instead of people. 

How Not to Make Decisions

Students of economics are armed with a formidable array of tools to “make decisions”. Being the keen scholar that I am, I wanted to see how they apply these to a “real-world setting”. I decided to look at the choice of optional courses in the final semester. The goals vary from “taking it easy” and “doing something different” to “preparing for a PhD”. So at the outset, I should say that there is no “correct” choice of bundles, and the choice depends entirely on the constraints (in terms of choices available and ability) and preferences (or goals).

I found that we aren’t spiritual enough to be able to optimise. There isn’t enough knowledge of the self, of self’s abilities, self’s preferences and whatnot. There also appears to be much social pressure that operates indirectly through social conditioning (even now!) – smart people take difficult papers, wise guys take “scoring papers” (I’ve never come across these in all my life, I used to think it’s an oxymoron. I know now that it’s just moronic), geeks take “theory papers” and the “take it easy” guys take the most mind-numbing courses available. Most of them don’t attend classes.

This is not optimisation! Dear old Slutsky and Hicks must be turning in their graves. We study all of consumer theory in the first semester, are introduced to choice under uncertainty soon after, ace exams in permutations and combinations in the second semester and then choose courses based on, well, none of the above. I agree that we were spoilt for choice in the previous semester and are generally spoiled in the last semester, but isn’t constrained optimisation the cornerstone of microeconomics? 

How Drumming Will Improve Your Economics

I’m convinced that drummers would make marvellous economists. I don’t see any reason why they shouldn’t. They are used to dealing with a lot of variables at the same time. Anyone who can handle tom-toms, a floor tom, a bass drum, a snare drum and a variety of cymbals should laugh in the face of hypothetical constructs like treatment effects. A good drummer is as precise as a good economist, if not more. They also appear to find joy in pursuing something that was considered an accompaniment, and have gradually taken centre stage, becoming an indispensable part of the paradigm that created them. Additionally, drummers have a certain charisma that economists could really use.

Given my track record in economics, what would happen if I tried my hand at drumming? Well it’s a relatively easy forecast for a seasoned pseudo-economist like me to make. At first, I would appear almost prodigious, “a natural” at what most people find difficult. Then suddenly it would dawn upon everyone that I lack some skill that is essential for drumming, say timing. Then I’ll reject the principles of drumming and call them counterintuitive. And finally I’ll wind up as a technically flawed “intuitive” pseudo-drummer. I think I’d be all right with that. Just as the most appealing part of an economist to me is eloquence, the thing I value most in a drummer is panache. I read my fairytales carefully and I know appearances wouldn’t appear if they didn’t matter. 

Of Pets and Comfort Movies

When I first watched How to Train Your Dragon, I loved it. It’s the sort of movie I can watch many times over without getting bored. I was thrilled to finally see dragons in a non-Chinese context and amazed that they did such a great job without having to use an all-star cast. I didn’t know Gerard Butler was Gerard Butler, so he’s clearly done a terrific job. It was refreshing to see America Ferrera in a non-America Ferrera role (fat and/or unattractive with more insecurities than Cinderella. Speaking of which, why did Cinderella figure the Prince would marry a peasant woman the morning after but won’t dance with a woman wearing regular slippers on the night of the ball? And couldn’t fairy godmother think of something more useful to gift her non-fairy godchild? Like education or better living conditions? Pretty cheap of her getting away with one dress and a temporarily inflated pumpkin).

But I digress. I think a lot of our recent fascination with dragons has something to do with our growing passion for depilation. We want to have hairless pets that don’t look naked. Dinosaurs have been portrayed to be pretty mean by Michael Crichton (twice). So the next best alternative is dragons. Plus, the cumbersome issue of factual accuracy can be easily dispensed with in this case. We don’t mind pets with bad teeth because a lot of us are dentists’ nightmares ourselves. But we have a real issue with hair, so a hairless beast that breathes fire is the ultimate pet.

Watching How to Train Your Dragon is like watching Asterix. Except that the Romans have been replaced with dragons in the first half and Obelix has been replaced with dragons in the second. The movie goes to show that dogs are still our number 1 pets in the real world. The best dragon pet wags its tail, is hyperactive, is extremely loyal, makes puppy eyes and licks its master’s face. So in addition to the convenience of discarding facts altogether, dragons can be modelled along the lines of dogs, goldfish, piranhas, iguanas, or pretty much anything else that takes your fancy. Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you The Ideal (Imaginary) Pet. 

The Lunch

It was that time of the year again. The hostess felt a bit old to go through the birthday-treat-at-some-fast-food-joint routine. She wanted a memorable meal.

