Shailesh is a son, brother, husband, father. An engineer-MBA, with a day
job in the technology industry. After having lived in more than 12 towns/cities in the first 40 years of his life, he now calls Silicon Valley his home. He is just another two legged being, trying to make his way to his next birth.
The emperor’s procurement officer looked at the two visiting weavers sitting in front of him. The minister of king’s affairs had instructed him to give them money to set up the looms. They said that they could weave the most wonderful cloth. Cloth that couldn't even be seen if you were unfit for your job or were just dumb. It smelt fishy, but he wanted to please his emperor. He could put out a Request-for-Proposal (RFP), and ask the weavers to sign a Service-Level-Agreement (SLA), but he didn't need to. In fact his boss, the minister of procurement, would only be pissed with him and think of him as a blocker. And he wanted to be a team player, not a blocker. And as he stamped APPROVED on the procurement paper, he thought, What-the-F*** (WTF).
The finance and accounts officer looked at the procurement invoice. Everything appeared in order: the paperwork was all there. The procurement officer had stamped it APPROVED. He looked at the two men sitting in front him. Having worked in finance and accounts for many years, he could gauge people with one look. And right now, he wondered if he should bring up the topic of a nice gown for his daughter’s wedding, which was to happen soon. Maybe he could ask them for advice and see where the conversation went.
The loom maker looked at the two weavers. He hadn't heard of them, and he knew all the best weavers of the land. He looked at them again. They had turned up at his factory with the emperor's guards and an order to sell them his best loom. The most wonderful loom to weave the most wonderful cloth, they said. He did have an almost complete loom, which he could ready in a month. He wondered if he could sell it to them at a higher price and take care of his gambling debts, which had been creeping up.
The priest looked at the shiny, well-oiled, new loom, which he had been asked to bless. The promise of the weavers seemed incredulous. But it was not his job to judge. If they were good for what they said, their skills would be rewarded. If they were charlatans, then they would be judged in heaven, thought the priest. Visits to the palace were always an occasion for a fantastic meal, something different from the plain fare at the abbey. Better he bless the loom, before the food got cold, thought the priest.