What I mull about when I mull about running

(with a wink and a nod to Haruki Murakami)


Runners of every shape, size and age run at Safa Park. Each with a distinctive gait, unique motive.  I ignore the brisk walkers and the lazy strollers and concentrate on the runners.

There are those who run to lose weight, and they’re best ignored too. The heavy tread, slack jaw and amoeba-like sweat patches all allude to effort and exercise. Running is more than that.

Then there are the competitive runners, who run with one eye affixed to the digital timer on their wrist. It tells them about how fast their heart is pumping, how well their feet are moving and perhaps even whether the pre-run protein shake has gotten digested. It’s all about results and statistics. Running by numbers.

There are also the sprinters, who run for the adrenaline rush. And the showboats – the ones with the svelte bods, who run like they don’t really need to be running, but need a motive to display their muscle tone.

A few run for no reason at all. Unless you count - for the love of running - as a reason. It looks like they’re running, but it doesn’t feel like they are. There’s exertion, but no struggle. There’s a target, but it’s not entirely numeric. You can tell the difference by observing the rhythm. It’s steady and even, and most importantly, graceful. Like ballet. The eyes are focussed on a zone not in the physical realm. The arms move in unison. The feet strike the earth with nimble, considered moves. Slicing the air, the way a swimmer breaks the water.  

                                                                                    

You don’t try to race such a runner. Or do something as inelegant as keep pace. You gaze at them until they turn a corner or become a speck on the horizon. And then get back to thumping the earth with the grace of a rhino.

My 2009 in Books

2009 was the year I got introduced to the graphic novel and leaped into a torrid love affair with the same almost immediately. I was extremely fortunate to have friends with a common passion which meant that I got some of the best novels without spending a dime.

Apart from graphic novels, there were other books I enjoyed. And thanks to Twitter I managed to keep track of my reading this year. Here’s a list of all the books I read (not as many as I’d have liked!) this year. Just for the record (in descending order)

1. RONIN – Frank Miller

Sci-fi meets samurai in this tale of revenge, corruption and high-tech gadgetry. I found the story a bit hard to follow, but it has one of the best love scenes I’ve come across in a graphic novel.


2. THE NOT-SO-VERY-NICE GOINGS ON AT VICTORIA LODGE - Philip Ardagh

Ok, it doesn’t really count as a book, considering it’s just a few pictures and funny captions thrown it. I finished it in 4 minutes flat. But couldn’t bear to leave it out of the list.








3. HELLBOY: STRANGE PLACES – Mike Mignola

I liked the movie, but this book in the series was just too bizarre for my liking.

4. THREE CUPS OF TEA – Greg Mortenson & David Oliver Relin

 

Fantastic, inspirational book about how broken dreams (climbing K2) can sow the seeds for something far more monumental (schools for Pakistan’s deprived children).


5 & 6. MAUS 1 & 2 - Art Spiegelman

A hauntingly brilliant graphic memoir of the Holocaust. Art Spiegelman captures his ageing father’s account of surviving the Holocaust, and in the process shows what it’s like to ‘survive the survivors’. I couldn’t stop thinking about it long after I finished reading it.


7. RUNNING WITH SCISSORS – Augusten Burroughs

Outrageously outstanding. Reading about the author’s bizarre childhood with a kooky mother and her nutjob psychiatrist, was enough to make me go on my knees and thank God for my ‘normal’ childhood. Written with a rare wit and candour.


8. LEAGUE OF EXTRAORDINARY GENTLEMEN – Alan Moore

Neat story, interesting characters. It’s quite cool to find the protagonists have their dark sides. One’s an opium addict, another uses his ‘invisibility’ to mess about in a girls school, a third is a rumoured lesbian.


9. EAT, PRAY, LOVE – Elizabeth Gilbert

Not being one for ‘chicklit’, I resisted reading this book for a long time. But when I finally did, I found it quite likeable. It also came to me at a time when I was restless and looking for a change in life, quite like the protagonist. Change did come, not quite as I expected. But that’s the topic for another book…


10. MW – Osamu Tezuka

Exposure to a deadly chemical renders one of the characters morally corrupt. And the other protagonist, a Catholic priest, spends his life trying to cover up for him. The story is rife with homosexuality, rape and other deadly sins. Simply brilliant. Amen.


11. ENDLESS NIGHTS – Neil Gaiman

Seven fantastic stories, each about one of seven immortal siblings – Dream, Death, Destiny, Destruction, Despair, Desire and Delirium – collectively known as The Endless. If you read nothing else by Neil Gaiman, read this one!


12. MY STORY – Kamala Das

Her poetry shines through her writing, and even the mundane details appear grand. Loved her story and her sass in standing up to a chauvinist society.


13. BLANKETS – Craig Thompson

A coming-of-age tale about love, Jesus and redemption, beautifully drawn.


14. EMBROIDERIES – Marjane Satrapi

Iranian women talking about their love and sex lives. Gutsy and funny.


15. 100 BULLETS: FIRST SHOT, LAST CALL - Brian Azzarello and Eduardo Risso

If you could get away with murder and revenge, would you do it? Delicious dilemma and each of the 100 stories hinge on that decision. Of the 3 stories (bullets?) in the book, I liked only the first one. The rest got a bit repetitive.


16. KARI – Amruta Patil

Dark and dense. It was hard to tell where fantasy ended and reality began. But that was what added to the intrigue of Kari. Saw shades of myself in the lead character (not the lesbian bits, ok?)


17. PERSEPOLIS 1 & 2– Marjane Satrapi

I read it with my jaw on the floor the whole time. Satrapi’s graphic novel of growing up during the Revolution and how it shapes her thinking. The details are stunning, especially her memories of people. Persepolis is a thing of beauty…


18. PUSH MAN & OTHER STORIES – Yoshihiro Tatsumi

Dreadfully bleak stories of depressive Japanese middle class people stuck in dead-end lives. I couldn’t get enough of it. I read the book twice!


19. ABANDON THE OLD IN TOKYO - Yoshihiro Tatsumi

You pass them by on the street and don’t spare a second thought. Tatsumi does, and that’s what makes his stories so compelling. Ordinary people, devious lives.


20. CORALINE – Neil Gaiman

Am glad I didn’t read this story when I was growing up. Downright scary!


21. SANDMAN: NOCTURNES & PRELUDES – Neil Gaiman

My first encounter with Gaiman. Although it took me a while to get ‘into’ the story, I enjoyed the trip. Unlike anything I’d read before. Looking forward to reading the rest of the Sandman series.


22. HALF OF A YELLOW SUN – Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie

Heard her speak at the Emirates Airlines International Literature Festival 2008 and came away impressed. Read her book and was further impressed. Hadn’t heard of the Biafran War until I read the book.


23. OUTLIERS – Malcolm Gladwell

Geniuses aren’t born, they’re made. By society, by fluke, by bloody hard work. That’s the essence of this very unputdownable book.


24. THE RELUCTANT FUNDAMENTALIST – Mohsin Hamid

Or How A Terrorist is Born. A little gem of a book. The love story is very sensitively etched.


25. WATCHMEN – Alan Moore

My baptism into the bewitching world of Graphic Novels. What I learned: not all superheroes are good and noble.

Around the world in 3six5 days

Imagine a diary of 2010 written by 365 different people from 365 different corners of the world. And you'll have an idea of The 3six5 Project

The brainchild of two self-professed geeks from Chicago Len Kendall and Daniel Honigman, The 3six5 Project is a social experiment of sorts, to create 'a crowdsourced journal of 2010', which may (or may not) be turned into a book.

My first thought on coming across the project was, 'I've got to be part of this!' But first I had to convince Len Kendall about the 'unique perspective I could bring to this compilation'. I wrote that I looked forward to sharing about 'life in a city with the world's tallest building, richest horse race and the largest pair of chopsticks (22 ft., as recorded by Guinness Records!)'.


Perhaps, Len was really impressed by the ginormous chopsticks, but it turns out I'm going to author August 2, 2010.

There are still a few 'dates' left, so hurry over and pick one. Email the3six5@gmail.com with a short bio of yourself.

International Volunteers Day

Saturday, December 5th, was International Volunteers Day. And having offered my services a few times to an organization called Volunteer in Dubai, and also curious to meet people working in social development, I headed to The Shelter in Al Quoz, where a small event was being organized.

