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... :-)
Showing posts with label Whine Cellar. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Whine Cellar. Show all posts
Friday, March 05, 2010
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
Radio, some one still loves you...
There's nothing to beat the sheer popularity of radio in this country. In all the time I've been here, I've rarely heard anyone discussing a TV show or a news article with as much passion as radio shows. Phone lines of popular shows are constantly jammed with garrulous callers who breathlessly reveal personal details with unrestrained candour. I once heard a guy tell an RJ, "You're the best thing to have happened to me." This, to a disembodied voice on the airwaves. People are known to enter their cars and turn on the radio before the air-conditioning.
I'll admit it takes your mind off traffic and crazy drivers on occasion, but I'm not one to go 'Radio ga-ga'. If anything, I'm allergic to dial-in shows and inane, superfluous chatter. I'd rather listen to static than to some pseudo-chirpy RJ banter punctuated by forced, grating laughter. The only thing that's music to my ears, is music. And thankfully my iPod accomplishes that without any back chat.
Still, once in a while I venture out among the airwaves, to listen for new music, or radio commercials (part of the job) or sale announcements (part of life, heh). Last weekend, I was listening to my one-time favourite radio station called The Coast. It used to be the only radio station in the country that played great music without any commercial breaks or RJs. Naturally, an aberration like that couldn't continue for long, and now, it's just like every other radio station, commercials, RJs and all.
The Coast RJ was reading out a letter from an ardent listener, "Dear RJ, I've a problem of sorts. I'm 8 months pregnant, and my doctor says I'm due on December 6th. Now, I've just bought my tickets for the Justin Timberlake show on the same day. What should I do - give away the tickets or take the chance and go for the show?"
Now this is one question that's seldom found in the Training Syllabus for Aspiring RJs. But that didn't stop Mr. RJ from venturing an answer, first pausing to employ the classic 'Miss Universe Question Round Trick' i.e. paraphrase the question to gain time to formulate a winning answer,
"Dear X, I'm not 8 months pregnant, but if I were you and I had bought tickets to the Timberlake show on the same day that the doctor said I was due... I would definitely go for the Timberlake show."
For everyone's sake, I hope Justin's entourage has a midwife or two.
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.
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
Car-ry on dreaming
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.
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.
Thursday, August 23, 2007
Facebook Face off
For the two of you who don't know about Facebook, it's a bit like a college canteen that's online. You hang out, yak with friends, exchange gifts, music and photos, write graffitti, join groups - all this while bunking important stuff. In blogging terms, one could liken Facebook to the melee in the comment section of fun bloggers like Alpha, Smiley, Anita Rodricks etc. Fluff, fun and foolin' around.
Having been on Facebook and introduced several of my friends to the network, I find I'm beginning to enjoy it a bit. But some things have begun to peeve me lately. And since Facebook doesn't allow one to blow off steam, it's time for the good old blog to bear the brunt. So here goes:
Peeve # 1: Folks rush to add you on as a friend and you never hear from them again. Initially it was thrilling to find an inbox filled with friend requests - old colleagues, school mates, long forgotten college buddies, and I happily accepted requests, going so far as to customise a 'how do I know X' message. But few do anything more than add you to their burgeoning friend list. Well, if you had 150 or more friends, you wouldn't really be able to do anything more than click the 'add as friend' button, would you? And why on earth would you need 150 friends anyway? The 75 on my list make me nervous enough already.
Peeve # 2: What do you do after joining a Facebook group? You sign up with a cool group with an intriguing name - 'People Who Always Have To Spell Their Names For Other People' - but again, apart from joining the group, what else do you do? I mean, how many times can you get a laugh out of the time someone spelt your name as Leek Levers?
Peeve # 3: Where is the 'Facebook for Dummies' when you need it? I realised how complicated Facebook was when I tried to explain to a tech challenged friend how to access a photo album on my profile. It took me a few weeks before I discovered that clicking on the little 'house' icon next to the Facebook logo on one's profile unearthed what all friends had been up to. In excruciating detail. "X is now friends with P; R sent a flower to H; M has ended a relationship and is now single; V squeezed the pimple on his nose and some white stuff oozed out..."
Peeve # 4: Let's not even start on all the curious widgety things that make ones profile look like an overdone Christmas tree. It's not enough to have a Wall, one must have a Super Wall. A Poke's irritating enough, but one must add a Super Poke where you can drop kick, throw a sheep at and defenestrate people. (Defenestrate! You've got to hand it to the creators of that application.) Some of the widgets are fun, but you won't find me adding Vampires or Fortune Cookies or Fluff Friends or Pimp my Facebook in a hurry.
Peeve # 5: The online/offline distinction gets blurred once again. As with blogs where people get carried away with online personas, on Facebook people want to carry as much of their offline world online. So colleagues and neighbours get miffed if you don't accept their friend requests. I see you every day, for crying out loud. What would I want to say to you on Facebook? I even had a colleague ask me about a job on my Wall. Fortunately I hadn't added the Super Poke application or she'd have b*#@h slapped me.
Whines notwithstanding, Facebook isn't all as bad as I've made it out to be. One of my original motivations for signing up was that my taciturn teenage cousins were on Facebook. Long, impassioned mails returned with monosyllabic replies. It seemed the only way to get across was to join them on their turf. And I've gotten to see quite a different side of them. Not so much the sanitised, studious picture their parents paint of them but the wild, fun, adolescents that they are (and ought to be!)
Also Facebook helps rekindle that community feeling one experienced in college, at some workplaces and even in good old blogland. Sort of brings all your friends to the same party. Even if they happen to be clueless aunts or ex-bosses or friends who've only set up a Facebook account but don't know how to proceed from there.
Still, when it comes right down to brasstacks, it's Facebook, not face-to-face.
Having been on Facebook and introduced several of my friends to the network, I find I'm beginning to enjoy it a bit. But some things have begun to peeve me lately. And since Facebook doesn't allow one to blow off steam, it's time for the good old blog to bear the brunt. So here goes:
Peeve # 1: Folks rush to add you on as a friend and you never hear from them again. Initially it was thrilling to find an inbox filled with friend requests - old colleagues, school mates, long forgotten college buddies, and I happily accepted requests, going so far as to customise a 'how do I know X' message. But few do anything more than add you to their burgeoning friend list. Well, if you had 150 or more friends, you wouldn't really be able to do anything more than click the 'add as friend' button, would you? And why on earth would you need 150 friends anyway? The 75 on my list make me nervous enough already.
Peeve # 2: What do you do after joining a Facebook group? You sign up with a cool group with an intriguing name - 'People Who Always Have To Spell Their Names For Other People' - but again, apart from joining the group, what else do you do? I mean, how many times can you get a laugh out of the time someone spelt your name as Leek Levers?
Peeve # 3: Where is the 'Facebook for Dummies' when you need it? I realised how complicated Facebook was when I tried to explain to a tech challenged friend how to access a photo album on my profile. It took me a few weeks before I discovered that clicking on the little 'house' icon next to the Facebook logo on one's profile unearthed what all friends had been up to. In excruciating detail. "X is now friends with P; R sent a flower to H; M has ended a relationship and is now single; V squeezed the pimple on his nose and some white stuff oozed out..."
Peeve # 4: Let's not even start on all the curious widgety things that make ones profile look like an overdone Christmas tree. It's not enough to have a Wall, one must have a Super Wall. A Poke's irritating enough, but one must add a Super Poke where you can drop kick, throw a sheep at and defenestrate people. (Defenestrate! You've got to hand it to the creators of that application.) Some of the widgets are fun, but you won't find me adding Vampires or Fortune Cookies or Fluff Friends or Pimp my Facebook in a hurry.
Peeve # 5: The online/offline distinction gets blurred once again. As with blogs where people get carried away with online personas, on Facebook people want to carry as much of their offline world online. So colleagues and neighbours get miffed if you don't accept their friend requests. I see you every day, for crying out loud. What would I want to say to you on Facebook? I even had a colleague ask me about a job on my Wall. Fortunately I hadn't added the Super Poke application or she'd have b*#@h slapped me.
