Absolute Lee

Feel the lurrve

2011-08-16T00:32:00.001+04:00

Anavalanche hit me on my birthday this year. Over 200 emails from friends,cousins, acquaintances, old classmates, ex-boyfriends, people I haven’t spokento in years, even people I’ve been avoiding.

Ofcourse, anyone who has his or her birth date listed on Facebook will know whatI’m talking about. The wishes just keep pouring in. Each time you empty out abatch of Facebook notifications, there’s another deluge within a few minutes.

Let’sget this straight, I enjoy attention as much as any other megalomaniac. Andthis torrent of wishes can be quite heady. As a kid, I always wanted the wholeworld to know it was my birthday and fawn over me. I loved it when peopleremembered the day without prompting and gave me cards and gifts, but equallythrilling was someone finding out and then making a big deal of it.

“Ohhh!!it’s your birthday!!! Hey everyone, it’s her birthday!!!! Haaaapppyyyybiiiiirthhhhdayyyy tooooo youuuuuuu……”

Overthe years, the thrill of celebrating birthdays never diminished. But somehowpeople’s enthusiasm hasn’t quite kept up. Does anyone even send greeting cardswith hand written messages anymore? I loved receiving them. They used to be the harbinger of birthdays,arriving in the post with exotic stamps and with the scent of faraway places. Istill have a collection of those cards, some of them over 30 years old.

E-cardstried to replicate the same emotion, but they never caught on thankfully. Withtheir annoying pop ups and tinny music, they just seemed like a soullessversion of the real thing.

Then,of course, came sms wishes. HB 2 U. Throw in a smiley or two and you could eveninject some emotion into an impersonal message. It always struck me as odd toreceive sms wishes from friends in the same city. But this year, it turned outthat most of the text messages I received were from banks and malls – facelessestablishments that needed to prove their ‘human’ side.

Itused to be that the older you grew, the fewer the people who remembered yourbirthday, and made the effort to wish you. But Facebook’s changed all that. Wishesstart trickling in at the stroke of midnight, or earlier, depending on yourtime zone. The friends who usually needed prompts and warnings in the past, nowhave no problem remembering. The ‘Wall’is painted with enthusiastic outpourings, cheerful declarations and ferventwishes. Even people you’ve had minimal interaction with in years seem to feelfor you somehow.

I’mnot saying that there’s anything insincere about these wishes. It’s just thatthey seem a little too ‘easy’. The challenge used to be in making the effort toremember birthdays. Earlier, you had to make a note of it in a diary or embedit in memory. And you only reserved this privilege for the important few.

Now,people know it’s your birthday because Facebook tells them. You can write awish without having to look at the date. Coz, hey, Facebook will prompt younext year as well. With minimal effort, you can hammer out a few words and thenget on with checking someone’s vacation photos, or comment on someone’s status.

Somepeople find it ‘overwhelming’ and are ‘touched’ with this outpouring of love ontheir birthdays. Some others go to the extent of replying and thanking everysingle person who’s left a wish on their wall. I’m often embarrassed whensomeone thanks me. It feels like they’ve put in more effort than I have.

MaybeI’m just growing old and crotchety, and prone to ranting. Maybe it really isnice to be thought of, even if briefly, by over 200 people on your birthday. Butthere’s nothing to beat the few calls from family and close friends, who didn’tneed to refer to Facebook to know it’s my birthday.

Reviews on the go

2011-07-30T19:51:00.001+04:00

A quick round up of movies watched this weekend, reviewed in one line.

Bridesmaids

Diarrhea happens.

Verdict: Excellent!!

Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows Part II

The End, or is it?

Verdict: Snorrrrre

Shaitan

Spoiled rich kids meet their end.

Verdict: Unmissable!

Postcard from Eritrea

2011-07-26T11:03:00.002+04:00

Mr. T was inEritrea last week on a work-related trip. When people asked about hiswhereabouts, I would say, Ethiopia. Not that I was geographically challenged,but for some reason most people looked blank when I said, Eritrea.

Truth betold, I hadn’t given Eritrea a second thought until this trip came up. I only knewit was somewhere near Ethiopia. I did some cursory reading, mostly to figureout how safe it was, and discovered that it was a deemed a ‘state sponsor ofterrorism’ and was under ‘UN sanctions’. Of course, I found this out this whileMr. T was in Eritrea, and could do nothing more than ask him to ‘lock the doorsand windows at night’.

What’s itlike, I asked, the moment he got back. Cold, he said. Eritrea is about 7000 ft.above sea level and temperatures reached a maximum of 24 degrees even insummer.

What’s theplace like, I wanted to know. It’s quite like Goa, he replied. That was a hugecompliment as far as Eritrea was concerned. Mr. T, an eternal Goaphile, rankedmost places he visited based on their semblance to Goa.

It had aneasy charm, apparently. An Italian colony until the last century, it still featuredgraceful, Art Deco buildings, especially in the capital, Asmara.Like any place unused to tourists or travelers, credit cards were rarelyaccepted, and currency exchanges frequently ‘ran out of dollars’. The ritziesthotel in town was no more than a well-maintained lodge. And that’s where Mr. Tand his colleague happened to be staying.

The roomswere squeaky clean but tiny. One could enter the room and fall into bed in thesame motion, apparently. Mr. T also ended up sharing the room with scores ofmosquitoes. And in the bathroom, apart from a single bar of soap, there were noother toiletries.

One morning,Mr. T and his colleague stopped at the Reception to check if they could getsome moisturizer. Because of the cold weather, their skin had turned dry andcracked. The receptionist replied that the hotel had run out toiletries. However,before they could turn around, she opened a drawer and pulled out her handbag.She rummaged through it and came up with a tube of scented body butter. Beforethey could object, she squeezed out a big dollop on both their palms.

“Have a goodday, sir,” she said, waving them off when they tried to thank her.

What Eritrealacked as a country, it more than made up by its people.

The Writing Desk

2011-07-23T14:51:00.000+04:00

The ResidentChef (also known as the Husband, or Mr. T, for short) couldn’t understand myinsistence on a writing desk.

“Can’t youuse the new work desk we’ve just bought?” he asked, referring to the functionalblack table with grey legs. Just a few days old and yet every inch of it wascovered with an assortment of papers, visiting cards, post-its, laptop wires,extension cords and more. If that was a work desk, there wasn’t space to getany work done.

But it wasn’tjust the clutter that was the issue. I’d set my heart on owning a writing desk fora long time. And not just any old table, but a nice solid wood, antique desk,with little shelves and cubbyholes, and maybe an inkwell or two. The kind thatwould be at home in an English study, replete with a fireplace, a cozy armchairand tall shelves filled with leather bound books.

Inanticipation of the desk, I’d christened the smaller bedroom in our new home,the Study. I’d even picked the spotwhere the desk would be placed – at a corner in the room with a window on theleft, a window in front, and an almost uninterrupted view of the gorgeous sky. Ifyou lived in a city teeming with high-rises, you’d know how priceless a viewthat can be.

It took alot of cajoling on the part of Mr. T to convince me that a solid wood deskwouldn’t quite fit into our modern minimalist décor. Also he pointed that the ‘study’would be doubling up as the guest bedroom, and so the ‘chintz armchair withfootstool’ would have to make way for a more practical sofa-cum-bed.

Many sulks later,I found myself staring at a somewhat workable solution to our marital conflict.It was an unbelievably compact, tidy white desk from IKEA. It had one shelfunder the desk, presumably to tuck away the laptop when one wanted to indulge ingood, old-fashioned, long-hand writing. It also featured a tiny little drawerto squirrel away pens, bookmarks and other essential stationery. But its bestfeature was further below. A thoughtfully provided broad footrest, somethingthat’s absolutely vital when you’re blessed with a petite frame and your lowerlimbs can’t find the floor. At work, I would thrust my feet over the CPU, andin some cases, the dustbin even, in an attempt to be comfortable.

Mr. T, theindulgent husband that he is, sighed deeply and wrestled the flat packed deskonto the trolley. He even assembled it when I wasn’t home, no mean feat whenyou see the impossible illustrations in the IKEA assembly manual.

“I hope you’regoing to write after all this,” he mumbled, as I gushed about his handiwork.

“Of course,I will,” I declared. “It’s just the inspiration I’ve needed.”

A day in my life

2010-08-03T08:26:00.000+04:00

My post for the incredible 3six5 project is up! It was worth the couple of hours I spent sweating it out in front of the laptop on my birthday.

August 2: Leela Alvares

Great effort, Daniel & Len!

Things I have wondered about lately…

2010-04-11T18:07:00.002+04:00

… how do Arab men ensure their dishdashas are so spotlessly white?

… how do cafes get away with charging 18 dirhams for a cappuccino which is half filled with foam anyway?

… why do cupboards creak ominously at night?

… why don’t they have restaurants and cafes on Jumeirah beach?

… where are the really interesting people in Dubai?

… when will Etisalat lower their rates?

… what do I want my obituary to say about me?

… what do I really want to write about?

... when will Al Barsha get a decent coffee shop which is NOT part of a gas station?

… what’s the big deal about Kentucky Fried Chicken?

... why do weekends take their time coming and end so swiftly

Absolute Lee on TV

2010-03-31T17:03:00.001+04:00

The interview I had done earlier this month for the show 'Twenty Something' on Dubai One was on air two nights ago. Here's a link to the same:

Dubai One TV 'Twenty Something': The Digital Age

The faux pas doesn't feature. Praise be to God. I have to admit it feels odd looking at yourself on the screen.

The Middle Path in Macleodganj

2010-03-30T13:14:00.003+04:00

This heart belongs to:
1. Girls
2. Momos
3. Money

I found this curiously brazen list of priorities scribbled on a napkin and tucked under a glass table top at Momo Cafe. I was in Macleodganj, a small town nestled amid the hills in north India, which had been home to the exiled Dalai Lama, for the last fifty years. I had come expecting to find a solemn, spiritual kind of place, exuding an old world, simple charm.

I wasn’t prepared for the rampant, colourful, commercial tourist town that it turned out to be. The narrow roads leading out from the tiny town square were filled with souvenir stores hawking everything from singing bowls to ‘100% Tibetan silver jewellery’. Outside the temple, near the town square, the fragrance of incense mingled with the aroma of steamed momos, or dumplings, coming from the tiny stalls which ringed the temple. On every available wall space, there were posters promoting courses in Buddhism, massage techniques, Reiki, vegetarian cooking or even on ‘how to find yourself’. You could sample authentic cuisine from Italian cafes and German bakeries. Or even try some fusion fare such as Chocolate Momos or Momo Pizza.

But Macleodganj had its austere side too. Away from the clamorous town centre and higher up in the hills, was Dhamma Sikhara, a Vipassana meditation centre. Vipassana is one of the oldest meditation techniques, used by the Buddha himself, a process of self transformation through self-observation. It’s not for the faint of heart. A Vipassana course consists of 10 days of meditation in absolute silence, avoiding even eye contact with others. The abject stillness at Dhamma Sikhara provided a stunning contrast to the raucous materialism of the town just a kilometre away. Each felt extreme and uneasy.

And then I met Norphal, whose name means ‘jewels’. He had a small trinket store on Bazaar Road and sold Tibetan silver jewellery which he admitted was ‘bought from Bangkok’. Norphal had been born in Macleodganj, and had only seen Tibet in pictures. His grandmother and father had fled from Tibet and walked for 29 days in order to reach India. His grandfather had stayed behind, and they never heard from him again. Norphal was a practising Buddhist, but he said he sometimes closed his shop early and went to St. John’s Church, a 19th century looming Gothic structure, just to experience ‘peace of mind’.

Norphal invited me to his home one morning to meet his grandmother. I had been asking him questions about Tibet and what it meant to be a refugee, when he invited me over. We walked on Tipa Road, past Thangka artists and internet cafes, Kashmiri shawl sellers and women with momo carts. Climbing a small dirt road, we reached a cluster of tiny dilapidated houses. The soulful chant ‘Om Mani Padme Hum’ was playing on a tinny music system in one of the houses. A few hens pecked at the dirt in the garbage-strewn yard.

