Down Diya Brigade

 

Source: https://cartoonrob.com/tag/booing/ 

 In my class section in high school, there was a group of boys who weren’t particularly good at anything—neither academics, sports, music, looks, nor even cracking a decent joke. But they were united by one common act:

Booing anyone and everyone in the class who, in their view, dared to step out of line. 

With my outspokenness, sometimes unusual, and often outlandish questions and ideas, I quickly became a regular target. Was there any malice or serious bullying involved? Not really, it was just their way of maintaining a social hierarchy built on colourless mediocrity. I christened them the "Down Diya Brigade"— Down Diya in Assamese-English slang meant to pull someone down.

Years passed. Most of them faded into lower to middle-rung bureaucracy. One drank himself to death in his early forties. Never the type to keep in touch with “fellow inmates”—I mean, classmates, I stayed connected with only a few.
Then one day, someone posted my picture in a class Facebook group. One of the Brigade’s top cheerleaders couldn’t resist, came out of the woodwork and commented something to the effect of me being “fat as a pig, ready for slaughter.”

The retribution was swift. Not as scorched-earth as I initially wanted to (I left out the brutal part about his own appearance and those of his family members - some things are just not said, no matter what) but the message got through. Of course, to the silent spectators in the group, I was as always “angry and overreacting!” 

Fast-forward to the present. A friend from my old stadium days calls me, saying there's a party interested in bidding for a 15-20 Cr government tender. They have the money, and political proximity to the relevant minister—but lack technical qualifications or a track record. Could I connect them with a legitimate partner? Naturally, he gets a cut.

As so happens, I do have a client who fits the bill, but who conveyed that they would only move ahead if I led the project. So, we hold a first meeting with his party, followed by a second one with my client. In both, my “friend” kept highlighting our long-standing friendship, my deep knowledge of boats and rivers. But each time, he ended his pitch by laughing and calling me a complete crackpot.

Was he trying to be funny? Playing the same old social dominance game? Or just too thick to realize that calling the key person in a potential 20 Cr project, a nutcase, is not very confidence inspiring for all involved. But then again, it’s typical behaviour in this part of the world, especially here in Assam. 

They want your work, your knowledge, your contacts: All preferably for free, or in exchange for vague promises.

Nonetheless, they will still begin the conversation by shaming your body and end it by questioning your sanity.

I kept my morose evaluation of his behaviour to myself, with the thought: "What else to expect from Moose?" Yes, the same, from Archie comics, as that's what some of us called him behind his back, though he preferred being compared to Arnold - muscleman, terminator and ex-governor.

 

The  Maa Kali Dal, my codename for Moose's party, came with several polite demands - from details of my client's past work orders, to my writing concept notes, providing technical specs for a new tender, and making river inspections. Basically everything they could think of, except discussing my terms of engagement and professional fees. 

Now, I don't know whether it was due to my being introduced as a crackpot, or not being available for free service, they too soon disappeared, not to be heard of again.

Saying "C'est la Vie" doesn't apply in these situations.
It's either something totally outlandish, idiotic or just characteristically Oxomiya!!

Here, anyone who is either talented, hardworking, artistic, honest, purpose-driven, original, visionary or just plain fearless is denigrated with one word - "Pagol".

The meaning, you guessed it..,

Dark Night of the Soul for Startup Founders

 

 

 "La noche oscura del alma" is a poem by the Spanish mystic St. John of the Cross, which translates into English as "Dark Night of the Soul."
A period of immense crisis of faith, one of unanswerable questions posed to the self and the world, and mental turmoil. It's characterized by a deep sense of meaninglessness, apathy, isolation, and despair. A transformative experience that may lead to spiritual awakening, a deeper understanding of oneself and the world, a renewed sense of purpose — or a fall into the abyss of depression, apathy or worse.
It’s not taught in management schools, by accelerators or mentors. If the Valley of Death is an obstacle to gaining market traction, the Dark Night of the Soul is the deeper, more personal crisis — one faced by founders who are inventors, builders, and problem-solvers. Those who pour their life and soul into their solutions. I am yet to meet a single deep-tech or appropriate-tech innovator who was motivated by money alone. 

