Thursday, August 28, 2008

How to evaluate post graduate management courses

This post is in response to a question I keep hearing from fresh graduate students looking to pursue a MBA or other management courses: “How should I choose a program that is right for me?”.

Prospective students should consider some basic criteria when evaluating the prospectus of various management programs and institutions. Any Post Graduate (PG) Diploma in Management course or its equivalent MBA should provide the following :


1. Holistic overview of management concepts, particularly in the areas of time (task management), quality of output, work ethics in a group and increased Emotional Quotient (EQ) levels as a result of all of the above
2. Provide a framework to help understand the industry that they are likely to work for or specialise in
3. Stuctured alumni management program and the opportunity to be part of a peer group in the class that will form the foundation for alumni network.
4. Career counseling, resulting in job opportunities within industries of interest


Nihongo Bashi is offering one such highly specialized management course, the PG Diploma in Japanese Management in association with the reputed RV Group of Bangalore. Specifically tailored for the Japanese sector, this program includes critical Japanisation skills– a must for everyone in this sector-- in addition to a holistic management curriculum. Aspiring business leaders can get complete details of the PG Diploma program here

A career is not a sprint but a marathon. No amount of academic preparation will ever guarantee success. For a global market that is changing everyday a quick and efficient change in response is also required. However, the following metrics are still a fairly good yardstick for evaluation of any MBA course.

Monday, August 25, 2008

It ain't too bad being a joshi or a danshi

I must say that such articles are few and far between that I have come across sitting in Singapore. This one appeared in Japan Times on Aug 12th 2008. However when you read this, as a student of Japanese you will clearly understand the usage of Man and Woman. There are Hiragana, Romaji as well as their equivalent Kanjis that would be easy to understand even for a Level 4 student. Written in a very easy style, this explains the usage of synonyms in a cultural context, something most books do not teach!

Happy reading. Editor
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By KAORI SHOJI
For a long time I couldn't pronounce the word otoko (男, man) without slightly blushing; I didn't much like the word in English either, but in Japanese it sounded a little vulgar and what women of my grandmother's generation would call hashitanai (はしたない, crude and ill-mannered).

In my family it was an unspoken taboo for female members to say otoko, and in situations where we had to refer to men, we were expected to call them otokonohito (男の人, male person) or dansei (男性, male). This probably had a lot to do with the fact that in traditional Tokyo shitamachi (下町, downtown) dialect, any woman enunciating the word otoko was referring to a lover or boyfriend or someone she wasn't married to, but having sexual relations (gasp!).

Men, on the other hand, seemed to have less trouble saying onna (女, woman), though my father was always careful to refer to them as josei (女性, female) or fujin (婦人, lady). My brothers and male cousins had a simple solution; they called young women joshi (女子, schoolgirl) and any woman over the age of 25 became obasan (おばさん, middle-aged woman) and this simplified things for them considerably. Under their influence, I began to refer to young men as danshi (男子, schoolboy) well into the late 20s and was grateful how this reference freed me from discomfort and even called up nostalgic memories of grade school and junior high. Time passed, we all reached the ages of obasan and ojisan (おじさん, middle-aged man), but during family get togethers we would privately call each other joshi and danshi and recall the golden days of school and seishun (青春, blue spring, or youth).

In the past year or so however, joshi and danshi has become the new, cool way of referring to men and women and the good news is, it's now safe to do so until the late 40s. (Even former pop idol Kyoko Koizumi is calling herself chūnen joshi — 中年女子, middle-aged schoolgirl — and delighting her fans.) In this new scheme of gender language politics, there are certain rules and regulations.

First off, joshi is not to be confused with onnanoko (女の子, girl, or girlie), nor danshi with otokonoko (男の子, boy, or guy). Though it's possible for practiced men and women to switch back and forth between the two modes — these are completely different creatures and the river that separates joshi from onnanoko is especially wide and deep.

Joshi refers to the woman who reads books, is interested in the arts, knows how to use keigo (敬語, polite Japanese) and has perhaps, been a girl scout and can cook rice over an open fire. She's adventurous, spirited and athletic.

