Manufacturing: A Piece of Cake An excerpt from Piece of Cake by Swati Kaushal Every fourth Monday at work is marked by an unsettling

visit from our factory personnel. The MPRPM (Monthly Production Review and Planning Meeting, for those who just have to know) is considered important enough not only to have an acronym all its own, but also for each and every conference room, cabin, table top and even standing room at the head office to be given over to the serious business of creation. For us marketing types, the meeting is a point of reckoning, where marketing grey must sort itself into manufacturing black and white; where gut feelings are forced onto weighing scales and crushed between slide rules; where each and every sales projection must be squeezed through the fine apertures of filling machines. And as if that werent daunting enough, the deep sense of doom is compounded by the fact that each and every person at the IF factory is crazy enough to make your skin crawl. At first glance the average factory man may seem normal. Two eyes, one nose, two lips . . . But watch the line workers carfu11y and you will see them talking, coaxing, even singing to the machines with which they enjoy strange and intimate relationships. Notice the twitching nose of the supervisor; chances are he has sensed a sudden drop in mean worker productivity as someone got down on his knee to tie his shoelaces. And one look inside the glassy eyes of the engineers and you are blown away by the terrible power they wield with their heat and pressure gauges and row upon row of countless red and green buttons. Anyway. The factory guys command my awed respect and lively fear, and so it was with real anxiety that I watched the solemn procession that filed into the small meeting room at 9.59 a.m. There were three of them, in hierarchical progression, careful, regimented. They had a printed agenda, they carried precise information. Everything about themthe walk, the talk, the handshake, the headshakeeverything was measured and accurate and built into the plan. Would it work, I wondered. Would they agree? Or would they vapourize from the trauma of the unorthodox suggestion we were planning to make? I looked sideways at Rana. I hoped he wouldnt blow it. At exactly three minutes past the hour, the trio suspended pleasantries, snapped to attention and got down to business. (I glanced at the printed agenda. 10.0310.42: Line Managers Update.) Mathur, the line manager and head of the procession got up to speak. Badhwar, the emaciated assistant licked his thumb, flipped to a new page in his diary and started recording the minutes of the meeting at an efficient 50 wpm. Mukesh the programmer amused himself by multiplying and dividing strings of random numbers on his calculator.

Patience, I told myself. I could do it, there were ways. The past three years at IF had taught me basic survival skills through the prolonged Japanese tea ceremony of a production meeting. I fixed my eyes on Mathurs hirsute face and settled back as he warmed, brewed and slowly poured out the months achievements into dainty, exquisitely patterned PowerPoint graphs. He served them up slowly and carefully for our appreciation, and I stared distracted at the tangled mess of hair that jumped out from under his collar and cuffs, and from the insides of his ears and nose. He pointed out the subtle improvements and finer points of the manufacturing processes; I doodled pictures of him at waxing salons and saunas. And before I knew it, he was wrapping it up. For Rana, I could see it had been a moving experience. Chart I with its energy savings had apparently touched an erogenous chord, and by Graph 23, which was about higher line efficiencies, he was climaxing. He shuddered after it was all over, and gazed soulfully up at Mathur. So in sum it has been another satisfying month with huge strides made in productivity and capacity utilization, Mathur was concluding. As ever, our target next month will be to surpass this months achievements. He paused to stroke the curls at his throat, and turned to Mukesh, who was onto logarithmic functions on the calculator. We have eight minutes remaining until coffee break, during which Mukesh will provide a quick update on the next four weeks production plan. Badhwar sat back for a short twelve-second break, cracked his bony knuckles and rotated his ankles. Mukesh slipped his calculator back in his pocket, unfolded his thin, long body and staggered up to the projector. I watched him closely. Stoned again? Might work in our favour. With Mukesh, the production programmer, it was a sad case of a good guy going to pot. Or maybe weed; I wasnt exactly sure which. Once a bright, young engineer looking for a quick stamp on his ticket and a posting back to the head office, he had realized after two years at the factory that the company had other plans for him, and as a mark of protest, had fallen into bad company. Erstwhile literary and cultural evenings had taken on a more psychedelic hue, and even more disturbing were the recent rumours about the Chiefs daughter having been spotted outside Mukeshs quarters on a number of suspicious occasions. It was probably only a matter of time before the Chief found out. Any change in the next months plan? Mukesh asked unsteadily when he was done with the plan. This was the moment. I took a deep breath, choosing my words with care. Yes, we want to include a new unit, a new cake, and wed like to discuss how soon it can be built into the plan, what would be the cheapest recipe you could work out and how fast we can get it out the system, Rana erupted, like a burst sewage pipe. Mathur laughed. Ha, ha. But seriously, are we looking at any changes in output? Rana turned to me, confused.