That’s another breed of founder altogether.
 

And so, you reach TRL-4 or TRL-5. Your product is good, tested, affordable, and most importantly, needed by society and by institutions.
But the answer is still: “Sorry, not interested.”
Private buyers want market validation or obscene discounts.
The government bureaucracy is hostile.
Incubators see you only as a poster child to justify their own raison d'être.
Investors demand guaranteed exponential returns.
The grant amounts are laughable; the gatekeeping around them is not. Academia is split between toxic know-it-alls, those who prefer easier subjects and rehashing meaningless papers, and yes — a few who would happily pinch your work and declare it their own.

After 5 years of my journey, I’ve learned that Assam is not a flood-prone state — it is a Desert. As, despite having innumerable rivers and 9 departments connected to water, not a single government official visited our facility, located just outside the city.
Even the armed forces — when told about our bamboo composite boats and other proprietary defence tech we are working on— asked us, not once but twice: “Can you make folding bamboo lavatories?”

At a recent state government meeting on the future of Bamboo — I asked: Why bother inviting us? Beyond organizing exhibitions and seminars, no one ever lifted a finger to help bring our Bamboo products to market.
All this talk about promoting bamboo-based industries — what does it amount to? Charcoal, Vinegar, Handicrafts & Doop sticks?
Charcoal is the first indicator that man evolved from ape — dating back over 55,000 years. Vinegar? At least 12,000 years old.
So, can we think beyond these two, scaffolding and incense sticks?
Bamboo has immense potential for modern value-added products. Our Bamboo composite boats are just one example. What about bamboo extracts in bioplastics? Bamboo nanofibres? No answers.

They thanked me for my input, probably making a note not to invite me again.

Man vs Supermen!!

  

 

Ever wondered why are some Western European nations so predictably loud in their support of Israel? It's not what you think. It's not about some collective guilt — that ship sailed generations ago, if ever. The truth is simpler and uglier: they just don’t want the Jews back. All it costs them is a few hours of prime-time posturing, sobbing crocodile tears under perfect lighting and lacquered hairdos, and maybe a few billion in aid and arms packages. Cheap price, really.

With the US, it's messier. Since the 70s, the pro-Zionist lobby, later rebranded as the Neocons, completely hijacked their foreign policy. But let’s be honest — American policymakers weren’t innocent babes in the woods, either. They needed a local thug to intimidate the neighborhood to secure their oil interests. Enter Israel: arrogant, eager, armed to the teeth, and drunk on its own supremacist delusions by booting out unarmed Arabs and Palestinians from their ancestral land. They controlled the global narrative in the media — people who could do no wrong, ever the smug and morally superior victims who thought they were in control, the dominatrix in the room. Whereas in reality, they may have been just the latest client state in a long line of expendables (think Ukraine). They forgot the revelation of perhaps the most cunning Jewish-American diplomat of all: Henry Kissinger, who warned, “It may be dangerous to be America’s enemy, but to be America’s friend is fatal.”

Now look at the present farce. The US President is all puff and no punch, their pro-Israel lobby is swooning, foaming at the mouth. And Bibi, looking like the proverbial "Koshei" of Slavic fairy tales — shrunk to half his size, tic in the mouth and sunken eyes, but not yet munching ties on live TV. For once, it may be occurring to them that they are not invincible, don't call the shots and may have even been "Saddammed" — whom the Americans first armed as a proxy against Iran, looked the other way when he gassed the Kurds with their weapons (think Gaza) then gave a nod and a wink to go ahead and do your thing, before he marched into Kuwait. The rest is history.
The US, which sent Tomahawks at the drop of a hat into Sudan, Iraq, and Afghanistan earlier, and Yemen recently, just seems to be content with Trump's Twitter threats, while Elon apparently teleported himself to Mars.

Sounds too farfetched? The Elon part yes, the rest..let see how the events unfold...