Norphal’s grandmother was sitting in one corner of an almost bare room, and rocking herself. Her eyes were buried deep in the generous creases on her face, and she stared at me in an unabashed, frank manner. When she stood up to go to the kitchen, she was almost bent double. She came back with a bowl of tsampha or porridge, and salty butter tea. Until then, the only Tibetan fare I’d only sampled were momos and a vegetable broth called thukpa, and they were easy on the palate. The salty tea took a bit of getting used to.

Norphal’s grandmother sat close and watched as I ate. Sometimes she spoke in Tibetan and Norphal translated. He told me of her arduous trek to India, escaping Chinese soldiers and losing family members to exhaustion and starvation. She spoke about meeting the Dalai Lama, and her belief that he would lead them all back to their homeland. If not in her lifetime, then at least in Norphal’s. They had a rapid exchange in Tibetan after she said this. Perhaps, Norphal didn’t approve of her pessimism.

Norphal told me he loved India, and felt Indian most of the times, except when he had to renew his Registration Certificate every year. That’s when he felt like a homeless refugee. “I always ask my grandmother to talk about our home in Tibet, the people the land. And then I feel less... less lost.”

I asked him what his grandmother missed most about the home they’d left behind. She said something and pointed to my face. Norphal turned to look at me, and then both burst out laughing. I asked what they found so funny, and both laughed harder. His grandmother fell on the floor, cackling. The somber mood in the room as we talked about a lost land had vanished. And I couldn’t wait to find out how I had contributed to the merriment.

“She says she misses her cows the most,” said Norphal. “She says, they used to have a ring in their nose, just like you.”

I looked at her as she continued heaving with laughter. Her eyes had slid into one of the crevices on her face, and her near toothless gums quivered with delight. I touched the thin silver hoop on my nose which had caused so much nostalgic merriment. And I began to feel that between there was more to Macleodganj than the tourists and the Dalai Lama.

Art Dubai 2010: A sneak peak

2010-03-16T20:07:00.001+04:00

Fresh from the tidal wave that was the Emirates Airlines International Festival of Literature, I’ve been swept away by another surge, this time to a world not as familiar as books and writing. But it’s a world that has held a steady fascination for me, and more so in the last two months, when I was writing a commissioned article for a leading publication in India.

I’ve met the most knowledgeable, passionate and visionary artists, curators, gallery owners and art lovers, who’ve not only added to my understanding but have also kindled a passion to further explore the fascinating world of art.

At the Art Dubai press preview today, there were over two hundred members of the Press from over the world, and after the usual round of introductions by John Martin and Savita Apte, directors of the art fair, we were led into the area where the three winners of the prestigious (not to mention, lucrative) Abraaj Capital Prize had displayed their work. Each of them had a distinctive medium of expression.

(Apologies in advance for the less-than-brilliant photography. They don’t do enough justice to the art. Moreover it is a bit challenging to balance a camera and an armful of magazines, programmes and other literature.)

Hala Elkoussy’s was a mural titled, ‘Myths and Legends’ a collage of contemporary myths and legends in modern-day Cairo.

Marwan Sahramani's Feast of the Damned covered every wall of the room, including the ceiling. It was, as one visitor described it, ‘a darker rendition of the Sistine Chapel’. The artist explained that it was his dialogue with painters that he admired like Rubens and Michaelangelo.

Kadir Attia, had a fashioned a rough replica of the Dome of the Rock in Jerusalem using an ordinary bolt, and projected it on a wide screen so that it was magnified to almost a thousand times its size. He said it was a commentary on several levels - social, religious, metaphysical and so on. He had a few profound comments to make like, "The smaller you are, the bigger you are." And "It's not what you see, but what happens in between." The installation was accompanied by eerie sound of wind that he'd recorded in a ravine. (p.s to get an idea of scale, the light on the right is the bolt/dome which was being projected.)

Post-lunch, the doors to the galleries were opened, and I have to say, it was nothing short of a visual feast. There are 72 galleries, and it didn't make sense to take it all in at one go. I definitely plan to go again with more time on hand, and with more sensible shoes.

A quick round up of some of the work that caught my eye:

I loved the title of this installation - Not Everything Is Made In China.

Mirrorwork which read Resist Resisting God

I found a little bit of myself in this piece ;)

The Athr Gallery from Saudi Arabia had some striking work. The Metamorphosis of a Chair series by Saddek Wasil was particularly evocative.

My favourite in the series. Of all the chairs, it seemed the least 'angsty' until the curator shared that it connoted escapism. Oh well.

Pious women by Noha Al-Sharif. Also from the Athr Gallery.

The entrance to a cemetary, perhaps?

Cherry blossoms from afar, buttons up close.

MF Hussein's Women in Yemen

Stunning work by Jorge Mayet, a Cuban artist based in Spain. A very visual sense of being uprooted.

And another by the same artist

You can't escape the bling in Dubai

If there was one artist's work that stood out in my frenzied dash, it would have to be James Clar, a Dubai-based American artist over at the Traffic Gallery. Wild, imaginative and a touch of dark humour

Titled Pop Culture, it's a gun that's been fired once and then cast in candy! A commentary on how violence is glorified in the media.

You know if you're a true 'acid house junkie' if you can see the yellow smiley face amid these switches and dials. I couldn't. It's only jazz and blues for me :-/

From a series called Moment Defined by a Point and Line, it's a trace of the bullets that killed

Amadou Diallo, a commentary on murder and media portrayal of it.

You cannot be living in Dubai for 5 years and not instantly notice that it represents a 'building under construction'. The second of a 3-series installation, it's supposedly a stalled project because of funding issues. Hah.

I'd just finished the tour and was thinking longingly of a hot water bath for my feet, when I almost got trampled on by a horde of photographers. "Looks like a dignitary has arrived," my German friend remarked. And then His Highness, Sheikh Mohammed Bin Rashid Al Maktoum, came around the corner. Not a bad ending to the afternoon, I say.

Art Dubai is on from 17 - 20 March. For the timetable and venues, pls. refer here

EAIFL Day 4 : Food, Travel, Music, Palestine, India!

2010-03-14T01:13:00.004+04:00

At every session I’ve attended the authors are inevitably asked why they write. But if someone were to ask me why I’ve been writing page after page in my notebook at each session I’ve attended, I’d say, ‘to hang on to every word’. They’ve been that interesting, entertaining and informative. The sessions I attended today were wonderfully diverse, from food writing to music, and travel adventures to India lauding/bashing. A snapshot of them:

* The food writers’ panel was a kedgeree of sorts with a Palestinian-Canadian (Suzanne Husseini), an Indian-Brit (Anjum Anand) and a British-Arab (Mike Harrison). While Suzanne and Anjum had written books about their native cuisines, Mike had written a Yemeni cookbook and another which spanned the Maghreb countries. One interesting point made – culture is handed down and preserved through food. Hmm, never thought I was going against my Mangalorean seafood-loving culture by turning my nose up at fish curry!

* Travel writing might seem like a dream profession for most wannabe writers and travellers (including yours truly). But a session with Tim Butcher can disabuse you of any romantic notions about the same. To be fair, his trips have been fairly gruelling - a journey across Congo, tracing the route taken by the famous Henry Morton Stanley over 100 years ago. And a 400 km trek on foot through Sierra Leone, a journey done by Graham Greene in 1935.

It was an enlightening talk not just about the hardships he underwent to write his book Blood River, but also about the Congo itself. “1500 people die every single day in the Congo. And yet it doesn’t make world news,” he said. There were other more gruesome facts accompanied by pictures. Like unburied bodies from conflicts where no one could recollect the aggressors since there were so many groups of them. Or the bizarre choice that people taken by the rebels in Sierra Leone were offered – half sleeve or full sleeve – meaning the extent to which their arm would be chopped off.
“Congo is a country that’s undeveloping,” shared Butcher, “Like most of Africa there is a will to survive, but not thrive.”

For him, travel writing wasn’t just about the place, but about the journey of the place. So when asked about his next adventure, he shared - a camel ride from Jerusalem to Baghdad! And his advice to adventurous travel writers – travel light, take local advice, have a satellite phone and keep getting lucky.

* You can usually tell how well respected a writer is when other literary heavyweights attend his or her session. Raja Shehadeh’s talk was graced by most of the well known Arabic writers. A much respected writer and human rights activist, Raja seems like a benign sort, until he warms up to his favourite subject – Palestine. He displays a fiery activism which is tempered by a pragmatic understanding of the situation. His love and yearning for the land of his ancestors shone through the excerpt he read from his book Palestinian Walks.

* Alexander McCall Smith admitted that he had another spectacular talent – he played the bassoon badly. And not just that, he got together with other execrable performers and formed The Really Terrible Orchestra. They even had the effrontery to go on tour to London and New York and had house full audiences. “They weren’t all related to the people in the orchestra,” he clarified.

It was a session titled ‘Words and Music’, and McCall Smith was joined by Amit Chaudhri, a bestselling, award-winning novelist and also a classical musician. (Unfair how some have it all.)

The session started out with promise, but seemed to get too dense and technical with commentaries on the ‘narrative quality of Western classical music’ and ‘music being rooted in humanism.’ It meandered into an academic discourse, and I couldn’t help wishing for McCall Smith to break into an aria.

* At the session on India featuring five luminaries –Shobha De, Vikas Swarup, William Dalrymple, Amit Chaudhri and Venu Rajamoney (Indian Consul General) – I saw the highest number of Indian/Subcontinent attendees than I’d seen in the last four days. It was an interesting choice of panellists. Two bureaucrats, one honorary Indian, one armchair critic and one bumbling poet. (I leave you to guess who’s who!)

There was the usual range of issues – India shining vs fading, China, Pakistan, poverty, neglect of women, Maoist uprising and so on. Standard daily news stuff. But the debate somehow seemed out of place at a literary festival,despite the fact that they all wrote about India. Shobha De of course lapped the limelight with her strident populist views. But the best retort of the session I thought came from the mild-seeming Vikas Swarup who when buttonholed by Ms De about the lack of government progress in most crucial areas, said, “Perhaps, but then you wouldn’t be having a debate of this sort in China.”

Also:
EAIFL - Day 1 - Why we write: Yann Martel, Imtiaz Dharker & Bahaa Taher
EAIFL - Day 2: In Conversation with Alexander McCall Smith
EAIFL - Day 3: William Dalrymple, Marjane Satrapi, PEN writers, Social Media

EAIFL Day 3: William Dalrymple, Marjane Satrapi, PEN writers, Social Media

2010-03-13T03:01:00.004+04:00

My head’s buzzing from the literary overload. And there’s still another day to go. But I’m hardly complaining. The four sessions I attended on Day 3 were brilliant and supremely entertaining . My perception of authors as taciturn, unsocial sorts has changed quite considerably. They’re full of anecdotes and sizzling one liners, and the hour long session passes by way too quickly for everyone’s liking.

William Dalrymple

* The session was about him as a travel writer. He shared about his ‘unusually cloistered’ and stable childhood in Edinburgh, and the subsequent explosive effect that India had on him when he visited the country at age 18. “My life can be neatly divided into 2, before India and after,” he said.

* Speaking of his latest book, Nine Lives, he said, “Indians feel that Western authors only want to write about 3 things – poverty, maharajas and sadhus. Considering Nine Lives is about the latter, I was afraid it wouldn’t do too well.” But it’s turned out to be the highest selling non-fiction book of all time, selling 50,000 copies in India alone. (I had to buy my copy after I heard the excerpts that he read out.)

* About travel writing: “I make the effort not to write about the same book twice. I thought I’d covered all grounds with my previous travel books. And I wasn’t sure I was going to write another travel book. But when I found a new form for Nine Lives, I decided to write it. It’s a book on modern India and about how traditional sacred practises find no place in this modern milieu.”

* When asked about the changes he saw in India today as compared to when he first arrived almost 20 years ago, he said, “India today is unrecognisable from my early days here. There are parts which have remained unchanged. For instance, you’ll still find old army generals walking around Lodhi Gardens in tweed coats. But the country has moved on.”

