Rain, almost

“So this is how much people miss the rain,” murmured my bemused Filipino colleague.

We were looking at a mass of twenty-somethings waving their limbs wildly; their faces upturned to catch the teeny droplets of water that burst out of the sprinklers. We were at Dubai Rain 2005, the most eagerly awaited event of the year, if radio spots and full-page ads are to be believed.

The event was scheduled for 11 p.m. but we were warned that traffic and parking would be nightmare. So three of my colleagues and I headed off early, but even as we reached the 5th interchange on Sheikh Zayed road, we knew we were too late. There was a long line of cars headed for the Le Meridien, Mina Siyahi.

As we inched forward in traffic, I wondered just what I was doing headed for a concert which featured names I’d never heard of: Dr. Zeus, DJ Nasha, Aman Hayer, Jazzy B etc. This Bhangra/Garage/Rap couldn’t be further from my usual Western Classical/Jazz leanings. But when you’ve spent most mornings listening to ‘Do me a favour, let’s play Holi’ and ‘Bachke rehna re baba’ on the car radio, you become quite accommodating. Secondly, the concert beat wandering around malls or trying out restaurants – two of the perpetual pastimes in Dubai. Besides there was the promise of ‘rain’…

My colleague managed to nudge the car into a sliver of a parking slot just opposite the Le Meridien, and we all congratulated ourselves, not realizing at that time, that we’d painted ourselves into a corner.

Three stringent security checks later, we were inside the venue. It was a muggy night with just a hint of breeze. And a mighty lot of breezers! I was surprised to find stalls selling beer and breezers. I was so used to concerts where people sneaked in hip flasks or mineral water bottles with pale spirits, that this came as a surprise.

I looked out for the promised ‘rain’. In the middle of the venue, a square-shaped scaffolding had been erected, with sprinklers attached all across the perimeter. Below the scaffolding, a throng of drenched, gyrating bodies kept time with the pulsating beat. The remixes were trotted out one after the other, much to the delight of the crowd. We stood and watched from the sidelines, not sure if it was a good idea to join the hyper-kinetic dancers. My Filipino colleague was quite taken in by the vigorous Bhangra movements.




Although I had made noises initially about not wanting to wet my leather shoes, it seemed too good an opportunity to pass up. So we went into the ‘rain zone’. The first drops of ‘rain’ on skin felt uncommonly good. Memories of enjoyable rainy days flooded the mind. Hair got plastered, water dripped down one’s chin, clothes got heavy, home felt a little closer.

Expectedly, the crowd consisted mainly of Indians and Pakistanis. But there was a small group of Brits who seemed to be having a whale of a time. I was surprised to spot an Arab girl, headscarf and all. A few guys took the opportunity to do a ‘Salman’, whipping off their shirts to bare un-rippling musles and flab abs. The ratio of guys to girls might have been 15:1. So, few girls went under the sprinklers and fewer still looked comfortable coming away from them.

Each artiste was introduced with much fanfare, but it seemed to me that apart from one superhit song, there wasn’t much else in his repertoire. Realising it, a couple of them tried to work up the crowds with some Punjabi colloquialisms, and it usually worked. The artiste of the evening was, undoubtedly, Raghav. He leaped onto the stage with a bevy of bootylicious dancers and was an instant hit with the crowd. “I don’t need to tell you this,” he exclaimed breathlessly, “but your city is very hot!” He followed that observation with the very catchy ‘Angel Eyes’, so we forgave him for reminding us about the heat.



After a while the ‘nachana-vichana-kudiya’ got a bit repetitive, so we decided to call it a night. It was 1.30 a.m. The sprinklers were still in a profligate mood when we left.

We reached the car and found our exit blocked on all sides. We muttered unkind things about the thoughtless drivers, threw up inventive but impossible solutions, snarled at the inert cars, even. But there was no way out. We piled into the car, exhausted, turned on the radio and listened to the rest of the concert ‘live’.

Just call me Mo!

VHC (Very Helpful Colleague) and I walked into the Belhasa Driving Center today. It was a beehive of activity. People were rushing to and fro clutching papers, passport and paraphernalia.

We headed to the Reception. VHC took charge. Given my last experience, I was relieved.

VHC, a successful alumnus of the same driving institute, inquired about the fees, pick-up facility and instructors. He insisted that I opt for a male instructor. Reception said that wasn’t permitted. But female instructors talk too much, VHC said belligerently. Reception smothered a smile and told us to complain to the technical department. They’re constantly on the phone fighting with their husbands or discussing recipes, and you won’t learn anything, VHC persisted. But there was no relenting. Oh well, I thought, I could use a few recipes…

VHC filled the form while I supplied the details. We headed from counter to counter. File opening. Cashier. Eye test. Cashier. File opening. Reception. VHC grabbed hold of papers that escaped my grasp at each counter. Reception beckoned to me to collect my passport. We’ll call you within 10 days, he said. I nodded, thrust all papers in my bag and we made off.

The car was fiendishly hot. It felt like needles were piercing my skin. The air-conditioner offered no relief. I caught sight of myself in the vanity mirror and almost leaped out of my skin. What was that? It wasn’t a speck on the mirror as I hoped. I was beginning to sport a beard! Not a 5 o’clock shadow, but a distinct strokeable beard.

