Monday, July 24, 2006

Forbes: Back-Office Charity

Back-Office Charity; An Indian outsourcer is outsourcing his business--and helping the rural poor.
Elizabeth Corcoran
1119 words
24 July 2006
112
Volume 178 Issue 2

(c) 2006 Forbes Inc.

For 15 years B. Ramalinga Raju has helped make India a global tech star. His outsourcing company, Satyam Computer Service Ltd., in Hyderabad, has $1 billion in revenue and 23,000 employees. Now he wants to outsource himself: He aims to push high-tech prosperity out to the rural backwaters of India, where villagers still harvest rice by hand and mold cow dung into patties for fuel.

But Raju is doing it with a twist--not through his company but via his family philanthropy, the Byrraju Foundation. It funds the startup costs of setting up new data processing centers in the hinterlands and intends to turn over ownership to each center's employees a few years later. This altruistic effort also offers a profit motive for his company. Satyam, by farming out back-office work to the countryside, will sidestep the higher costs of Hyderabad.

"Satyam's savings are significant," Raju says, "as much as a U.S. company would save by outsourcing work to India."

His bigger motivation, however, is to bring middle-class hopes to India's poverty-stricken villages. In Andhra Pradesh, the southeastern state where Hyderabad is situated, 60% of the population is illiterate. Near the coast, rice and prawn farming dominate, thanks in part to the British, who laced the region with canals in the 1850s.

Village life has changed only slowly since then, despite the tech boom that enriched some Indian cities. Raju, 50, was born in Jallikakinada (pop. 1,652), 250 miles southeast of Hyderabad. It didn't get electricity until 1965, phones until 1991. Raju's father moved the family to Hyderabad in the 1960s to cultivate grapes and later started a string of construction businesses. Raju earned a master's degree in business from Ohio University, then returned to India and cofounded Satyam ("truth" in Sanskrit) in 1987 with one of his two younger brothers. He later began providing software services to U.S. companies. FORBES pegs his worth at a lofty $670 million--albeit that ranks him only 36th among the richest people in India.

Raju's father died in 2001, and his three sons started their foundation to honor his memory, intent on transforming rural villages such as Jallikakinada. Their Byrraju Foundation now broadcasts English and math classes, via satellite links and radio towers, to more than 200 government-run schools. With IBM's help, the foundation has put computers into 54 rural primary schools. It supports vocational programs for plumbers, electricians and dressmakers. It has built 28 water treatment plants and installed 35,000 toilets, and it sponsors medical and dental clinics. Unlike U.S. foundations, the Byrraju Foundation doesn't have an endowment; it depends on Raju and his brothers for regular donations. Foundation directors say they have spent $10 million on health and education programs.

The new push for rural data centers, known as GramIT (gram is Sanskrit for "village"), is aimed at people with community college educations who want good jobs without having to leave their villages, where work is otherwise scarce. Many wind up adrift or teaching part-time. So far the foundation has set up two centers, one in Jallikakinada and the other in Ethakota (pop. 4,515), 50 miles away. Byrraju covered the initial costs of each: $110,000 for PCs, a wireless network and worker training.

In early 2005, when loudspeakers blared news of the job openings at GramIT (pronounced "gram-it") in Raju's old hometown, 500 people applied for 100 openings. Workers must have a college degree, and new prospects get three months of training in computers, statistics and English before taking an exam. All who pass are offered jobs.

N. Srinivasaraju, 28, was among the first recruits at the new center in Jallikakinada. His shift starts at six each morning, after he cycles 2 kilometers down dusty streets, past lacy coconut trees and electric-green fields where villagers pluck rice by hand. A quiescent beryl-green canal parallels the road. Children, men and cattle plunge into the water for a rinse.

The village's first snack stand opened next to the GramIT site late last year, and Srinivasaraju stops in to buy a stack of idlis, a traditional rice-and-lentil snack, then pushes through swinging doors to get to work. The GramIT building is a converted ice factory donated by the village, with spartan offices featuring beige paint, no decorations, tawny linoleum tiles and few windows. Fifty people work in one large room, three PCs to a table. But for the women's brightly colored saris and the men in sandals, this room could be anywhere in the world.

So far the Jallikakinada office has two major customers: Satyam and the state government of Andhra Pradesh. The work involves filling out databases with information from paper documents such as taxi receipts, financial ledgers and résumés. Srinivasaraju grabs a pile of résumés from the center director and begins sifting through them for Satyam, recording key nuggets in a database; he gets through a dozen in an eight-hour shift. Nearby, Sunita Kumari, 26, checks taxi invoices received by Satyam, looking for instances where the company might have been overbilled. She can inspect 300 a day and hopes to get to 400.