* Crossing borders – Leila Aboulela, Ahda Soueif & Raja Shehadeh

I wasn’t quite sure what the session was going to be about, but I was keen to listen to the thoughts and opinions of writers from the Arab world. All three were best selling writers – from Sudan, Egypt and Palestine respectively - and interestingly they didn’t write solely in Arabic. Ahda’s novel Map of Love had in fact been shortlisted for the Booker Prize in 1999, It was an intriguing glimpse into words like identity and conflict and what it meant to be Muslim in today’s world.

* When asked by Kate Mosse, the moderator, if they saw their role as being storytellers or representatives of their country, who had to set the record straight, they had interesting responses:
Leila: “My novels are my truth. But having said that, I found that I didn’t recognise the Islam that was being portrayed in the media. I wanted to write back but couldn’t. I was a trained statistician. I started writing fiction as a way of finding release for my feelings. And that’s how I found my voice.”
Ahdaf: “I started out with innocence. I just wanted to be a story teller. I didn’t think of the politics of reception or duties of representation. Fiction shouldn’t have to bear this burden. So for a while, I stopped writing fiction and concentrated on political commentary.”
Raja: “My experience in the West Bank was not as extreme as some of the others who lived there. So I would question myself, ‘Am I distorting reality by writing about my experience that’s not so extreme?’”

* About whether their audience is the West or people from the Arab world, Leila shared, “Since I get published in the West, my readers are Western people. But I find the type of reader of my book has changed since I’ve begun writing. So many of my readers are from Nigeria or Pakistan or other parts of Africa, so I don’t feel the need to explain everything in my books.

* Raja distinguished between getting printed and published. “While a lot of books by Palestinian authors were getting printed, it’s not the same as getting published. The book isn’t well designed or well translated. And so it suffers.”

* Ahda said that translation was an art which few could master. “Just knowing English and Arabic
doesn’t mean you can become a translator. You have to understand the background, the rhythm of speech. Otherwise the translation is a travesty.

* Leila mentioned that she couldn’t have been a writer if she was in Sudan. “My family and friends don’t yet understand what I do. They keep asking me to get a real job.” But she said that even though she only wrote in English, it was like she wasn’t just translating her native language, but also the culture. “There are words in Arabic that just don’t work in English, like pious, for which the thesaurus throws up ‘bigot’. I’ve to find a language in English to express my Arabic self.”

* All three agreed that there was an extraordinary sense of physical place in their writing whether it was historical in the case of Ahda, or a fragmented land in the case of Raja. “I cannot start without rooting people in a place,” shared Ahda, “I’m attached to places. When I’m unhappy or dislocated, I start imagining a place where I was happy.”

* Marjane Satrapi

Marjane in person is just like the Marjane in her best-selling book, Persepolis – feisty, outspoken and funny. Even though her life is well drawn out throughout the book, and by the end of it, one feels that one knows her intimately, it’s still a wonderful experience seeing and hearing her on the stage.

* She wrote Persepolis six years after she left Iran for the second and final time. “It was good that I wrote it after an interval because by then my anger against the regime had cooled down a bit, and I could write more objectively. Otherwise I would have used the same logic as the people I was angry with.”

* About the use of humour in her books, she felt that it was the highest form of entertainment. She once had a woman come up to her in America and say to her, “I read your book and now, I’m not afraid of the Axis of Evil, because I know you'll do laugh.”

* Marjane shared that she found it odd that she often had to justify why she drew her first book. “No one asks a filmmaker why they make a film instead of singing a song, but I always have to say why I draw. Drawing is the most universal language. I like to draw and I like to write. Why do I have to choose between the two and not do both instead?”

* About her book being called a ‘graphic novel’, she said, “I prefer it being called a comic book in fact. It’s just a medium, not a genre.”

* She shared her experience of doing the film which she loathed for the most part because it involved working with so many people. “I’m used to working in solitude, and suddenly I now have 100 people waiting on my every move. I hated it.” But she mentioned enjoying the last few months. And of course, winning the Cannes Jury Prize for it.

* About her experience of writing children’s books, she lamented that publishers viewed children as pure, innocent sorts and wanted stories that portrayed happy rabbits. “Children are mean and horrible human beings,” she said quite unabashedly.

* The highlight of the session was at the end when she shared her experience of giving a talk at West Point Academy, which she described as a place where poor American families sent their children so that they could get a free education. “The American soldier is just a boy with no money,” she said.

A voice from the crowd yelled, “How would you know? I went to West Point. The senators' sons study there. Joe Biden’s son is there.” It seemed that Marjane lost her verve for a fraction, but she recovered enough to retort that the American policies were nothing to be proud of. “If you want our oil, our wealth, come and take it. But you cannot say you are making a war to fight terrorism. That’s like putting a person with fever in alcohol. The fever goes down, but the infection remains.” The crowd cheered her but the air hung thick in the room.

Also:
EAIFL - Day 1 - Why we write: Yann Martel, Imtiaz Dharker & Bahaa Taher

EAIFL - Day 2: In Conversation with Alexander McCall Smith

EAIFL - Day 4: Food, Travel, Music, Palestine, India!

EAIFL Day 2: In Conversation with Alexander McCall Smith

2010-03-12T00:58:00.008+04:00

Despatches from the second day of the Emirates International Festival of Literature.

There was not a single empty chair in the room for the session with Alexander McCall Smith. And as he was being introduced, I could see why. The moderator had to only announce the name of one of his (60 and counting!) books, and there would be a nodding of heads and enthusiastic applause. When Blezzard asked if there was anyone who hadn’t read The No. 1 Ladies Detective Agency series, a lone hand went up. McCall Smith was among the most ardent of fans indeed.

Highlights of the entertaining session:

* McCall Smith shared that this was his second visit to Dubai. He’d first come here 10 years ago on the invitation of two of his students who happened to be in the police force. “I was touched by their hospitality,” he said, “They not only came right onto the plane to get me, but also had police cars with sirens accompanying our limousine. I thought it was a nice way to visit a place.”

* He started his writing career with the memorably titled No. 1 Ladies Detective Agency, set in Botswana. When asked how he came up with the idea, he shared that he’d visited a friend in Botswana one weekend, when he lived in Swaziland, and saw this ‘traditionally built woman chasing a chicken around the yard’. He thought it would be interesting to write about such a woman.

* The detective agency was also a serendipitous choice. “I could have written about her starting a dry-cleaning agency, I guess, since there aren’t too many novels based around dry-cleaning. But there just seemed to be a lot more takers for the ‘detective agency’.”

* Despite the ‘detective’ in the title, nothing untoward happens in his books. (Incidentally, the preceding session happened to be one on crime fiction!) “I write about the positive and make no attempts to hide it. You won't find a single post mortem in my books,” he said

* He wrote the subsequent books in the series because his publisher told him that he couldn’t end the first book with the lead characters only engaged. You have to get them married, he was told. He took his time though, and with much prodding from the publisher, got them to tie the knot in the 4th book. He’s currently writing the 12th book in the series.

* Speaking of his readers’ involvement with his characters, he shared several funny anecdotes. One of the popular characters in the detective series, Ms. Makutsi, never fails to mention that she’s graduated from the Botswana Secretarial College with 97%. He once toyed with the idea of introducing a character who’d secured 98%. “I was steered away from that attempt by my readers,” he shared, even as the lady seated next to me, presumably an avid fan, nodded vigorously.

Another time, when he spoke to an audience of formidable Texan women, and said that he considered bringing back the character of Mma Ramotswe’s abusive husband, they rose in uproar. “You can bring him back,” one of them said, “but only to punish him.”

“I give all my readers' suggestions serious consideration, before rejecting them completely,” he said, laughing.

* More fascinating instances of his readers identifying with characters – two elderly women in Santa Barbara bought a white van, changed the number plates and drove around pretending they were Mma Ramotswe and Ms Makutsi. Another couple in New Zealand pretended they were Mma Ramotswe and her husband, JB Matekoni, drank red bush tea and called each other Mma and Rra.

* McCall Smith is much loved in Botswana and regarded as their favourite son. The moderator shared that he’d recently been invited to inaugurate their opera house. “That’s a rather grand name for what’s essentially a converted garage that can seat 60 people,” Smith pointed out. However, it was at that ‘opera house’ that the people of Botswana performed an opera titled, Okavengo Delta, written by none other than McCall Smith. He describes it as a story of a female baboon having ‘Lady Macbeth issues’.

* Unsurprisingly, the film industry didn’t waste time in bringing Mma Ramotswe to life on celluloid. He describes being ‘absolutely happy’ with the way it was produced by Anthony Minghella. And that he even had the privilege of calling out ‘Action’ on the sets one day. Except that the ‘actor’ happened to be a donkey. “I still hoped that on seeing the film, the critics would say, ‘that donkey scene was brilliant, just the right length’, except that it wasn’t even included in the final cut”.

* The search for the ‘traditionally built’ woman to play Mma Ramotswe on film, spanned several continents, but the production team just couldn’t seem to find the right character. Finally the part went to a woman from Philadelphia who had never even been to Africa. She had to learn the body language and the accent, and from all accounts did a great job.

* The talk veered towards the other book series he’d written – Sunday Philosopher’s Club and 44 Scotland St. He stood up to read an excerpt from the latest book in the Scotland St. series, which involved a character called Bertie, ‘who’s remained 6 years old for the last 5 years’. He has an excessively pushy mother who makes him learn Italian, go for yoga classes, and also, go for psychotherapy. As an aside he mentioned, “97% of mother's in Edinburgh are excessively pushy."

* He’s cast well known authors JK Rowling and Ian Rankin in his novels. In one of his books, he has Ian Rankin shot with an arrow and passing by a bookshop where a kid points to a book and says, ‘Hey Ian, there’s one of your books and it’s only 50 pence’.

“Ian’s promised to have his revenge. I might turn up as a body in one of Ian books,” says McCall Smith, relishing the prospect.

* Finally about writing, he said that it wasn't a conscious process. "I don’t think about what I’m writing. I go to the place in my subconscious where fiction is created. I don’t deliberately make it up. I just write it as it comes up."

The endless queue for McCall Smith's autograph

Also:
EAIFL - Day 1 - Why we write: Yann Martel, Imtiaz Dharker & Bahaa Taher

EAIFL - Day 3: William Dalrymple, Marjane Satrapi, PEN writers, Social Media

EAIFL - Day 4: Food, Travel, Music, Palestine, India!

EAIFL Day 1 - Why we write: Yann Martel, Imtiaz Dharker & Bahaa Taher

2010-03-10T23:29:00.003+04:00

The first session I attended at the Emirates Airlines International Festival of Literature was quite engaging and, for me, set the tone for the festival. It featured Yann Martel, the 2002 Booker Prize winning author who wrote Life of Pi, Bahaa Taher who won the first 'Arabic Booker' in 2008 for Sunset Oasis, as well as poet, Imtiaz Dharker, who shared their ideas on inspiration and what motivated them to write.

Taher started off by affirming that the source of ideas was ambiguous, and that no one could really say where ideas came from. He quoted Socrates as saying that the poet was sometimes the last to understand what he’d written.

Dharker read out an evocative poem which sounded like inspiration was something you had to pursue relentlessly.

Start with mud. Move it,
Excavate with any tools you have,
Trowel, spade, hands, fingernails...

...This is how you draw your human breath
In one pure line across the empty page.

While insisting that inspiration was sometimes highly romanticized, and only a tiny part of the creative process, Martel spoke of it as being a moment of beauty. To illustrate this, he shared his experience of being bought up in a secular household with no interest or inclination towards any sort of religion. But when he travelled to India and found religion so predominant in everyday life, he unexpectedly asked himself, ‘What would it be like to have faith?” That was his moment of beauty, moment of inspiration which produced the highest selling Booker Prize winning novel of all time.