Whines notwithstanding, Facebook isn't all as bad as I've made it out to be. One of my original motivations for signing up was that my taciturn teenage cousins were on Facebook. Long, impassioned mails returned with monosyllabic replies. It seemed the only way to get across was to join them on their turf. And I've gotten to see quite a different side of them. Not so much the sanitised, studious picture their parents paint of them but the wild, fun, adolescents that they are (and ought to be!)
Also Facebook helps rekindle that community feeling one experienced in college, at some workplaces and even in good old blogland. Sort of brings all your friends to the same party. Even if they happen to be clueless aunts or ex-bosses or friends who've only set up a Facebook account but don't know how to proceed from there.
Still, when it comes right down to brasstacks, it's Facebook, not face-to-face.
Friday, July 14, 2006
It's possible...
… to read every single article in every single newspaper, travel from blog to blog assimilating first person accounts, updates and pictures, and feel sadly disconnected from it all.
It’s possible…
… to feel a wave of admiration for the unyielding denizens of my city and anger at their ‘resilience’ born out of helplessness.
It’s possible…
… to be shamelessly grateful that none who perished were my own, and feel a strange ache for the friend’s friend who wasn’t so lucky.
It’s possible…
To be relieved that one is far from it all, and feel a faint sense of betrayal that one is far from it all.
It’s possible…
… to feel a wave of admiration for the unyielding denizens of my city and anger at their ‘resilience’ born out of helplessness.
It’s possible…
… to be shamelessly grateful that none who perished were my own, and feel a strange ache for the friend’s friend who wasn’t so lucky.
It’s possible…
To be relieved that one is far from it all, and feel a faint sense of betrayal that one is far from it all.
Sunday, June 11, 2006
More than one good reason
1. I have no time
2. Work's too hectic
3. I've lost the rhythm
4. I have nothing to write about
5. I have so much to write about I don't know where to begin
6. I can't write with interruptions
7. I'll write on the weekend
8. It's such a shame to be indoors on a weekend
9. I'm not inspired
10. It's too hot.
11. The A/c is freezing. I'll write when my fingers thaw.
12. After this call...
13. Tomorrow..
14. It's time for a blog break.
15. It's time for a blog makeover.
16. There are more important things in life than blogging.
17. I've run out of excuses and I still don't have anything to write about.
18. There's a Sale on across the street.
19. There are better writers...
20. It's all been written before...
21. I need my sleep.
22. Writing excuses is such fun...
2. Work's too hectic
3. I've lost the rhythm
4. I have nothing to write about
5. I have so much to write about I don't know where to begin
6. I can't write with interruptions
7. I'll write on the weekend
8. It's such a shame to be indoors on a weekend
9. I'm not inspired
10. It's too hot.
11. The A/c is freezing. I'll write when my fingers thaw.
12. After this call...
13. Tomorrow..
14. It's time for a blog break.
15. It's time for a blog makeover.
16. There are more important things in life than blogging.
17. I've run out of excuses and I still don't have anything to write about.
18. There's a Sale on across the street.
19. There are better writers...
20. It's all been written before...
21. I need my sleep.
22. Writing excuses is such fun...
Thursday, February 23, 2006
Requiem
Priceless Pictures, MP3s,
A million documents -
Excel sheets, half-finished blogs,
Now just a figament.
Prayers, epithets, run their course,
Rave, rant, fume!
The blue screen stolidly informs:
"Unmountable_boot_volume".
Backups!! We clutch at straws.
But we can't reap what we don't sow.
Our last available backup
Is dated six months ago.
Books never betray us thus;
Pets seldom offend.
But technology stabs us in the back,
While pretending to be a friend.
We'll blow on our burned fingers,
We'll feign a calm zen.
And while the darned laptop's being fixed,
We'll rediscover paper and pen.
Wednesday, July 20, 2005
I love you too?
I was thumbing through the menu of my new phone and familiarizing myself with all the lovely features that I was convinced I couldn’t do without (1 hour video recording, 512 MB removable memory, visual radio etc.) but which I knew I would seldom use. That’s when I spotted the little gem tucked away in the Message template.
Among the ready-to-use messages such as I’m in a meeting, call later and I am late, I will be arriving at _ , was this one – I love you too.
Right. Now we need technology to prompt our instinctive responses, personal responses. As if it isn’t enough that the cell phone has become an appendage of the human body, that we now need it to preprogram our feelings and have them ready-to-use when the need arises.
Apart from I love you too, there are other common expressions that ought to come pre-programmed into phones to save our thumbs the needless wear and tear. For instance:
‘You’re fired’
‘We need to talk’
‘I do’ (Didn’t a couple recently exchange vows on the cell phone because the groom was stuck in traffic?)
‘Let’s just be friends.’
‘What’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?’
In effect, pre-programming takes over from where text messages left off.
When I left my previous phone back home for my parents, I thought happily that we could stay in touch more often through text messages. It’s more immediate than email and less expensive than phone calls, I told myself. Despite exchanging text messages almost daily, my mum writes plaintively, ‘Why are you quiet? Keep in touch more often.’
There’s something reassuring about the fact that I am connected to all my friends back in Bombay, even those across the world, through a quick text message. In less than 160 characters, I can get a quick update on a close friend’s life – ‘Hey so nice 2 hear frm you. Life’s good, work hectic, love life almost non-existent. Hw r u’. A leisurely half-hour conversation now in a bite-size morsel, that fails to satiate.
There’s a faux sense of connectedness, of conversation, and in some cases of a language even (m gr8, hw r u). The convenience aspect of text message quickly crosses over into the area usually reserved for the real effort required in maintaining relationships.
Why bother to call and wish someone when you can type out a ‘Happy birthday’ (Hapy bday 2 u!) or ‘Happy anniversary’ message (Hapy nvrsy 2 u!) Does that sound a tad impersonal? No problem, ‘Insert Smiley’ and you have infused your message with warmth and emotion :-D
Having ranted that, let me clarify I’m not anti-text messages myself. (The calluses on my thumb will testify to that.) They’re a quick and expedient way to touch base with people but no substitute for conversation. They’re also an effective antidote for boredom especially during one of those interminable meetings. And in some cases, they’re an unintentional source of mirth.
My parents had a tough time figuring out the features of their ‘new cell phone’, but it seemed like they had managed to befriend technology after all. Or so I thought. I used my uncle’s old phone for a few days until I bought a new handset. The first thing I did was to send a text message to my parents, ‘Finally bought my new phone!’
Prompt came the reply, ‘So what’s your new number?’
Among the ready-to-use messages such as I’m in a meeting, call later and I am late, I will be arriving at _ , was this one – I love you too.
Right. Now we need technology to prompt our instinctive responses, personal responses. As if it isn’t enough that the cell phone has become an appendage of the human body, that we now need it to preprogram our feelings and have them ready-to-use when the need arises.
Apart from I love you too, there are other common expressions that ought to come pre-programmed into phones to save our thumbs the needless wear and tear. For instance:
‘You’re fired’
‘We need to talk’
‘I do’ (Didn’t a couple recently exchange vows on the cell phone because the groom was stuck in traffic?)
‘Let’s just be friends.’
‘What’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?’
In effect, pre-programming takes over from where text messages left off.
When I left my previous phone back home for my parents, I thought happily that we could stay in touch more often through text messages. It’s more immediate than email and less expensive than phone calls, I told myself. Despite exchanging text messages almost daily, my mum writes plaintively, ‘Why are you quiet? Keep in touch more often.’
There’s something reassuring about the fact that I am connected to all my friends back in Bombay, even those across the world, through a quick text message. In less than 160 characters, I can get a quick update on a close friend’s life – ‘Hey so nice 2 hear frm you. Life’s good, work hectic, love life almost non-existent. Hw r u’. A leisurely half-hour conversation now in a bite-size morsel, that fails to satiate.