This cannot be happening to me, I prayed. Maybe this was like the bumblebee dream, which had woken me up the previous morning. I dreamed I was being chased by a bumblebee and woke up, arms flailing, tangled in the covers and with the drone of the bee still very ‘audible’. I checked again. The hirsute sight in the vanity mirror hadn’t changed. I was beginning to get worried.

My phone rang.

“Madam, can you please come back to the institute,” said Reception. “I think I’ve given you the wrong passport.”

“Wha…” I said, relieved to hear my voice hadn’t broken yet.

I flipped open the passport I was carrying. For a split second, I thought I saw a familiar face. Then, a wave of relief washed over me. I’d just escaped being Mohammad Jamil, resident of Saudi Arabia.

I made haste in returning the passport. And then it struck me, that I’d saved face, but perhaps also lost the opportunity to be part of the record books, forever.

The strain of being a Resident

Misplaced forms, expired visas, a little red tape and some curious experiences later, I’m finally a resident of the United Arab Emirates. I have an identity card, which oddly enough classifies me as a Press Editor. I see their point. Copy Head sounds more like a directive than a designation.

As a Resident, I can now officially:

Get a cell phone connection
Open a bank account
Rent an apartment
Take a loan
Get a driving license
Wear a long-suffering expression while complaining about the traffic, heat and soaring price of real estate.

Coming back to the curious experience mentioned above. One of the pre-requisites for acquiring a Resident visa is the medical test. I was dropped off at the clinic nearest to our office, by the affable driver who told me, “First x-ray, then blood, then finish.”

Simple enough, I thought. I headed to the X-ray section and was handed an innocuous looking form at the Reception. My eyes flew open. I blinked a few times and shook my head just in case I had misread the questions.

Q2: I am not pregnant because:

a) I am single or widowed
b) I am on contraceptives
c) I am staying away from my husband
d) Others (specify)

Now, I understand it’s not advisable to undergo an X-ray when pregnant. (In fact, there were a few posters around which cautioned pregnant women about X-rays.) But did I have to give explicit reasons as to why I didn’t fall in that category?

I was still recovering from that bout of bizarreness, when I handed the form to the man at Reception. He glanced at the form and leveled me with a look that said, ‘Are-you-sure?’

Are pregnant women thronging the X-ray clinics around here? Is this some weird sort of protest which authorities feel compelled to curb? Was I exuding the soft glow of motherhood??

I stepped into the changing room in the X-ray section and another protruding belly poster sounded a warning.

I was beginning to get nervous.

***

The blood test went off much better. The guard escorted me ahead of the long line of sun-browned labourers, into an open room where a couple of male technicians were at work, labeling blood samples. For some reason, I assumed there would be female staff in attendance as well. I was beginning to feel a tad uncomfortable with the overwhelming male presence, all of them conversing in Arabic.

I was directed to a seat, and one of them asked me to hold out my hand, as he readied the syringe. I quickly averted my eyes from the needle. The technician noted my sudden head movement and assumed I was trying to get a better look at his nametag.

<“Syria,” he said, even before I thought of asking.

I nodded politely.

“Have you ever been to Syria?”

“No,” I said.

“Anyone from your family has been to Syria?”

I shook my head.

“So I am the first Syrian you’ve met?” he asked delightedly.

No, I said, my colleague is Syrian.

“Aww… I wanted to be the first,” he said, pulling a face.

I shrugged my shoulders.

“Why am I not the first?” he persisted.

Huh. Was this Tricky Questions Day?? Or was this part of the Residence Visa eligibility test?

“First or second doesn’t make a difference. Syrians are nice people,” I muttered, in a cheesy attempt at diplomacy.

I’d passed the ‘test’ with flying colours judging from his expression.

***

I wonder what’s in store for me next week. I’m signing up for the driving license...

Speak up, Mumbai – II

When I wrote this post a few weeks ago, a few had commented that nothing would ever change in Mumbai. Once the hubbub had settled down, all the issues that it raised about disaster management, responsibility etc. would also recede.

But there are some who are not going to stand by and wait for the next cloudburst, to swing into action. Citizens who aren’t waiting for the government to get their act together, but who’ve decided to be part of the solution.

One of them is my pal, Zigzackly. And he needs YOUR help for his project.

Tell us your cloudburst stories
Here's a chance to tell your story, and make a difference. Do help him out.

Five

I still remember the colour of your cheeks on the day you were born. Not translucent white, not baby pink - but a spectacular crimson. Two bright red blotches on either side of your tiny, twitching nose. It almost seemed painted on; like some nurse in the back room had decided to prettify you before presenting you to the public. Will her cheeks always be like this, I asked my mum softly. You’d save a packet on make-up if that were the case. No, my mum shushed, some newborns have that colour; it will fade in a couple of days. I was relieved, but I must add, those cherry-red cheeks were so inviting...