What of the mythical muse then, the moderator Paul Blezzard asked. Martel dismissed it as being an airy fairy concept. “My muse is words, the cadence, the rhythm... There is a reality out there, and we create these representations of it, through words.”

Blezzard then quoted Margaret Atwood as saying, “Writing a novel is the triumph of optimism that you’re going to finish it and that it’s going to get published, that it's going to get read....”

Dharker disagreed. “You don’t write because someone’s going to publish it," she said. "In fact, you write knowing it’s going to be a lost cause. You write because you just just have to.” She shared about the time she wrote her first poem when she was pining for an older man. “He was 12 years old,” she said, causing much merriment, “and had no idea that I even existed. But I just had to write the poem that was in me.”

Taher was quite dismissive about the optimism that sustains some not so worthy endeavours. “I find it strange that some people continue to write even when its futile, producing work that lacks inspiration and beauty. When a writer gets stuck, he or she should stop instantly.”

And then added, to the delight of the audience, “However God is merciful, and takes care of his writers!”

Blezzard then asked, “Martel, you once said that writing a novel is like feeding a tiger. What sustains you?”

The story, replied Martel.

And then came the ominous statistics – 97.3 of published writers in the UK have another job that ensures their livelihood.

That’s all right, no one writes for money, said Martel, with the confidence that only someone who fell in the other 3.7% could muster!

He went to share about how an early experience of writing plays (even though they were really bad; ‘a pastiche of dreadfulness’, he called them) instilled in him the sense of being God, of being able to control things. You can be young and poor, he said, and not mind it, because you have the pure joy of being creative. When you’re a writer, your entire world is you and your creation.

Taher, on the other hand, was clear that creativity without inspiration wasn’t worth pursuing. Blezzard pointed out that he spent a lot of time encouraging young people to write even if it was bad writing. I suggest you don’t, said Taher crustily, as the audience applauded his no-nonsense approach.

Martel was asked if his work was semi-autobiographical. He replied that it was only in an intellectual way, and shared that to him art was a product of anxiety, curiosity and joy, going so far as to say that someone who’s always happy is unlikely to be a good artist. Art is created out of a sense of discomfort.

The final word came from Taher who, when asked if writers had to compromise in order to get published, replied that he resisted when editors asked for changes saying, “Sometimes it’s good if a book isn’t perfect.”

The session however was a perfect start to the festival, and even the next session that followed on the ‘Book Club phenomenon’ was quite involving. The debate was lively and there wasn’t a dull moment, which meant I had to focus on the discussion, and not so much on tweeting updates.

Let’s hope the next 3 days are as good, if not better!

Also see:

EAIFL - Day 2: In Conversation with Alexander McCall Smith

EAIFL - Day 3: William Dalrymple, Marjane Satrapi, PEN writers, Social Media

EAIFL - Day 4: Food, Travel, Music, Palestine, India!

Internet gaga

2010-03-10T10:45:00.000+04:00

I was invited yesterday to be on a TV show called ‘Twenty Something’ on Dubai One. There were three of us on a panel to discuss the topic, ‘Is the internet affecting interpersonal relationships?’ The two other panellists were Husni Khufash, Country Manager – Google, and Dr. Saliha Afridi, a psychologist. I was the humble blogger and twitterer (twit?), the one with the alleged ‘affected’ offline life.

When the producer first called me for the show, I had to point out that I wasn’t a 20-something, for starters. And then, I wasn’t quite the avid blogger I once used to be. She reassured me that the name of the programme was more indicative of their target audience, and not necessarily the panellists. “And considering you’ve been writing a blog for 6 ½ years, you must have a lot to share,” she assured me.

Things didn’t start off too well in the morning, when I found that I had sprouted a great big zit on my chin. Of all the days, I thought. But the studio make up lady, did an expert camouflage job and I felt more confident about getting before the cameras.

We had a mini rehearsal on the sets with the two presenters – Anna and Marwan. Husni was asked about internet consumption statistics, which he expertly rattled off. I was asked to share about how I got into blogging, and the good and not-so-good repercussions on my life. Dr. Saliha spoke of how teens and young adults struggled to make the distinction between ‘connectedness’ and ‘relatedness’.

It was a lively chat, and all went pretty smoothly, until I made a ‘cultural faux pas’. I spoke of the negative feedback I got on one of my posts, with an anon commenter labelling me ‘a racist pig’. Both presenters leaped from their seats almost. “We can’t say the word ‘pig’ on air,” I was told.

The porcine ban notwithstanding, the segment got recorded pretty quickly. The length of the segment – 4 ½ minutes – didn’t really allow for too much of an in-depth discussion or debate. It was too broad a topic anyway, and there’s much to be said both for and against the Internet.

For those in Dubai and the Middle East who’d like to watch the show, it airs on Monday 29th March at 8 pm. Do tune in, and oh, please refrain from commenting on the zit.

Desert dessert!

2010-03-06T22:20:00.001+04:00

I wasn't sure what to expect when I first tried it. Camel milk is ostensibly a bit salty. But the Al Nassma brand camel milk chocolate tastes just like the regular milk chocolate. It's available in 5 flavours, but I haven't seen it in the supermarkets yet.

Next on the culinary list: (when I dare to attempt it) Camel Burger, and Camel Curry...

Pain in the Posterior

2010-03-05T19:39:00.000+04:00

The world is made up of two kinds of people: those who have a back problem, and those who know someone who has a back problem.

I came to this conclusion recently, when I fell into the former category. It started out as stiffness in my lower back, which I assumed was on account of sleeping in an awkward position. But when after a few days, it felt like someone had tied a knot in my tailbone, I surmised it was more than just the product of a bad dream. There was no pain or soreness, just a niggling discomfort when I sat or stood or walked or lay down.

Two of my dear friends dropped in for a visit, and on seeing me propped up with cushions and clutching hot water bags, did what caring, over-zealous friends do. They rushed me to the emergency ward of the Neuro Spinal Hospital for an MRI. I protested with vehemence that my back issue wasn’t serious enough to merit this extreme step. But my friends wouldn’t hear of it. “Never ever take back problems lightly. There’s someone I know who ignored a lower back pain, and is today in a wheelchair.”

Hearing that, I meekly allowed myself to be led to the hospital, and even wore the padded Velcro back brace that my friends insisted I wear.

The doctor at the hospital glanced at the MRI report and said, “Well, there seems to be a mild herniation of the disc, but otherwise it seems OK.”

Was that good news or bad news, I couldn’t tell. But apparently an orthopedic surgeon could. And I was sent off to consult one.

The first orthopedist I saw took one look at the MRI, and without so much as a cursory physical examination, signed me up for 10 expensive sessions of physiotherapy at a clinic, which as it conveniently happened, was run by him.

Something didn’t feel right, and I mentioned this to another friend.

“Why don’t you try the orthopedic doctor in Prime Medical,” he suggested. “My roommate had a severe back pain, couldn’t even move from the bed, and this doctor treated him, and he’s much better now.”

Another friend who was listening in on the conversation butted in, “You know, my colleague absolutely swears by this chiropractor. You’ve got to try him out.”

An old college friend called to invite me to a party, and when I told her why I had to decline, she immediately said, “I’m going to give you the number of my husband’s chiropractor. He also treats the members of the royal family, and is very, very good!”

I had, by now, a small directory of back pain related practitioners in the UAE. In fact, I only had to say the magic words – back problem – and I would immediately have a list of therapies and therapists. Back problems, it seemed, were as commonplace as the common cold.

The alternative therapists weren’t far behind. A friend’s mother, on hearing of my, by now, well-publicized back issue, offered to perform acupressure. She began to apply pressure on certain points on the back of my hand with such enthusiasm, that tears poured out of my eyes.

Is it better, beta, she asked? Compared to the agony in my hand, the back seemed very well indeed.

I also had a masseuse who offered to do a 7-day ayurvedic hot oil treatment, and friends who could did Reiki sessions. Yet, the stubborn stiffness persisted.

One night I woke up with a start to find my bed was wet. Urinary incontinence, I had read, was one of the symptoms of nerve damage in the lower spine. But just before I could panic, I discovered that it was nothing more than a leaky hot water bottle.

With all the stress wrought by the back problem and the multiple remedies, I feared I would need psychotherapy alongside the physiotherapy.

One afternoon, when I was heading to the chiropractor, I instructed to taxi driver to slow down and avoid swerving, since I had a back problem.

It only took a moment before he turned around and said, “Back problem? I had a friend who used to go to this place in Karama…”

Like, I said, there are only two kinds of people in this world.

P.S. The back problem is no more. But I still do have the directory of Back Pain specialists, in case any one out there needs it...

P.P.S I am enormously grateful to all the friends who took care of me and suggested all the many therapies. I am glad they knew someone who had a back problem... :-)

What I mull about when I mull about running

2010-02-08T18:09:00.001+04:00

(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

2009-12-31T14:40:00.000+04:00

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

2009-12-15T13:41:00.001+04:00

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

2009-12-07T14:31:00.000+04:00

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!

2009-11-18T23:34:00.005+04:00

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

2009-11-18T10:22:00.005+04:00

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

2009-08-27T17:49:00.003+04:00

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

2009-08-25T12:55:00.000+04:00

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...

2009-08-09T18:48:00.000+04:00

... 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

2009-07-16T22:07:00.002+04:00

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!

2009-06-18T19:41:00.002+04:00

(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

2009-06-08T13:33:00.003+04:00

(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...

2009-05-27T17:37:00.001+04:00

... still kicking.

A real post coming soon.

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

2008-11-13T17:35:00.005+04:00

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

2008-10-19T23:32:00.009+04:00

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

2008-10-10T18:13:00.005+04:00

* “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

2008-10-06T13:37:00.004+04:00

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

2008-10-05T00:57:00.002+04:00

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

2008-09-29T13:55:00.013+04:00

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

2008-09-26T20:10:00.001+04:00

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...

2008-09-06T09:44:00.001+04:00

I've missed you, blog.

Thinking aloud

2008-05-20T18:56:00.001+04:00

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!

2008-02-21T20:17:00.000+04:00

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...

2008-01-18T23:49:00.000+04:00

...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!

2008-01-14T18:17:00.000+04:00

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

2008-01-13T17:18:00.000+04:00

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

2008-01-09T19:24:00.000+04:00

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...

2008-01-03T18:13:00.000+04:00

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

Long live resolutions.

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

2007-12-31T22:33:00.000+04:00

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

2007-12-22T17:22:00.000+04:00

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

2007-12-22T16:45:00.000+04:00

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!

2007-12-20T22:52:00.000+04:00

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

2007-12-03T23:50:00.001+04:00

Don't you just love December?

2007-12-02T13:04:00.000+04:00

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

2007-11-28T00:18:00.000+04:00

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

2007-11-27T00:02:00.000+04:00

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...

2007-11-25T22:53:00.000+04:00

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

Tell me a story...

2007-11-24T22:54:00.000+04:00

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

2007-11-23T23:02:00.000+04:00

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...

2007-11-22T22:02:00.000+04:00

... 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

2007-11-20T22:53:00.000+04:00

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...

2007-11-19T22:49:00.000+04:00

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

Unreal, it is. Sigh.

SALE!

2007-11-18T22:29:00.000+04:00

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...

2007-11-15T22:49:00.000+04:00

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

...we're going camping.

Radio, some one still loves you...

2007-11-14T18:39:00.000+04:00

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

2007-11-08T21:16:00.000+04:00

what would you like?

2007-11-07T16:40:00.000+04:00

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

2007-11-06T22:46:00.000+04:00

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...

2007-11-05T10:24:00.000+04:00

Sign at the Dubai Metro construction site,

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

Dibbaaaah!

2007-11-04T19:52:00.000+04:00

Discovering Dibba

2007-11-03T21:47:00.000+04:00

Dibba is probably the antithesis of Dubai. Craggy brown peaks every where you turn, blue green waters which sound like a thunderclap at night, a horizon interrupted only by palm trees and unpretentious buildings, and a pace of life that regards hurrying as entirely unworthy of effort. An apt example of unpretentious would be a shop sign along the way – Food Selling Grocery. As basic as that. It’s almost a matter-of-fact announcement - you want fancy, head south to Dubai.