The studio was already packed with about 50-60 people when I entered. There were presentations by a few people about the work they were doing on their own or in partnership with other NGOs. And it was both humbling and inspiring.

There were several interesting things that I noticed at the event. One was that most of those involved in social work weren’t the hoary sorts who’d taken up social work in their twilight years or bored housewives with time on their hands. The four presenters were all in their mid-20s. Some worked with the underprivileged along side their regular nine-to-fives, while some of them had made it their life work.

26-year-old Masarat Daud shared how she quit a lucrative government job in 2008 to start a programme to educate and empower women and children in her village in Rajasthan. Through her initiative called the ‘8-Day Academy’, she has taught basic computer skills and public speaking to children and teachers, while also demolishing age-old chauvinistic structures in the process. She’s also planning the first rural TEDx Shekavati with an inspiring theme – IDEA REVOLUTION.

Mobisher Rabbani shared his guiding philosophy, ‘We can begin small but why should we think small’. And the long list of The Rabbani Foundation’s initiatives from community development to women’s empowerment to disaster relief, proved that he took his philosophy quite seriously.

At a time when Afghanistan seems to be one of the most dangerous places on earth, journalist and RJ, Natalie Carney headed to Afghanistan not once, but twice, staying there for a month and documenting the stories of the war orphans. One of the most touching moments in her documentary was a parent saying, “We sent our daughter to an orphanage so that she could get an education.”

Another interesting detail was that almost none of the presenters handed around leaflets or any other ‘literature’. I didn’t see too many visiting cards being exchanged either. All of them directed the audience to ‘look them up online’. Either on Twitter or You Tube or Facebook or through their blogs and websites. As Mobiasher mentioned to me, “I mostly operate through Facebook.”

And finally, what was most heartening to note was the presence of confident, articulate Emirati women making a difference. Two young Emirati woman along with their non-Emirati friends, shared their vision that had helped start the group ‘Promise of a Generation’ to ‘promote respectful intercultural interaction to improve our own understanding of the world and our responsibilities in it’. Even the event organizer, Nabila Usman, seemed far more advanced than her 20-something years , given her philanthropic vision and desire to make a difference in society.

As I drove back home, inspired and uplifted, I couldn’t help remembering a quote by Mahatma Gandhi – ‘Find purpose, the means will follow’.

Stimulating!

Yes Yes Yes Yes YES YESS YYESSSSS!

A man's voice shrieks orgasmically on the radio.

I cringe.

My first thought is that someone's neck is going to be on the block for allowing this spot on the radio. (4 1/2 years of doing Sharia-compliant advertising, and your internal censor is always alert).

My mind races to deduce the product being advertised.

Condoms? (No WAY!)

Fine dining? (Nah... Too Harry met Sally-ish.)

Some get-rich scheme? Hmm.

The spot ends soon enough...

I would never have guessed.

It's for a men's magazine.

Ironically, titled 'iQ'

The spot signs off with the line, 'Because men need mental stimulation'.

So that explains why men have sex on the mind.

Julia & Meryl Streep

I hesitated before watching the movie Julie & Julia on the flight. I'd recently been gifted the book by the same name, and I didn't want to spoil my enjoyment of the book. But anyway, given the choice of movies offered on the flight, Julie & Julia seemed the lesser evil.

The book is about an unhappy woman who in a moment of despair decides that the way out of her melancholy is to cook her way through a French cookbook written by Julia Child. And to blog about her adventures/misadventures. I loved the theme given my interest in cooking and, well, blogging.

Interestingly, the movie is based on not one, but two books (three, if you count the cookbook!) One, being Julie Powell's cook-blog. The second, is Julia Child's memoir of her year in France when she really learned to cook. And that really is the saving grace of the movie.

Meryl Streep is magnificent as Julia Child. From the first scene where she falls in love with Paris, to the last, in which her portrait hangs a museum, you get a sense of her passion for cooking. She starts out as the somewhat bored wife of a diplomat who in order to find something to occupy her time, takes cooking classes, and ends up not just mastering elaborate French cooking, but also writing a book about the same.

The movie intercuts between Julie's attempts, most of which turn out surprisingly well, and Julia's journey. But the former sorely lacks the passion and joie de vivre of the latter. Apparently, when the real Julia Child was asked what she thought of Julie's blog, she mentioned that she hated it.

I haven't read the book yet, so I'll reserve comment. But let's say the 'Julie' part of the film Julie and Julia was a little bland on the palate.

You've got grand mail

An unusual mail popped into my inbox today. It seemed like spam at first glance, and I almost hit the 'delete' button, before I took a second look. 'Anybody home' it asked in the subject line. I opened it to see a one-line mail in blue in the the typical Helvetica font that spammer's seem to adore.

This message is to determine if the email address is correct and will contact my grandson Josh?????

I could just picture it: grandpappy William sitting in front of his newly installed desktop, peering at the crumpled note of paper where Josh had hastily scribbled his email address. Perhaps he had just set up his first email account and was trying to contact all members in his family. Maybe he'd even sent out a couple of mails to Josh only to have them bounce back. And so the 'message to determine...'

It seemed sweet that a grandfather would attempt to contact his grandson by mail. I wondered what it would be like to receive an email from my grandfather. Not that I would, of course, considering he'd passed on when I was 13, but even if he were alive, I doubt he'd have gotten interested in email.

There are few things I remember about my grandfather, and they are mostly the quirks. Like the snuff box he always carried around, from which he pulled out tiny amounts of brown snuff which he tucked into his nostrils. It would result in thunderous sneezes which shook the room, and made his thick bushy hair stand on end. A bit like Einstein.

My granddad wasn't big on conversation. I remember him standing at the living room window, looking out at traffic on the busy Eastern Express Highway for hours on end. Or he'd sit on the black sofa lost in thought, his eyes hidden behind blurry spectacles, while his feet shuffled involuntarily. The only time he got really animated was while watching cricket on TV. If the cricketers ever heard the insults and abuse heaped on them, they would turn red with shame, and would probably rush to seek out alternative careers.

But one thing I'll always remember my grandfather for is the greeting cards. They always arrived early; the harbinger of birthdays and festive occasions. The writing on the envelope was unmistakable, a beautiful, unusual handwriting. And the cards always felt like they were specially created only for you. Where the printed wishes ended, my grandfather would continue with his personal missive. The entire blank space in the card would be filled with his wishes, counsel and blessings. And right at the bottom, he'd sign off with the date. Sealing off a moment in time. Even now, when I browse through the cards, I can recall the moment of receiving them. And relive the feelings of being an 8-year-old (with a birthday party to look forward to).

So yes, I doubt my grandfather would have embraced email communication. And I doubt I would have enjoyed receiving a mail from him without his trademark handwriting. And without the faint scent of snuff.

Hush

She mostly spoke in whispers, not wanting to offend with the sound of her voice. Her shoulders were perpetually hunched, so as to not take up too much room. Sorry, she said, before starting any sentence. Sorry, but I think you're stepping on my sari. Few knew the colour of her eyes; she rarely, if ever, made eye contact. Only the fish mongers in the bazaar loved her. She never haggled when they quoted their price, but only pursed her lips, and twisted her handkerchief around her fingers, before nodding slowly. It took them two weeks to notice she was missing. And another four days to find out that she was dead. Even her decomposing corpse didn't reek. Under her bed, they found box after box of handwritten manuscripts. Poems, stories, fragments of conversations overheard, long rambles on life, love and longing. Who knew she had so much to say, they murmured, shaking their heads.

I am grateful...

... for big windows without curtains

... for the almost uninterrupted view of the sky through them

... for the cloudy sky this morning

... for the slivers of sun which peeked through

... for a sight that reminded of something a friend once said, "It's like God watching you."

... for being the observer and the observed

... for the spaces between thoughts

... for being alive

... for being

Little Wonders

It took Kirk 6 years to learn how to eat the normal way. Until then, he'd been fed through a tube in his nose and later, through a tube in his stomach. Unlike his twin, Jadyn, Kirk had been born with a vocal chord dysfunction, which not only made speech, but also normal swallowing impossible.