 

Aftermath: Trump did blow up a few million dollars flying their Bombers to puncture a few holes with their bunker Busters, more to incur expenditures for their Arms lobby, with no tangible results. The conflict is currently frozen. The Gaza genocide continues. Iran will get their Atom bomb by next year. 

Russia as usual sat on the fence, muttering something about 2 million Russian speakers living in Israel. 

The Game is Rigged

The game is always rigged.

My father’s disdain for the arts far exceeded his indifference toward my dyslexia, forcing me, a numerically challenged person, to study commerce. A subject I quickly developed an equal disdain for. What college didn’t teach me, despite being about trade and commerce, was that the game is rigged and the dice is always loaded.

My first proper job selling cars in Kolkata seemed like a dream for an idealistic auto lover, till it quickly fell apart. I learned that most of the gruff, uncouth buyers who booked ₹6 lakh cars (in the 90s) did so only to sell the allocations at a premium. Concurrently, seeing how a nonchalant young plain-Jane at the bus stand, hopped into a van full of sleazy guys after a brief chat, catapulted my moral and sexual innocence to oblivion. 

We learned that our rival dealer outsold us five to one. He was a well-heeled Marwari businessman who was related to, or knew all the who's who in town, and even the car manufacturer's regional office chaps were on his payroll. Who despite knowing practically nothing about the cars or the customers, still expected dealership staff to bow low to them.

Later, as an auto journalist writing a magazine bike column, the outgoing editor boasted about running the rag for over a year without anyone having a driver’s license. His replacement was a borderline psychotic self-styled super bike expert who broke every journalistic norm. He sent out drunken rants by email, and seemed determined to prove he was a reckless asshole. Which he succeeded in doing, by crashing a few test cars, and next the magazine into the ground. By then, I was unpaid for months. Despite having a decent readership and a flair for writing, I could never find another gig. Well, aside from the occasional dangling carrot to get free work done. Why? Because most editors were moonlighting as consultants for manufacturers or riding the gravy train of freebies: the business class flight to Stuttgart, the bullet train to Nagoya. Sometimes, a few crumbs fell to the senior staff too. So, who needed rogue truth speakers, writing skills be damned.

Now, a few years spent in trying to be an innovator and running a startup, the scene is no different. 

I don’t know the exact ratio, but the number of Startup incubators mushrooming everywhere in India, is certainly not about promoting the Supreme Leader's vision of empowering Indian startups or Atmanirbhar Bharat. 

They are the new NGOs, the "Dukan" (Shop) variety!

And believe me, those inept seminar event managers and webinar organizers, who parrot startup mantras—people who’ve never built anything themselves? They may actually be the best of the lot. The most benign ones are in it for their salaries, which are quite often much higher than what bootstrapping founders can afford to pay themselves.

Otherwise, it starts with incubator staff skimming cuts from disbursed grants—government and CSR funds. Then the rot goes all the way up with their bosses siphoning money through shell startups. Many saddle their incubatees with rent and incubation fees hidden behind classic bait-and-switch tactics. Some offer one-sided contracts that startup founders either don't understand or are too desperate—or broke—to have vetted by a competent lawyer. Not that most lawyers even grasp the nuances of startup contracts themselves.

Then there are the idea thieves—those who harvest concepts from ideation-stage applicants. Not to build anything themselves, of course. No, they peddle those ideas to wealthier businessmen as consultants. Others act as scouts for land sharks—VCs—always looking to carve out their pound of flesh.
 

Frankly, here are more games being played in this space than I can even claim to know. The deeper you go, the murkier it gets.

As I said at the beginning: the game is always rigged.

Free, Free , Free

A friend took his teenage son to the GNR concert in Mumbai. His neighbour asked him if he managed to get free tickets. I’ve never been much of a concert-goer—even in my younger days, the thought of thousands of crazed, doped, smelly minions crammed into a stadium still makes me gag. But I get asked a similar question whenever I’m invited to speak at an overseas conference:
“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.