There wasn’t enough time to soak in Dibba on a weekend packed with team games, wild revelry and other assorted madness. But one of these weekends a return trip is due…

Going with the office gang

2007-11-02T00:59:00.000+04:00

... to a beach resort in Dibba, the north-eastern most town in the UAE. Flanked by mountains and the sea, Dibba promises some spectacular views. More, when we get back.

October checklist

2007-11-01T00:19:00.000+04:00

Return from Bombay without excess baggage - check
Get upgraded to Business Class on the flight - check
Smuggle common cold viruses into Dubai which torment for weeks - check
Mark blog anniversary - check
Start the gym - check
Get back in touch with a friend I'd always want to get in touch with - check
Go on a somewhat interesting date - check
Fix and service car - check
Get lost when dropping and picking up car from service station - check
Try out two new recipes - check
Neglect blog - check
Write out goals and plans - check

There, always helps to make a checklist. Haven't given up on the diary, Parmanu, it was just taking a while and encouraging procrastination. One of these days...

Hubli Diary

2007-10-31T23:16:00.000+04:00

* The first indication that all’s not well between Andhra Pradesh and its neighbour, Karnataka, is when I start chatting with the girl seated next to me on the bus. Hailing from Hubli in Karnataka, she studies in an engineering college in Hyderabad which she describes as being located in ‘the back of beyond’. When I tell her I’d missed my bus earlier, she says disdainfully, “They’ll never tell you when the bus is leaving. At least you know the Karnataka State Transport buses will leave on time.” She goes on to say that when she got a chance, especially on the weekend, she hopped on to the first bus – the first Karnataka State Transport bus – and headed home.

* The 12-hour ride in a non-air-conditioned bus passes comfortably enough, although my neck feels like someone twisted it into a knot while I was sleeping. I reach the Hubli airport at 9 a.m. and realize glumly that I have a 3-hour wait before my friend P arrives. There’s nothing to do but wait, read and people-watch.

* I’m reading Pico Iyer’s Sun After Dark, and there’s this chapter titled ‘Nightwalking’ about his experience dealing with jet lag. ‘It’s not quite a dream state and yet it’s certainly not wakefulness, and though it seems another continent that we’re visiting, there are no maps or guidebooks yet to this other world. There are not even any clocks.’ Sitting bleary eyed outside an airport located in the heartland of Nowhere Familiar, I get an idea of what he means.

* The Hubli airport is quite unlike any airport I’ve known. It’s small, cosy and unbelievably quiet. A man stands on tiptoe and peers over the wall to check if the flight has arrived. A Buddhist monk in deep red robes arrives with a small suitcase, takes off his slippers and puts on a pair of shoes before entering the terminal. There are 2-3 security guards with the rakish-looking hats which turn up on one side, and a few more airport personnel. The sky is a gentle blue, and there’s even a mild nip in the air. It’s almost too placid for an airport.

* Two men arrive in a van and disembark with a flat, elongated package which they deposit right next to where I’m sitting. The soporific airport witnesses an unexpected burst of activity. Three airport personnel troop out, followed by three more. Even the security guards leave their stations to investigate the hubbub. “Chidiya aya?” (Has the sparrow arrived?) asks one of the airport staff. When the white wrapping is torn aside, I see a mount board with a picture of a kingfisher and the logo of the Kingfisher airlines. I notice the staff are dressed in the blue and white colours of Air Deccan, an airline that has recently merged with Kingfisher. From the ‘sparrow’ quip, I gather that the staff don’t think much of the merger.

* P finally troops out of the airport just after I’ve looked at my watch for the 5001st time. We head to the Hubli bus depot to catch the bus to Dandeli. Unlike the bustling Hyderabad bus terminus, the Hubli depot resembles a ghost town. There’s no one behind the ticket counters, and the forlorn guard shakes his head sadly when we ask him about the next bus to Dandeli. Maybe in 5 hours’ time, he says. P and I look at each other in dismay. We ask the man at the small snack shop, and he says, 15 minutes. There are two American tourists trying to get information to travel to Gokarna, and ask us if we know how to get there. We express ignorance, and later wonder if they will ever get to their destination.

* The snack shop with its array of food is rather tempting. Against my better judgment, I opt for the veg patty, which turns out to be so good that I order another. There’s a colourful sweetmeat which looks like a cross between a biscuit and a pastry, which I’m tempted to try. It’s called ‘manpasand’ and is a thin-crusted pastry filled with fruit peel and coconut. It’s a bit too sweet for my liking, but the resident canine doesn’t mind it at all.

* A red bus trundles in, and people in different corners of the depot holler out to us with a finger thrust in the direction of the bus. We take it to mean that it’s the bus to Dandeli. We gratefully clamber aboard and get ready for a long, bumpy ride.

Hyderabad Diary

2007-10-19T22:14:00.001+04:00

* The cell phone beeps at 2.45 a.m. giving me a nervous moment. It’s an sms from the roaming service - ‘Welcome to Hyderabad etc…’ I’d reached around 3.30 in the afternoon, almost 12 hours before the welcoming sms.

* On the way to the hotel, I take in the sights and sounds. On the face of it, it looks like any other city. Like Bomay, perhaps. Populous, busy, colourful. The autos are all-yellow though, not like the Bombay’s yellow-black ones. There are film posters all over the city heralding the newest star son on the blog - Chiranjeevi's son, Ram Charan Teja.

*‘Here’s the famous Punjagutta flyover,’ announces Smiley pointing to the city’s newest attraction. A couple of days earlier, a section of the bridge had collapsed leaving 4 dead and several wounded. I glance at the fallen bridge before a person riding a motorcycle captures my attention. He’s speaking into a cell phone being held to his ear by the person seated behind him. “That’s nothing,” says Smiley, “I’ve seen someone holding a phone to the ear of another guy who was peeing.” Hands-free takes on a whole new meaning!

* I’m not much of a foodie, but I am converted in the short time I spend in Hyderabad. Midnight Biryani at the Park Hotel, steamed dosas at Chutneys served on a banana leaf, and delectable Hyderabadi Haleem from Pista House. Considering, it’s Ramadan, there’s a haleem stall almost every few paces. Mutton haleem’s most popular, I figured, followed by chicken. One place even advertised fish haleem. Even with my newfound passion for food, I’m not sure I would try that in a hurry.

* Hyderabad can rock! The moves on the dance floor at F-Bar in Lumbini Mall leave me breathless. It's a week night, but that doesn't deter the avid party goers, who look most crestfallen when the place shuts at midnight.

* Visiting Golconda Fort isn’t on the itinerary. But considering the Salar Jung Museum is shut on the very day that I am there, we head to the Fort. It turns out to be an awe-inspiring trip. Standing amid the ruins of an 800-year old fort was, one tries to imagine what it was like all those years ago. Even the ruins are spectacular. The sheer scale of the fort is apparent after one has huffed and puffed to the top. Except for a few Japanese tourists and a few Indians, there aren’t too many visitors. The fort lies tucked away in a corner of the ‘old Hyderabad’ - away from the slick IT City and other swanky constructions, indistinguishable from each other - an almost forgotten souvenir of a glorious past.

* If travelling on the interstate buses, you have to read the ticket like you would read your rich uncle’s will. Very, very carefully. The information printed right at the top is the location from where you purchased your ticket, followed by the time of departure. In a less obvious corner, is the actual departure location, which turns out to be at least 15 kms. away in the direction of rush-hour traffic. Now, if you’re the kind to speed read the ticket, you turn up well in time at the wrong location, and then make a mad dash across the city only to arrive at the interstate bus terminal where there are at least a 100 buses arriving and departing and you’ve no clue if your bus is among them.

* I miss the bus, but the resulting adventure turns out to be more fun than imagined. Getting information from the beleaguered information desk, haggling for a teeny refund, watching ticket officials wrestle with unfamiliar computerized systems and finally, getting onto the next available bus an hour later all turns out to be a memorable part of the Hyderabad experience. I am pleasantly surprised to discover there’s a ‘women’s seat’ on the bus, which means I don’t have to fret about my seatmate. It’s been a very long time since I’d done a long bus journey, and I’m glad that I didn’t take the flight.

To be continued: Hubli Diary

Where we ring in another 'ear

2007-10-08T14:16:00.001+04:00

"Sex... sex...," said the guard at the airport entrance as I was rolling my trolley in.

My blood ran cold. I could scarcely believe that I was being solicited by a security personnel and that too with so many travellers and airport officials milling around. He had an almost bored expression on his face, and didn't flinch when I looked him straight in the eye. Was this what our much touted 'new' airports were all about, I thought indignantly.

I drew myself to my full height, almost standing on tiptoe, preparing to deliver a scathing rebuke on his unseemly behaviour.

He looked uneasy at my steady gaze and said, almost in a puzzled tone, "Sex 751?"

Was this some code, I wondered? Worse, was he bargaining? My mind ran amok with possibilities. The lascivious brute then started pointing to my hand, and I involuntarily looked down, and spotted my ticket and passport. A familiar number on the ticket caught my eye, and I stared at it for another second before the fog lifted.

I was on Flight CX 751.

P.S. Blame the incessant sniffling for affecting my hearing.

P.P.S. Absolute Lee is now FOUR 'EARS OLD. Thanks all of you for being around.

Bombay Diary

2007-10-04T14:41:00.000+04:00

* It’s amazing how religious fervour can bring a city to its knees. ‘Don’t even think of stepping out today,’ I was told almost every alternate day of the first week that I was in the city. Mumbai’s preoccupation with the immersion of Ganesha threw my carefully ordained plans into a tizzy. Friends fled home from work and plans for a night out in town had to be postponed. On the 11th day, I headed off early in the evening to a friend’s place in Mahim (or ‘may-hem’ as my aunts used to say). There was not a soul on the street. It almost felt like a ghost town. We stepped out later in the evening, and it was a dramatically different scene. We found it interesting to watch the throngs headed back after they’d immersed the idol. Some seemed to have a glassy-eyed, bewildered expression, and they walked back heads low, almost as if the lights all around were too bright for them. “Like stepping out in the night when a disco shuts,” said Ara. Ah, we said, the expression becoming completely clear to us.

* Riding on potholed roads ought to qualify as a low-intensity aerobic workout. Further, riding the stretch from Hill Road to Mehboob Studio in Bandra can prove to be a better and cheaper option to the physiotherapy one was undergoing in Dubai. Honestly, my back has improved considerably in the last couple of weeks.

* ‘You’ll be surprised by the Western Express Highway,’ says Ana. There are lane markings and it’s a comfortable drive, she convinces me. She’s right. There are lanes marked out quite clearly and for the most part, seems to be a smooth ride. I can’t help noticing that my auto driver seems to drive right on the line, rather than within the lines. Oh well.

* Some things are comfortingly familiar. Like travelling by the local train. I step in and my eyes automatically scan for a seat opposite to the direction of travel – an old habit. If there’s no sitting room, I head to the window where I can stand in relative comfort. The other day I was making my way to the window when I inadvertently stepped on someone’s foot. I was awarded a generous shove which sent me flying to the window. I bit back a retort – another old habit. A dozen stations later, the same lady called out to me and offered me her seat. Are you getting off, I ask her. No, but I’m getting another seat at the next station. You’ve been standing all the way, so you must sit down. Some things are comfortingly familiar.

* My old book haunts bear a haunted look. Crossword at Bandra has a cosy coffee shop, but little else. The one under the Pedder Road flyover is no better. I mean, there are books, but I miss the days when you could spend hours browsing through the expansive sections, and reading the little recommendations hand-written by Sriram. The recommendations these days are printed, and rather yawn-inducing. Most of the books I asked for were out of stock on each of the three occasions I went there. Surprisingly, Strand Book Stall also proved disappointing. There seem to be more management and self-improvement books than quality titles. Ara tells me Landmark is the bookstore to visit. Next trip, perhaps.