She considered taking her friends to a nice place. But there was the issue of taking me along. Could she treat me at McDonald’s somehow? Or was there a place that was not as expensive as most nice places are where she could feed me without going entirely bankrupt?

Always the best problem solver of the lot, I suggested that we have a buffet lunch. Of course I quoted the price I had seen (not paid) a year ago and it ended up being something of an underestimate.

We reached a certain Italian restaurant. The hostess had thoughtlessly asked everyone to consume the entire birthday cake, disregarding the fact that she would end up paying for a buffet lunch regardless of how hungry we were. Perhaps there was a ray of hope in her heart that I would be too full for a buffet and that I’d do the decent thing and settle for Haldiram’s instead. Her hopes were dashed in much the same way as mine are when I hold a math exam in my hands.

“Ah! 5 diners!” the waiters must have thought. “Ha! 5 waiters!” we retaliated in our heads. I knew what was expected of me and I wasted no time in rising to the challenge. I quickly walked to the buffet and stacked my plate with everything I could. I ate quickly to prevent my stomach from knowing that it’s full, and took quick breaks where I walked around the buffet with a plate to work up an appetite.

The hostess watched me with great satisfaction, clearly impressed that I was indeed all I claimed to be. The other guests followed my lead. “Please eat more”, the hostess pleaded, sounding like a loving aunty seeking praise for her paranthas through high-speed ingestion of copious quantities. I shoveled in the food with my fork, anxious to make her feel happy about what I had talked her into.

Growing up with a lot of people who love food can cause you to imbibe more severe stereotypes than you would consider yourself capable of. I don’t call these stereotypes severe simply because of the strength of one’s conviction in them, but also because of how deep seated they are – you don’t even consider them stereotypes so much as you think it’s the way of the world, making it all the more difficult to root them out. To me, people with small appetites were anomalies, clearly not the fittest of the race, and not people that I befriended as such. I assumed they must either be obsessed with their appearance or are yet to be schooled in the simple pleasures of life. Or maybe both. A majority of my friends, through this natural selection process I’d created in my head, loved food as much as I did, which meant that those who didn’t eat a lot got sidelined by the entire group quite easily. They didn’t have much to do other than sit in the corner and watch the rest of us eat.

Recently, I chose a very unlikely group of friends. I’m convinced that I may never have known them had it not been for the fact that we all shared a strong caffeine addiction and tremendous respect for a certain tea stall. I thought they were rather weird for being almost indifferent to food. It went against my whole idea of how the world should be.

On the hostess’ birthday, they did something they’ve never done before. Not to my knowledge, at least. They came over to my side. I finally felt accepted. I can safely continue to cling to my stereotypes while they turn morbidly obese. 

Four I's

So you left your glasses at home. “What do I need them for?” you must have muttered to yourself when your mother asked you if you were carrying them. Your youth and foolishness, and to some extent your newfound confidence in your ability to make do without glasses after switching to lenses, probably led you to say something to the effect of, “Am I not carrying enough already?” Your economic training was grossly inadequate to make you realise that hand sanitizer and spectacles are not perfect substitutes.

You went to college, slightly annoyed with your right eye for being so uncooperative on such a fine morning, but you blinked away your worries. You took off the lens, cleaned it and put it back on, commanding your eye to behave itself now that you had given it due attention. But when it started watering in class you realised that, unlike you, your eye doesn’t usually get unnecessarily belligerent, so you should probably go see what the matter is.

You patiently removed the lens once more, and with your other eye you noticed that the edge was chipped. Oops. How did you even manage to wear that in the first place? Your poor eye had to put up with all your crap in addition to this. “Oh well, left eye, looks like it’s just you and me then,” you said. But when you failed to notice a step on your way out and your brain grew positively confused with extremely clear and extremely blurred vision, you decided to remove the other lens too. “I don’t need lenses either,” you told yourself proudly. Or so you thought. Until someone waved at you and you waved back without knowing who the person was and whether they had waved at you or someone else.

It so happened that on this day you wanted to return some notes. You walked, in fact strutted, to the photocopy shop, secure in the knowledge that you won’t have to spend any money there today. You saw three men, approximately the same height and build, all wearing vests and grey trousers. “Will Prem bhaiya raise his hand if I call out his name?” you wondered. But the problem solved itself when someone called him and he turned around. Mission accomplished!