There’s a faux sense of connectedness, of conversation, and in some cases of a language even (m gr8, hw r u). The convenience aspect of text message quickly crosses over into the area usually reserved for the real effort required in maintaining relationships.
Why bother to call and wish someone when you can type out a ‘Happy birthday’ (Hapy bday 2 u!) or ‘Happy anniversary’ message (Hapy nvrsy 2 u!) Does that sound a tad impersonal? No problem, ‘Insert Smiley’ and you have infused your message with warmth and emotion :-D
Having ranted that, let me clarify I’m not anti-text messages myself. (The calluses on my thumb will testify to that.) They’re a quick and expedient way to touch base with people but no substitute for conversation. They’re also an effective antidote for boredom especially during one of those interminable meetings. And in some cases, they’re an unintentional source of mirth.
My parents had a tough time figuring out the features of their ‘new cell phone’, but it seemed like they had managed to befriend technology after all. Or so I thought. I used my uncle’s old phone for a few days until I bought a new handset. The first thing I did was to send a text message to my parents, ‘Finally bought my new phone!’
Prompt came the reply, ‘So what’s your new number?’
Thursday, July 07, 2005
That question, again
Male: So, how come you aren’t married yet?
Female: Are you proposing?
Male: NO! Hey, I didn’t mean that!
Female: So what was the question again?
Male: Er.. never mind.
Female (sotto voce): Yesss! 1 down, 555 million to go.
Female: Are you proposing?
Male: NO! Hey, I didn’t mean that!
Female: So what was the question again?
Male: Er.. never mind.
Female (sotto voce): Yesss! 1 down, 555 million to go.
Monday, July 04, 2005
Summer Whine…
The heavens opened up the day after I left Bombay for Dubai. So no ‘first rains’ for me this year. No smell of fresh earth, no roasted bhutta, no wrinkled toes in rubber shoes. Just second hand accounts from news sites, mails, blogs, and photographs, like this one…
(Art Partner’s 1-year old doing the raindance.)
One tends to get all choked up about the rains especially when one is stuck in the desert. You can never complain about the heat without some killjoy clucking, “Oh, just you wait, it gets worse in July and August.”
I find it hard to imagine going through only two seasons in a year. On the other hand, colleagues find it hard to imagine why I carry a shawl. That’s the only way I can get through a day in the icebox, I tell them. People are so determined to obliterate every memory of summer, that air-conditioners are cranked up to max – in offices, homes, cars, corridors. I’m one of those who need two blankets to weather the ‘Bombay winters’. So, one can understand my abhorrence for super-efficient air-conditioners.
Out of the icebox, into the sauna – that’s the feeling of getting out into the open. Dry heat is a myth out here. It’s humid and cruel, especially to one’s lungs. No matter how deeply I inhale, the lungs never fill up. And I end up in a gasping heap in the car, croaking for the a/c to be turned up. Just so I can breathe.
I’ve always scoffed at those who follow the weather bulletin like the cricket score. But I dutifully note the temperature with awe each day. It was 49 degrees yesterday.
“Oh just you wait, it gets worse in July and August.”
****
Look on the bright side, they say. I shield my eyes and squint; yes, summer has some redeeming features, after all. The most welcome one being the easing up of traffic. Most people are shocked when I tell them Dubai has a massive traffic problem. A 25 minute ride takes 1 hour and 10 minutes, and that’s only if there are no accidents en route. With most people away on vacation, it only takes 45 minutes these days.
And then there’s this ditty on the radio station City 101.6, which puts me in a ridiculously good mood every single time I hear it. It goes something like this:
A chorus of female Brit voices starts off with a shooby-doo-bop 50s style melody:
Never seen a sky so blue
Bluebirds singing a song or two…
Hey hey
It’s a sunny day
Suddenly a Munnabhai-soundalike interjects:
Ae ye ladki log kya bol raheli hai?!
Garmi itni bad raheli hai
Public poori pagal ho raheli hai
Nal se boiled water aa rahela hai..
Tu kya bol rahela hai
It ends with a tapori, ‘Ae Pakya, A/c idhar ghuma!’
And finally: City 101.6. City on heat.
Ha! (insert goofy grin here)
The heat is getting to me, I think.
****
An issue that’s been raging just as fiercely as the summer sun is the latest Ministry of Labour ban on field work between 12:30 p.m. and 4:30 p.m. during July and August. According to one report, 700 workers had been hospitalized last year on account of heat stroke. And those were only the reported cases. So it’s a little surprising that none of the higher ups thought of this ban until a fortnight ago. In any case, it would seem like a welcome move for thousands of labourers who toil in the blistering sun (while some others whine about the heat and a/c’s.)
Except that it’s not. Construction groups are bitter about the fact that projects will get delayed and costs will rise. Some companies have willingly offered to pay the fines up to Dhs 600,000 rather than giving workers the four-hour break.
The Labour Inspections Department itself has been caught on the backfoot. There’s an acute shortage of inspectors to ensure the implementation of the ban.
The labour ministry source said: "Dubai has three inspectors and one unit head. We can't do 10 per cent of what's required."
Interestingly, most labourers are blissfully unaware about the new law that’s purported to be for their benefit.
"Our foreman didn't tell us. I am not sure if the foreman knows," said Nur Al Ameen, a labourer.
Perhaps, the most poignant quote of all, was this one:
Said one worker, Lalji Roy. “It’s a real struggle to work in the sun, but we do it for the money. As long as it won’t affect our finances, this is one of the best things that could have happened.”
Contrast it with the views of some of Dubai residents.
"No way. I do not think it is a very good idea for workers to work after sunset. Just imagine you coming home after a hard day's work and not being able to rest because of the noise made by work at a nearby construction site," said Tim Hunt a British resident of Dubai.
"I come home for lunch and try to catch a nap, but with all that hammering and noise it is impossible," said Khalid Yousuf Sharif, a Pakistani sales executive.
When will these cold hearts melt, I wonder.
Meanwhile, here’s an issue to take my mind off the heat. And the a/c’s. Stay tuned for more information. This is the city on heat.
(Art Partner’s 1-year old doing the raindance.)
One tends to get all choked up about the rains especially when one is stuck in the desert. You can never complain about the heat without some killjoy clucking, “Oh, just you wait, it gets worse in July and August.”
I find it hard to imagine going through only two seasons in a year. On the other hand, colleagues find it hard to imagine why I carry a shawl. That’s the only way I can get through a day in the icebox, I tell them. People are so determined to obliterate every memory of summer, that air-conditioners are cranked up to max – in offices, homes, cars, corridors. I’m one of those who need two blankets to weather the ‘Bombay winters’. So, one can understand my abhorrence for super-efficient air-conditioners.
Out of the icebox, into the sauna – that’s the feeling of getting out into the open. Dry heat is a myth out here. It’s humid and cruel, especially to one’s lungs. No matter how deeply I inhale, the lungs never fill up. And I end up in a gasping heap in the car, croaking for the a/c to be turned up. Just so I can breathe.
I’ve always scoffed at those who follow the weather bulletin like the cricket score. But I dutifully note the temperature with awe each day. It was 49 degrees yesterday.
“Oh just you wait, it gets worse in July and August.”
****
Look on the bright side, they say. I shield my eyes and squint; yes, summer has some redeeming features, after all. The most welcome one being the easing up of traffic. Most people are shocked when I tell them Dubai has a massive traffic problem. A 25 minute ride takes 1 hour and 10 minutes, and that’s only if there are no accidents en route. With most people away on vacation, it only takes 45 minutes these days.
And then there’s this ditty on the radio station City 101.6, which puts me in a ridiculously good mood every single time I hear it. It goes something like this:
A chorus of female Brit voices starts off with a shooby-doo-bop 50s style melody:
Never seen a sky so blue
Bluebirds singing a song or two…
Hey hey
It’s a sunny day
Suddenly a Munnabhai-soundalike interjects:
Ae ye ladki log kya bol raheli hai?!