Give it time, he'll get better, doctors told my friend, Ro, year after year, surgery after unsuccessful surgery. And Kirk grew up knowing that he should never put things in his mouth, not even by accident. It was heartening to watch Ro hand him a chocolate chip cookie with the instruction, "Only to hold, not to eat." And Kirk would be content doing just that. Once in a while though, he'd grab Jadyn's water bottle wanting a few drops of water to trickle down his throat. It would, more often than not, result in a coughing spasm which brought tears to his eyes.

In every other way, he was a playful little boy, the more mischievous and boisterous twin. "Ya-ya," he rasped, when I met them for the first time two and a half years ago. "Not Ya-ya," corrected Jadyn, "her name is Yee-ya."

There was another surgery scheduled last month. And Ro, who had held onto every hope, however slim, had even thought about approaching a Shamanic healer just to help them get through the surgery.

A week ago, I received a text message from Ro, "Kirk is swallowing well and is now allowed to eat pureed food under supervision."

I could only imagine the look of triumph on all their faces watching each spoonful going down. What could be a better birthday present for a 6-year old than finally tasting his own birthday cake?

So to the awesome twosome who turn 6 tomorrow, wishing you a truly magical, special day. And an unshakeable faith in miracles.




A little more about the twins here, here and here

Be Prepared!

(Another story written for the Writer's Group. You can read an earlier one here.)

If you happened to run out of sugar for your morning cup of tea, or perhaps, needed a candle when the lights went out, or even, if you wanted to refer to last week's newspaper for some reason, there was only one person to contact - 'Eveready' Marie Braganza.

Most people in the seaside village of Kasaulim called her that, and truthfully, she didn't mind. She'd lost both parents when she was barely a teenager and the responsibility of 8 younger siblings had fallen on her tender shoulders. She'd learned early on that the only way to stay in control (and stay sane!) was to plan for the worst and take pre-emptive action.

So even today, you'd never find her without her black, folding umbrella. "But what if it rains?" she reasoned with Joachim the gardener, when he pointed to the cloudless sky. If you asked, "Marie, got a safety pin?” she'd counter, "Which size, dear?" If someone coughed in Church, he'd quickly find a Halls lozenge pressed into his palm.

As much as they admired Marie, the people of Kasaulim also felt a little sorry for her. Especially when every Friday evening, she hobbled over to Mac's Laundry, with a bundle of clothes tucked under her arm.

"Hello Mac, fine evening, isn't it?" she said, just like she did every week. "I've bought Arthur's shirts to be washed and ironed. Remember, not too much starch. And pay attention to the collars."

Mac would nod solemnly and toss the clothes onto the laundry pile. When Marie would leave, he'd look at his assistant, Joe, and both would silently shake their heads.

Arthur Braganza had gone out to sea in his fishing boat two years ago, and had never returned. The Coast Goard had mounted an extensive search operation. Even the local fishermen went as far into the sea as their boats could take them. But neither Arthur nor his boat was ever found. The old timers reckoned that a strong wind had carried Arthur and his boat into the high seas.

Marie took the loss of her husband of 32 years quite badly at first. She simply lay in bed, refusing to meet anyone. Even Fr. Victor was turned away. The Ladies Prayer Group brought her casseroles which they found unopened. Marie had simply given up on life.

And just when the people of Kasaulim began to fear that she was slipping away, Marie inexplicably and serenely bounced back. James and Dolores, from the green house across the compound wall, were the first to notice that she was back to her usual routine. The fish market in the morning, siesta in the afternoon, St. Jude's Church in the evening.

Everyone heaved a collective sigh of relief, but that soon turned into a gasp of dismay.

"Two mutton cutlets, please. Arthur loves the cutlets for lunch," she'd tell the nonplussed counter salesman at Chic's Cold Storage. From her kitchen window, Dolores began to spot Marie talking to the empty rocking chair in the house. Disconcertingly enough, she was going on as though Arthur was still a part of her life.

“Maybe that's her way of coming to terms with Arthur's death," Dr. Kamat told Dolores and James. "Give her time, and she'll move on."

But two years later, Marie hadn’t moved on. Greeting cards would still be signed off with ‘Love, Arthur and Marie’. His black leather shoes would still be polished every day. And a plate would unfailingly appear on his side of the table at meal times.

Initially, people shuffled uncomfortably when she spoke of Arthur in the present tense. But over time, they came to accept her delusion. In every other way, she was still the helpful, generous 'Eveready' Marie they'd known. So they merely nodded indulgently when Arthur popped up in the conversation and shook their heads later.

One wintry evening, Marie was shuffling home from Mac's Laundry, when a fierce wind began blowing in from the sea. The sky turned dark and foreboding. Soon, fat droplets of rain began pelting down from the sky. People bounded to the nearest dry spot. Only Eveready Marie shook open the folds of her black umbrella, and continued walking. The sudden shower brought with it deafening thunder and lightning. Children howled and rushed to hide under their mothers' skirts. Shopkeepers downed their shutters in haste.

"Marie, hurry up. A storm is coming in from the sea," shouted James, as he grabbed her elbow and led her up the garden path to her house.

Marie reached her doorstep, shook her umbrella, and stepped inside the house. The lights had gone out, but it didn't faze her. The candles and matches were in the rosary drawer just next to the door. She lit a dozen candles and placed them in saucers all around the house, and then took one candle to the kitchen to ready the supper.

Suddenly, the front door crashed open and an icy gust of wind blew into the house. Marie rushed to bolt the door and had turned to re-light the candles which had gone out, when the front door crashed open again. Marie whipped around with a start, her chest thudding. Hadn't she just bolted it securely?

And that's when she saw someone move near the main gate which was wide open. James must have come back to close it, she thought. A sudden bolt of lightning illuminated the area, and she recognised the silhouette coming up the garden path. It wasn't James. Her body went limp, and she stared unblinkingly, unmindful of the uproar caused by the rain. She slowly backed into the room as the shadow inched forward towards the door.

The rain pelted into the living room, creating little puddles near the entrance. But Marie couldn't bring herself to shut the door. She felt the couch behind her and sat down heavily on it, her eyes peeled on the shadowy figure now almost at the doorstep. Through the flickering candle lights she saw him, clothes ragged and soaked, seaweed clinging to his bony, shrunken feet. A thick stench permeated the room - the smell of the sea mixed with the odor of decay.

"You’re late," said Marie, a slight tremor in her voice. "I've made roast beef for dinner," she continued. "And change into a dry shirt. Or you'll catch your death of a cold."

All that you can't leave behind

(Had written this for the Writer's Group a while ago. One of my first attempts at fiction.)


There are 50 ways to leave your lover
Yell at her, curse her, just don’t shove her
And when she looks at you with aching eyes
Tell her the reason for saying goodbye.

“You’re doing it again, dammit,” shouted Lawrence.

Lorraine looked at him, eyes brimming. Her lips parted but no words came out.

“Don’t look at me that way, Lorraine,” said Lawrence. “You knew this was coming.”

Knew it was coming?
Not in a million years
Hadn’t we shared more
Than dreams, hopes and fears?

The muscle in Lawrence’s jaw twitched and his eyes narrowed. Lorraine looked away. Eighteen months together, and he could read her mind, it seemed.

“You can’t help it, can you?” he said, with a bitter laugh.

Lorraine was trapped. Saying anything would prove him right. Maybe if she didn’t say a word, he’d change his mind about leaving.

“If you’ve got nothing to say, I’ll leave,” said Lawrence.

The words flew out of Lorraine’s mouth before she could register them,

“Please I beg you, please don’t go.
You must know I love you so.
If you leave I’d be so lost
My heart would be in permafrost."

Lawrence pounded the table sending the cutlery flying. Lorraine started, and the tears she'd been holding back, spilled down her cheeks.

“Tell me Lorraine,” roared Lawrence, “can you utter one sentence without making it into bloody poetry?"

Lorraine was sobbing now. Lawrence was right; she just couldn't help it. Call it a gift or a curse, but ever since she'd learned to speak, the words had tumbled out in rhymes. Her parents had taken her to several doctors and therapists, but they could offer no explanations, nor prescribe a cure for her quirk. Eventually, her parents accepted that her brain was just wired differently.

But outside home, acceptance wasn't so easy. In second grade, her teacher made her stand outside class for an hour for 'being cheeky'. All Lorraine had said was,

"I did my homework, I really did slog
But then it got ate up by Billy my dog."

