“So, you managed to bag yourself a free foreign trip, heh heh,”—always with a tinge of envy.
When I tell them it’s an online event, or that I’m paying my own way, their expressions relax into a strange mix of relief and mockery.
A few days ago, my morning began with me telling a wheeler-dealer friend to buzz off. He wanted intel on a niche tech—something I only have peripheral knowledge of—and was trying to coax me into researching and sourcing it. As usual, he was pitching the “huge opportunity” angle.
I told him straight: no pay, no work. And reminded him why I gave up consulting in the first place—freeloaders.
First, they flatter. Then comes the pitch about what could be—never what will be, least of all payment. Then they trivialize it:
“It’s all online anyway.”
Refusal is sometimes met with arrogance:
“We’re wasting our time—just say you can’t deliver.”
More often, it’s the sheepish:
“Heh… heh.”
“Heh… heh,” he said too. I hung up, saying I had to go. I wasn’t lying.
What really got under my skin wasn’t just the déjà vu. It was a call from the day before—someone overseas wanting to source construction labour from India and asking about the going rates. Turns out even skilled labourers are doing better than us bootstrapping startup innovators.
And they don’t have to deal with the obnoxious know-it-alls from the Academia on jury panels, the draconian due diligence gatekeepers, or the occasional narcissistic incubator tyrant—those self-glorified event managers and webinar organizers funnelling CSR and government funds, positioning themselves as the saviours of innovation.
Hand-holding, I believe they call it.
The only bright spot? A TV producer who recently interviewed me called up:
“Dada, did you ever act?”
“All the time,” I replied. “Just never on stage or in front of a camera.”
“You’re a natural,” he said. “Great screen presence. I’ll come talk to you about it…”
Well, all the world is a stage. Might just take him up on that offer—if it ever comes. Something tells me that'll be for free as well.
Aftermath:
I made it a point to post the "wheeler-dealer" episode on LinkedIn—of course without naming him, his location, or the tech involved. I also posted a screenshot on WhatsApp. I know he checks it daily.
What followed was a near-hysterical call in the evening. He was on the verge of tears, accusing me of not appreciating how hard his life had been, and going on about the many companies already lined up for the same tech. Meanwhile, I couldn’t stop laughing—at him and his kind.
He swore he’d never work with me again. I reminded him he never started.
In the end, he started laughing too.
We’re still friends.
But hopefully, after this episode, he’ll stop calling me with grand schemes and miracle projects. I genuinely wish him the best on his path.
It’s just not mine.
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