The danshi is pretty much the same — this is the boy who's honorable, strives to be the captain of the yakyūbu (野球部, school baseball team), who thinks there's something dasai (ださい, tacky) and disgraceful about hanging out with girls. He'd rather die than be caught shopping with his mother, but at home he's a good son, occasionally washing the dishes without being told 56 times. He's fascinated by bugs and dinosaurs and thinks of becoming a konchūgakusha (昆虫学社, entomologist) and at some point during his school years, went by the nickname of hakase (博士, professor). He will go for days, even weeks, without speaking to that lovely joshi sitting several desks ahead of his, because he's convinced that talking to her outright is "chō kakkowarui (超かっこわるい, ultra uncool)." And the Japanese male has an unshakable conviction that every danshi is his own hero. Ore, danshi dakara (俺、男子だから, I'm a danshi) has now become the self-explanatory line that excuses an unwillingness to commit to a relationship or a preferance for solitary weekend bike rides, leaving the wife and children to fend for themselves.

By now you've probably caught on that joshi and danshi are asexual beings, existing in an idyllic school environment where things like team spirit, physical and academic excellence are valued above all else. By referring to each other as joshi and danshi, the Japanese are in fact, freeing themselves up from the complications of love, stepping back from the frontlines of the relationship war, giving each other a break. It's not bad.

Thursday, August 21, 2008

Harvard University Commencement Address / J.K. Rowling

This is one of the best graduation speeches that I have come across. J.K. Rowling needs to introduction but we now get a real life speech, sans fiction, which proves that she is best in the business! A must read for every grduating student. Editor.
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President Faust, members of the Harvard Corporation and the Board of Overseers, members of the faculty, proud parents, and, above all, graduates,

The first thing I would like to say is 'thank you.' Not only has Harvard given me an extraordinary honour, but the weeks of fear and nausea I've experienced at the thought of giving this commencement address have made me lose weight. A win-win situation ! Now all I have to do is take deep breaths, squint at the red banners and fool myself into believing I am at the world's best-educated Harry Potter convention.

Delivering a commencement address is a great responsibility; or so I thought until I cast my mind back to my own graduation. The commencement speaker that day was the distinguished British philosopher Baroness Mary Warnock. Reflecting on her speech has helped me enormously in writing this one, because it turns out that I can't remember a single word she said. This liberating discovery enables me to proceed without any fear that I might inadvertently influence you to abandon promising careers in business, law or politics, for the giddy delights of becoming a gay wizard.

You see? If all you remember in years to come is the 'gay wizard' joke, I've
still come out ahead of Baroness Mary Warnock. Achievable goals: the first
step towards personal improvement.

Actually, I have wracked my mind and heart for what I ought to say to you today. I have asked myself what I wish I had known at my own graduation, and what important lessons I have learned in the 21 years that has expired between that day and this.

I have come up with two answers. On this wonderful day when we are gathered together to celebrate your academic succes, I have decided to talk to you about the benefits of failure. And as you stand on the threshold of what is sometimes called 'real life', I want to extol the crucial importance of imagination.

These might seem quixotic or paradoxical choices, but please bear with me.
Looking back at the 21-year-old that I was at graduation, is a slightly uncomfortable experience for the 42-year-old that she has become. Half my lifetime ago, I was striking an uneasy balance between the ambition I had for myself, and what those closest to me expected of me.

I was convinced that the only thing I wanted to do, ever, was to write novels. However, my parents, both of whom came from impoverished backgrounds and neither of whom had been to college, took the view that my overactive imagination was an amusing personal quirk that could never pay a mortgage, or secure a pension.

They had hoped that I would take a vocational degree; I wanted to study English Literature. A compromise was reached that in retrospect satisfied nobody, and I went up to study Modern Languages. Hardly had my parents' car rounded the corner at the end of the road than I ditched German and scuttled off down the Classics corridor.

I cannot remember telling my parents that I was studying Classics; they might well have found out for the first time on graduation day. Of all subjects on this planet, I think they would have been hard put to name one less useful than Greek mythology when it came to securing the keys to an executive bathroom.

I would like to make it clear, in parenthesis, that I do not blame my parents for their point of view. There is an expiry date on blaming your parents for steering you in the wrong direction; the moment you are old enough to take the wheel, responsibility lies with you. What is more, I cannot criticise my parents for hoping that I would never experience poverty. They had been poor themselves, and I have since been poor, and I quite agree with them that it is not an ennobling experience. Poverty entails fear, and stress, and sometimes depression; it means a thousand petty humiliations and hardships. Climbing out of poverty by your own efforts, that is indeed something on which to pride yourself, but poverty itself is romanticised only by fools.