There were times when her 'habit' as she called it went into remission. And for months at a time she spoke normally, but it only took one harmless little verse to set her off again.

The last time it had happened, she was on her way home after her first date with Lawrence. She was so happy and radiant, the words wrote themselves in her head.

I think we'll be together
Come sunshine or rain.
Lovers now and forever
Lawrence and Lorraine!

Initially, Lawrence thought it charming and funny, and even encouraged her to write a book of verse. But when she broke into rhyme during intimate moments, he wasn't as amused.

And right now, he was livid.

"I can't take it anymore, Lorraine," said Lawrence, clutching his hair. You're a nice girl, but this rhyme thing you do... it's driving me out of my mind."

Lorraine wiped her tears with, and said in a quavering voice,

"I love you, is all I can say
And maybe this is the price I pay
Someday you'll come to see
The beauty in my poetry"

Lawrence strode out, slamming the door. By the time he had reached the road he was breathing heavily. He needed a smoke and he needed to get away. He walked fast, his hands jammed into the pockets of his denim. He'd get over her, he knew he would.

He walked into the petrol station and barked at the attendant behind the counter,

“One Marlboro, one espresso. And some chewing gum, to go.”

The attendant paused before ringing in the bill and said, "Hey you know what mister that rhymes". He didn't notice the colour draining from Lawrence’s face.

Still alive...

... still kicking.

A real post coming soon.

The MAGRUDY's Warehouse Sale. Don't miss it!

I'd written about their incredible sale last year. It's happening again this weekend.

Books from Dhs. 5. Oh joy!

Intrepid in Iran – On the road to Persepolis

Continued from Intrepid in Iran: Day 1 - Getting there

* Tall, stocky, blue eyes and impressive whiskers. That was Shaiky Bhai, our taxi driver, who spoke less than a dozen words in English, but who could expertly maneuver a vehicle with one male passenger in front, and 4 tightly wedged female passengers in the back. He convinced us to abandon our original plan of checking into our hotel and then going to the bazaars. “It’s Eid,” he told us in Farsi, “not a single shop will be open. It’s better if I take you to Persepolis instead.” Seeing the empty roads and shuttered shops en route to the city, we agreed to his plan.



* Ask me anything you want to know about Shiraz, Shaiky Bhai offered. I was keen to know if the famous Shiraz wine had any connection with the city. But when Heeba mentioned the word ‘sharaab’ (alcohol), even the unshakeable Shaiky Bhai sounded scandalized. Note to self (I jotted in my diary): 1. Avoid mention of alcohol while in Iran. 2. Consult online sources.


* We stopped at a restaurant before hitting Persepolis, and decided to sample some of the fine Iranian fare we’d heard so much about. Every single eye in the packed restaurant was on us as we entered. Did my headscarf slip? Is my costume ok? I did a rapid scan. All seemed fine. Then it struck us, that perhaps it was that invisible sign above our heads – TOURISTS AHOY! With our headscarves and tunics, I thought we’d done a good job of blending in, but the swivelling heads in the restaurant told us otherwise.



* We took off our shoes, positioned ourselves around the sofa bed, and waited to place our orders. Heeba had recommended the authentic Iranian stew. The waiter ruefully informed us – no stew, but do try the rice and kebabs. No problem, we thought, we still have 3 more days to try the stews. We piled our plates with juicy red tomatoes and pickled vegetables and waited. The rice and kebab dish turned out to be just that! Plain rice and grilled kebabs. The rice was flavoured with tiny stands of saffron and oodles of butter. It certainly was delicious (as all butter-laden fare usually is) but made one incredibly sluggish as well. The thought of catching a quick snooze on the sofa-bed was tempting, but we had a date with history.



* 512 B.C. 512 B.C! I couldn’t help marveling that I was standing amid ruins that were really that old. Even in its crumbling state, it seemed magnificent. Now known as Takht-e-Jamshid, Persepolis was originally built by Darius the Great and his heirs over a period of 150 years.




The walls still held exquisitely perfect etchings of humans, of beasts, of enchanting tableaus involving kings and visitors from exotic lands. Even the graffiti scribbled by vainglorious visitors had a certain aura, the oldest one dating back to the early 1800s.



Gaurav, Sonya and me climbed to the top of the mound where one of the emperors had been interred in a tomb. The view of the palace complex from the top was spectacular. If only we could watch the sun set over the ruins, we thought. But visiting hours were ‘8 – 17’ only, as the board at the entrance informed us.



* By the time we headed back to our vehicle, I was hot, tired and sorely uncomfortable. I had re-adjusted my headscarf at least 500 times, and I was one step away from itching my head like a primate. Compounding the discomfort was the dual layer of clothing I had donned. I couldn’t wait to reach the hotel and excavate myself from all of it.


Coming next: Mind your language

Intrepid in Iran: Day 1 - Getting there

* “I don’t know if I’ve mentioned this to you, but you’ll need to cover your head and your butt,” wrote Sonya in an email, a week before our proposed trip to Shiraz in Iran. I was about to mail a droll reply about how my low-rise jeans weren’t all that low, when she sent me a link to the dress code for tourists in Iran.

The idea of a dress code for tourists in itself seemed remarkable. And then the thought of wearing headscarves and full-sleeved, butt-covering tunics felt a bit archaic and chauvinistic, even. Gaurav, the sole male presence in our 5-member troop, attempted to console us by declaring, “I totally understand. Even I can’t wear my cutoff trousers.”


* Apparently, no one in Dubai covers their butts. I combed every store in Lamcy Plaza and could barely find a top long enough to disguise the (rather unmistakable) fact that I have a butt. I somehow managed to cobble together a wardrobe for the 4-day trip. But when I reached the airport, 4 pairs of eyes zeroed in on the two exposed inches of denim-clad gluteus maximus. When clenching or shirt-tugging didn’t work, Sonia pulled out the ‘emergency robe’. My first thought was that it looked like a bathrobe. But it did an admirable job of not only obscuring my posterior, but also every other non-linear shape neck below.


* “What happens if you don’t wear the proper attire in Iran,” I timidly asked Heeba, the American-born, Dubai-based Iranian in our group. “You go to jail,” she said, with utmost seriousness. “You must understand, it’s not a custom, it’s a law.” I pulled the bathrobe around me tighter.

Anachronistic, chauvinistic or whatever else Iran may be, I had made the choice to visit. And I didn’t have to agree with the rules, I decided. I just had to go along. So when the plane touched down at Shiraz International Airport, like every other female tourist on the flight, I patted my headscarf into place and disembarked.


* ‘Iranian Cultural Heritage Handicrafts and Tourism Organisation would be highly grateful if you could kindly fill the following form and hand it over to the officials’ – read the flimsy yellow flyer we were handed at the airport. One of the few perks of being an Indian travelling to Iran was the Visa On Arrival status. But this form seemed a bit too informal for an officious document.

Apparently, it was. On filling of yellow flyer, one was handed a handwritten slip with visa fees, which had to be paid at another counter, following which another more officious-looking form had to be filled and handed over along with passports for the visa to be processed.

“How much time?” we asked the polite but harried staff on duty. “One hour at least,” he said, with an excessive emphasis on the last two words. “Maybe they’ve never had so many tourists visiting,” whispered Heeba.


* I expected to see beady-eyed, long-bearded officials skulking around the airport, looking out for inappropriate attire or manners, but most of the staff – all male, incidentally – seemed unconcerned, a bit bored, even. They didn’t even raise an eyebrow when a gaggle of kids from the French tourists’ troupe proceeded to knock down the stands while playing a boisterous game of tag. A little reassured, I sank into the airport chairs and nodded off a bit.

Two hours later, and just seconds before the next international flight arrived into Shiraz, we were handed our passports and visas.


* WELCOME TO SHIRAZ, said the banner just above the exit.


Coming next: Day 1 - The ruins of Persepolis

Absolute Lee turns FIVE

5 years ago, on a slow day at work, I hopped onto the blogwagon. I picked the first name that came to my mind, 'Absolute Lee'. And since rediffblogs insisted on a tag line, picked the second thing that came to mind, 'About the girl-next-door with the mind as wicked as the boy-next-door'.

Unlike most blogs at that time, mine wasn't an online diary. Nor was it a place to vent feelings or other personal stuff. I was doing a writing course at that time, and Chapter 1 started with the injunction to write everyday. The blog seemed like the perfect place not just to explore writing but also to track my progress. The focus of the blog was on experiences, stories from everyday life. A quotidian chronicle, as one of the early blog friends described it.