Garmi itni bad raheli hai
Public poori pagal ho raheli hai
Nal se boiled water aa rahela hai..
Tu kya bol rahela hai
It ends with a tapori, ‘Ae Pakya, A/c idhar ghuma!’
And finally: City 101.6. City on heat.
Ha! (insert goofy grin here)
The heat is getting to me, I think.
****
An issue that’s been raging just as fiercely as the summer sun is the latest Ministry of Labour ban on field work between 12:30 p.m. and 4:30 p.m. during July and August. According to one report, 700 workers had been hospitalized last year on account of heat stroke. And those were only the reported cases. So it’s a little surprising that none of the higher ups thought of this ban until a fortnight ago. In any case, it would seem like a welcome move for thousands of labourers who toil in the blistering sun (while some others whine about the heat and a/c’s.)
Except that it’s not. Construction groups are bitter about the fact that projects will get delayed and costs will rise. Some companies have willingly offered to pay the fines up to Dhs 600,000 rather than giving workers the four-hour break.
The Labour Inspections Department itself has been caught on the backfoot. There’s an acute shortage of inspectors to ensure the implementation of the ban.
The labour ministry source said: "Dubai has three inspectors and one unit head. We can't do 10 per cent of what's required."
Interestingly, most labourers are blissfully unaware about the new law that’s purported to be for their benefit.
"Our foreman didn't tell us. I am not sure if the foreman knows," said Nur Al Ameen, a labourer.
Perhaps, the most poignant quote of all, was this one:
Said one worker, Lalji Roy. “It’s a real struggle to work in the sun, but we do it for the money. As long as it won’t affect our finances, this is one of the best things that could have happened.”
Contrast it with the views of some of Dubai residents.
"No way. I do not think it is a very good idea for workers to work after sunset. Just imagine you coming home after a hard day's work and not being able to rest because of the noise made by work at a nearby construction site," said Tim Hunt a British resident of Dubai.
"I come home for lunch and try to catch a nap, but with all that hammering and noise it is impossible," said Khalid Yousuf Sharif, a Pakistani sales executive.
When will these cold hearts melt, I wonder.
Meanwhile, here’s an issue to take my mind off the heat. And the a/c’s. Stay tuned for more information. This is the city on heat.
Sunday, January 23, 2005
Loo… and behold
Every once in a while, the Administration department at my workplace feels the need to do something dramatic to make its presence felt. The most recent act has been to ration toilet paper.
Now, this might sound facile, but it’s bloody infuriating. Consider the maths: roughly 60 women on the floor + powerful a/c’s + 3 toilets. And given my penchant for bad timing, a familiar sight greets me each time I step into the washroom – bins overflowing with toilet paper, but not a shred of it on the holder.
The fascist notice stuck on the washroom door reads, ‘It has been brought to our notice that people are wasting toilet paper to wipe hands and feet. Henceforth, toilet paper will be replaced every three hours only ie at 12.30, 3:30… etc.'
Considering the hand dryer doesn’t work and there are no paper napkins, it follows that people will use the only available paper to wipe hands, face, feet etc. But what irks me most (after the absence of toilet paper) is the seriousness with which Admin regards toilet paper. It’s toilet paper, for crying out aloud. Limited utility, non-recyclable, flimsy toilet paper. If you can’t trust employees with toilet paper, how do you entrust them with business worth crores? Talk about perspective!
While a trip to the washroom usually puts me in ill humour, there’s something that unexpectedly cheers me. It’s the view from the tiny window there. (It seems I also have a penchant for being in workplaces which have interesting views from the loo window. In a previous office, the washroom window offered a scintillating view of the setting sun, unobscured by concrete or foliage. ‘Going to watch the sunset’ became a favourite euphemism for the other business.)
The toilet-paperless washroom overlooks the primary section of a school, and affords an easy glimpse into a couple of classrooms. If I squint a bit, I can even read what’s on the blackboard. Sometimes, there’s a low drone, indicating a class in progress. At other times, there’s a high-pitched chant; sometimes a teacher’s voice thunders. Once I noticed most of the children out in the corridor. I assumed it was a free class. But then, the teacher walked into view. She stood out in the corridor chatting casually with some of the children. What intrigued me, was the way she spoke and listened to them, almost as if they were adults. An old woman, who looked like the school cleaner, came up and started shepherding the children into the class. The girls went in, but the boys continued to cavort outside. The teacher didn’t seem bothered by the ruckus.
I was thoroughly absorbed in this idyllic scene from my unusual vantage point, when I heard a discreet knock on the door. It was the washroom attendant waiting to replace the toilet paper.
Now, this might sound facile, but it’s bloody infuriating. Consider the maths: roughly 60 women on the floor + powerful a/c’s + 3 toilets. And given my penchant for bad timing, a familiar sight greets me each time I step into the washroom – bins overflowing with toilet paper, but not a shred of it on the holder.
The fascist notice stuck on the washroom door reads, ‘It has been brought to our notice that people are wasting toilet paper to wipe hands and feet. Henceforth, toilet paper will be replaced every three hours only ie at 12.30, 3:30… etc.'
Considering the hand dryer doesn’t work and there are no paper napkins, it follows that people will use the only available paper to wipe hands, face, feet etc. But what irks me most (after the absence of toilet paper) is the seriousness with which Admin regards toilet paper. It’s toilet paper, for crying out aloud. Limited utility, non-recyclable, flimsy toilet paper. If you can’t trust employees with toilet paper, how do you entrust them with business worth crores? Talk about perspective!
While a trip to the washroom usually puts me in ill humour, there’s something that unexpectedly cheers me. It’s the view from the tiny window there. (It seems I also have a penchant for being in workplaces which have interesting views from the loo window. In a previous office, the washroom window offered a scintillating view of the setting sun, unobscured by concrete or foliage. ‘Going to watch the sunset’ became a favourite euphemism for the other business.)
The toilet-paperless washroom overlooks the primary section of a school, and affords an easy glimpse into a couple of classrooms. If I squint a bit, I can even read what’s on the blackboard. Sometimes, there’s a low drone, indicating a class in progress. At other times, there’s a high-pitched chant; sometimes a teacher’s voice thunders. Once I noticed most of the children out in the corridor. I assumed it was a free class. But then, the teacher walked into view. She stood out in the corridor chatting casually with some of the children. What intrigued me, was the way she spoke and listened to them, almost as if they were adults. An old woman, who looked like the school cleaner, came up and started shepherding the children into the class. The girls went in, but the boys continued to cavort outside. The teacher didn’t seem bothered by the ruckus.
I was thoroughly absorbed in this idyllic scene from my unusual vantage point, when I heard a discreet knock on the door. It was the washroom attendant waiting to replace the toilet paper.
Monday, January 10, 2005
Thanks for the tip
Whatever happened to the unobtrusive salesperson? The kind who stay in the shadows and only spring to assistance when you call on them? These days department stores are swarming with irrepressibly cheerful and ingratiatingly over-helpful sorts, who simply take charge of your shopping.
“Ma’am, this colour really suits you. And you must take these matching shoes as well… No shoes? (shocked expression) Ok, what about this bag, then… No? Some perfume then...”
Then, there are the gratuitous advice givers. “Can’t make up your mind, ma’am? Take both. You can wear this one to work and this to a party.”
A couple of days ago, I had completed my shopping and was standing in the check-out queue, when I realised – quite happily – that I hadn’t been accosted by one know-it-all salesperson. I made a mental note to frequent this place more often. I scribbled my signature on the credit card slip, took my bags and headed for the exit, when the billing executive called out to me.
I turned to see him peering at the credit card slip. A slow thudding began in the region of my chest. Had I signed incorrectly? Was there an anomaly in my credit card account? Did I look like a forger? My mind tossed up every remote possibility.
He looked up and beckoned to me, even as others in the queue turned to stare. I felt like a fugitive.
“Madam, just a minute...” he called out loudly.