Your first birthday called for a big celebration. Your mother told me, “You’ve got to be the ‘Mistress of Ceremonies’ and conduct the games.” Didn’t she know how uncomfortable I was in crowds? But it was you, and her… how could I refuse? I was awkward, and affected; but I got through the afternoon. You looked adorable in your frilly dress. Your hair had finally begun to grow and there were soft tendrils around your ears. One memory stands out: your mother was trying to maneuver you, and the cake knife, with the same hand. For a few anxious moments, I thought she would slice the wrong goodie. But you escaped unscathed and went on to…

… your second birthday. I had just returned from a trip abroad, and you were so excited about the booty I’d got you, although it would be a while before you could actually use some of it. Pencils with your name inscribed on them, magnets, a magenta dinosaur which I insisted you call ‘Capuccino’, just so I’d enjoy your efforts to pronounce it. (Remember the doll, 'Enchilada'.) You were so excited, you kept repeating my name over and over again because you didn't know too many other words to express your delight. We dressed you in a ghagra-choli that your mother and I got you after much searching. I even got a fancy matching bindi. How you preened! You clearly were in control, even though the four other children were much older than you. What a clamor we made with the ‘Simple Simon’ game. The children didn’t want to leave.

It was a struggle to hold up three fingers the next year. It took a few moments of intense concentration, and with the fingers of one hand helping the other, you succeeded in telling us how old you were. It was a low-key birthday; just close family. I remember allowing you to take pictures with my camera, because I’d come across an article in the papers of a 3-year old who’d just held his first photo exhibition. For some reason, I thought I might discover a similar spark of talent in you. I was proved wrong when I developed the roll: you’d cut off our heads. But then, when it came to you, we’d lost our heads long ago.

I promised you four gifts on your fourth birthday. My mother wanted to know if I would keep up the gifts-corresponding-to-age for life. I knew about your notorious attention span, so I was insured against any magnanimous promises I made. Among the books and colours was the ‘magu-fine glass’. You’d been so fascinated by the one we had at home – the way the world suddenly seemed larger through it. When my mother asked what you were doing with a magnifying glass, you knowledgably corrected her, ‘It’s a magu-fine glass.’ And that was that. From then on, we only knew it as the magu-fine glass.

The much-wanted Barbie, along with her wardrobe, is on the way this year. I had fun shopping for it at the toy store. The array that passes for ‘kidstuff’ is quite simply amazing. A feather boa? An 8-foot doll? Barbie string bikinis? For a few minutes, your tickled aunt and grand-aunt could have passed off as your classmates. But that’s it. There will be no first-hand memories of the party this year. I know I will hear all the details, and will piece them together to imagine your day. It’s been a hard year for you, and I know everyone will pull all the stops to make it a memorable day. I’m only sorry that I cannot be there. Sorry for myself, that I won’t be a part of the memories. But enough about me, this is your day to celebrate. So without any more ado…

Happy Birthday to the sweetest niece and, of course, ‘bess friend’.

A few bloggers more

Rhyncus's post on Dubai in his new blog, reminded me of a half-finished post buried under a steadily growing heap of posts, patiently waiting to be written. This one’s an continuation of the ‘Bloggers I’ve Met’ series.


Rhyncus: Travels with a centipede

(First, a little background: Rhyncus, the milk-selling blogger from Nigeria, was returning to Mumbai, with a 2-day stopover in Dubai. A blogger meet was planned.)

The opening conversation went like this:

Leela: Welcome to Dubai, Rhyncus.
Rhyncus: Shukran.
Leela: A-ha! I see you know Arabic.
Rhyncus: Not really. I only know two words.
Leela: Really, which is the other word?
Rhyncus: Sharmoota. It means ‘bitch’.

Despite that early indication that here was a don’t-mess-with-me-I-know-two-Arabic-words guy, I went ahead and fixed a time and venue. There were some questions that were begging to be answered. For instance: what did ‘Rhyncus’ mean? Why was he selling milk in Nigeria? And why on earth was he traveling with a centipede?

Since it was a Saturday-night (not to be mistaken for the weekend; actually, first day of the week) I decided to take him to a pub not too far from where I lived – Beyond El Rancho’s at the Marco Polo Hotel. The same place where my friends used to conduct a quiz not so long ago.

“I’ve heard Dubai has a happening nightlife,” said Rhyncus.

Yes it does, I agreed heartily, as we walked into a near-empty pub. Rhyncus turned on the Russian accent in an attempt to impress the Russian waitress, and maybe it worked, because she came and placed a complimentary lemon tart with the words ‘You are special’ on it – in front of me. Over Bloody Mary’s and Screwdrivers, and among other topics discussed, I finally got the answers to the burning questions. a) Rhyncus means nose. b) Because the Nigerians bought the white stuff, duh. c) Because most two- and four-legged creatures were taken.

Ok, I made up the last one; I can’t remember Rhyncus’s answer.


Shantesh: Fikar Nako

When Shantesh introduces himself as a ‘shooting star’, you’ve got to take it literally. Each time we made plans to meet, he’d excuse himself, mumbling, “Got a shoot coming up tomorrow”, or “Shoot delayed, won’t be able to make it.”

Of course, I should know better than to expect copywriters to deliver to a deadline. I should also know that copywriters sometimes come up with scintillating stuff when least expected (erh-em). So, one evening without too much planning and co-ordinating of schedules, two copywriters met up at the Cricketer’s Pub at the Ramada Continental Hotel.

Shantesh has been in Dubai for a few months only. But he’s well informed about the nightlife in the city (unlike the other copywriter). He regaled me with stories about the seamy side of the city, until I noticed quite a bit of interesting action going on around the pub itself.

A trio of pretty Russian girls in pink minis, and their accompanist trooped in, and Shantesh groaned loudly. I couldn’t imagine why, until they started singing old country songs. ‘Done brek my aart, my ekky brekky aart’, had me in splits.

Wiping my tears, I said, “Now I’ve heard it all: Russians singing country western!”