* Metal detectors in malls, a swanky domestic airport, the high cost of parking (25 lakhs per year in Nariman Point!!) - it’s taken a bit of getting used to some of the changes in the city. But one new occurrence that still has me gobsmacked is that Alison can read. Two weekends ago, we were in the B.E.S.T bus, when she leaned over and peered under the seat for a few seconds. She then turned to me and waited. What, I asked, unnerved by the steady gaze. Leela, don’t be an idiot. Before I could narrow my eyes, she pointed to the poster above the window of the bus – “You’re not an idiot if you look under your seat.” It was a public service message to warn against explosive devices. Make sure you check next time, she told me before looking out of the window.

The city’s changing too fast for my liking.

Back, but not quite...

2007-10-03T07:21:00.000+04:00

Mumbai-Hyderabad-Hubli-Dandeli-Hubli-Mumbai. The last few days have been exhilarating, enervating and also, eye-opening. From a fast-paced metropolis to a small city to a wildlife sanctuary, the rapid transition has been bewildering at times, and there's a curious sensation of being jet-lagged now that I'm back in Bombay. The old seasonal allergies have also begun to rear their stuffy heads, and I'm hoping to get through the last few days without coming down with something dreadful. Updates will follow...

Going trippin'

2007-09-27T08:48:00.000+04:00

Heading out of Bombay for a few days where there will be no net access, no connectivity (hopefully) and more wildlife than homo sapiens. Will be back on Tuesday with news and pictures.

Idol Worship

2007-09-27T08:25:00.000+04:00

In all the time I’ve lived in Mumbai, I’ve never had a first hand view of a city going completely berserk. In the last 48 hours, I’ve witnessed it twice over. Two nights ago, I was at Shivaji Park watching the city come to a standstill as hordes of believers carried their favourite god to the sea. And yesterday morning, quite unwittingly, I got stuck among the masses waving to their cricket demigods, quite unmindful of the weather or the inconvenience. Some images from an idol crazed city:

Day 1

Day 2

Encroachers will be prosecuted

2007-09-20T15:53:00.000+04:00

I cannot remember the exact moment, but I suspect it might have started out when I was six and had received four books as gift. I’m referring to the long-running feud with Mother over space for my ‘accumulations’. At that time, I demanded a shelf to start my ‘library’, a request that was vetoed by Mother. She insisted there was enough space on my school shelf to house the ‘four books’.

“What about my other story books?” I cried.

“What other books? You only have a dozen!” she insisted.

Mother was like that, a little short-sighted. She didn’t notice when the dozen multiplied into fifty, and then crept into hundreds when I discovered the second hand book haunts near College. It was only when she found her recipe books tucked under a tower of tomes that war broke out. She went shrieking around the house, throwing open the doors of every cupboard to find unmistakable signs of encroachment. And it wasn’t only books – there were newspaper clippings, MAD comics, greeting cards, paints, college notes, card paper, souvenirs, stationery and more, in serious quantities.

Father was called in, an unwilling arbitrator. He did what any man does in such a situation – he hid behind the newspaper. But he also secretly called a carpenter, and got a bookcase made. The war was now absolute.

A temporary truce was declared when it was announced that I was moving to Dubai. The ‘empty nest’ was actually something to look forward to, in Mother’s view. There was only a partial emptying out though, and on each subsequent trip home, I’ve been encouraged to ‘take a look at the stuff in X cupboard and on Y shelf’.

Yesterday, in one fell swoop, I got rid of a huge stack of yellowed cuttings from the travel pages of newspapers, magazines from 1994, and greeting cards from 1979. I noticed my mother humming in the kitchen.

I was dusting my hands, congratulating myself on my Buddha-like detachment, when Mother came into the room.

“Are you throwing away that file? It looks quite new.”

“This card is from when you were ten years old…. I’m keeping it.”

“That box only needs to be dusted. Let me take that.”

Some maladies run in families…

A day in Bombay

2007-09-19T17:47:00.000+04:00

Spot of green on a grey day - at Marine Drive

Shades of rain

Love that weathers

Shelter from the storm

A caged beast - outside Churchgate Station

A riot of elephants

Night lights - from a friend's window

Open-air kitchen

Rainproofing - Bollywood style

God in sight

Old train-ing kicks in

A few things that made me smile

2007-09-17T23:14:00.000+04:00

• The inflight announcer faltering over the pronunciation of Mumbai airport – Chit rappety Sewage Airport, Membai.

• A co-passenger exclaiming at the conveyor belt, “Shining new trollies?!”

• My wrestling match with the taxi door before I remembered I had to push the button and not yank the handle.

• The rows of lights and Ganesh pandals along the highway.

• The customary wrangling with the taxi driver over the fare.

• Parents who ask you if you want bun and tea for breakfast.

Travellers Blues

2007-09-16T23:43:00.001+04:00

Much as I enjoy traveling, I’m a nervous traveler. Weeks before I travel I begin drawing up lists. They start innocuously enough - things to carry, gifts to buy, people to meet… As the departure date draws nearer, the lists grow more elaborate, and urgent - things to do before I reach the airport, things to do when in the airport, things to do while on the plane, things to do if not seated next to interesting company, things to do if plane crash lands over the ocean etc. Drawing up lists keeps me occupied, and keeps me from chewing my fingers to ragged bits.

This hypervigilance usually has one unfortunate consequence, and that is, I end up overlooking something elementary. Like remembering to collect the ticket from the check-in counter. Or leaving hand luggage at the money exchange counter, and almost setting off the crews with sniffer dogs.

Today will be different, I vowed (like I do every time). I had covered all bases, and had decided to leave office early and check in my luggage, thereby eliminating one possible stressor. According to the list titled ‘Things to do in the final hours before leaving home’, I reckoned that I even had time for a quick nap before the midnight flight.

I hit the airport road, and although there was a fair bit of traffic, I figured it would take me not more than half an hour to reach the airport. And then a ton of bricks fell on my car. Or that’s what it felt like. It took a few moments to figure out that the ton of bricks was actually a beaten up Lancer, which had rammed into my bumper. I quickly headed for the hard shoulder and got out to inspect the extent of the damage. The bumper with minor scratches now sported a gaping hole. A bearded man got out of the jalopy, looking dismayed and repentant. ‘Really sorry’, he said, looking like a child who’d just broken an expensive vase.

I felt bad, because he looked like he would burst into tears. Two young men came out of the car and inspected the bumper.

An old woman also got out of the car, and started wailing. ‘Forgive him, he didn’t mean it. Please, we’re from Abu Dhabi. He didn’t know the roads. Let us go, I beg of you.”

No, no I hastened to clarify, nothing will happen. We just need to get a slip from the police and all of us can go.

Consoling people who’d smashed my bumper, definitely didn’t feature in the ‘Things to do…’ list, but I had to improvise.

The next hour saw enough drama with wailing, coaxing, being threatened and more, until the police arrived and gave me the green slip of ‘innocent victim’.

I got through that unexpected crisis quite well, and felt quite composed as I sailed through the airport gates and reached the airport check-in counter.

And that's when I realised I'd forgotten to carry my ticket.

P.S. All’s well that ends well. I’m posting this just before I board the flight.

P.P.S. Posting will continue on the other side of the Indian Ocean.

Constant Readers

2007-09-15T01:12:00.000+04:00

Stephen King had a term of endearment for his loyal followers – Constant Reader. And as one sits down to write the daily post for the fourth consecutive week, one thinks it’s a good idea to appreciate the Constant Readers of one’s blog. (No, one does not have delusions of being King, or queen… but one’s grandmother used to say, when stuck for something to say, say ‘thank you’.)

So thanks all of you: Constant Readers & Commentators - Cherie and E; Constant Lurkers - The Dog From Somewhere and Last Mallu in Dubai, The Old Constants – Patrix, Rash, Alpha, Saltwater Blues, Keya, Twilight Fairy, Two Penny… and all The Constant Anonymous. (Did I miss anyone?)

Ok grandma, what do I say tomorrow?

It’s a good day for singing the blues

2007-09-14T15:19:00.001+04:00

My perfect weekend morning would unfold like this:

* Waking up anytime between 7 & 8. No alarm. Just eyelids fluttering open to catch the sunbeams peeking in through the curtains.

* A mug of steaming, bitter green tea, which sends wake up signals to still dozy brain cells

* Curtains tied to allow the sunbeams a free rein over the room

* An hour of the Morning Pages – a spiritual, magical journey

* Classical music while I tidy up the place

* Checking up on to do lists.

* Launching forth into the weekend

Did all of that today, except that Classical Music just didn’t feel right today. It was time for the Blues. BB King and Tracy Chapman:The Thrill is gone, Gary Moore: The Healer, Robert Cray: You’re gonna need me, Lonnie Brooks: Say goodbye to the blues....

Just the kind of soundtrack for life right now. Thoughts uncurl and unspool and fly around the room looking for an exit…

* You can hold all the pieces of the puzzle, but if no one wants them, you’re holding onto nothing.
* Knowing the answers can be as painful as not knowing
* Reality is always, always, more bizarre, unpredictable and random than fiction.

Either that, or we just overdid the Blues.

You Roack My Woald!

2007-09-13T18:31:00.000+04:00

It took me moment to gobblefunk a title for this post, and maybe the Lord of The Gobblefunks would have approved. It's his day after all. A mail from Magrudy's two days ago reminded me that today is Roald Dahl Day, and encouraged me to take the Roald Dahl Day Challenge, which essentially consists of challenging tasks such as these, to win a prize.

1. Wear something yellow (Roald's favourite color)
I'm wearing yellow sandals.

2. Wear one or more items of clothing backwards
The item of clothing is tending to bunch uncomfortably, but I've managed to get through the day.
I'm also wearing lipstick on the inside of my mouth.

3. Drop 'gobblefunk' convincingly into a conversation
Check opening line.

4. Swap a Roald Dahl book with a friend
Sudhendra, you BFG! Today IS a good day to return the 'Collected Short Stories of Roald Dahl' that I gave you 7 years and 22 days ago!

5. Visit Magrudy's Junior in Jumeirah (04) 3444193 for fun activity at 7:00 pm
No gym, I'm headed to Gymeirah today.

6. Talk Backwards
Did I when looks strange got I.

7. Tell a silly joke (Roald Dahl loved swapping these with his kids)
A dyslexic man walks into a bra...

8. Give someone a treat (Roald was a great believer in treats, whether it was a bar of chocolate or a lovely surprise)
I passed peppermints around at work.

9. Make up an Oompa Loompa dance and get all your friends to join in!
I've already picked up "Shaka Laka like an Oompa Loompa" from Virgin Megastore at City Centre. Now, to find enthusiastic friends....

Doing this was so much fun. I wish every other day was Roald Dahl day.

But seriously, way back in college, when I discovered the twisted short stories of Roald Dahl, I was awed by his genius. Lamb to the Slaughter, Galloping Foxley, Nunc Dimitis, Mrs. Bixby and the Colonel's Coat and Parson's Pleasure were my favourites, and I must have read each of them a dozen times, eagerly waiting to get to the twist in the tale, and then savouring the delicious ending. When it came to endings, nothing beat Taste, and I would visualise in rich detail, the dinner party and the look on Richard Pratt's face when the butler came into the room.

I'd probably read every short story by him before I discovered his 'children's stories'. I enjoyed a second childhood in my teens on reading Charlie and the Chocolate Factory and James and the Giant Peach. It was unexpectedly thrilling to discover that these stories had come from the same pen that wrote those wicked short stories. Almost like finding out that your prankster uncle was the real Santa Claus. His book of Revolting Rhymes has me in splits to this day.

I thought I'd gotten accustomed to the weird genius of Roald Dahl, and then I read his biography - Boy and Going Solo. He describes ordinary events and places in such an interesting, visual way, that his world comes alive in your mind. Whether it's his experience as a 'tester' for Cadbury chocolates, or getting shot down in Africa - you can't help feeling that it sounds like a plot in one of his stories.

It's been a long time since I read any of his works, but the email from Magrudy's and the Challenge brought back wonderful moments when I lived in Roald Dahl's scrumdiddlyumptious world, and never wanted to leave.

