I'm shamelessly stealing my friend's (and a bunch of seasoned stoners') go-to line here, but existing stereotypes - blame the Valley - and an incipient entrepreneurship culture have made it indispensable.
"We need to get 10,000 downloads by January. How are we going to get there?" "We'll figure it out."
"Hey, we have only 20,000 bucks! How are we going to pay rent next month?" "We'll figure it out."
"What time do you want to leave for the movie? "We'll figure it out."
"Dude, she's really hot!" "We'll figure it out."
And so on and so forth. It is the ultimate fallback line, which acts like a safety net for failing businesses, time and money crunches, seemingly hopeless situations, falling aeroplanes... When the average human being is about to push the panic button, the entrepreneur begins to figure it out.
Of course, there needs to be action beyond these words; otherwise, failure is certain. These words cannot be empty. "Figuring it out" is an essential skill that any freelancer, entrepreneur, person in an unstructured business/activity or leader who is pushing the boundaries of human progress must learn. In a regular job, and in several other day-to-day activities, this process can be avoided by a hand-over.
When another human being has already done what you are about it do, then your task can be simplified by something businesses have charmingly termed Knowledge Transfer or KT. Good businesses have expansive databases to document their experiences, problems, solutions, capabilities, competition, weaknesses, clients, random visitors... Outside these organizations, there is currently no (effective) database; without these databases, one is always flying blind.
During this blind flight, it is important to find solutions to brand new problems all the time. There is no one you can "escalate" the matter to either (God isn't a good listener). Sometimes, these problems are solved by asking people who are willing to help, and even as I write this, I'm pleasantly surprised about the number of people who are willing to help. Entrepreneurs who have nothing in common with you, for some strange reason, care for their creed. They will help you. (This is not the case in most other fields. For example, in writing, the most common first-instinct of a critic, editor or fellow writer is to destroy a manuscript on the pretext of providing constructive feedback.)
In other cases, simply asking questions won't solve the problem. In order to figure it out, a best-fit solution is chosen, implemented and tracked. Sometimes, it works. At other times, the figuring-process continues.
I think a thin line separates excitement from panic. When you're figuring it out, you're always walking that line, confidently.
Like the average Indian, I too am built to endure. I am always crouching, in the ‘get set’ position, staring at a distant finish line, waiting for the gun to go bang. I always thought I was designed to function when the rules of the game are known, and the racetrack is clearly marked. Without those essential lines of chalk, I thought I might wander, dissipate and never come back.
Engineering was a godsend. Not only did I love science more than anything else in the world, I didn’t know about too many other things. The race was there to be run. I ran the damn thing. I suppose I won.
Events and tasks have always lined up before me, as obvious paths, as challenges, as examinations, as results of random probability… Some tasks have been easy, others have been difficult; a few, I don’t even recall. But my mind used to perceive the universe as a constant source of inputs to which I, the dramatic protagonist, had to respond.
Let me explain this more clearly. When I am subjected to a tight, restrictive framework, I will accept and understand the rules before proceeding to derive the maximum possible benefit from this environment. But I will constantly fall back on a story about rebellion - rebellion against the system, a fight against oppression. Struggle, therefore, becomes a crutch. Like many other people, I thrive in a hostile habitat that creates sufficient trouble to keep its people occupied.
The world of young entrepreneurs is different. As a first-time entrepreneur, most people are confronted with the delusion of control. In the start-up world, where “I work for myself”, there is a strange idea that the entrepreneur is not the response, but the stimulus. As there is no existing race to be won, a brand new race is created – first in the mind and then in the physical world. In a strange way, I now feel like I am the racetrack, the finish line, the runner and the gun.
This is obviously a stupid notion. But it is also an energizing belief. In some ways, the entrepreneur is a child. In this world, there are no rules; there is freedom, and nothing else. But what is freedom in the absence of its boundaries? Such ‘pure’ freedom creates a world where the story of struggle can no longer be an effective crutch. It creates a delusional place where you can become anyone.
In the past few months, I have passed through a mirror. Everything here is fresh and laterally inverted.
Raindrops, little bullets that explode upon impact, fell upon the city, turning every trough in the road into a bucket. Low-lying homes were flooded. People were on terraces, hailing boats, choppers and their able-bodied neighbours. Their food supply was affected. They had no access to water.
I had no access to the internet. I didn’t know how long my inverter would work. I used my mother’s internet ration to connect with people I consider friends. I also connected with strangers on the internet, united by a wave of empathy and concern. The internet is a beautiful place to call out for help, and to offer assistance.
The rains didn’t cause floods near my house. They created immense pools of stagnant water at street corners, just high enough to drown the car-exhaust and ensure the audacious driver floated to a halt in the middle of the road. As calamities go, this was highly unspectacular. The rains, however, disabled the power station, telecommunication towers and shops in general: there was little tap-water (water was still available from wells and hand-pumps), electricity and internet. So the rains that weren’t life-threatening by any standard became a mirror in which people were confronted by their dissatisfied first-world images.
It was a frustrating evening. I was feeling bored, unproductive and particularly useless. As I was craving for internet-access, I took control of my mother’s phone – the only one which could connect to the web. Turning to Twitter, mistaking it for panacea, I said within 140 characters – “Anyone in Adyar/Besant Nagar who wants help – food, shelter, assistance – call me at 24912062 #chennairains”. As a mode to find purpose in life, the internet offers instant gratification: I was retweeted several times, and my chest swelled with pride and satisfaction.
Ten minutes later, I recognized the futility of my action as the BSNL line was dead. As my tweet was winning over the world, I was cut off from everyone else in the darkness of my bedroom. I was left feeling humiliated and bored. Certain that I didn’t have a shot at both triumph and suffering, I felt a familiar lurch: I should do something.
So I took the scooter keys, unlocked the vehicle and sped out in the mild drizzle. My head was swelling with goodness, and the possibility of noble actions that could help several families. This gladiatorial sensation lasted until I reached the gate, where the watchman asked me, “Where are you going?”
Floundering for an answer, as I clearly didn’t know where I was going, I explained to him: “Udhavi seiya poren.” (I am going to help.)
“Yaaruku udhavi?” (Help whom?)
Like the Sun News reporter, I said with conviction: “Baadhikka patta makkalukku.” (The afflicted masses.)
Naturally, my watchman was stunned by my insipid reasoning, although, I am certain, he didn’t have an idea about the troubles in my mind. He followed up with a kind face one normally reserves for children and victims: “Where are the afflicted masses?”
“I was hoping you will tell me,” I said. “Where are the people who are suffering? I will go by the Adyar river. I am sure people are suffering there.”
“No, no,” he said. “You don’t know anything. People have been rescued near the Adyar river. They are all safe. You cannot help anyone if you go there.”
“Then where must I go?” I said, perturbed.
“You must go to Saidapet, or Kotturpuram. I hear there is severe flooding there. Water is very deep. And they don’t have food.”
“So I will go to Kotturpuram!”
He studied me for a moment, and adjusted his umbrella. “How will you go there?” he asked. I revved up the vehicle in response. My headlights were on; I was ready.
He pointed at the road and said: “When you take a left here, and go 200 metres, you will find that the road is flooded. Two feet water. Your scooter will not go.”
As rain streaked down my glasses, my heart still throbbed with determination. My desire to help was, however, logistically challenged. How will I go? I didn’t want to lose the scooter in a puddle. And I still didn’t know how to help people.
“Can I not help people then?” I asked the watchman.
“I’m sorry, sir,” he said. “You cannot. Please go back home.”