“Hah!” he retorted promptly, “you haven’t heard Filipinos singing Bhangra yet.”

True, there’s no arguing that.


Pixel 8: Pixel 8
Neha: Dreams & Reality
Amit: Amit’s Musings
Manu: Georgie’s Jungle

Tearing oneself away from the cosy confines of home on a lazy Friday afternoon for a blogger meet requires a good deal of will power. I thumbed the Book of Excuses, but none sounded like they would cut any ice. As a last resort I tried sending a text message asking if the meet was on. Turned out everyone was waiting for me. There was no getting away and I plodded over to the Pizza Hut opposite the Bur Juman Mall.

It turned out to be an interesting afternoon, and I was glad I came along. I’d met Manu and Amit previously, but was meeting Pixel8 and Neha for the first time. I’d expected Pixel8 to be there with her camera, clicking at everything in sight. She maintains a neat photoblog, and has put her web designing skills to good use on her blog. She’s also the only one I know who has immutable faith in Rediffblogs, while I haven’t missed an opportunity to gripe about it.

While all of us placed our orders, Neha announced that she was fasting. My jaw plunged a bit when she said she’d been fasting for a couple of months, subsisting only on bananas and milk. The jaw’s downward slide continued when she mentioned she was doing a 3-year course in Gaming Technology from the US, which required her to attend virtual classes at 2.30 a.m. daily. I discovered she works quite close to my office, so one of these days when we meet for coffee I’m going to figure out the secret of her energy, and, possibly, bottle it. It’s hard enough keeping my eyes open until 11 p.m. on a regular day!

Thanks all of you, it’s been a pleasure.

Priceless Pictures # 1: Spotted at Spinneys

I’m starting an occasional photo series called ‘Priceless Pictures’ to document the interesting (read, quirky) sights I’ve come across. The quality might be a bit iffy because it’s my phone camera.

In a similar vein...

A blog post in reply to an email?!

I enjoy the way you experiment with your writing. Here I am, following your lead.

You’ll find this funny, but I didn’t realize I was pining for the city when I wrote that post. I was not unhappy to get away when I did, because I longed for a change. I couldn’t imagine why I stayed in the same city for so many years when I enjoy, no, crave new experiences. I actually envied your trajectory of life in so many cities. And it turns out, you long for an obsession with a single place. The grass is never green enough in our garden, is it?

Yes, my Suffering has finally come to an End. 10 pages in a day is all that I could average in a speeding car, with the radio turned up max. I detest the car pool, but it seems like the only time I can get any reading done is on the way to work. 1 month and 11 days for 1 book! (Yes, I’ve been keeping track.) All my co-passengers, including the driver, noticed when I started a new book.

But I have to say, An End to Suffering is amazing. It filled in many gaps in my understanding of The Enlightened One after I was properly introduced to him last year. I think you mentioned it briefly sometime ago, didn’t you? I must go back and check it out.

I’m halfway through a quick-read now, after which I will begin on the book I mentioned before. Thanks for that brief glimpse into the author’s other work. I’m intrigued enough.

On another note, I’ve been trying to persuade the girl from Chicago to pass through here on her way to India in November. Is there a chance you can do a trip as well? An International Meet would be cool, wouldn’t it?

Speak up, Mumbai!

Everyone has a story about the Great Deluge. My mum wrote a long missive about the two narrow escapes she had – once when an electricity pole crashed in front of her, and another, when a tree slammed the earth a few feet away from her. My usually taciturn brother wrote a detailed account of being accommodated in the Hyatt by his office – 20 to a room – and of sheepishly traveling by the ladies first class in order to get home. A hyper busy ex-boss wrote a long email updating me on her escape from Tedious Tuesday and Wet Wednesday - ‘It’s not a normal working day,’ she wrote on a usually furious Friday.

Mumbai can’t stop talking about the rains. Stories, like the damp laundry, are refusing to dry up. Stories of survival and courage; of indignation and outrage; of silent Samaritans and quick-thinking messiahs. Bloggers have, figuratively speaking, taken to the streets. Collablogs like Cloudburst and MumbaiHelp have sprung up. Rediff.com has gritty, unedited testimonies from scores of stranded travelers (which make for more interesting reading than dry articles with two-line sound-bites.) People have become very vocal, indeed.

Which is really the best thing to happen to Mumbai.

For far too long, people have either bitten their lip and suffered, or else whined helplessly, knowing fully well that they were only shouting in the wind. Now, there’s an ominous mood building up. People who’ve spent days in darkness and damp rooms aren’t willing to swallow excuses. The huge loss of life cannot be explained away as the hand of God. What’s the government doing, people are asking hands on hips, looking belligerent. A schoolboy on a debate on NDTV yesterday asked the same question. People are looking up from their daily struggles to demand accountability from a sluggish administration. Nobody is buying it just because the Chief Minister grandly claims, “We are working on it; we are a responsible government.”

It appears that Mumbai has reached the end of its tether and its denizens are ready to holler, ‘I’m mad as hell and I’m not going to take it anymore.’

Sitting miles and miles away, I feel for Mumbai like never before. I want to believe that Mumbai will come out stronger from this near-death by drowning. I want to believe that all the questions that this calamity has raised about lack of infrastructure, non-existent disaster management and sheer negligence will be answered comprehensively. I want to believe that the voices raised in protest will not run out of steam once the sun comes out.