Actually, we are considering the possibility of a new cake and wed like to discuss the project, get your input at an early stage, I explained. Mathur stopped smiling and scratched the tufts at his ear This is highly irregular. The production meeting is not the correct forum for these things. You need to put up a formal noteauthorized by the head of Marketing and probably by Finance, Sales and HR toowith all details and estimations, timelines and rationale, and send it to us through the head of manufacturing. We will reply to it after reviewing all the aspects. Rana looked defeated. I see, he said. Well, in that case, well get back to you . . . Wouldnt you like to hear us out? I persisted. Its a highly innovative product, sure to catch the attention of the international R&D centre. Mathur hesitated. What exactly do you have in mind? An anniversary cake. Its really a makeover of the existing product, with a small adjustment to the shape, new packaging . . . Rana began again. New shape? Actually, we were looking at a heart-shaped cake, with... Heart-shaped? Impossible. We only do round ones. Wed have to get new moulds and cartons and, good God, think how inefficient the packaging would be! Couldnt you use the existing round moulds and cut the heart shapes out of them? Rana complained. Aaaaaliiiieeee! Think of the wastage! Mathur shrieked, pulling at the locks on his cheeks in agony. Mukesh giggled and Badhwar put his pen down in wonder. I almost felt sorry for Rana. Almost. And then, right in the middle of this highly charged drama, someone stunned the assembly by pushing their six foot four, one hundred and thirty kilos of muscular frame through the door. Chief! Mathur exclaimed and the factory guys all jumped out of their chairs and prostrated themselves on the conference room carpet. I sat back and peered at this messiah of the people that Id heard so much about. Our Factory Chief is the king of the IF crazies; even the factory guys agree that hes not all there. In fact, there is a favourite fairytale at the factory (that truly remarkable civilization is rich in myth and lore) about the Chief. They say that one fine day in Y2K, the Chief accidentally pricked his finger on the jagged edge of a crusty old machine part (some say it bore an uncanny resemblance to an ancient spinning wheel) and a marked oddness of behaviour became instantly manifest, transforming tyranny to tolerance and stringency to affection. Thereafter began a long line of oddly philanthropic projects and acts of creative human kindness, each aimed at uplifting the lives of his fellow factory brethren in a multitude of humanitarian ways. Id heard that the Chief was currently travelling the lands (or rather the IF factories and offices worldwide) to spread his message of hope and good cheer, and his underlings at the factory were desperately seeking ways to make this a permanent, life-long assignment. The Chief was in a good mood. He smiled around the small room and nodded at his minions. Ah, the new cake group, he beamed, and strode forward as he caught sight of us.

Rana and I introduced ourselves. Good morning, good morning! He leaned across the shrinking table and tested our strength with a hearty twenty-kilo hand squeeze. I see Mathurs been taking you through all the productivity improvements. He turned to survey the white screen and Mathurs meticulous presentation, and walked slowly up to the projector. Very good, very impressive, he said, running the pointer down the list of improvements. Then he turned suddenly and aimed the pointer at Rana. These are all very commendable achievements, but where do you think all this good stuff came from? he demanded. Harder work, more attention to detail, better planning? Rana ventured, one worried eye on the pointer. No, no, no! Look below the surface, dig deeper, the Chief exhorted, and thrust the pointer into Ranas thin chest. Rana shrank back and wrapped his arms around himself. The Chief waited a couple of seconds and then gave up in disgust. The heart, young man, the heart! he boomed. It all comes from inside your heart. Everything comes from within, from the steam of goodwill and the electricity of teamwork. The soul is the inspiration, the machines mere instruments. Mukesh swallowed, Mathur coughed, Badhwar took notes. You see all those big gains and full charts? the Chief continued. None of that would have been possible without worker morale, my friend; without the new blue uniforms, the new jogging trail and sauna, the hybrid double dahlias, the new sprinkler system for the grass, the creation of an entirely unique sylvan environment at the factory. Did you know that this year weve had record sign-ups for the Factory Sports Day and an unprecedented turnout at the annual picnic? It is this freshness of approach that is lifting our spirits and driving our business, and it is this message that I want you youngsters to carry back to your offices. Think of new ways, good ways, kind ways to bring improvements to your own work, and you too will see the difference. There was a moments awed silence as he switched the projector off. Any questions, any suggestions? he asked, looking round hopefully. Time to carpe diem. Actually we were just discussing plans for a new cake product, a fresh approach, I said. Im sure Chief was just on his way . . . Mathur panicked, but the Chief was already lowering his bulk into the chair next to a shrinking Mukesh. Not at all, he said, draping one arm round the chair back and thrusting his torso out happily. I have all the time in the world. Tell me about this new cake . .