Srinivasaraju and Kumari take home less than $60 a month (Rs 2,500)--a fraction of the pay earned by Satyam's regular employees. Bonuses of Rs 1,000 are possible. Still Srinivasaraju earns double what he made as a teacher, and he has big hopes for the future. Gramit withholds a slice of wages as a down payment for the 1% equity that each worker will hold in the local business in two years.

"This job has good future benefits," he says. "And I don't have to leave my village."

With the data centers in Jallikakinada and Ethakota up and running, two more centers in two other villages have started recruiting. Ten more are planned.

Byrraju partner Sharath Choudary, 42, is GramIT's combination of a venture capitalist, chairman of the board and bizdev guy who secures new work for the GramIT units. "Clients won't deal with the centers directly," he says. GramIT guarantees the quality of the work.

"This isn't philanthropy--it's development," Choudary says. "They're earning seed capital and chiseling their own fortunes." Each GramIT job generates as much revenue as 5 acres of good land. With a hundred people now employed at the site in Jallikakinada, he adds, "It's like we've created 500 acres."



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Column: Rabbit Feet 2.0

Forbes.com

Letter From Silicon Valley

07.24.06, 6:00 AM ET

Burlingame, Calif. -Ancient Greeks touched oak trees when they wanted Zeus to protect them. Irish farmers nailed horseshoes to their doors with the tips pointed up to keep their luck intact. But in this high-tech age, people have progressed far beyond such superstitions.

Or have we?

Poke around Silicon Valley, and you'll find lots of entrepreneurs who rely on quirky habits meant to improve their luck. It takes a while for them to own up to these private rituals. They insist that the can see the future, and that their carefully crafted business plans are bound to prosper. Yet at the end of the day, they're not that different from the hopeful bride who pins something borrowed and something blue onto her dress just before marching down the aisle.

So when tension mounts, even people with Ph.D.s and stock options start relying on lucky numbers, favorite colors and the like. "Everybody's got their own karma generators," says Stephen DeWitt, chief executive of Azul Systems, which sells cost-efficient servers and computing services.

DeWitt's own foibles involve the color blue. The first company DeWitt ran was called Cobalt Networks. Everything was dyed to match: the logo, the corporate tschokies and, at a crucial moment, even the employees. When Cobalt went public in late 1999, all the employees dyed their hair blue. Call it coincidence, but Cobalt's stock hit $158 on opening day.

DeWitt was so blue-focused that when he joined his next startup, he insisted--at a cost of some tens of thousands of dollars in legal expenses, new stationary, signs and the like--that the name go blue. Hence Azul.

Every superstition has a halfway-plausible basis jangling in the background. DeWitt says his blue fetish started with IBM. "When I got started in this business, Big Blue was the kingpin," DeWitt says. "So when I got my opportunity to take a swing, I wanted to emulate the staying power of IBM."

Greg Tseng, who runs Tagged, a San Francisco-based startup that is a social networking site for teens, heeded the suggestions of his Taiwanese mother and made sure that Tagged's main phone number has plenty of "8s"--three of them, to be exact. "In Asian cultures, the number '4' is unlucky, since it sounds like the word for 'death,' whereas the number '8' is lucky, since it sounds like 'prosperity,' " says Tseng.

Vasudev Bhandarkar likes to lay the blame--or perhaps the credit--on his wife. Bhandarkar has started or led three companies. At the outset of each new opportunity, Bhandarkar's wife, along with the wives of his cofounders, have insisted that their very modern husbands pause to offer a tribute to the ancient gods who ward off evil spirits. "All my companies have had very good exits," Bhandarkar says. "Our wives take credit for their success."

Peggy Burke had no one to blame but herself: When she planned to move her graphics design firm, 1185 Design, to a new space in 1999, she fell in love with a building graced with high ceilings and exposed beams.

Too bad, a long-time Vietnamese-born colleague told her when he got a glimpse. The place was packed to the ceiling with bad luck, he explained. (He said that the "pressure" from the exposed beams would create a bad environment for the designers.) The solution? Burke hung several dozen large bamboo flutes, tilted at different angles, from all the beams. So far, so good. "After Sept. 11, 2001, a lot of design firms closed down--but we're still here," Burke says. "Could be something to this."

Bill Coleman laughed when long-time venture capitalist Bill Janeway whispered his own superstition: "Bill told me that as soon as a company gets big enough to have a building with a big lobby, the stock will go down."

Coleman ignored that friendly advice. In August 1998, his company, BEA Systems, was growing briskly, with a healthy stock price in the mid-$20s. Then BEA moved to a new office. "The lobby wasn't huge--but it was big," concedes Coleman. A month later, BEA's stock was down to $8. Coleman now runs software-infrastructure maker Cassatt. Cassatt's lobby, he says, is intentionally downscaled--think Starbucks, not Trump Tower.