We don’t need any more proof of Mumbai’s indomitable spirit. What we need is change, visible change. If, without prompting, direction or even expectation of material gain, Mumbai’s citizens turned up in full force to save the city from going under, what’s stopping us from rallying together and demanding a better way of living, for all? If residents can stay awake all night watching over the marooned passengers in a sunken double-decker bus, why can’t they also give their local representative sleepless nights by demanding accountability?

So speak up, Mumbai. Tell your story, get mad as hell and don’t take it anymore.

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?’

The Icewoman Cometh – II

Continued from The Icewoman Cometh


The helpful suggestions came in thick and fast…

'Lean forward', suggested Cousin 1. I tried and fell flat.

'Keep the blades at an angle,' said Cousin 2. Same result.

'Stand still,' said K. Ditto.

Ice-skating isn't for the faint hearted. Or the flat-bottomed, for that matter. There's probably an easier way to learn it, understanding the technique or some such, but I was woefully clueless. It was embarrassing to be at the receiving end of sympathetic looks – especially, from children.

Still, I was determined to make some headway. With K on the left, Cousin 1 on the right and Cousin 2 behind, I managed to walk one entire round of the rink without falling. Then another.

Bolstered a bit, I tried a bit of that carefree gliding that everyone around me seemed to affect. The problem with that was I suddenly gained a momentum I wasn't ready to handle yet. My outstretched arms made frenzied clockwise circles in the air. I instinctively lurched forward, hands making anti-clockwise circles. Backwards. Forwards. And, alas, downwards.

"ARE YOU OK?", Cousins 1 & 2 shrieked in unison. I was inured to the horizontal position by now, so I was a little puzzled by their concern.

"You actually bounced off the ice!" they exclaimed. The tender areas were now numb because of the ice, so I was beyond feeling anything but ignominy.

I took a moment to catch my breath, and saw a sight to warm my heart. The Show Off, who had been putting Olympic figure skaters to shame with his pirouettes and dizzying spins, came crashing down. Kids gathered around him to commiserate, and he slunk away thereafter. I would have jumped into the air and clicked my skating shoes, if I wasn't laid out on the ice myself.

It was a good time to throw in the towel. The boots were rubbing my ankles raw, my clothes were wet and the bruises were smarting. But I was loath to give in. I was actually enjoying the challenge. There’s got to be a way to stay upright, I decided. I lifted my eyes off the shoes and looked straight ahead (that old cycling trick!). It was slow progress, and there was a bit of teetering, but I must have been doing something right because K murmured, 'You know, I think you are skating.'

The closing bell went off at the rink. I staggered to the exit, relieved. My bones creaked audibly, and the throbbing at the base of the spine didn’t augur well. My worried aunt handed me a hot water bottle and came to check on me in the night. (‘You didn’t change your position all night. I thought you had died.’).

All’s well that ends well, and all that. But it might be a while before I think about ice skating again. On the other hand, there’s the 3rd largest indoor ski resort coming up in September...

The Icewoman Cometh

Blisters on both ankles
Purple bruise on left elbow and palm
Throbbing arms and legs
Sore backside
Battered tailbone
Shattered pride

These are some of the things that happen when the searing heat and super-efficient a/c’s addle ones brains, so that without a second thought about ability or experience, one ventures forth to ice skate.

Ice-skating in the desert isn’t as incongruous as it sounds. For starters, this is Dubai – city of dreams. Second, if you can come up with the 3rd largest indoor ski resort in the world, organizing a spot of ice-skating is, as they say back home, left hand’s play . So when K suggested ice-skating on the weekend, all I asked was ‘where’.

There are two ice skating rinks in Dubai; we settled for the one at the Hyatt Regency. My teenage cousins had come along as well. There were a few skaters gliding gracefully on the shopping gallery enclosed skating rink. Most of them were kids, I noticed with surprise. There were also a few girls in tunics and headscarves skating as demurely as they could.

A mild alarm bell went off when we were handed the skating shoes and I saw just how slim the blade was. The idiocy of the enterprise began to slowly sink in. Sensing my hesitation, K and my cousins insisted on escorting me to the rink.

‘It’s really easy. Just like rollerblading,’ said Cousin 1.

My eyes widened.

‘You’ve never rollerbladed?!’ exclaimed Cousin 2, giving me a look usually reserved for dinosaurs.

Embarrassed perhaps, to be stuck with a fossil, Cousins 1 & 2 whizzed away, leaving me clutching the handrail. K seemed comfortable on the skates as well. My feet struggled to find a foothold on the slippery ice. The likelihood of spending an hour or more perched on the handrail seemed a distinct possibility.

‘Come on, Lee’, said K, grabbing hold of my elbow. I took one step. And then another. Arms outstretched, body swaying unsteadily. Many many years ago my parents would have noted such movements with pride and gushed, ‘She’s learned to walk, our baby.’

Even with K’s helping hand, it was impossible to walk evenly, forget glide. Kids darted around me insouciantly. One little girl who couldn’t have been more than five years old pirouetted gaily while her parents beamed approvingly. The galling injustice of it all swept me off my feet. ThUD!

When the stars and tweety birds had cleared, I saw my cousins and K, looking down at me.

‘Why do we fall?’, murmured Cousin 2.