“Yes, what’s it?” I croaked nervously.
“Hope you won’t mind if I tell you this…”
I shook my head vigorously. I am innocent, my mind screamed silently.
“See, you’ve signed your name here and then you’ve drawn a line under it backwards. You know what that means?”
My unblinking, saucer-like gaze accurately conveyed that I didn’t.
“It means that you make progress in life but then you throw it all away; you go backwards in life. Hope you don’t mind me telling you this.”
I stared at him, my thoughts alternating between relief (that I wasn’t going to be arrested), embarrassment (at being pegged as a ‘backward’ person) and seething fury at his superfluous ‘advice’.
I swept out of the store with as much dignity as my red face could muster. I was outside before I noticed the unexpected object in my hand. It was a rather fine and expensive looking roller ball pen. Quite unlike the cheap plastic pens that stores usually offer you to sign credit card slips. I couldn’t help smiling. For someone whose life had purportedly been blighted by a ‘backward signature’, I had nimble fingers.
“Ma’am, this colour really suits you. And you must take these matching shoes as well… No shoes? (shocked expression) Ok, what about this bag, then… No? Some perfume then...”
Then, there are the gratuitous advice givers. “Can’t make up your mind, ma’am? Take both. You can wear this one to work and this to a party.”
A couple of days ago, I had completed my shopping and was standing in the check-out queue, when I realised – quite happily – that I hadn’t been accosted by one know-it-all salesperson. I made a mental note to frequent this place more often. I scribbled my signature on the credit card slip, took my bags and headed for the exit, when the billing executive called out to me.
I turned to see him peering at the credit card slip. A slow thudding began in the region of my chest. Had I signed incorrectly? Was there an anomaly in my credit card account? Did I look like a forger? My mind tossed up every remote possibility.
He looked up and beckoned to me, even as others in the queue turned to stare. I felt like a fugitive.
“Madam, just a minute...” he called out loudly.
“Yes, what’s it?” I croaked nervously.
“Hope you won’t mind if I tell you this…”
I shook my head vigorously. I am innocent, my mind screamed silently.
“See, you’ve signed your name here and then you’ve drawn a line under it backwards. You know what that means?”
My unblinking, saucer-like gaze accurately conveyed that I didn’t.
“It means that you make progress in life but then you throw it all away; you go backwards in life. Hope you don’t mind me telling you this.”
I stared at him, my thoughts alternating between relief (that I wasn’t going to be arrested), embarrassment (at being pegged as a ‘backward’ person) and seething fury at his superfluous ‘advice’.
I swept out of the store with as much dignity as my red face could muster. I was outside before I noticed the unexpected object in my hand. It was a rather fine and expensive looking roller ball pen. Quite unlike the cheap plastic pens that stores usually offer you to sign credit card slips. I couldn’t help smiling. For someone whose life had purportedly been blighted by a ‘backward signature’, I had nimble fingers.
Friday, July 16, 2004
You've got spam
I will be forever grateful to the malfunctioning junk mail filter on my mail.com account.
Had it been operational, I would have lost out on some invaluable insights, perhaps even a lucrative career opportunity. (Thankfully, serendipity whacks me on the noggin from time to time.)
It used to be an unerring ritual. Log onto mail.com, gasp at the counter which said 42 new messages, gleefully welcome the sudden surge in popularity… only to discover one bounced mail, one forwarded mail which I’d first read in 1998 and 40 junk mails!
Naturally, I said some uncharitable things about spammers and their offspring, which I now regret. I also wish I hadn’t been so hasty in filing them in the Trash folder.
Spammers, my ‘research’ has shown, have an astute awareness of human psychology. Far from the faceless, joyless intruders they’re made out to be, spammers are in fact a professional, helpful lot with a lively sense of humour. My research also negates the notion that spamming is a random, ridiculous activity. There is clearly a method, which few people have cared to observe.
I’m now thinking of publishing my penetrating insights in a slim volume titled, ‘Everything I know about advertising, I could have learned through Spam Mail.’
Here is a sampling of it...
Rules for Effective Spamming:
1. Always follow the golden rule of marketing: Offer a product or service that a consumer REALLY wants…
Insanely cheap, Original Software!
(‘800 WORLD BESTu softwarec with 90%t discountm’) (sic)
Instant University Degrees!
(‘All certs are genuine & real which it can be found in University record.’)
Drugs which promise an impossibly upbeat sex life
(‘Do you want to pleasure your partner every time?’)
2. An unusual name is more likely to grab attention…
Try names like…
Unseeing V. Nosebleed.
Endeavors J. Humiliate
Numbers Meeks
2.1 Sometimes, the name can also give a clue about the contents…
Rod Small
Johny Ronni
Lisa Gay
3. Once you've got a winning name, you need a winning subject title.
The golden rule here is – Personalise…
"Leela, do you need medication?'
Or
“What r u up to these days?”
It helps sometimes to express urgency…
“Please come…”
Or willingness…
“I can watch”
A simple message can be livened up with the use of emoticons
Best offer of this year ;-)
Remember, humour lowers the barrier between you and your audience, and makes them more receptive to your message…
Are you satisfied with the smallness of your johnson?
Grow a thicker pecker
Small Small Little Dikky?? lol Granola
4. When it comes to content, make your message pithy and compelling, with a call to action
no degree = no job = no money
get an instant university degree = higher salary
no required tests, classes, books, or interviews!
CLICK HERE!
5. Give your prospective customer more than he/she expects.
One way to do this is pepper your incredible offer with platitudes and thought-provoking quotes…
800 WORLD BESTu softwarec with 90%t discountm
Light, God's eldest daughter, is a principal beauty in a building.
Babies haven't any hair, Old men's heads are just as bare, between the cradle and the grave lie a haircut and a shave
6. Turn spell check and grammar check OFF. When in doubt between using a comma and a colon, use both…
Please spend few momentsa of yours preciousl time to check our offerq- it is more than worthu it!
Pleaise followl here nowe!
Get a bu"lky p:0l'e ; vdeenujwfhplb
Help relieve your inexpen;sive '; creavwo
7. Sign off warmly…
Hope my little tips help you out.
<|^_^|>
I hope we can get in touch. I am usually online.
-kisses, Rachael
Perhaps there’s a future in spam mail consultancy for me. I could tour with the book, do book readings… Maybe even convince those two blokes to do a ‘Chicken Soup for the Spammer’s Soul’. Spammers have for long battled feelings of rejection and low self esteem. This could be an opportunity for me to give back to the spamming community who’ve so generously given me more than I could ever have asked for.
Spammers of my mail.com account, ho’pe my l1ttle t.ips he>lp u o,ut ;-)
Had it been operational, I would have lost out on some invaluable insights, perhaps even a lucrative career opportunity. (Thankfully, serendipity whacks me on the noggin from time to time.)
It used to be an unerring ritual. Log onto mail.com, gasp at the counter which said 42 new messages, gleefully welcome the sudden surge in popularity… only to discover one bounced mail, one forwarded mail which I’d first read in 1998 and 40 junk mails!
Naturally, I said some uncharitable things about spammers and their offspring, which I now regret. I also wish I hadn’t been so hasty in filing them in the Trash folder.
Spammers, my ‘research’ has shown, have an astute awareness of human psychology. Far from the faceless, joyless intruders they’re made out to be, spammers are in fact a professional, helpful lot with a lively sense of humour. My research also negates the notion that spamming is a random, ridiculous activity. There is clearly a method, which few people have cared to observe.
I’m now thinking of publishing my penetrating insights in a slim volume titled, ‘Everything I know about advertising, I could have learned through Spam Mail.’
Here is a sampling of it...
Rules for Effective Spamming:
1. Always follow the golden rule of marketing: Offer a product or service that a consumer REALLY wants…
Insanely cheap, Original Software!
(‘800 WORLD BESTu softwarec with 90%t discountm’) (sic)
Instant University Degrees!
(‘All certs are genuine & real which it can be found in University record.’)