Just logging on...

2007-09-12T23:27:00.000+04:00

... to check if our new wireless internet connection is good to go.

Check, cheque, cheik.

Car-ry on dreaming

2007-09-11T23:23:00.000+04:00

There's an informal parking lot in front of the building, which is the source of much interest and anxiety. The latter emotion is felt if you've parked your car there, and have to extract it from the maze during the middle of the day. The interest comes from watching someone attempt the same maneuver.

Watching the cars scuttle in and out of a narrow opening one afternoon, the conversation somehow veered to 'dream cars'. And I racked my brains trying to figure out if I had one. No automobile trundled along that thought highway. And then, I made the unforgivable mistake of claiming that my current set of wheels was my dream car.

The room erupted. Dream BIG, the chorus hectored, referring to my bitty hatchback – the Nissan Tiida. You should think about driving a Corvette, said one. This time, I didn't blurt out my first thought, which was, 'where would I park it?' I wouldn't hear the end of that one.

But that’s how I am about cars. Maybe it’s to do with gender, but I’m unemotional about pickup and power and engine and doodahs. Just tell me a tank of petrol costs 60 bucks, and it roughly takes 10 days to 2 weeks to work through it, and I'll thank you for sparing me any other details. I get it serviced at requisite intervals, but ask me about mileage and depreciation, and you’ll get question marks where a face ought to be. It’s not that I don’t care at all, but you won’t find me giving it a name or referring to it by gender. It’s and it as far as I’m concerned.

It's got scratches on both sides in front and a wee crack in the bumper. Scars earned shortly after I got my driving stripes. I thought of getting it fixed several times, but the wily insurance people seemed determined to punish me for my transgressions. Scars build character, I reasoned, and let them stay.

And now they’re just as much a part of the car as the quiet cream interiors and generous leg room. There are no dozens of accessories hanging from every surface or overflowing compartments and boot. A single Buddhist good luck charm dangles from the rear-view mirror. And a few coins in the parking bay. For an inveterate accumulator like me, that’s quite an accomplishment. It fits neatly into parking slots, and doesn’t take up too much mind space either. Except for the one time the battery gave up the ghost.

I say, forget about dreaming big. Think small.

Gimme news

2007-09-10T19:09:00.000+04:00

I have it from reliable sources that the irksome, juvenile conversation (non)starter 'wassup' is fast losing popularity to another equally grating phrase 'gimme news'. My mind freezes when I hear that one, and despite the faint knowledge that it's not so much a query as a greeting, I start racking my brains for some 'newsworthy' going-ons in my life.

Today's been one of those uneventful days, and I'm a bit skittish about coming across someone on the way home who accosts me with a 'gimme news'.

Perhaps, a quick run through of the Gulf News might bail me out. A few samples:

Parents should never be abused or disrespected

Not bad for starters. Here's how a conversation could go...

Person X: Yo, Lee, gimme news

Me: Umm... hiya, you know you gotta respect your parents.

Person X: Whoa, stay away from me. Smokin' up's illegal in this country, y'know.

Me: Speaking of which, have you heard of the professor who admitted to carrying drugs. He said, "I am a university professor in the United States. I am guilty and want to be given the punishment I deserve"

Person X (backing away a bit): What-evah! Listen, I gotta go...

Me: Sure, but remember, don't watch TV while driving, ok

Person X: Whatever's wrong with you, I hope it's not contagious.

Me: Rats! I missed the health pages today, can I get back to you on that tomorrow?

Note to self

2007-09-09T19:54:00.000+04:00

Catching up with the weekend's posts on Sunday is not the smartest thing to do...

Weekend checklist

2007-09-08T19:13:00.000+04:00

* Watch Hairspray - check
* Get stuck for an hour in the car park of Deira City Centre - check
* Wear headgear consisting of red cabbage, baby tomatoes and carrots - check
* Wrestle with food processor - check
* Get wireless internet connection at home - check
* Get wireless internet connection which doesn't work - check
* Get a hair trim - check
* Don Ma Leela robes and dispense gratuitous advice - check
* Spend every last dirham in wallet and spare change wallet - check
* Leave wallet in T's place - check
* Help ex-flatmate to move to new quarters - check
* Drive on an empty fuel tank - check
* Drink a mug of toddy - check
* Swear never to drink bottled toddy again because it is S.O.U.R - check
* Drop into church - check
* Update blog - check :-)

Priceless Pictures # 11: Lead us not into temptation...

2007-09-07T18:56:00.000+04:00

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

A terse verse

2007-09-06T20:10:00.000+04:00

It's time to leave
But a post is due
Can't turn back now
No, just won't do

The page is blank
The mind, likewise
Maybe it's because
We lunched on fries

The weekend beckons
Gotta go, gotta go
So we'll be back
With a real post tomorrow

It doesn't quite ad up

2007-09-05T19:26:00.000+04:00

"UAE ads lack originality," screams a headline in Arabian Business.

Appearing as it does, a week or so before Ramadan, this headline isn't so far from the truth. I have a small collection of 'Ramadan' ads from last year - in categories ranging from real estate to cars, and appliances to supermarkets - which feature the 'mandatory' crescent moon in a way that just begs you to hastily turn the page and ignore the ad. Yes, it's a sad reflection on one's chosen profession.

Back to the survey, there were some grim figures thrown in:

55% say advertising is not original

71% believe only a small percentage of advertising is relevant to them

68% believe the advertising does not predispose them favourably towards the brand

Apparently, the survey has "revealed for the first time the size of the gap between what advertisers are trying to achieve and the actual impact of advertising."

So what will bridge this cavernous gap?

Research, apparently. Companies are 'urged to spend their advertising dollars better by testing creative concepts at the start.'

Great idea.

Is it a coincidence then that the company that has conducted this very revelatory survey and recommended research also happens to be a "market research company working all over the Arab world and specialising in qualitative research and online polling"?

Weather forecast: Good times ahead

2007-09-04T20:19:00.000+04:00

Two weeks ago, it suddenly struck me that summer was over.

I was in the mood to watch the sun set over the waters in Jumeirah. I'd assumed that I'd have enough time to drive down to the Burj Al Arab end of the beach, but the fiery orb was making its descent almost 15 minutes earlier than expected, forcing me to settle for the public beach opposite the Jumeirah mosque. It wasn't a bad vantage point, but anyway, coming back to the point, I was amazed that I even noticed the subtle changes in the seasons. Considering one spends a good part of the day stuck in an office in front of a window without a view, I was pleased by my observation, and proceeded to announce it to everyone that the much reviled season was on its last legs. Of course, it will take another couple of weeks to feel a palpable difference, but for now, the knowledge is sufficient.

Early this week, we moved to a new office with expansive windows covering two-thirds of the room. Sunshine, glorious sunshine, lights up the room in a way that fluorescent tubes can never hope to. The windows overlook a parking lot, an undetermined construction (sigh, Dubai) and a row of stores - an unexceptional view - but there's more than a mouthful of sky to make up for it. The winter skies with streaks of wild colour, irrepressible clouds and languorous birds are a joy to behold. I can't wait to look over the computer monitor and take in the bigger picture...

Look ma...

2007-09-03T20:27:00.000+04:00

... I'm in Gulf News today.

People in high places...

2007-09-03T18:56:00.001+04:00

A priceless picture taken before one acquired the Red Devil

In defence of Dubai

2007-09-02T15:19:00.000+04:00

Patrix sent me a link to an article from 'Escape from America' titled "The top 20 reasons not to move to Dubai". With a title like that you can expect an impassioned, biased diatribe and the author doesn't disappoint.

"There are so many things wrong with this place that I have decided to compile a list, a must read if you are considering a potential move to Dubai."

Some of the reasons she lists are laughable, some questionable, and some, well, have a modicum of truth. But I don't think these are reasons 'not to move to Dubai'. Having lived here for a little over 2 years, I don't consider myself an expert on the place. But since this is my adopted home (for now), and since I really do like it, I'm going to challenge some of these reasons.

(I'm just picking sentences from the long rant on each reason. If you want to read the entire article, click on the link above.)

1. There is no standard address system making mail-to-the door delivery impossible. In fact, it makes anything nearly impossible...

There is an efficient address system, which unfortunately isn't promoted as well as it should be. Every street has a sign with a community number and street number displayed on it and there's a number on every building/villa. I've been asked for these details when calling for a taxi, and having supplied them, I've not had a problem at all. I'll admit though that it's not a popular system, and most often one still ends up giving directions of the 'take-first-left-and-then-right-at-petrol-pump' variety.

2. The government blocks all web sites that it deems “offensive” to the “religious, moral, and cultural values” of the UAE. That’s hard to swallow for a freedom loving American, but I get it...

This freedom loving Indian still doesn't get it. I've blogged about this here. It still strikes me as plain unnecessary and Big Brotherly.

I do not understand, however, why all VOIP access and related web sites are blocked.... The government says VOIP is blocked for security reasons...

I haven't followed the VOIP debate, but from what I've heard, the reasons are not so much national interest as economic interests. More specifically, Etisalat's economic interest.

3. It is really hot outside...

Is this even a reason? It's a desert, for crying out loud. What were you expecting?

In the last two years I've been here, I've found people generate more sweat anticipating the summer and griping about it, than they actually spend time in the sun. I'll tell you what's infinitely worse than the heat and humidity. And that's the darned air-conditioning. It's actually quite easy to forget that you live in a desert because of near-freezing conditions everywhere - buildings, malls, cars, even corridors. In an attempt to apologise for the weather, air-conditioners are cranked up to the max everywhere, ironically generating more heat outside. Ever tried walking from a sub-artic mall into a stifling carpark and you'll know what I mean. It ought to rate as a health hazard in my opinion! The only ones to feel the real brunt of summer are the labourers working outside on construction sites, and you don't hear them complaining, do you?

4. There are too few trees, plants, and grass – or living things aside from us crazy humans, for that matter...

It's true. But like I said before, it's a desert. Expecting a rainforest in the middle of the place is a bit unrealistic. There's a certain starkness which one learns to appreciate. If you really want to see greenery, try the oases of Al Ain, try the soothing calm of Zabeel Park, try the expanses of Mamzar Park. Just step off the beaten Sheikh Zayed/Jumeirah road, and you might be surprised.

5. This country prides itself so much on its glitz and glamour that it put a picture of its 7-star hotel on the license plate....

For the record, it doesn't happen anymore.

...Yet, the public toilets in the king-of-bling Gold Souk district are holes in the ground with no toilet paper or soap.

I haven't been to the toilets in the Gold Souk, but most of the public toilets I've been to in malls and buildings (and I've been to a few. Remember the powerful ACs I mentioned above?) are extremely clean and well-maintained. It's unfair to judge toilets all over the UAE by an experience in the the toilets in Gold Souk.

6. This country encourages businesses to hire people from other poor countries to come here and work. They have them sign contracts that are a decade long and then take their passports....

They live crammed in portables with tons of others, in highly unsanitary conditions... Things are so bad that a number of laborers are willing to throw themselves in front of cars because their death would bring their family affluence in the form of diya, blood money paid to the victim’s family as mandated by the government...

Exploitation is rampant. And although there are noises made from time to time about improving the workers' lot, one gets the feeling that it isn't enough to correct the problem. It's a sad life for a labourer, but will not living in Dubai change this problem? I don't know.

7. Things are not cheaper here. I’m sick of people saying that. The only thing cheaper here is labor. Yes, you can have a maid – but a bag of washed lettuce will cost you almost $10.

The cost of living has gone up, for sure. I've heard of times when people could save up to 60% of their salary. Obviously, those times has passed. It's tough if you're a single earning member and have children to raise. Having said that, you only have to take one look at the groaning trolleys at the supermarket checkout queues or at the throngs in malls on any day of the week to figure out that people can obviously afford the lifestyle.

8. There are traffic cameras everywhere. I consider this cheating. Where are the damn cops?... Speeding even just a couple of kilometers over will get you fined....