‘So we can pick ourselves up again,’ continued Cousin 1, helpfully, harking back to the crummy dialogue in ‘Batman’, a movie they’d dragged me to the previous Thursday.

If falling down was graceless, picking oneself up was equally ungainly. I almost tossed K over my head when I tried to pull myself up the first time. So I tried going on all fours, and after a bit of trial and error, figured a way to hoist myself up. A few shoppers stopped to observe the spectacle. I brushed off the ice crystals from my jeans, wore my nonchalant face and set off again, arms outstretched.


To be continued

Egad - II

Can someone explain these blank comments that pop up every day on all posts on the front page of my blog? And how does one turn it off?

Signed,

Frustrated Lee

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.

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.

Search Me!

Jabberwock posted some time ago about the longest Google search that led to his site.

"I just want to play a hindi song kal ho na ho in my piano and i am having 31 keys please show me the number keys to play"

'Cho chweet!' said Jabberwock.

'Tho fruthrating', the poor seeker must have said, because none of the 5 search pages that Google threw up - yes, I had to check - yielded any number keys for Kal ho na ho for pianos with 31 keys.

Google is God. Or at least that's what seekers out there believe, who beseech Google for a mind-boggling array of requests from 'tupperware' to 'accepting unfairness'. For some time now, I've been checking my Sitemeter account not so much for the hits (which have been curiously and boringly unvarying, week after week) but for the Google searches that lead to my blog. Any time I'm in need of entertainment, I only have to refer to the word document where I've stashed away some of the cute and quirky key words and phrases.

Not all are as riotous as Jabberwock's piano player, but there's a certain absurd thrill in finding out that someone's looking for
'tickled feet' or 'Prince Williams horoscope predictions' or 'inches bubblegum her she' (!).

Here's a sampling of some of the others:

The 'Most-Wanted' Type

Healthy tiffins in mumbai (there are some serious health fanatics out there!)

Brand Equity quiz questions (the event was over months ago, but the queries haven't stopped.)

Burmese Khau Suey (this is one popular dish)


The 'Ego-Massage' Type:

Absolute lee

Leela alvares blog

Leela Day (Splendid idea, I say)

Leela copywriter


The 'What-on-earth-did-you-want-that-for' Type

nose bubblegum

gum bubble bigger than her head (is there a kinky bubblegum fetish club?)

stuck in the washroom


The 'You naughty-thing-you' type

wearing tight underwear

my aunt aroused me

hacking the yahoo

sexy ads

free goodbye letters to office colleagues

sweaty woman


The 'Tell-me-why/what' type

why do eyes twitch

obituary writer what do

What is a paperless office

What happened to the idea of a paperless office? (My ex-office had a paperless loo if it helps)

Salaries of copywriters (inflated, just like their egos :)

Selling price of Souk Madinat Jumeirah (has got to be one of those rich Arabs. 'Ah very nice this 'otel. Must get me one of them.')


The 'Huh-what-was-that-again' type

absolute+uncut+dick

looked up azad

"starts with a ends with b"

michael slater india mentally weak

humor statistics bow low

fat guy singing mila he mila ho


The 'Careful-with-that' type

lip accidents with dental drills (owwwwch!)

open beer teeth

bone sticking out of my gum bone surgery why (I get nightmares about this one, especially after I've been through this!)


The 'Fans-are-dying-to-know' Type

how tall is aishwarya?

ayesha takia worst pictures (must be the ex!))

aditya chopra gay (is that a question or statement?)


The 'One-that-has-me-stumped' Type

preeti+leela+monkey (is that my brother you're referring to??)


To all those whom Google has (mis)led here, a warm welcome. And thanks for all the entertainment.

Egad!

Rediffblogs has finally gone about making the long-overdue changes in the template - especially in the Blog Editor. But things haven't been ironed and nailed down yet. My
latest post refused to show up on screen. And bloglines revealed a brutally mangled version. Will try posting it later with crossed fingers.

Online/Offline

You’ve never met them but you almost know what they look like. You’ve never spoken to them but you know where they went for dinner last night. You don’t even know their name but you know some of their darkest secrets.

20 months of blogging later, I'm still enamored by the paradoxes inherent in blogging. And although I’ve met a dozen or so bloggers, I’m still a cocktail of elation, anticipation and nerves each time I meet a new one.

So you can imagine my state last week when I met three bloggers – two of them, for the first time. I met them individually, of course. For some reason, the idea of meeting a group of bloggers (group of anything, in fact) unsettles me. There tends to be a bunch of knots where my tongue usually is. And things go downhill from there.

Not so, when I met…


…Josephine Fernandes

Josephine’s been a frequent a visitor to my blog, and she emailed me in response to the posts about my sister. Her friends were surprised when she announced that she was attending the funeral of someone she’d never known. I knew I had to meet her. She seemed quite a fascinating lady – an export manager, an aerobics instructor, and best of all, a grandmother!

I was expecting to be surprised, and Josephine didn’t disappoint. Dressed in a Nike sweatshirt and trousers, she was the most ‘with-it’ grandmother I’d ever seen. But beneath the trendy exterior, I discovered an extraordinary woman. Jo, as her friends call her, has had a bumpy ride through life, but each time, she’s proved she’s tougher. I was impressed with her self-awareness and poise, and her disarmingly immodest views on aging gracefully. Jo is proof that it’s never too late to live out your dreams. In fact, one of Jo’s newest ambitions is to work in a fast food chain (I forget the name!) in the US. Why, I asked, astounded. Because I just like the idea of serving people breakfast, she replied. Oh Josephine!


