Sunil Sethi: The Stock Market and Me

AL FRESCO

"I have never bought or sold a share in my life," a sainted editor of a business daily told me some years ago, and I thought, "Lucky man, he can go home and serenely practise Bach on the piano over the weekend."

For as long as I can remember""three generations at least""my family has dabbled in the share market, in a vague, perfunctory sort of way, so that my memory is crowded with odd, amusing habits and incidents. The aftermath of some dogs me to this day.

Ritually, on Sunday mornings, my father, after he had done with the dailies, would spread the business paper on the dining table and survey his small holdings. Later on, he employed a large magnifying glass for the purpose. His diary by his side, he would diligently jot down some figures. But it was not much use because after about half an hour he would mutter, "Can't understand it ... must ring up Bhatia Sahib." With a resolve to contact Mr Bhatia or Mr Khanna or whoever his prevailing broker of the day was (I don't think he ever bothered) he would fold the paper, shut the diary and the ritual would be postponed until the following Sunday.

My grandmother, widowed early and left with little money, couldn't read the English papers. But she could pick out operative names like DCM, Bata or Lever Brothers in any conversation with great alacrity. Till her dying day I think her favourite word in the English lexicon was "dividend".

A few weeks before Diwali, anticipation would begin to build up in the house over the arrival of discount coupons from Bata. My grandmother would gather up her brood of grandchildren and march them to the nearest Bata store for new shoes, making up the cash difference by pulling out a few carefully-hoarded hundred rupee notes. Later, when my mother inherited the shares, she would thrust the Bata coupons on us. But we had grown sniffy, so she would take her staff on a shoe-shopping spree instead. Now I find I do exactly the same.

Some years ago when the company was faring badly, I was urged to sell the Bata shares. I clung on to them resolutely. The coupons are not worth a lot but it was hard to break a three-generation-old habit and the pleasure of a happy evening spent choosing shoes with my staff. In the event, I have been rewarded doubly, given the company's turnaround. Clearly, a bit of sentimentality pays in a definition of market sentiment.

When paper shares were first dematerialised I took a few fraying bits of paper to the bank's demat department. The manager carefully separated them and returned one pile. "These are worthless," he announced, "not worth the paper they're printed on." In an age of acquisitions and mergers it was bad advice. I kept the crumbling paper. Recently I took it back and reminded him of his words. But he was having a bout of amnesia and recalled saying no such thing.

In the present atmosphere of market volatility when finance ministers issue warnings to retail investors and analysts blather on day in and out doling out advice, I wonder how much the small investor is tuned in. There is information overload and attention spans are limited. Amidst the endless hair-splitting there are few clear voices that rise above the clamour.

As someone who has just emerged from a lengthy and costly legal procedure, probably due to a banking error, I also wonder how well-oiled the machinery of depository services or regulatory bodies actually is.

Of course, old investors have done well out of the stock market as out of any other investment. But I cannot help cast an amused eye at the hysterical media pitch. Just occasionally for fun, I take out my father's magnifying glass and repeat his Sunday morning ritual. And, frankly, I can't understand it...