Drugs which promise an impossibly upbeat sex life
(‘Do you want to pleasure your partner every time?’)
2. An unusual name is more likely to grab attention…
Try names like…
Unseeing V. Nosebleed.
Endeavors J. Humiliate
Numbers Meeks
2.1 Sometimes, the name can also give a clue about the contents…
Rod Small
Johny Ronni
Lisa Gay
3. Once you've got a winning name, you need a winning subject title.
The golden rule here is – Personalise…
"Leela, do you need medication?'
Or
“What r u up to these days?”
It helps sometimes to express urgency…
“Please come…”
Or willingness…
“I can watch”
A simple message can be livened up with the use of emoticons
Best offer of this year ;-)
Remember, humour lowers the barrier between you and your audience, and makes them more receptive to your message…
Are you satisfied with the smallness of your johnson?
Grow a thicker pecker
Small Small Little Dikky?? lol Granola
4. When it comes to content, make your message pithy and compelling, with a call to action
no degree = no job = no money
get an instant university degree = higher salary
no required tests, classes, books, or interviews!
CLICK HERE!
5. Give your prospective customer more than he/she expects.
One way to do this is pepper your incredible offer with platitudes and thought-provoking quotes…
800 WORLD BESTu softwarec with 90%t discountm
Light, God's eldest daughter, is a principal beauty in a building.
Babies haven't any hair, Old men's heads are just as bare, between the cradle and the grave lie a haircut and a shave
6. Turn spell check and grammar check OFF. When in doubt between using a comma and a colon, use both…
Please spend few momentsa of yours preciousl time to check our offerq- it is more than worthu it!
Pleaise followl here nowe!
Get a bu"lky p:0l'e ; vdeenujwfhplb
Help relieve your inexpen;sive '; creavwo
7. Sign off warmly…
Hope my little tips help you out.
<|^_^|>
I hope we can get in touch. I am usually online.
-kisses, Rachael
Perhaps there’s a future in spam mail consultancy for me. I could tour with the book, do book readings… Maybe even convince those two blokes to do a ‘Chicken Soup for the Spammer’s Soul’. Spammers have for long battled feelings of rejection and low self esteem. This could be an opportunity for me to give back to the spamming community who’ve so generously given me more than I could ever have asked for.
Spammers of my mail.com account, ho’pe my l1ttle t.ips he>lp u o,ut ;-)
Monday, March 22, 2004
A busy week for Murphy (or why I haven't left a comment on your blog)
I've had a glimpse of the Stone Ages this week. No email, no chat, no blogs (gasp!). And considering that I've strenuously held out against the insidious invasion of technology all along, I now realise I'm a regular net junkie. A net junkie with a bad case of withdrawal symptoms.
With all the 'free time' this week then, I've been ruminating about this unthinkable turn of events. Until nine months ago, I didn't even have my own computer at work. I used to share a terminal with a colleague. In my previous workplace, there were only two terminals which had the Net. This was an improvement over another agency where I worked, which had one connection. When there was information to be gathered, we went to the library. Google? Yeah, heard of it. I had a pc at home with a dial-up. Which one? Um... I didn't know. I never bothered logging on from home.
There I was, blissfully insulated from the inexorable tide of technology. Two things changed that: the hunt for a digital camera and blogging. From a bewildered, self-avowed techno-phobe, I slowly turned into a zealot. In theory, i knew all about the vastness of the medium. But for the first time, I got the feeling that I was standing at the edge of the ocean. Google and I became fast friends. My eyes almost fell off when I first discovered THREE links to my name! Mailboxes were checked throughout the day and then I'd get home and log on to check what I'd missed in the last hour. All was well; I was proceeding smoothly towards net addiction. Until Murphy struck...
First, my home pc threw a tantrum. It stopped showing the comment boxes on blogs and refused to let me access the blog home page. Also, it moodily refused to show me recent posts on some blogs. Then there was the matter of getting disconnected every few minutes. Thankfully, I had my office pc to fall back on...
Unfortunately, early last week, the management did a taliban on all mail sites. Vehement protests, wailing and sulking were as futile as our attempts to connect to hotmail, rediff and yahoo. I was especially indignant. Here I was, with bags packed, finally heading out of the Stone Ages. And now I was being forced off the bus! I ranted at every software engineer in sight, as though they were personally responsible for this development.
A minor respite. The elusive cable finally showed up at home and granted us the Internet cable. 24-HOUR ONLINE - the icon on the computer boasted when I logged on. And then this message followed:
Sorry for the inconvenience, the line is down as the underground fiber has been cut by BMC while digging the road. The line should be restored late afternoon.
And this was four days ago!
Seriously, now I know what drives people to sabotage!
Rants notwithstanding, I'm in a way grateful too. Perhaps, I've been singled out for yet another cosmic lesson in detachment. If the medium is the message, then this week's message has been loud and clear: GET A LIFE! Hmm... this has already been too much time spent on this post...
P.S. No, this isn't a goodbye-to-blogging. I'm still going to be around. Just bear with delayed comments and mails :-) Thanks!
With all the 'free time' this week then, I've been ruminating about this unthinkable turn of events. Until nine months ago, I didn't even have my own computer at work. I used to share a terminal with a colleague. In my previous workplace, there were only two terminals which had the Net. This was an improvement over another agency where I worked, which had one connection. When there was information to be gathered, we went to the library. Google? Yeah, heard of it. I had a pc at home with a dial-up. Which one? Um... I didn't know. I never bothered logging on from home.
There I was, blissfully insulated from the inexorable tide of technology. Two things changed that: the hunt for a digital camera and blogging. From a bewildered, self-avowed techno-phobe, I slowly turned into a zealot. In theory, i knew all about the vastness of the medium. But for the first time, I got the feeling that I was standing at the edge of the ocean. Google and I became fast friends. My eyes almost fell off when I first discovered THREE links to my name! Mailboxes were checked throughout the day and then I'd get home and log on to check what I'd missed in the last hour. All was well; I was proceeding smoothly towards net addiction. Until Murphy struck...
First, my home pc threw a tantrum. It stopped showing the comment boxes on blogs and refused to let me access the blog home page. Also, it moodily refused to show me recent posts on some blogs. Then there was the matter of getting disconnected every few minutes. Thankfully, I had my office pc to fall back on...
Unfortunately, early last week, the management did a taliban on all mail sites. Vehement protests, wailing and sulking were as futile as our attempts to connect to hotmail, rediff and yahoo. I was especially indignant. Here I was, with bags packed, finally heading out of the Stone Ages. And now I was being forced off the bus! I ranted at every software engineer in sight, as though they were personally responsible for this development.
A minor respite. The elusive cable finally showed up at home and granted us the Internet cable. 24-HOUR ONLINE - the icon on the computer boasted when I logged on. And then this message followed:
Sorry for the inconvenience, the line is down as the underground fiber has been cut by BMC while digging the road. The line should be restored late afternoon.
And this was four days ago!
Seriously, now I know what drives people to sabotage!
Rants notwithstanding, I'm in a way grateful too. Perhaps, I've been singled out for yet another cosmic lesson in detachment. If the medium is the message, then this week's message has been loud and clear: GET A LIFE! Hmm... this has already been too much time spent on this post...
P.S. No, this isn't a goodbye-to-blogging. I'm still going to be around. Just bear with delayed comments and mails :-) Thanks!
Wednesday, January 28, 2004
Weight and watch!
Is it possible for a person to gain a few kilos and NOT notice it? Not notice the frantic tussle with the recalcitrant jeans zipper? Not notice the snug fit of the once comfortable T-shirt? Not notice the extra chin bobbing under one’s face?
Well, most people seem to think, no, BELIEVE that people who pile on the pounds are completely and blissfully unaware of this fact. What’s more, they believe it’s their duty to immediately bring this to the burgeoning friend’s attention.
“You’ve put on SO much weight!,” they’ll exclaim loudly, their eyes darting to the thickening parts of the poor ‘fatty’s’ anatomy.