Uma Mahadevan-Dasgupta
I’ve been following (or rather, doing my best to keep up with) her blog, for a few months now. I think it was Amit Varma who once described her as the blogger who ‘writes like an angel and updates like a demon’. (It strikes me that Uma and I have diametrically opposite blogging styles – 10 posts per day v/s 1 post in 10 days!) I enjoy her pithy comments on the articles she links to, sometimes, more than the article itself. Uma, apparently, reads like a demon as well. Quite fast, she said, modestly, when I asked half-enviously.

Like Jo, Uma, too, responded to the posts on my sister. And with an ailing mother, knew exactly what the ‘waiting-game’ was like. She’s been extremely supportive and I looked forward to meeting her. Like with Jo, there were no awkward pauses when we met at the Tea Centre in Churchgate. We whizzed from blogging to books, advertising to bloggers and traveling to, well, blogging. Apart from Indian Writing, she also pitches in at Animal Rights India, loves travelling, reviews books and movies, and somewhere in between it all, also has a full time job! Uma was rather generous in praising my humble blog, and insisted I give that ‘book’ a shot. Gee, Uma, that’s a scary prospect, but one of these days… :)


Kahini Roy

Kahini is an old new-blogger (just coined that one) and, in fact, one of my early ‘blog friends’. I used to be in awe of the seamless prose she hammered out day after day until she decided she’d had enough. Fortunately, she’s back to doing what she does best. Check out her ode to Toast and Porridge.

Kahini is back in the city she loves after a long (TOO long, she’ll say) hiatus. And we had a lot of catching up to do. A meeting with Kahini is always preceded with a flurry of text messages. ‘Hey, are we meeting today?’ ‘Then you know where. Grin’ ‘In case you’ve forgotten what I look like, I’m the intellectual with the book and cig.’ Actually, there’s no forgetting Kahini. At Toto’s, her favourite watering hole, neither the manager nor the waiters, nor even the cigarette vendor outside, has difficulty in recalling the girl with OODLES of attitude. The last time we met, we got free drinks in another pub where an ex-waiter from Toto’s recognized her! We chatted about books, bloggers, Bombay and other random topics, which didn’t necessarily begin with the letter B.

Jo, Uma, Kahini… it was a pleasure!

*****

Surprisingly, for a person who loves lists, I haven’t made up too many on this blog. So starting with:

Bloggers we’ve met:

Aekta– Angel on Fire

Amit L – Amit’s Musings

Carpe Diem - Good Times, Sad Times, Changing Times

Josephine - Happenings of the Heart

Joshua Newton - Reportage

Kahini – Here We Go Again

Manu George – Georgie’s Jungle

Smiley – Joie de Vivre

Spaceman – Residual Self Image

Uma – Indian Writing

Prashanth - Unratiosenatic

Unsui

Uptowngirl (ex-blogger)


Bloggers we’ve had lengthy conversations with and made promises to meet up ‘soon’

Rash – Good Days Bad Times

Alpha– Pieces of the Puzzle

Parmanu - Parmanu

Colours - Vibgyor

(and just for lists’ sake)
Faymbus Blogger we met at a job interview aeons ago (erm.. who did the interviewing)

Peter Griffin - Zigzackly

Preeti's Journey: Complete Series

Spare a prayer for Preeti

What is best for Preeti

Reality Checked

The ties that bind and choke

50 days later

Farewell, Preeti

Life after Preeti

Life after Preeti

There’s something remarkable about condolences. People come to share your pain, to commiserate, to listen to you. And invariably, sometimes without realising it, they start talking about their own brush with grief and loss. Suddenly, your own tragedy isn’t the biggest in the world. Pain, you realise, is omnipresent, tucked away behind smiles, soft sighs and the occasional bitter word. Sometimes, your own load almost seems a flyweight as compared to someone else’s. The galling unfairness becomes easier to accept; likewise, the grief. You observe the dignity and detachment with which they accept their crosses. And rather than wallow in sadness, you begin to take your first steps away from it. There's truly something remarkable about condolences.

***

A few months ago, I had posted about a fire at my workplace and the prospect of ‘losing everything’. At that time I wrote,

“The reality and inevitability of loss never hit me harder.”

I mentioned how a man’s acceptance of losing his entire family to the tsunami disturbed me more than the images of devastation.

“Everything included three children and all seven grandchildren. He spoke in a sad yet calm voice… ‘The Lord gives and the Lord takes away. It is the cycle of life.’”

At that time, I could not fathom his grief, nor how he and others would cope. Now I can. Anicca, (or impermanence) as I experienced it in Vipassana last year, has a much deeper meaning. As the old man said, the cycle of life trundles on.


****

P.S. Thank you all who've kept us in your thoughts and prayers. Thanks for your lovely messages and for being with us through this time. We truly appreciate it.

Farewell, Preeti

Preeti’s struggle came to an end yesterday morning. With odds as great as the ones she faced, she still held her own for 57 days. We believed that she had turned the corner. We hoped that she would come through; we hoped that her struggle wouldn’t be in vain.

But hope is no match for fear and prejudice and the uncertainty of waiting.

A crisis doesn’t necessarily bring people together. And try as you might, you cannot make people see what they don’t want to see or what they’re afraid to see.