Some buildings come complete with their own mojo. Executives from Netscape Communications were always proud to have their offices on the grounds once occupied by Fairchild Electronics, the company that served as the seedbed for Silicon Valley's chip powerhouses. Turns out the karma there was inescapable, though. Netscape, now a small part of Time Warner's AOL, followed Fairchild's trail to irrelevancy.

That may explain why no one has been eager to touch the former site of the once high-flying dot-comer Excite@home. Since the company closed shop in 2001, the building's empty windows have stared mournfully onto Route 101, a central Silicon Valley artery, a haunting reminder that even the best-laid plans of venture capitalists can go bust.

And then there's what many consider the luckiest spot in Silicon Valley: 165 University Ave., a modest building on Palo Alto, Calif.'s bustling downtown street. Logitech, a chip company, started there. Ebay's PayPal started there. And so did Google.

That success has certainly been magical for building owner Rahim Amidi. His family started out selling Persian rugs, but now he invests in real estate and early startups. "We lease the space to special people," says Pejman Nozad, a partner in Amidzad investment group. One condition of any lease: Start ups have to let Amidzad invest.

"I consider myself lucky just walking down the street in Palo Alto," says Nozad. "There are so many smart people here. You can get into a good deal just by talking to a person in a café."

http://www.forbes.com/columnists/2006/07/21/superstition-luck-technology_cz_ec_0724valleyletter.html

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Tuesday, July 11, 2006

Book Review: Cross Country

San Francisco Chronicle


REVIEW
Road trip makes for a long haul

Elizabeth Corcoran
Tuesday, July 11, 2006

Cross Country

By Robert Sullivan

BLOOMSBURY; 389 PAGES; $24.95


With an anecdote here, a dash of history there, and some very long sentences that wind their way across the white pages like the interstate highway he is following, Robert Sullivan establishes the herky-jerky rhythm of his new traveler's tale, "Cross Country."

Sullivan has been celebrated for his verbal pointillism, for telling a big story with hundreds of tiny deft observations. The technique succeeded brilliantly in his best-seller, "Rats," a story of New York City, which he told by spending hundreds of hours scrutinizing the daily affairs of rats in a particular alley in Manhattan. Unfortunately, when his canvas is stretched across the whole of the United States, Sullivan's portrait work gets blurry and vague.

Sullivan wants us to know straight away that he is a road warrior. He has crossed the country 27 times, he declares, "more than anyone I know who is not a trucker or professional driver of some kind." The backbone of this book is a recent five-day sprint across mostly interstate highways, from west to east. (Sullivan, his wife and two children are heading to New York to attend a wedding.) Sullivan fills out the book by reminiscing about earlier cross-country treks and digressing into local history. Lewis and Clark are heroes. So is, to a lesser degree, Kemmons Wilson, who created Holiday Inn.

Travelers who have crossed some part of this country have spun epic tales. A carpenter who was part of the Lewis and Clark expedition wrote an early account of that legendary trip. (Lewis' and Clark's own journals were eventually published, too.) So many others have put color and sizzle into road stories, including Jack Kerouac and William Least Heat Moon. As armchair travelers, we hitchhike with them to discover places we've never been, to meet people we will never see or to simply have a great read.

Hitchhiking with the Sullivans in their rented Impala, however, is tame stuff. Sullivan lectures his family about Lewis and Clark. His daughter sleeps. His son flips through rock 'n' roll magazines. His wife quilts.

"And in the car, I am -- like a tour director nobody paid for, like a tour guide nobody can stop, like a human roadside plaque -- going on and on about those famous first cross-country travelers, Lewis and Clark, just two among a long line of people I mention. I wish I could control myself; my explications worry me, to some extent. Yes, you, the reader, can put this book down and walk away for a few minutes or even forever, but my family is, at least for a few country-crossing days, stuck with me, trapped."

The Sullivan gang stops briefly at some drop-dead scenic spots, starting with the Columbia River Gorge in Oregon. The gorge is just a few hours from where they started. Sullivan says he has visited it many times. Even so, it seems to render him speechless. " 'The gorge is so incredible,' I am saying regularly -- did I mention that I'm a nightmare to travel with?" Sullivan is at his best when he unwraps forgotten chunks of Americana: stories about men such as Norman Bel Geddes, an industrial designer who showed his vision of a "streamlined" future at the 1939 World's Fair; why American roadside food features hamburgers instead of hotdogs; and the origins of the "drink-through lids" for coffee cups.