Wait a minute, was that too subtle? Could fatty have not got the message? To be doubly sure, the helpful folks will extend elbows outwards, hunch shoulders and puff up cheeks, giving fatty a pretty good clue of what he looks like.
I haven’t come across a single person who isn’t sensitive about his or her weight. And yet, most will gleefully seize the opportunity to prod another’s soft (fleshy) spot.
Recently, Art Partner was buttonholed by a ‘helpful’ colleague, who said, “I’ve been meaning to tell you that you've been putting on a lot of weight in the last few months.”
Art Partner wryly replied, “Considering I’m five months pregnant, that’s expected, isn't it?"
My weight’s hardly fluctuated in the last couple of years, so I simply disregard all the ‘helpful’ observations. Still I was surprised when an elderly neighbour, who I barely exchange pleasantries with, said to me, “You’ve put on!” For a few seconds, I wasn’t even sure what he meant, until he made the above-mentioned simian gestures!
Then there are those who willingly proffer their weighty information. “I’ve put on SO much weight”, they’ll wail, grabbing a handful of flesh from their midriff, so that you can’t miss the sight. They do this for two reasons, I’ve surmised. One, to pre-empt any helpful observations and two, to kick themselves for not refusing all those second helpings.
I’ve developed a simple strategy to deal with weighty matters. I refrain from pointing out any weight gain and if someone persists with, “But don’t you think I’ve put on weight?” I say contemplatively (and sometimes not too truthfully), “Not that I’ve noticed.”
If weighing scales can be inaccurate, well, so can I.
Well, most people seem to think, no, BELIEVE that people who pile on the pounds are completely and blissfully unaware of this fact. What’s more, they believe it’s their duty to immediately bring this to the burgeoning friend’s attention.
“You’ve put on SO much weight!,” they’ll exclaim loudly, their eyes darting to the thickening parts of the poor ‘fatty’s’ anatomy.
Wait a minute, was that too subtle? Could fatty have not got the message? To be doubly sure, the helpful folks will extend elbows outwards, hunch shoulders and puff up cheeks, giving fatty a pretty good clue of what he looks like.
I haven’t come across a single person who isn’t sensitive about his or her weight. And yet, most will gleefully seize the opportunity to prod another’s soft (fleshy) spot.
Recently, Art Partner was buttonholed by a ‘helpful’ colleague, who said, “I’ve been meaning to tell you that you've been putting on a lot of weight in the last few months.”
Art Partner wryly replied, “Considering I’m five months pregnant, that’s expected, isn't it?"
My weight’s hardly fluctuated in the last couple of years, so I simply disregard all the ‘helpful’ observations. Still I was surprised when an elderly neighbour, who I barely exchange pleasantries with, said to me, “You’ve put on!” For a few seconds, I wasn’t even sure what he meant, until he made the above-mentioned simian gestures!
Then there are those who willingly proffer their weighty information. “I’ve put on SO much weight”, they’ll wail, grabbing a handful of flesh from their midriff, so that you can’t miss the sight. They do this for two reasons, I’ve surmised. One, to pre-empt any helpful observations and two, to kick themselves for not refusing all those second helpings.
I’ve developed a simple strategy to deal with weighty matters. I refrain from pointing out any weight gain and if someone persists with, “But don’t you think I’ve put on weight?” I say contemplatively (and sometimes not too truthfully), “Not that I’ve noticed.”
If weighing scales can be inaccurate, well, so can I.
Tuesday, December 30, 2003
Where have all the cards gone?
‘Twas the night before Christmas. When all through the house, not a creature was stirring…
…Except my cell phone!
It beeped, it rang and very nearly leapt off the table in excitement. It jiggled its way through Christmas day and by the end of it, had rung in some 43 text messages and over a dozen calls from friends scattered across the world. A parallel stream of emails and e-cards was also pouring in. One was happily inundated with wishes of every kind… Except the ones that are delivered by the friendly neighbourhood postman!
I was struck by the complete absence of Christmas cards this year. Sure, there was the small stack sent by relatives, but oddly, none from friends. There were virtual greetings aplenty, but how in the name of Dancer, Prancer and Rudolph are you going to string them over the fireplace? (No fireplace here, but isn’t wishful thinking permitted at Christmastime?)
It set me thinking: Have people given up on the simple thrill of a greeting card? The rush of excitement at seeing one’s name on the envelope? The faint suspense until the cover is torn open? And then the unbridled delight? Compare this with an email which says, ‘xyz has sent you an e-card. To view it, copy and paste this hotchpotch of letters, numbers and signs, that in some way, which you won’t care to understand, will lead you to a grotty card, which will try your patience as it downloads…..’
For me, greeting cards have always been the harbinger of things special. They made the agonising wait for the birthday a little sweeter. They brought in the festive cheer. They even gave you a heady sense of your own popularity. I remember being over the moon in College one year, when I received 23 birthday cards! With messages ranging from corny (‘Roses are red, cookies are chewy… another year of your life, just went ka-blooey’!) to schmaltzy (‘It’s a good thing you can’t put a price tag on friendship… coz I could never afford a friend like you!’) to downright wicked (Heard you like sex on you birthday?... That’s strange, most people like it more often!!!)
I still have a sizeable collection of most of the cards I’ve received, the earliest dating back to my 5th birthday. A few years ago, I discovered a hitherto latent calligraphy skill, and combined with a whit of wit, set about making my own cards for family and friends. I still indulge in it whenever I can. Still it was very heartening to receive a hand-made birthday card this year from my ‘bess frend’ Alison. What looked like different coloured pens being tried out was actually her message, ‘Dear Leela, I love you lots. The end. Alison’.
It’s going to take Alison and me a while to revive the heading-for-extinction greeting card industry, but hey, we’ll get there.
…Except my cell phone!
It beeped, it rang and very nearly leapt off the table in excitement. It jiggled its way through Christmas day and by the end of it, had rung in some 43 text messages and over a dozen calls from friends scattered across the world. A parallel stream of emails and e-cards was also pouring in. One was happily inundated with wishes of every kind… Except the ones that are delivered by the friendly neighbourhood postman!
I was struck by the complete absence of Christmas cards this year. Sure, there was the small stack sent by relatives, but oddly, none from friends. There were virtual greetings aplenty, but how in the name of Dancer, Prancer and Rudolph are you going to string them over the fireplace? (No fireplace here, but isn’t wishful thinking permitted at Christmastime?)
It set me thinking: Have people given up on the simple thrill of a greeting card? The rush of excitement at seeing one’s name on the envelope? The faint suspense until the cover is torn open? And then the unbridled delight? Compare this with an email which says, ‘xyz has sent you an e-card. To view it, copy and paste this hotchpotch of letters, numbers and signs, that in some way, which you won’t care to understand, will lead you to a grotty card, which will try your patience as it downloads…..’
For me, greeting cards have always been the harbinger of things special. They made the agonising wait for the birthday a little sweeter. They brought in the festive cheer. They even gave you a heady sense of your own popularity. I remember being over the moon in College one year, when I received 23 birthday cards! With messages ranging from corny (‘Roses are red, cookies are chewy… another year of your life, just went ka-blooey’!) to schmaltzy (‘It’s a good thing you can’t put a price tag on friendship… coz I could never afford a friend like you!’) to downright wicked (Heard you like sex on you birthday?... That’s strange, most people like it more often!!!)
I still have a sizeable collection of most of the cards I’ve received, the earliest dating back to my 5th birthday. A few years ago, I discovered a hitherto latent calligraphy skill, and combined with a whit of wit, set about making my own cards for family and friends. I still indulge in it whenever I can. Still it was very heartening to receive a hand-made birthday card this year from my ‘bess frend’ Alison. What looked like different coloured pens being tried out was actually her message, ‘Dear Leela, I love you lots. The end. Alison’.
It’s going to take Alison and me a while to revive the heading-for-extinction greeting card industry, but hey, we’ll get there.