I had started the blog when I was on a sabbatical from advertising, and was exploring a career in freelance writing. But when that didn't work out, and I hopped back into advertising, and moved to Dubai as well, the blog tagged along like a bit of excess baggage. I willed myself to keep it going through trying times. Even with long absences and lack of motivation, I couldn't bring myself to pull the plug, as it were. It was a comfortable place to come back to every now and then. And once in a while, I could even surprise myself by posting every day, like I did last August-September.

Recently, having joined a Writer's Group in Dubai and trying my hand at fiction, I find I enjoy it immensely. It's still raw and 'work-in-progress', but it's also stimulating and the feedback from the group is gratifying. Writing the blog all these years, has helped make the transition to fiction a lot easier, I feel. People in the Group comment about the 'voice' in my writing and one has even described it as 'creepy but endearing'. (Another way of saying girl-next-door mind as wicked etc.??)

Thanks all of you for being around, for your comments, and for making this a fun hangout.

To Persia, and back

Over three years in the UAE, and until four days ago, I hadn't visited a single country in the Middle East. So when a couple of friends mentioned heading out to Iran during the long Eid break, I leaped at the opportunity.

We travelled to southwest Iran, to the city of Shiraz in the Fars province. And what a marvellous trip it was! Unlike anything I've ever done before (but then I say that about all my journeys.) Will post vignettes in the days to follow. Stay tuned.

Atlantis, The Palm

It's hard not to be impressed by Atlantis at Palm Jumeirah. Driving down the trunk of the Palm with swank buildings on either side, you can see Atlantis looming ahead. By the time you've passed under the lofty arches and have reached the entrance, your imagination (mixed with a bit of buzz and hype) is in overdrive. And while projecting a nonchalant air on the outside, you're in fact a giddy schoolgirl inside, dying to get to class the next day and announce, "You'll never believe where I was yesterday!"

Three weeks ago, a fire broke out at Atlantis which started in the main lobby area, just above this glass sculpture. Although the resort opened as planned on September 24, you can still see signs of restoration (behind the black screens) and get a whiff of charred remains. Somehow this only adds to the aura of Atlantis. Unlike the fabled city which sunk overnight, the Palm Atlantis virtually rose from the ashes, in time to meet the public.

The souvenir store at Atlantis. Where you can come away with cuddly sharks and jolly jellyfish.


A glimpse of the ceiling. A nautical theme runs through the Atlantis, but it feels a bit uneven in parts. Something like The Little Mermaid meets the local fishmarket.


The entrance to the Lost Chamber. This was the best part of the entire Atlantis experience for me. (I haven't checked out the Aquaventure theme park and its 'Leap of Faith' ride yet.)


The last time I'd been mesmerised by aquatic life was when I was snorkelling in the Great Barrief Reef in Cairns, Australia. Nothing can ever compare to that sublime experience, but watching these beautiful creatures glide so blissfully, I couldn't help feeling that I could watch them for hours and still come away marvelling.


These fish reminded me of (what I know as) ladyfish, until they opened their mouth, and some membranes popped out, with the end result being rather comical.


Buttoned-down tuxedos. What the well-dressed fish are wearing.


The exquisitely graceful jellyfish. Beauty with bite.


And a few more...


You cannot appreciate the phrase, 'slippery as an eel', until you see this exhibit. My efforts to get an entire eel in a picture was repeatedly thwarted by their ceaseless darting through the enclosures.


You don't want to be alone at home with this critter. Nuff said.


The almost-genial looking piranas.


The little 'Nemos' or clownfish. I also spotted the rescued whale shark gliding majestically in one of the aquariums.

There's a better way, I discovered later, to experience this marine life, than running around the aquariums, gawking at the fish and pressing close to the 2-feet thick wall of glass.

The Lost Chambers Suites, on the other side of the glass wall, have the better view. But for sheer indulgence, there's nothing to beat the $25,000-a-night Bridge Suite replete with personal butlers and chefs, and a gold-leaf dining table.

Humans and nature or humans v/s nature - the debate raged in my mind as I drove back home. Environmentalists have been concerned, people have protested, and even the old nutjobs are ranting.

What really caught my eye when I was reading about the fabled city of Atlantis was this bit...

... there existed an island nation located in the middle of the Atlantic ocean populated by a noble and powerful race. The people of this land possessed great wealth thanks to the natural resources found throughout their island. The island was a center for trade and commerce.

...For generations the Atlanteans lived simple, virtuous lives. But slowly they began to change. Greed and power began to corrupt them....

...Soon, in one violent surge it was gone. The island of Atlantis, its people, and its memory were swallowed by the sea.

A moving experience

One of the disadvantages of an open plan office seating is that eye contact can easily be made, and conversations can be carried out with someone seated 10 feet away without moving from one’s seat. Think 16 somewhat excitable people in such a setting. And for good measure, add the non-stop blare from a couple of computer speakers. For someone like me, who gets disturbed by the uproar caused by a falling pin, such a work environment can be quite non-conducive to work.

So when, during the day, the decibel levels reach those of a shooting range, I head to the only quiet corner in the entire office – the women’s loo. In the tiny 3’ x 5’ space, sound recedes and focus returns. Scattered thoughts meld and sparks ignite. Now, if there was only a way to fit a computer and a net connection somehow…

So it was a couple of days ago, that I headed to the ‘Thinking Room’ and sat on the only seat available. There was a brief to worked on, and the glimmer of an idea had been forming in the back of my head. I closed my eyes to allow it to take shape, unhindered by thought or movement. The stillness was almost perfect – within and without.

And I began to feel a gentle vibration. Like something from deep within. I could feel it travel from my toes to my temples. Warm spirals of energy. This was an extremely rare experience. Something I’d only read or heard about. I had felt something milder during meditation, but for the first time, I could feel the vibrations so perceptibly. I felt I was on the brink of something momentous. Some great Universal Truths were being revealed to me. I felt connected to the Source and to living things everywhere.

I emerged from Thinking Room, feeling energized and tranquil.

A colleague passing by looked at me and with awe in his voice, asked, “Did you feel it?”

“How did you know?” I asked, suddenly disoriented.

“Apparently, it was a big one in Iran,” he said. “Almost 7.5 on the Richter scale.”

Coming soon...

I've missed you, blog.

Thinking aloud

The trickiest part of taking a break from writing is finding the right words to break the silence. What if you've lost the ability? What if you trip over your own self-consciousness? Perhaps, these words would never have been written if I wasn't battling 'copywriter's block', and needed to empty out. In a way, cut a vein, and let it all bleed out.

Intense, huh? But that's a pretty accurate word to describe life lately. Intense. Kilimanjaro was ticked off the list three months ago, but there are some bits of that experience that don't fit comfortably. And then there was the onerous exercise of moving house followed by the even more formidable task of setting up house. Again, intense. Some other changes too - people moving away, new priorities, new challenges. Too much 'new'.

One of these days, we'll find that elusive balance. One of these days, we'll stop living inside our head. One of these days...

Just did it!

For all of you waiting with bated breath... WE MADE IT!

All four of us reached the 'roof of Africa' on Saturday, 17 Feb at 8.45 a.m.

We're all in different stages of recovery right now... Updates when we reach home.

P.S. thanks for all your wishes, prayers, helpful tips and crossed fingers...

Breaking in the new hiking shoes...

...on the slopes of Jebel Jenas in Ras Al Khaimah. It's a moderately difficult 5-hour trek, say the good folks at Mountain Extreme.

Moderate or difficult, we'll find out tomorrow.


Update: The trek was both moderate and difficult. I could swear the incline was 75 degrees in places. And in places, following a goat track at the edge of the precipice was thrilling. But best was the silence, where you could hear even the flapping of a bird's wings... Pics and update will follow.

Am-Bushed!

Thank you, Mr. George Bush!

An unexpected holiday is always good news, except if you're heavily pregnant or if you work at a petrol pump, or if you happen to be wearing those 5-inch Manolos.

M' assalamah Mr. Bush. Do come again... next week.

Gear and now

Also posted at The Kilimanjaro Blog


Mountain of caravans, mountain of greatness, shining mountain - no one quite agrees on the real interpretation of 'Kilimanjaro'. But among the multiple meanings ascribed to it, my personal favourite is 'little white hill'.

