Amul: the invaluable Kurien legacy

Dr Verghese Kurien, the man behind Operation Flood, passed away on 9^th September 2012 at the age of 90. In 1949, Kurien began the transformation of the dairy co-operative model in Anand into a nationwide institution. Thanks largely to him, India is the biggest producer of milk today. Many Indian prime ministers have recognized Kurien’s contributions, from Jawaharlal Nehru who inaugurated the first dairy “factory”, to Lal Bahadur Shastri who made Kurien chairman of the National Dairy Development Board for his “extraordinary and dynamic leadership”, to Manmohan Singh who described him as an icon of India’s cooperative movement and the dairy industry. In 1989, when Dr Kurien was awarded the World Food Prize, its founder Dr Norman Borlaug called him “one of the world’s great agricultural leaders of this century.”

We are all proud of the dairy legacy Dr Kurien has left us. But we’re equally proud of the brand behind that legacy: Amul, which comes from the Sanskrit word amulya, meaning invaluable. Amul was at the heart of the milk movement, being sold in pouches, UHT packs and as solid infant milk food. However, to cater to a largely vegetarian nation that literally drinks milk, Amul expanded to offer products such as cheese, paneer, yoghurt, ice cream and shrikhand. But the product that has caught the fancy of the nation is Amul butter.

Perhaps the brand is so popular because of its mascot, the loveable, wide-eyed girl in polka-dots who introduced us to “utterly butterly Amul” in 1967. Since then, she has appeared on hoardings across the nation posing as a cinema actress (Madhuri Dixit for example), politician, cricketer, villager, artist, wrestler or just herself, and making tongue-in-cheek observations on subjects of topical interest. The nation waits with bated breath for the hoarding to change and reveal what the sassy girl chooses as the next target of her wit (revisit this ad campaign at http://www.amul.com/m/amul-hits).

Compulsive Clickers

“We’re visiting a museum this evening,” my Korean colleague announced grandly during a recent meeting in Seoul.

“What kind of museum?” I asked, excited at the prospect of perhaps seeing ancient Korean relics.

“That’s a surprise,” she said.

Aha! I thought, we’re going to the National Museum of Korea, known for national treasures like the Pensive Bodhisattva statue and the Gyeongcheonsa Ten-Story Pagoda.

Therefore my disappointment was acute when we entered a building filled entirely with gruesome objects: drawings on the floor, portraits with parts jutting out in an unseemly manner and sculptures in grotesque postures. It is called the Trick Eye Museum, the trick being to place yourself in close juxtaposition to each object and have a picture taken by your companion and then reciprocate the favour by taking their picture. These pictures will capture you doing odd things like picking coins being poured on to the floor by a character in a picture; standing on top of a huge can of Coke; interacting with an animal protruding from the wall; and eating food being offered by some idiot in a portrait. I had myself photographed in a couple of silly situations but on the whole, the Trick Museum left me feeling tricked.

Grouse to Glee at the Olympics

In a previous column I had written about how the English are using the 2012 Olympics to practise their three favourite sports: complaining, expecting the worst and cursing the authorities. However, the Games proceeded smoothly, bookended by charming opening and closing ceremonies; security was competent; the weather held up by London standards (meaning no more than a few hours of rain each day); and commuters never found it easier to get to work. But most important, Great Britain won medals. And Britons have suddenly switched from “despondency to delight”, according to George Cohen of The New York Times. The Economist contrasts the pre-Olympics pessimism about “bungling bureaucracy; national humiliation (and) rain” changing to elation as “the country crescendoed, like a table of diners singing ‘happy birthday’ in a crowded restaurant”. And in the Financial Times, Lucy Kellaway writes that her earlier pessimism about the Olympics “was the biggest pile of hogwash I’ve ever written” and she wants to “retract every whiny, ill-judged, scaremongering word of it”.

I wondered about my English friend Henry Smith, the die-hard prophet of gloom, who had whinged to me two weeks ago about how the Olympics was making life miserable for the commuter (as “transport is in shambles: subway plans are an utter chaos and the bus services are in absolute disarray”), the small businessman (who could be “prosecuted and fined for using the word ‘Olympics’”) and the hapless construction job-seeker (because “construction jobs were taken up by Lithuanians, Romanians and Czechs”). I called him to find out if he was also singing a different tune.

“Hi Henry,” I said, “How were the Olympics?”

“Great! Superb!” he cried. “Couldn’t be better!” he added to drive the point home.

The Olympic English Grouse

I recently learnt that the three most popular sports in the United Kingdom are football, rugby and tennis.  My first feeling was resentment to see that cricket was missing. This is the country that introduced us to the game and watched us make it a national obsession. How would you feel if the person who introduced you to smoking and watched you climb to 20 cigarettes a day gave up the habit himself?

Then I read that these were the three most popular sports that Brits view, not play. For example, 46% watch football but only 10% play it. 18% watch tennis; only 3% play it. Resentment gave way to curiosity: what sports do Brits actually participate in?

A week later I found the answer in an article by Toby Melville in the New York Times. The top three sports that Brits participate in are: “complaining, expecting the worst and cursing the authorities”. When asked what they feel about the Olympics, Mr Melville reported that Brits “gave answers that included bitter laughter; the words ‘fiasco’, ‘disaster’ and ‘police state’; and detailed explanations of how they usually get to work, how that is no longer possible and how very unhappy that makes them.”

My English friend Henry Smith always whinges about the weather: I thought it was because it’s always raining or drizzling in London when I speak to him. But on reading Mr Melville’s article, I remembered meeting Henry once on a bright, sunny April day; the sky was clear, the air was crisp and cool and, even in the heart of the metropolis, we could hear the chirping of birds.

“Hi Henry!” I cried, “Glorious day, isn’t it?”

“It is sunny now, I suppose,” he admitted with a scowl, “but the forecast for tomorrow is thunderstorms in the afternoon. And this is after three rotten days of rain last week! On Tuesday, I was trying to…”

Squinting in the afternoon sun, he described the inconveniences caused by last week’s wet weather.