What I feared most for myself at your age was not poverty, but failure. At your age, in spite of a distinct lack of motivation at university, where I had spent far too long in the coffee bar writing stories, and far too little time at lectures, I had a knack for passing examinations, and that, for years, had been the measure of success in my life and that of my peers.

I am not dull enough to suppose that, because you are young, gifted and well-educated, you have never known hardship or heartbreak. Talent and intelligence never yet inoculated anyone against the caprice of the Fates,and I do not for a moment suppose that everyone here has enjoyed an existence of unruffled privilege and contentment. However, the fact that you are graduating from Harvard suggests that you are not very well-acquainted with failure. You might be driven by a fear of failure quite as much as a desire for success. Indeed, your conception of failure might not be too far from the average person's idea of success, so high have you already flown academically.

Ultimately, we all have to decide for ourselves what constitutes failure,
but the world is quite eager to give you a set of criteria if you let it. So
I think it fair to say that by any conventional measure, a mere seven years
after my graduation day, I had failed on an epic scale. An exceptionally
short-lived marriage had imploded, and I was jobless, a lone parent, and as
poor as it is possible to be in modern Britain, without being homeless. The
fears my parents had for me, and that I had had for myself, had both come
to pass and, by every usual standard, I was the biggest failure I knew.

Now, I am not going to stand here and tell you that failure is fun. That period of my life was a dark one, and I had no idea that there was going to be what the press has since represented as a kind of fairy tale resolution. I had no idea how far the tunnel extended, and for a long time, any light at the end of it was a hope rather than a reality. So why do I talk about the benefits of failure? Simply because failure meant a stripping away of the inessential. I stopped pretending to myself that I was anything other than what I was, and began to direct all my energy into finishing the only work that mattered to me. Had I really succeeded at anything else, I might never have found the determination to succeed in the one arena I believed I truly belonged. I was set free, because my greatest fear had already been realised, and I was still alive, and I still had a daughter whom I adored, and I had an old typewriter and a big idea. And so rock bottom became the solid foundation on which I rebuilt my life.

You might never fail on the scale I did, but some failure in life is inevitable. It is impossible to live without failing at something, unless you live so cautiously that you might as well not have lived at all - in which case, you fail by default. Failure gave me an inner security that I had never attained by passing examinations. Failure taught me things about myself that I could have learned no other way. I discovered that I had a strong will, and more discipline than I had suspected; I also found out that I had friends whose value was truly above rubies.

The knowledge that you have emerged wiser and stronger from setbacks means that you are, ever after, secure in your ability to survive. You will never truly know yourself, or the strength of your relationships, until both have been tested by adversity. Such knowledge is a true gift, for all that it is painfully won, and it has been worth more to me than any qualification I ever earned.

Given a time machine or a Time Turner, I would tell my 21-year-old self that personal happiness lies in knowing that life is not a check- list of
acquisition or achievement. Your qualifications, your CV, are not your life, though you will meet many people of my age and older who confuse the two. Life is difficult, and complicated, and beyond anyone's total control, and the humility to know that will enable you to survive its vicissitudes.

You might think that I chose my second theme, the importance of imagination, because of the part it played in rebuilding my life, but that is not wholly so. Though I will defend the value of bedtime stories to my last gasp, I have learned to value imagination in a much broader sense. Imagination is not only the uniquely human capacity to envision that which is not, and therefore the fount of all invention and innovation. In its arguably most transformative and revelatory capacity, it is the power that enables us to empathise with humans whose experiences we have never shared.

One of the greatest formative experiences of my life preceded Harry Potter, though it informed much of what I subsequently wrote in those books. This revelation came in the form of one of my earliest day jobs. Though I was sloping off to write stories during my lunch hours, I paid the rent in my early 20s by working in the research department at Amnesty International's headquarters in London. There, in my little office, I read hastily scribbled letters smuggled out of totalitarian regimes by men and women who were risking imprisonment to inform the outside world of what was happening to them. I saw photographs of those who had disappeared without trace, sent to Amnesty by their desperate families and friends. I read the testimony of torture victims and saw pictures of their injuries. I opened handwritten, eye- witness accounts of summary trials and executions, of kidnappings and rapes.Many of my co-workers were ex-political prisoners, people who had been displaced from their homes, or fled into exile, because they had the temerity to think independently of their government. Visitors to our office included those who had come to give information, or to try and find out what had happened to those they had been forced to leave behind. I shall never forget the African torture victim, a young man no older than I was at the time, who had become mentally ill after all he had endured in his homeland. He trembled uncontrollably as he spoke into a video camera about the brutality inflicted upon him. He was a foot taller than I was, and seemed as fragile as a child. I was given the job of escorting him to the Underground Station afterwards, and this man, whose life had been shattered by cruelty, took my hand with exquisite courtesy, and wished me future happiness.