Little, indeed.

But Kilimanjaro may well turn out to be a molehill as compared to the bigger problem I'm facing now - gear shopping. There are hardly any outdoor outfitters in Dubai, and the only two I've found - Columbia and Timberland - seem woefully inadequate.

Sample conversation:

Me: Do you have fleece jackets?

Salesman: Yes, ma'am. Right here... (points to a row of sleeveless jackets)

Me: Don't you have jackets with sleeves??

Salesman: Ok, look in the children's section. You might get your size.

If he didn't get advanced hypothermia from the look I gave him, I would be very surprised.


It doesn't get easier when it comes to shopping for the right pair of boots. "Walk down a ramp to check that your toes don't get crushed," suggested Alpha.

Not only were there no ramps in the store I went to, but even options were hard to come by. One pair of tenacious leather boots which would've shredded any toe that fell under it, and one pair of boots with Gore-tex fabric, which didn't inspire much confidence.

All's not lost though. It turns out there's a store right down my street which stocks ski gear at almost throwaway prices. I've never understood their business model, but I'm not complaining right now. I've managed to get a few pairs of gloves and socks, and a fleece jacket or two.

My final resort is to order gear from Alpha's friendly neighbourhood REI and get/request /implore/beseech Alpha to lug it to Nairobi.

Tying a shoelace is like Kilimanjaro, sometimes

Until a few months ago, Kilimanjaro was a personal goal. Having been out of the trekking circuit for close to 3 years, it was a challenge to get back in shape to be able to do a high-altitude trek. But once the training got underway, an opportunity was presented to do more than achieve a personal milestone. And that was to raise awareness and funding for a cause that's close to my heart - Rheumatoid Arthritis.

As some of you might know, my sister, Preeti, had Rheumatoid Arthritis for 7 long and painful years, until she succumbed to complications arising out of the illness almost three years ago. She was 32 years old. The last few years of her life saw her struggle to maintain her familar smiling face even as her joints got swollen and stiff, and her normal stride turned into an awkward limp. Activities that most of us do without even a second thought like jumping aboard a train or sitting cross legged or even raising an arm, fell under the list of movements deemed 'next to impossible' for her. Once, I watched with mounting dismay as it took her a full five minutes to take off a T-shirt and by then, she was panting and staggering with the effort.

Rheumatoid Arthritis is like that. It's also chronic and indiscriminate, striking without any precedent. There's 7-year-old Mazhar*, I've come to know through the Emirates Arthritis Foundation, who's had Rheumatoid Arthritis for the past 2 years. Initially, when it took him almost an hour to get out of bed in the morning, his parents attributed it to laziness. It was only when he cried incessantly and complained of pain even when his mother hugged him, did they suspect something was amiss. Now, the 7-year old, with large, curious eyes, has to sit in the sidelines and watch as his friends play football. Some days it takes him an hour just to wear his shoes. He misses school frequently, and his parents fret that he's unusually moody and silent.

Dr. Humeira Badshah, a rheumatologist with the Emirates Arthritis Foundation asserts that there are treatments that can control the disease, enabling patients like Mazhar to lead a life that's as normal as possible. Most patients respond well to the new treatments, and in time are able to return to school or to their jobs. The main deterrent however, is the cost.

My goal is to raise Dhs. 40,000 (USD 11,000 approx.) for Mazhar's treatment. It's a steep figure, but then, at 19,340 feet, so is Kilimanjaro. In aspiring to one, I'm hoping this other goal will be accomplished as well.

So here's a earnest plea to all of you reading this - if you can contribute a small amount, any amount, for Mazhar's treatment, it would be a huge help. If you can pass on this appeal to family or friends, it would help even more.

You can contribute in cash, cheque or wire transfer. The team at Emirates Arthritis Foundation is also trying to set up an online payment option. Until then, if you would like to contribute, simply write to me - absoluteleela {at} gmail {dot} com. Or to Cathy Leibman, Director-Operations, Emirates Arthritis Foundation - cathy {at} arthritis {dot} ae

I look forward to your generous support for Mazhar. Because a 7-year deserves to be in the playground, not on the sidelines.


* name changed on request

You know it's a new year when...

... you can't find a single empty treadmill at the gym.

Long live resolutions.

Priceless Pictures # 13: Wish you all much suckcess in 2008!

Sign in a Mumbai local train:



Also see: Priceless Pictures # 1, # 2, # 3, # 4, # 5, # 6, # 7, # 8 , # 9, #10, # 11, # 12

The highest blogger meet in the world

Also posted at The Kilimanjaro Blog


In the last four years that we’ve known each other (virtually, of course), Alpha and I have tried to meet up a few times. It’s a bit tricky getting the co-ordinates right when you’re on two different continents separated by a couple of oceans, but she was in Bombay once, and I was almost in Bangalore, another time. And then, last year, she planned Europe, while I considered Australia… It’s not a small world, after all.

Just when I was beginning to imagine a dotage blogger meet, the tectonic plates shifted somewhere, and our agendas and venues came together. I suggested Kilimanjaro, since it had been on my wishlist for a while. A mountain lover herself, she not only got fired up by the idea, but also got Pi and half of Pittsburgh interested. She then scouted around for tour operators, decided the route, sent off a flurry of mails, started raising funds for charity, packed and repacked her bags, started the blog, and if Pi tells me she’s already at the airport waiting for the flight due in February, I’d believe him.

Jokes aside, I totally credit Alpha for this trip coming together so far. I’ve had a lot on my mind the last few months to focus on this trip, and I’m grateful for Alpha’s determination. When you set out to reach the peak of the highest free-standing mountain in the world, it’s exactly that kind of focus you need. And hopefully, the rest of us will match up in the coming weeks.

If not, I've full faith that Alpha will sling us over a shoulder and saunter all the way to the top.

Climb every mountain

I cannot remember how and when the idea of climbing Kilimanjaro took hold. It might have begun as a vague thought sometime this year, but it’s a dream that’s been taking shape for the last few years, ever since I did the high-altitude trek in Ladakh in August 2003. That was the start of the mountain madness, and the weekend treks in the mountains on the outskirts of Bombay only fuelled the mania. Moving to Dubai in 2005 put paid to that obsession, but only for a while. And now, Kilimanjaro beckons.

There couldn’t be a more curious bunch than the four of us who are doing this trip. Alpha and I have known each other for close to 4 years, through our blogs, then through emails and then the surprisingly lengthy phone calls. We’ve never met, although we’ve been in the same city on one occasion, and in the same country, another time. She’s tried her match-making skills on me a few times, unsuccessfully, I might add, and I’ve asked her for recipes a few times, which she still hasn’t parted with.

I know Pi, her husband, only through her (expectedly biased) posts, and I don’t know much about Nai, the 4th member of our troupe, other than the fact that he was Alpha’s classmate, and of good character - as I was repeatedly assured by Alpha when she tried to book us into the same room. The last ditch attempt at match-making might just have borne fruit, except that Nai’s wife wouldn’t hear of it. So separate rooms it is.

We still have about 7 weeks to go before we meet up for the first time in Nairobi. And a busy 7 weeks it’s going to be, with training, gear shopping, and of course, regular blog updates at The Kilimanjaro Blog. Your comments and encouragement, are welcome as always.

Congratulations Patweeta & Ashtrix!

Bhubaneshwar's buzzing with excitement as the Wedding of the Year gets underway. Tomorrow, the golden couple of blogdom, Patrix & Ashweeta will tie the knot. In a not wholly unexpected departure from tradition, there will be three of them walking around the sacred fire - Patrix, Ash and a laptop. Patrix and Ash will take turns to blog about the ceremonies for those of us who aren't attending. They will also be exchanging vows - "I promise to be true to you in good times and bad, through rediffblogs.com and blogspot.com, through sickness and health, so help me, Blog." Patrix will be making a grand entry on a white horse, and has been horsing around um... practising his horse-riding skills for the last few weeks on the old rocking horse retrieved from his parents' house in Panvel.

Jest aside, here's wishing you amazing twosome a memorable day, and an amazing lifetime ahead. The Apache Blessing says it all...