All you had to do was get home. You could do that part with your eyes closed. Taking the wrong exit or the wrong metro is too routine to be considered a detour anymore. Oddly enough, you didn’t even do that, despite not being able to read any sign boards and voluntarily impairing your hearing with earphones. In fact, things were surprisingly easy. You didn’t have to worry about protecting your glasses or lenses from the rain. You were able to figure out which escalator went up and which one went down even though you couldn’t see them properly. You held your book five inches from your face and looked positively captivated by whatever was on the page. You didn’t have to look sheepish when you dropped your phone and iPod because you couldn’t make out if anybody was looking at you. The metro ride itself made you see Delhi as an awesomely green city because you couldn’t see the garbage. You counted stations and managed to get off at the right one even though you were listening to music and reading a book at the same time, thereby feeling smug about your ability to multi-task. And most of all, it was so much fun pretending to stare at everyone very attentively, even though you couldn’t make out much other than the colour of their clothes.

“What a day it has been,” you told yourself as you wore your spectacles to write about how you don’t need them at all. 

Holy Matrimony

I must be a pretty big fan of matrimony because I keep trying to marry things – like finance and development or business and research. In writing a blog, I tried to marry my expertise in fake news with my desire to make a last ditch attempt at salvaging my interest in economics. The first couple of months passed in absolute wedded bliss. Then fake news started paying more attention to politics. When real news started getting funnier than fake news, the latter had a midlife crisis. Economics, meanwhile, pregnant with the aftermath of the financial crisis started having severe mood swings. The marriage is in shambles now. The financial crisis is a 21^st century bastard. I’ve decided to stop playing matchmaker for a bit.

Say No to Mutual Disdain

It appears to me that there is some mutual disdain between MBAs and economists. So I decided to resolve the problem in a manner befitting a neo-rationalist.

Economics would define a rational individual as one whose returns to investing in education are higher than the costs.  Let’s say there are 3 types of returns to education: monetary returns, which are frequently advertised by placement cells; social returns: let’s say this is the disutility from having people who don’t really know you asking you “But why _________ (insert-name-of-course)?” – we seek to minimise this; and private returns – your ability to satisfy your own prejudices about education and knowledge by studying the course that you choose. The costs of education are monetary costs, the psychological costs of having every weekend ruined by a Monday test for two years, physical costs in the form of sleep deprivation and the opportunity cost of sitting home and doing nothing.

Monetary costs and physical costs are usually higher for MBAs. Let’s assume that the psychological costs and opportunity cost are the same for both. MBAs clearly have higher monetary and social returns to education. Private returns that exceed the sum of monetary and social returns signify a greater-than-average-sized ego and I’m sure that can be accommodated satisfactorily in the realms of rationality. It appears to me that economists use the positive NPV method while MBAs try to maximise the difference between expected wages and signalling costs. We act smug and they act smart.

It should be possible to create software that calculates return on education based on student profile, placement statistics of the institute and cost of the course with a corresponding probability distribution for jobs that the student is likely to land. It would be a runaway hit in India. Matrimonial sites will have a field day trying to steal the code. 

The Worst Consumer

I find it quite tiresome to take myself shopping. It would be completely out of line to say that this is because I’m not properly schooled in the joys of exchanging money for something that I believe has greater marginal utility because, as my parents will testify a million times over, of course I am. No, that’s not the problem at all. I’m just a very difficult person to shop with. If I turn up somewhere aimlessly with no intention of buying anything, I end up making several regrettably useless impulse purchases. When I do plan my shopping expeditions, I have such a specific idea in mind that it’s nearly impossible to find what I want. Being a strong believer in the “power of the consumer”, I drag the hapless idiot who agreed to shop with me from store to store, making faces at everything available. Shopping can also instil a very strong belief in love at first sight. 

Consider shopping for formals. This is my least favourite type of shopping because I’m required to spend a lot of money buying clothes I wish I didn’t have to wear. I try my best to find the perfect fit and then wear it as sloppily as possible to register my protest against the practice of coercing adults to wear uncomfortable clothes that rarely look good. I believe formal clothing is a devious corporate agenda that seeks to restrict movement to make employees seem measured and graceful and emphasise every flaw in their body so that they are too self-conscious to be particularly rebellious at work.

All this vileness notwithstanding, I had another “love at first sight” incident when I went shopping for a formal jacket. I fell hopelessly in love with a grey jacket. My sister, staunch believer that she is in the “black is always in” philosophy, insisted that I look for a black jacket because grey would make me “look old” and “unlike someone looking for a job”. Her opposition reinforced my faith in the grey jacket and I argued that I wanted to look wise beyond my years and unlike a typical job-seeker.

We finally ended up looking for a black jacket (just to compare) and when I found it, that was sort of love too. Helped along its way by its reasonable price tag, I settled for it. But it wasn’t my first love. I soon started having misgivings about it and started telling myself that I looked like a funeral director in it.

It’s an absolute joy to be enrolled in an economics course when every rationality assumption  crumbles before you.