And as long as I live, I shall remember walking along an empty corridor and suddenly hearing, from behind a closed door, a scream of pain and horror such as I have never heard since. The door opened, and the researcher poked out her head and told me to run and make a hot drink for the young man sitting with her. She had just given him the news that, in retaliation for his own outspokenness against his country's regime, his mother had been seized and executed. Every day of my working week in my early 20s I was reminded how incredibly fortunate I was, to live in a country with a democratically elected government, where legal representation and a public trial were the rights of everyone.

Every day, I saw more evidence about the evils humankind will inflict on their fellow humans, to gain or maintain power. I began to have nightmares, literal nightmares, about some of the things I saw, heard and read. And yet I also learned more about human goodness at Amnesty International than I had ever known before. Amnesty mobilises thousands of people who have never been tortured or imprisoned for their beliefs to act on behalf of those who have. The power of human empathy, leading to collective action, saves lives, and frees prisoners. Ordinary people, whose personal well-being and security are assured, join together in huge numbers to save people they do not know, and will never meet. My small participation in that process was one of the most humbling and inspiring experiences of my life.

Unlike any other creature on this planet, humans can learn and understand,
without having experienced. They can think themselves into other people's
minds, imagine themselves into other people's places. Of course, this is a
power, like my brand of fictional magic, that is morally neutral. One might
use such an ability to manipulate, or control, just as much as to understand
or sympathise. And many prefer not to exercise their imaginations at all.
They choose to remain comfortably within the bounds of their own experience,
never troubling to wonder how it would feel to have been born other than
they are.

They can refuse to hear screams or to peer inside cages; they can close
their minds and hearts to any suffering that does not touch them personally;
they can refuse to know. I might be tempted to envy people who can live that
way, except that I do not think they have any fewer nightmares than I do.
Choosing to live in narrow spaces can lead to a form of mental agoraphobia,
and that brings its own terrors. I think the wilfully unimaginative see more
monsters. They are often more afraid.

What is more, those who choose not to empathise may enable real monsters.
For, without ever committing an act of outright evil ourselves, we collude
with it, through our own apathy. One of the many things I learned at the end
of that Classics corridor down which I ventured at the age of 18, in search
of something I could not then define, was this, written by the Greek author
Plutarch : "What we achieve inwardly will change outer reality." That is an
astonishing statement and yet proven a thousand times every day of our
lives. It expresses, in part, our inescapable connection with the outside
world, the fact that we touch other people's lives simply by existing. But how
much more are you, Harvard graduates of 2008, likely to touch other people's
lives? Your intelligence, your capacity for hard work, the education you
have earned and received, give you unique status, and unique
responsibilities. Even your nationality sets you apart. The great majority of
you belong to the world's only remaining superpower. The way you vote, the
way you live, the way you protest, the pressure you bring to bear on your government, has an impact way beyond your borders.
That is your privilege, and your burden.

If you choose to use your status and influence to raise your voice on behalf
of those who have no voice; if you choose to identify not only with the
powerful, but with the powerless; if you retain the ability to imagine
yourself into the lives of those who do not have your advantages, then it
will not only be your proud families who will celebrate your existence, but
thousands and millions of people whose reality you have helped transform for
the better. We do not need magic to change the world, we carry all the power
we need inside ourselves already: We have the power to imagine better.

I am nearly finished. I have one last hope for you, which is something that I already had at 21. The friends with whom I sat on graduation day have been my friends for life. They are my children's Godparents, the people to whom I've been able to turn in times of trouble, friends who have been kind enough not to sue me when I've used their names for Death Eaters. At our graduation we were bound by enormous affection, by our shared experience of a time that could never come again and, of course, by the knowledge that we held certain photographic evidence that would be exceptionally valuable if any of us ran for Prime Minister. So today, I can wish you nothing better than similar friendships. And tomorrow, I hope that, even if you remember not a single word of mine, you remember those of Seneca, another of those old Romans I met when I fled down the Classics corridor, in retreat from career ladders, in search of ancient wisdom:

As is a tale, so is life - not how long it is, but how good it is, is what matters.

I wish you all very good lives.

Thank you very much.