Now you will feel no rain, for each of you will be shelter for the other.
Now you will feel no cold, for each of you will be warmth to the other.
Now there will be no loneliness, for each of you will be companion to the other.
Now you are two persons, but there is only one life before you.
May beauty surround you both in the journey ahead and through all the years,
May happiness be your companion and your days together be good and long upon the earth.

Yet another brilliant sunset

Don't you just love December?

There's a wee nip in the air these days. Not the kind of weather that makes you grab a jacket and thrust your hands deep in its pockets. But the kind that steals up on you and makes the hair on your forearm quiver. The kind that makes you roll down the car windows so that the wind can style your hair.

People seem happier, or is it just me? The prospect of vacations and festivities, reunions and revelry seems to infuse a happy glow everywhere. No matter how the year has turned out this far, December can make it all come together. Leave November to its neuroses, and leave January to handle regrets and resolutions, December is for getting carried away, unabashedly.

Someone I met recently has sworn off meat, spirits and smoking for a whole month in anticipation of the hedonism to follow in the last week of the year. That's how seriously people take December.

And what better way to start off December than with a long weekend. It's the UAE National Day today. And there's another anticipated holiday on account of Eid sometime soon. And there are trails to discover, and locales to explore, and conversations to continue...

Don't you just love December?

Remembrance

It was a minute after midnight. The Cuban band took a break from the rousing samba numbers to play the familiar birthday melody. The crowd joined in singing and clapping, not knowing who was being wished. It seemed the perfect moment to whisper a wish for her too, and imagine her celebrating in some celestial hangout with newfound friends, and dancing uninhibitedly into the wee hours of the morning, the way she always loved to. She would have been 35 today.

Tell me a story... - II

Continued from ‘Tell Me a Story’


The bus wasn’t expected for a couple of hours, we were told. P and I had just about exchanged dismayed looks when the errant bus rumbled into the terminus. We scrambled aboard, relieved, until we realized that we hadn’t a clue of how to reach our final destination from wherever the bus dropped us off.

“I have a map, if it helps,” a voice piped up from across the aisle.

It was the elderly man again. Helplessness trumped over mild irritation, and we decided to consult the proffered map.

‘Karnataka: One State. Many Worlds’ – read the text at the right hand corner of the map. P and I pored over it, getting our bearings. The elderly man helpfully pointed out our destination and remarked that we weren’t too far from the bus stop. We thanked him for his help, and I casually asked if he was a frequent traveler in these parts.

“This is my third visit,” he told us, “my crew’s already gone on ahead.”

What crew, we inquired.

“The camera crew,” he said. “I work as a producer with Discovery Channel, and we’re doing a segment on Karnataka.”

Appearances can be misleading, I thought. Here I had pegged him for a small town schoolteacher or even some religious sort, on account of the beads and longish hair. He certainly didn’t fit the image of an international TV producer.

Conversation flowed more freely after this revelation since both P and I work with media-related organizations. We exchanged notes about work and Discovery programmes and travel, when he told us offhand that he had a yearly routine of driving to Germany.

Drive, I exclaimed, a little too loudly!

He confirmed that my hearing was good, and that he did indeed drive to Germany taking a route via Pakistan, Iran, Turkey and so on, until he reached Germany.

”How many days does it take you?” I asked, fascinated.

“23 days, including rest days,” he replied.

But why Germany, I had to know.

Sensing that he had finally captured our attention, his diffidence receded and his manner became a bit oratorical.

"Germany has given me two things most valuable to me," he said, and then after a dramatic pause, continued, "Firstly, it's given me my doctorate - I did a PhD in Psychology at the Berlin University. And secondly, it's given me my boss."

What a workaholic, I thought. But once again I was in for a surprise.

He laughed at my stupefied expression and said, "Surely you know what I mean – I’m talking of the boss at home! I met my wife in Germany."

Apparently, they travelled to Germany for Christmas every year, she by air, and he, by road. His return route was equally convoluted and took almost 5 weeks, since he decided to spend time in remote islands along the way.

He seemed to be a devoted husband though, and couldn’t stop gushing about how he considered her words as commands from God, and of how he was perhaps the only Indian male to wake up each morning and touch his wife’s feet.

P had a giggling fit, which she quickly turned into a cough. I was amused too, but there were jaw-dropping revelations to follow.

He wasn’t in his 50s as we’d assumed. He was 73 and travelled ten months of the year, including the trip to Germany. He slept for 2 1/2 hours at night, and meditated another 2 1/2 hours. He spoke of papers he’d written and his theories of God. He painted a fascinating picture of places he’d visited. Truth and fiction seemed intertwined in parts, but that only added to the mystique of the story teller. He showed me notes he’d painstakingly handwritten – programme synopses, journal articles, and even an article on a Christian saint, ostensibly requested by the Vatican!

The bus was lurching violently on the unpaved road. It was almost two hours since we’d left the bus station in Hubli, but I hardly noticed. He insisted we keep in touch, but didn’t have a business card. I offered mine, and he said I’d be hearing from him soon.

I never did, but that didn’t matter anyway. I had my story after all.

The dog ate my post today...

... we'll be back with a new dog tomorrow.

Tell me a story...

I love listening to a good story. Especially if it’s a life story that’s filled with intrigue and achievement, agonies and triumphs, love and adventure, folly and madness, particularly madness. I can always sense when I’ve met a person with such a story. A few words exchanged, and I just know. I feel a bubble of curiosity building up, my focus sharpens and time becomes obsolete. A quiver full of questions appears by my side, and I’ve to restrain myself from shooting all of them impatiently. I can listen until the person has outtalked himself or herself, or until they seem uncomfortable to lay it all bare. I’m curious but not voyeuristic.

Listening to a good story thrills me beyond belief. I can recall and recount the details right down to the expressions long after the encounter. I feel privileged and humbled by the sharing, invigorated by the experience, which often enough is all too brief. Glancing back at this year, the moments which stand out, right next to special times with friends and family, are these encounters with ‘story tellers’.

The digeridoo player from Australia, the demolitions expert from the Canadian NATO force in Afghanistan, the photographer-philanthropist, the Moroccan flamenco guitarist and psychology enthusiast, the divorced parlour assistant separated from her 6-year-old daughter, the pilot-musician-entrepreneur, the environmental activist and organic farmer from a small town in Karnataka, the manicurist with aspirations of becoming a lawyer, the septuagenarian producer from Discovery Channel… I’ve been enriched by their stories.

As it usually happens, the introductions come about innocuously enough. You’d never suspect there was a story waiting to unravel. I was, in fact, studiously ignoring the short, bald old man in the white kurta and checked mustard yellow pants with some kind of beads around his neck at the bus stand in Hubli, Karnataka. We were in unfamiliar terrain, and a bit disoriented even. Our bus seemed to be late, and even the bus stand attendants were unsure about when the next bus would arrive. So, when the elderly man tried striking up a conversation with us twice, we were a bit terse…

To be continued

Friday Brunch Menu

1 Pajero
1 Jeep
1 UAE Off-Road Explorer
5 off-road enthusiasts who abhor wasting a Friday morning tucked under the covers
9 litres water
Miles and miles of empty roads
10 kms. of sand dunes
Half a dozen wild camels
A sprinkling of shrubs
1 destination - Fossil Rock
6-7 wrong turns
1 sweltering sun
5 lost but contented souls
1 dozen plans for the next weekend

Ten years on...

... the magic hasn't faded.

Michael Hutchence
22 Jan 1960 - 22 Nov 1997

10 years ago, a rockstar on the wane hung himself from the door of his hotel room, and became immortal. He was on tour in Sydney, promoting his album, uncannily titled, Elegantly Wasted. It was an ignominous end to a life which seemed so full of talent and promise, but in the annals of rock and roll, it was a scripted finale almost.

I admit I'm an unabashed INXS fan, and own all of their music, except for a couple of early albums. It's not the typical music I listen to, and friends are rather amused by my incongruous passion for INXS. But to me it's music that connects me to a time of growing up, and MTV, of 'seeing' music and not just listening to it on the radio. And then of course, there's Michael's voice - deep, seductive, glorious. Marry that with an in-your-face sensual stage persona and you have a perfect recipe for a schoolgirl crush.