He also has a few fun personal stories, too, such as the time (on an earlier trip) when he and his wife were searching for an exhibition of Jack Kerouac's scrawled scroll of a manuscript for "On the Road." They made it to Boulder, Colo., only to learn the exhibition had closed because of lack of funds. A friendly waiter at an organic restaurant pointed them to the Beat Book Store, and its proprietor, a self-appointed high priest of Kerouacian studies. As much as Sullivan likes to hear the sound of his own voice, he doesn't seem very interested in what anybody else has to say. Not even Evel Knievel, the motorcycle daredevil, gets in a word edgewise. Sullivan describes how (again, on an earlier trip) he and his wife stopped for dinner at an Italian restaurant in Butte, Mont. There, across the room, a waiter tells them, is the famous Knievel.

When they finish dinner, Sullivan, with a toddler in tow, passes Knievel's table. "Mrs. Knievel stopped us and then pointed to our son. 'What a cutey,' she said, motioning to Evel. At that moment, Evel Knievel seemed to look up. ... It was as if we had connected with a piece of America, or a piece of the American dream, but then again, for a connection you at least need to make eye contact, and when I think back on the experience, eye contact was not what happened."

Sullivan shies from touching America or from letting America touch him. I certainly feel that way about Manhattan alley rats. But great road trip stories should take you somewhere beyond the final spot on the AAA TripTik map.

URL: http://sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?file=/c/a/2006/07/11/DDGAFJRN691.DTL


©2006 San Francisco Chronicle

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Wednesday, July 05, 2006

Column: What Options Scandal?

Forbes.com

Letter From Silicon Valley

07.05.06, 6:00 AM ETBurlingame, Calif. -
Only the pushy succeed in Silicon Valley.

Only the people with a bullheaded belief that they're right persevere when others laugh at their ideas. Only people willing to push the envelope, to break the rules of civility, can nail a big sale to a skeptical customer. Or transform a concept into a company worth billions.

Most of the time, we celebrate this against-all-odds spirit of Silicon Valley. And periodically, we change our minds.

That's why Valleyites feel so beleaguered about the options controversy that's enveloping one public company after another, decimating stock prices as it spreads. Outsiders don't get it, they argue: If they want companies who push the limits in their companies, they're going to get companies who do the same thing with their balance sheets.

Most of the scandals center on options granted during and after the last tech boom, before a new set of rules regarding pricing, reporting and expensing were set in place. Look hard at how options pricing happened in those days, when the rules were fuzzy, and you'll conclude that executives--along with their legal and accounting advisers--did what they do in every part of their jobs. They pushed the envelope. What's not explicitly forbidden is permitted was the rule of the day.

A few weeks ago, senior partners at the San Francisco law firm Morrison & Foerster, which counts some of the Valley's top companies among its clients, invited a group of reporters for a lovely lunch and a friendly chat about stock options pricing. They put the problems into three categories: a very tiny number of truly nasty practices, such as altering documents; "technical housekeeping problems"--in other words, folks who were just too darn busy to bother filing their options paperwork on time; and companies trapped in the "gray" zone of previously ambiguous laws.

Corporate executives are supposed to create value for shareholders--and part of doing that means getting the smartest and most creative employees to stay at the company, the lawyers pointed out.

"You're supposed to provide strong 'handcuffs,' " not simply to enrich people but to keep them at work, said partner William Sherman, who has been involved with about 250 public offerings.

And executives were supposed to price options wisely, Sherman argued. "If you believe that a market analyst is going to put out a report--say, on the semiconductor industry's increasing book-to-bill ratio--isn't it smart to do options grants at a time when there will be less dilution to shareholders?" Translation: If management thinks the stock might rise on positive news about the sector, shouldn't they grant options quickly before the corporate stock rises? "There's nothing that says it's wrong," Sherman insisted.

The bottom line: If you reward people for pushing the envelope of technology, for working overtime to get that next sale, you shouldn't be surprised if they have similarly pushed the understanding of how to reward themselves and their colleagues.

Was it right? Not from the point of view of shareholders.

"Is this a criminal offense?" one of the reporters at the luncheon asked the Morrison & Foerster partners.

Eugene Illovsky, a partner and formerly an assistant U.S. attorney in the criminal division in the U.S. attorney's office in Sacramento, looked distinctly uncomfortable.

"Is it stealing?" the reporter persisted. "The money comes from the public market. The company isn't paying for it."

Illovsky paused. "We'll see creative prosecutors come up with interesting theories," he said.

Last week, Apple Computer acknowledged that it, too, is taking a look at the "irregularities" of its past options granting program. That put Apple, widely proclaimed as one of the most innovative, envelope-pushing companies in Silicon Valley, on a list with about 19 other Valley companies all now scrutinizing how they rewarded their best and brightest.

The only surprise is that the list is so short.

http://www.forbes.com/2006/07/01/options-technology-scandal_cz_ec_0705valleyletter_print.html

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