There's enough rash driving, so I don't get the problem about 'traffic cameras everywhere'.

Forget to pay the bill and your car will be impounded....

Not true, unless you've done something stupid like jump a red light or drive on the hard shoulder.

9. The clothing some of these women wear makes no sense to me. I understand that as part of your religion you are required to dress in a particular way, but a black robe over your jeans and turtleneck and cover your head when it is 120 degrees outside?...

Live and let live, I say. And be thankful that you're not in Saudi Arabia where everyone has to wear a veil outside the residential compounds irrespective of their religion.

10. People stare at you. I’m stared at by men who have never seen a fair-skinned blue-eyed woman before, or who have and think we are all prostitutes so it’s okay to stare. They stare at me when I am fully covered or with my husband, and even follow me around.

Yes, there are men who will stare, and there's a fair bit of harassment on the public beaches. But, given my experience of Bombay, I find Dubai to be a much safer city for a woman. I've been able to walk down roads well past midnight and haven't been accosted. (It depends on the area too. I wouldn't go walking in areas I didn't feel comfortable in.) I've taken taxis home late at night, and sometimes I worry that I've let down my guard too much and taken safety for granted.

The staring is not limited to men, either. I’m stared at angrily by female prostitutes who think I am running in on their territory by having a few drinks with my husband at the bar.

LOL!

11. Prostitutes? Oh hell yes, there are prostitutes. Tons of them. So, let me get this straight, I can’t look at a naked picture of a person on the Internet in the privacy of my home, but it is okay to go out in public and buy a few for the night?

Paradox, thy name is Dubai.

12. Alcohol can only be sold in hotels and a handful of private clubs. A person must own a liquor license to consume in the privacy of their own home....

This can be a serious bummer, I tell you. But then, there are ways around it... :)

13. Not only do you have to get your boss’s approval to obtain a liquor license, but you must also get the company’s approval to rent property, have a telephone, or get satellite TV.

Like there's no red tape in other places...

14. If I see one more kid standing up and waving to me out the back window while flying down the road at 160 kph…whatever happened to seatbelts?

This rant is beginning to run out of steam, don't you think?

15. When is the weekend again?... Anyway you slice it, Sundays are workdays and little business can be accomplished Thursday through Saturday.

It takes a while getting used to weekends on Friday and Saturday, and a work week beginning on Sunday, but a weekend starting on Thursday night - a whole day ahead of the rest of the world - is a joy beyond compare. Everything's a matter of perspective, I tell you.

16. There are few satellite television operators:. The movie channels play movies that are old and outdated.

Try the cinemas. Or video libraries. Heck, if nothing else, there's always 'Wang' - the goot carpy deeveedee (good copy DVD) guy around the corner.

The TV commercials are repeated so often that I am determined NOT to buy anything I see advertised on television here just for the principle of it.

No, please please don't do this. Unless you want to see me out of a job!

17. The roads are horribly designed. Driving ten minutes out of the way to make a U-turn is not uncommon... Miss it and you’ll likely end up on the other side of town before you are able to turn around and go back.

Heh. This reminds me of the time I drove halfway to Abu Dhabi before I could figure out the exit to Dubai. Like I said before, I know there's a method in the maze of roads. The exits are numbered, the direction signs are in place. Except that the RTA hasn't campaigned extensively to explain how it works.

18. Taxi drivers are dangerous and smell... Many of these drivers have just as much difficulty finding their way around as you do, but add to this a third-world country driving style and extreme exhaustion and, well, remember to buckle up for safety...

Well, you get all kinds. I've come across charming taxi drivers and cantankerous ones, silent ones and garrulous ones, those who'll pour out their woes, and those who'll attempt to counsel you about life in Dubai, especially if they find out you're a newbie. If smell is a problem, keep a tissue handy.

19. Speeding is an Emirati sport and Emirates Road is just an extension of the Dubai Autodrome.... Local nationals are somehow able to get the sun-protecting dark window tint denied to us lowly expats and use it to hide their faces as they tailgate you incessantly at unbelievably high speeds, their lights flickering on and off and horn blaring repeatedly.

The UAE has one of the higher road accident rates. Despite speed radars, heavy penalties and threats of deportation, the problems continue. To be honest, I've heard stories of bad drivers and bad driving more than I've experienced it. So, I'll just take this lady's word on it.

20. Dubai is far from environmentally friendly... Consider the waste that occurs from erecting buildings on top of these sand monsters and from the people that occupy them coupled with the lack of an effective recycling program and you have an environmental disaster on your hands. Add to this more gas guzzling SUVs than fuel-efficient cars on the road and the need for 24-hour powerful air-conditioning and its evident that the environment is not high on the priority list of the UAE.

Here's where I whole-heartedly agree with the author. I've been to a Recycling Centre on three occasions in the past month to drop off empty plastic bottles. And each time the machine's been out of order, and no one knows when it will be fixed. There are no convenient newspaper recycling centres, and you've got to really work hard if you want to be environmentally conscious. Especially when people scoff at your efforts.

So while I’m sure there are benefits to living in Dubai, tax breaks, multi-cultural environments, and beautiful buildings aside, reconsider your plans to move here if any of the above mentioned reasons strikes a chord within you.

Yes, please reconsider. There are already enough people who come here and whine endlessly and weigh down people who want to enjoy what the city has to offer, and figure out what they have to offer to the city.

Dubai is a city caught in an identity crisis. Struggling somewhere between its desire to be a playground for the rich and its adherence to traditional Islamic roots, rests a city that lacks sufficient infrastructure to support its delusions of grandeur. Visit if you must, but leave quickly before you are sucked into its calamitous void.

Really?

Prayer for today

2007-09-01T11:45:00.000+04:00

O God, give me an endless road, and Al di Meola and Paco de Lucia for company.

Now listening to:

Race with the Devil on a Spanish Highway
La Malaguena
Mediterranean Sundance
Malaguena Salerosa
Tango Flamenco

… and some other Latin jazz which goes down smooooooooothhhher than tequila.

Just one of those weird moments

2007-08-31T11:22:00.000+04:00

Time: 7:30 p.m.
Location: The elevator in the office building

I enter and hit the button for the ground floor. The doors open on the 1st floor and a guy enters carrying two enormous garbage bags filled with what looks like shredded paper. He apologises, and I nod. I have no idea what he’s just apologized for. The elevator is fairly large and dry garbage is hardly a bother. As the elevator heads past the mezzanine floor, he turns to me and asks, “You want paint for your fingers?” I look at him and even before I’ve processed the meaning of the question, I shake my head firmly, my ‘I-don’t-talk-to-strangers’ face falling into place. “For leg?” the man persists, although he’s now fairly sure of the answer, because he’s shaking his head and saying no to himself. The doors open and I quickly put as much distance between the janitor-painter and myself before I ask, “Did he mean ‘pain’ by any chance?”

Ever noticed how one weird question inevitably leads to another?

Got a flat, mate?

2007-08-30T18:50:00.000+04:00

The flatmate's moving out in a couple of days. And I guess I should be used to it, considering the number of them who've moved in and out in the last 23 months I've been here. When the German couple moved out - the first of the lot to do so - I felt a little bereft. I'd gotten used to their friendly yet non-interfering presence. Cursory conversations in the kitchen, polite smiles in the passage - that was the extent of our interaction. It matched perfectly with my need for solitude.

Next came the fairy-tale girls - Cinderella and Snow White. I'm not kidding about one of those names. They came in and shook up the somnolent establishment from the first day itself. I entered the house to find all the bathroom paraphernalia on the floor in the passage. "We've got a cleaner to spruce up the bathroom," said one of them, "it was such a mess." It most certainly wasn't. The Germans were neat to a fault, and I'm quite particular myself. I was partly-miffed but also partly-relieved to have orderly flatmates.

That initial burst of tidiness concealed a rather contrary sloppiness which I discovered in the months that followed. There were other quirks as well - cooking after 11 p.m., canoodling with boyfriends outside the elevator and so on. It didn't bother me much because I kept to myself.

One of them moved out shortly, and a friend's friend moved in. She'd hit a rough patch and needed support and encouragement. I introduced her to friends, extended a shoulder when needed, and also allowed her unlimited access to my fiercely-guarded bookshelf. Things changed for her, and then changed some more and she decided to head back to India.

I wasn't looking forward to adjusting to new flatmates. And as fate ordained, I didn't have to. I got a new flatmate alright, but this was someone familiar. I could walk into his room and demand a packet of chips or harangue him with laptop woes, as well as throw a fit at unwashed utensils. There were days when I didn't see him and there were days when I woke him just to have a conversation. We had fights and arguments, and days of stonewalled silence, as well as moments of quiet friendship. Who'd have thought an intolerable younger brother could make a perfect flatmate?

Life moves on, and a new flatmate might soon move in. I'm not looking forward to it, but am not dreading it either.

Space Wanted

2007-08-29T20:29:00.000+04:00

1 bamboo arrangement
1 Thesaurus
1 cellotape dispenser
1 Post-It note
1 mobile phone holder
I pen holder
4 coasters
3 thimble sized ceramic pots
1 Gary Larson calendar
1 photo frame
14 magazines that's been on the reading list for months
8 supplements from the weekend newspapers
1 notepad
1 job allocation notebook
1 envelope with certificates

And that's only the assortment on the desk.

The 3 side-table drawers are groaning with paraphernalia ranging from stale biscuits to DVDs, newspaper cuttings to invitations to bygone events, interior design magazines to odds 'n ends which have grown pale from the sustained absence of sunlight.

Tomorrow, all of that's going to be packed in a carton and moved to the new office a floor below. I haven't seen my new work station, but I've already requisitioned extra storage space...

An early post on the collection junkie here

That Human Touch

2007-08-28T20:58:00.000+04:00

Circa 2004

Tucked in between clammy bodies, bony knees, knobby elbows and a profusion of body odours, I attempt to stay erect and concentrate on the book in my hand, as the train lurches from station to station. Somebody's wrist connects with my ear while straining for the overhead rack. A fierce scowl to the wrist's owner doesn't elicit more than a sheepish look. Muttering dark imprecations, I return to the book, reading the same paragraph three times before focus returns. 'Side pliss', the portly lady with the basket of chikoos rasps through broken, paan-stained teeth. I'm tempted to stand my ground, but seeing her plump elbows aimed like missiles at my ribcage, I capitulate, and lean back into the tall lady with jasmines in her fuzzy hair, while the chikoo lady oozes past. The former delivers a swift elbow jab into my back for the sudden, unwelcome pressure while the latter impales me with the same bulbous elbow I was trying to avoid. For a brief moment, there are four elbows connected to my body, and it's a matter of time before there are a few more, as I squirm and displace some of the other bodies in that ring of humanity...

Circa 2007

I step out my building and amble over to the car park. The remote control unlocks the door while I'm a few feet away. Despite the summer heat, the car's cool inside, as I'd managed to park under the solitary tree overlooking the parking bay. I toss my bag on the passenger seat while simultaneously turning on the ignition. The AC leaps into action. I plug my iPod into the car dock, and Beethoven's 'Ode to Joy' rolls into the cool, quiet space. I head out over the Bridge. A sedan slips into the small gap between my car and the one ahead. My foot automatically leans on the brake; my mind's far away. After the signal, I indicate and ease into the lane on the right. Thhttp://www.blogger.com/img/gl.link.gife route's comfortably familiar, and providentially, against traffic. Regular glances in the rear and side-view mirrors ensure that I'm not veering too close to another vehicle and vice versa. At the signal, I notice the car in front of mine has a cracked bumper. The blue one on the left needs a paint job. I notice my agency's ad pasted upside down on the taxi up ahead. I make a mental note to inform someone at work. 15 minutes later, I pull into the sandlot opposite my office building. A curious thought occurs to me: it's possible to travel on a busy road every single day and yet not see a single human being. There's a twinge of unease when it strikes me that I can recall cars I've passed but not who was at the wheel.

The Dubai Metro will be up and running next year. Maybe I'll buy a season ticket for old times' sake.