Thursday, December 25, 2003
Chris-missed!
It feels like Christmas crept up on me this year.
Guess that’s a rather fatuous claim when the signs of its advent were unmistakable. Store windows decorated with stockings, reindeers, snowflakes and whatnot… Mailers from credit card companies advertising their ‘Christmas Offers’… Cell phones ringing with ‘Jingle Bells’ instead of ‘Mission Impossible’… Department store clerks wearing fluffy Santa hats (over brown smocks!)… Even the neighbourhood carollers who came a-singing the sole carol in their repertoire, ‘Saantha Close is coming to town…’
Still, I missed all the cues and with two days to go, discovered I had no presents to show. The tree, usually resplendent by this time, was still on the loft, awaiting its annual resurrection. And Mother was turning out all the goodies by herself. If Santa was making his list of naughty and nice, I knew whose name would head the former list.
Come Christmas Eve and all’s well. Alleluia! The presents are wrapped and tagged with cutesy messages for the cousins and niece. No plastic tree this year. Tinsel and crepe streamers bedeck a surprised shrub in the garden in front of the house. Soft carols waft out from the neighbour’s apartment. Droplets of wax gleam and fall from the candles around the house. The aroma of freshly-baked cake fills the room. And the star outside the window glows with contentment.
Peace on earth…
Goodwill to all…
Wish all of you wonderful people the warmth of Christmas!
Guess that’s a rather fatuous claim when the signs of its advent were unmistakable. Store windows decorated with stockings, reindeers, snowflakes and whatnot… Mailers from credit card companies advertising their ‘Christmas Offers’… Cell phones ringing with ‘Jingle Bells’ instead of ‘Mission Impossible’… Department store clerks wearing fluffy Santa hats (over brown smocks!)… Even the neighbourhood carollers who came a-singing the sole carol in their repertoire, ‘Saantha Close is coming to town…’
Still, I missed all the cues and with two days to go, discovered I had no presents to show. The tree, usually resplendent by this time, was still on the loft, awaiting its annual resurrection. And Mother was turning out all the goodies by herself. If Santa was making his list of naughty and nice, I knew whose name would head the former list.
Come Christmas Eve and all’s well. Alleluia! The presents are wrapped and tagged with cutesy messages for the cousins and niece. No plastic tree this year. Tinsel and crepe streamers bedeck a surprised shrub in the garden in front of the house. Soft carols waft out from the neighbour’s apartment. Droplets of wax gleam and fall from the candles around the house. The aroma of freshly-baked cake fills the room. And the star outside the window glows with contentment.
Peace on earth…
Goodwill to all…
Wish all of you wonderful people the warmth of Christmas!
Monday, December 22, 2003
Tech travails
Early this year, my point-and-shoot camera entered its digital dotage. And in casting around for a suitable replacement, I was forced to confront a long-standing adversary – technology.
At the risk of sounding anachronistic, I’ll admit I’m extremely distrustful of gadgets, gizmos and anything that comes with an explicatory manual. Distrustful because these ‘thingies’ amble into your life pretending to be your best friends, and then when you’re slavishly dependant on them, they find the most (in)opportune moment to betray you. Distrustful also because they brag about adding value to your life, when in effect they only add clutter by offering you a bewildering bouquet of unnecessary options. Worse still, by the time you’ve finally figured out all their arcane functions, they’re obsolete, which means you’ve got to start all over again!
Sure, technology has its merits. But it’s the insidious invasion into every aspect of life that I’m holding out against.
But coming back to the camera, another point-and-shoot wasn’t an option. Scanning pictures to post on the Net was becoming too much of hassle. Then, there also was the proliferation of albums at home. My friend recommended a digital camera and suggested I consult her brother. Our conversation…
Me: I want to buy a digital camera.
Friend’s brother: What resolution are we talking of here?
Me: Erm… to buy a good digicam!
(Long silence. Chuckles. Then very slowly…)
Friend’s brother: I meant picture resolution!!!
What followed was a flurry of words… megapixels… flash card… optical zoom… all of which drifted in the hollow space above my head.
I tried another tack – the Internet. In the weeks that followed, I worked my way down a few of the 6,807,551 sites for digital cameras. The fog began to clear as I studied and compared features, decoded jargon and read reviews. I received weekly updates about new models, downloaded data and made notes. At the end of 6 weeks, I’d not only shortlisted 3 models, but had even turned consultant for another tech-challenged friend.
“Try X model’, I told her jauntily, ‘it’s got 3.2 megapixels, with 3X optical zoom and with 32 MB installed memory you should get about 110 pictures of 1600 x 1200 Resolution.’
Once she got over her amazement, she paid me a rather dubious compliment – ‘Wow,’ she said, ‘you talk like a guy!’
Next was the actual purchase. I purposefully strode into the camera store and rattled off the model I wanted. The dealer, as he is wont to, pulled out another model saying, ‘This has a longer warranty and has built in speakers… better than… .’ I slipped back into indecision country.
‘I’ll go for a walk and come back,’ I muttered. A few gulps of fresh air and I decided to stick to my original choice.
The last weekend has been spent poring over the manual and sizing up the many options. Where once there was point-and-shoot, now there was point-select mode-select scene-decide image size-check ISO equivalency-check sharpness-and shoot (if the ‘Kodak moment’ still lingered, that is!)
How the mighty ranters have fallen! Guess I've just validated the 'insidious invasion' argument...
At the risk of sounding anachronistic, I’ll admit I’m extremely distrustful of gadgets, gizmos and anything that comes with an explicatory manual. Distrustful because these ‘thingies’ amble into your life pretending to be your best friends, and then when you’re slavishly dependant on them, they find the most (in)opportune moment to betray you. Distrustful also because they brag about adding value to your life, when in effect they only add clutter by offering you a bewildering bouquet of unnecessary options. Worse still, by the time you’ve finally figured out all their arcane functions, they’re obsolete, which means you’ve got to start all over again!
Sure, technology has its merits. But it’s the insidious invasion into every aspect of life that I’m holding out against.
But coming back to the camera, another point-and-shoot wasn’t an option. Scanning pictures to post on the Net was becoming too much of hassle. Then, there also was the proliferation of albums at home. My friend recommended a digital camera and suggested I consult her brother. Our conversation…
Me: I want to buy a digital camera.
Friend’s brother: What resolution are we talking of here?
Me: Erm… to buy a good digicam!
(Long silence. Chuckles. Then very slowly…)
Friend’s brother: I meant picture resolution!!!
What followed was a flurry of words… megapixels… flash card… optical zoom… all of which drifted in the hollow space above my head.
I tried another tack – the Internet. In the weeks that followed, I worked my way down a few of the 6,807,551 sites for digital cameras. The fog began to clear as I studied and compared features, decoded jargon and read reviews. I received weekly updates about new models, downloaded data and made notes. At the end of 6 weeks, I’d not only shortlisted 3 models, but had even turned consultant for another tech-challenged friend.
“Try X model’, I told her jauntily, ‘it’s got 3.2 megapixels, with 3X optical zoom and with 32 MB installed memory you should get about 110 pictures of 1600 x 1200 Resolution.’
Once she got over her amazement, she paid me a rather dubious compliment – ‘Wow,’ she said, ‘you talk like a guy!’
Next was the actual purchase. I purposefully strode into the camera store and rattled off the model I wanted. The dealer, as he is wont to, pulled out another model saying, ‘This has a longer warranty and has built in speakers… better than… .’ I slipped back into indecision country.
‘I’ll go for a walk and come back,’ I muttered. A few gulps of fresh air and I decided to stick to my original choice.
The last weekend has been spent poring over the manual and sizing up the many options. Where once there was point-and-shoot, now there was point-select mode-select scene-decide image size-check ISO equivalency-check sharpness-and shoot (if the ‘Kodak moment’ still lingered, that is!)
How the mighty ranters have fallen! Guess I've just validated the 'insidious invasion' argument...
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