I've lost count or probably never kept track of the number of times I've listened to the ballad, 'Never Tear Us Apart' from the 1987 Kick album. It continues to be one of my favourite songs of all time. Kick was the album that catapulted INXS onto the world stage, and won them the Grammys. But personally, I prefer an album which came later, and which received a lukewarm response - Full Moon, Dirty Hearts. It's unusually mellow in parts but runs deep, with songs like 'Please' (with Ray Charles), 'Full Moon Dirty Hearts', 'Freedom Deep' and 'Kill the Pain'.

By the mid-90s however Michael's much-publicised private life was catching up with him. His penchant for high profile girlfriends such as Kylie Minogue, Helena Christensen and Paula Yates meant that he was in the news, and not always for the right reasons. When the spiral of drugs and depression got too much, it seemed he decided to sing his swansong, leaving behind a rich legacy of music and several generations of fans who refuse to let go.

I was standing
You were there
Two worlds collided
And they could never tear us apart.

- from 'Never Tear Us Apart'

An Encounter

He entered the hospital waiting room while the nurse was measuring my height and doing some other preliminaries.

“Have you grown taller?” he asked, smiling

I was taken aback by his friendliness as well as by the question.

“Oh, I wish,” I replied.

After the nurse had left, I asked him if he was there to see the same doctor. He said, yes, and that it was his third visit.

“You mean, he didn’t cure you on the first attempt?” I asked, attempting a bit of humour.


“I’m just here for follow ups. I had a brain tumour removed. And I’ve to follow up to ensure everything’s ok up here,” he said, tapping his forehead.

I could have bitten my tongue. But he didn’t seem to mind my weak joke. I noticed there were faint dark crescents below his eyes. Old battle scars.

“That must have been something,” I murmured.

“Well, yeah,” he said, “it was a benign one but it was causing pressure on the brain, so they had to take 80% of it out.”

“And what of the remaining 20%?” I asked

“Well, that’s still there. They’re monitoring it. It’s been 2 ½ years now, and it’s behaving itself. Who knows what the future holds…” he trailed off, still smiling.

The doctor came out of his chamber and asked me to step in. He noticed the other person in the waiting room and waved at him, recognizing him. He waved back.

He looked up and smiled when I came out. I muttered a ‘Good Luck’ before leaving.

20%, I kept thinking. Imagine walking around knowing there’s a latent volcano inside you.

I just wish I’d asked him his name.

Welcome...

... to our 10,000th visitor, who stumbled here looking for 'DUBAI UNREAL ESTATE' (caps not mine).

Unreal, it is. Sigh.

SALE!

Philip Roth, Peter Carey, Tim Winton, Alice Munro, Margaret Atwood, Alan Holinghurst, Paul Auster, Naomi Wolf, Neil Gaiman...

... for just Dhs. 3 each! (Rs. 33 or thereabouts)

The Magrudy's Warehouse Sale over the past weekend, was the best sale I've ever attended. We're not talking second hand or soiled copies - they were brand new books most of them still cocooned in plastic. It was maddeningly thrilling to turn the book around and still find the yellow price tags listing (what now seemed) exorbitant prices.

Initially, when I entered, the hardbound books were going at Dhs. 10 and paperbacks at Dhs. 5. But, the prices were slashed in the last hour before the sale. It rankled a bit to find 'Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix' going for Dhs. 5.

"Take it, take it," pleaded the salesman. "

"I've already got a copy," I said.

"Gift it to somebody," he squeaked, thrusting two copies at me.

It wasn't just the salespeople who'd gone mental. Someone near me had picked up an empty carton, having dispensed with the Magrudy's blue net bag, and was stocking up for a very long winter. Another was wheeling around a supermarket trolley stacked with books. This was what 'Booktopia' would be like, I told myself.

An hour and a half later, fatigue and thirst got the better of me, but not before I carried 18 books to the cashier.

"50 dirhams," said the cashier. I happily paid.

As I was about to pick up the bulging bags and leave, the cashier asked me to wait. He picked 3 more books off the counter and put them in my bags. Diwali bonus, he said and winked.

I could do with a bigger apartment for Christmas.

Going, going...

Sleeping bag - check
Pullover - check
Red Devil - check
Phone - uncheck

...we're going camping.

Radio, some one still loves you...

There's nothing to beat the sheer popularity of radio in this country. In all the time I've been here, I've rarely heard anyone discussing a TV show or a news article with as much passion as radio shows. Phone lines of popular shows are constantly jammed with garrulous callers who breathlessly reveal personal details with unrestrained candour. I once heard a guy tell an RJ, "You're the best thing to have happened to me." This, to a disembodied voice on the airwaves. People are known to enter their cars and turn on the radio before the air-conditioning.

I'll admit it takes your mind off traffic and crazy drivers on occasion, but I'm not one to go 'Radio ga-ga'. If anything, I'm allergic to dial-in shows and inane, superfluous chatter. I'd rather listen to static than to some pseudo-chirpy RJ banter punctuated by forced, grating laughter. The only thing that's music to my ears, is music. And thankfully my iPod accomplishes that without any back chat.

Still, once in a while I venture out among the airwaves, to listen for new music, or radio commercials (part of the job) or sale announcements (part of life, heh). Last weekend, I was listening to my one-time favourite radio station called The Coast. It used to be the only radio station in the country that played great music without any commercial breaks or RJs. Naturally, an aberration like that couldn't continue for long, and now, it's just like every other radio station, commercials, RJs and all.

The Coast RJ was reading out a letter from an ardent listener, "Dear RJ, I've a problem of sorts. I'm 8 months pregnant, and my doctor says I'm due on December 6th. Now, I've just bought my tickets for the Justin Timberlake show on the same day. What should I do - give away the tickets or take the chance and go for the show?"

Now this is one question that's seldom found in the Training Syllabus for Aspiring RJs. But that didn't stop Mr. RJ from venturing an answer, first pausing to employ the classic 'Miss Universe Question Round Trick' i.e. paraphrase the question to gain time to formulate a winning answer,

"Dear X, I'm not 8 months pregnant, but if I were you and I had bought tickets to the Timberlake show on the same day that the doctor said I was due... I would definitely go for the Timberlake show."


For everyone's sake, I hope Justin's entourage has a midwife or two.

Bemusedus Felineathus - (s)potted at Lime Tree Cafe, Jumeirah

what would you like?

i'd like
to
live in
a place
where
leaves
turn
yellow
and red
and
fall in
soft
heaps

i'd like
a room
with
a
view of
mountains
tall
silent
ones

i'd like
white
wicker
furniture
and
kettles
and
shelves
lots of
shelves

i'd like
a
day
with
no
to do
lists
or
chores
or ringing
phones
or
thoughts
of tomorrow

i'd like
mint tea
by
the window
with
golden light
peeking in
and
a bird
or
two
stopping by
for
a chat

i'd like
to
pore over
old photographs
or read
old letters
which i
always
said
i'd read
someday

I'd like
that
i
sure
would

Mozart turns mallrat

It's possible to find just about anything in a mall in Dubai. A ski slope, an elephant water clock, and, as I discovered last week, a Philharmonic Orchestra.

It was incredible enough to find that Dubai had a Philharmonic Orchestra, but to have them perform with an Australian Jazz Quartet an ambitious concert titled, 'Jazz meets Mozart' - well, that was almost like finding parking at the mall on a Friday night. Almost.

The lobby of the Dubai Community Theatre and Arts Centre (DUCTAC), just above the ski slope, started filing up by 7.30 p.m. but the concert only began at around 8.30. One easily excused the delay when the musicians began playing. Spellbinding just doesn't begin to describe it. A rousing samba rendition of Mozart's haunting Symphony No. 40 made it impossible to keep ones feet from tapping. But my favourite was the overture from 'The Marriage of Figaro', Unlike the energetic piece originally written by Mozart, the jazzed up version had a slow plaintive beginning with just the lead violinist and the saxophonist which progressed at a steady pace with a few piano solos, and then built up to the familiar crescendo with the entire Orchestra furiously working their instruments.

The conductor, Philip Maier, seemed very self-assured, and the Orchestra never struck a wrong chord. Two hours later, as I was driving back home still humming snatches of melodies played, it struck me that for once being a mall rat wasn’t such a bad thing after all.

I'll have a six-pack, thank you...

Sign at the Dubai Metro construction site,

"SAFETY COMES IN CANS. I CAN, YOU CAN, WE CAN."

Dibbaaaah!