We did our best for Preeti, but doing your best doesn’t mean you will get the results you want. Our little consolation is that we never had to ‘make a decision’ for Preeti. She chose her own moment of passing on.

Someday we will accept the unfairness of it. Someday we’ll see the perfection in this.

Until then we will accept that this is what is best for Preeti.


Rest in peace, Preeti. We love you.

The ties that bind… and choke

“We’re praying, there will be a miracle,” I’m told, each day, by relatives, friends, well wishers, even the lift operator in the hospital.

I smile at them gratefully, not wanting to contradict them. The truth is we’re witnessing miracles each moment, each day. We’ve lost count of the ‘magic moments’ we’ve experienced in the last 49 days.

* Countless people writing in to say they’re praying fervently - for a girl they’ve never even met.

* Family and friends rallying around with financial assistance.

* Superlative doctors, nurses and hospital staff, who’ve taken to Preeti like their own.

* Preeti’s awesome defiance of all predictions, diagnoses and statistics.


And in the middle of it all, there’s one more miracle which still has me blinking in disbelief – the ‘blog’ has entered my family vocabulary!


Circa 2003: sample conversation

“Leela!! Unplug yourself from that blessed computer!!!”

“Leela!! What ARE you writing? Block?? What’s a block??


May 2005: sample conversation

“Leela!! When are you going to update your blog?”

“Leave her alone, she’s writing her blog.”


At first I read out each comment on the Preeti posts to all at home. Now, I don’t need to. My blog is checked; each comment is read and marvelled at. “Such wonderful people, these bloggers!”

My blog has been shared with the extended family as well. And from there, it has found its way into yahoo groups, mailboxes and newsletters. I was pleasantly surprised to receive a mail from someone in Pakistan who said he and his family were praying for Preeti.

The spike in traffic has Spaceman Spiff working overtime to ensure that it doesn’t blow a hole through his precious programming.

I can’t help marvelling at the unlikely blog evangelism. My aunt, a school teacher has only recently acquired a computer and is still familiarising herself with MS Word. That hasn’t stopped her from reeling off the blog url to the Principal of her school. My mum cheerfully shares my blog with anyone who cares to listen and has recently discovered the thrill of commenting. Better still, of receiving replies to comments.

A couple of days ago, my mum called up an elderly pastor who runs a prayer group. In between the discussions about Preeti, my mum couldn’t help bringing up her favourite topic…

Mum: Did you know my other daughter has a blog?

Elderly pastor: A block?? Oh dear. Not to worry, we’ll pray for her too…


A special welcome to the family in Dubai, Toronto, Calgary, Mumbai and Delhi… this one’s for you

50 days later...

In my last update, I shared that Preeti was out of ICU. But even before we could start breathing easy, we had a ‘situation’. Preeti BP & heart rate shot up and she stopped breathing. She had to be rushed back to the ICU. The doctors sounded grim, “It could be a sign of further brain damage.”

Oblivious to these predictions, Preeti stabilised in the ICU. As if to prove the trip to the ICU was nothing more than a whim. Three days later, we were back in the room; better than before.

Now, her head moves slightly, she reacts sharply when we massage her still swollen ankles. And her toes twitch when we tickle her soles. (Pleomorphous, tickle stimuli works for adults as well…) But the most promising sign has been the eye contact. We hold up a picture of Alison and move it from one side of her visual field to the other. Her eyes follow every movement of the picture. “This is definitely not an involuntary movement,” says Dr. Thomas, amazed.

We eagerly look forward to more.

Reality Checked

She sits hunched in the wheelchair at one end of the hospital corridor. The attendant stands in front of her, not looking at her, not even when she gets a coughing spasm. Her thin frame heaves uncontrollably and her hacking cough echoes down the corridor. The spasm subsides and she noisily draws up the thick phlegm to the back of her throat. The silent corridor magnifies every sound. Although her back is towards me, I can tell her mouth is full of phlegm and that she’s readying to spit it out. Where, I wonder, horrified and fascinated? She pulls out a metal tiffin from a plastic bag on her lap, opens it, and forcefully expels the contents of her mouth into it. I look away before my eyes fall on the contents of the tiffin. The tiffin clangs shut and is pushed back into the plastic bag. The attendant stares ahead fixedly. A few minutes later she’s wheeled past me, down the corridor, and I see her wan, lined face, with tired eyes. I smile tentatively. She regards me suspiciously as she’s wheeled away, her hands still clutching the tiffin box.


The sounds and images of that encounter in the hospital two days ago keep coming back to me. In the last five weeks, I’ve encountered a certain kind of reality relentlessly. I’ve come up close and personal with mortality. I’ve even lain awake some nights speculating what keeps me alive, when, at any given moment, so many things can go wrong. I cannot even think about the old woman with the tiffin and say, ‘There, but for the grace of God, go I,’ without wondering, with some trepidation, what’s in store for me.

Have I become a pessimist? Or am I finally accepting reality? I once told a friend that I had no fear of dying, just an ardent curiosity. I hadn’t factored in the process, I now realise. There’s a certain indignity about sickness; a vulnerability and abasement. Lying prone on a hospital bed, strung up with wires, tubes and needles, with strangers poking and prodding you, can prove helpful in divesting you of your ego; of your notions of invincibility.

As I do my turn outside the ICU, I scan the faces of those who’re brought in on wheelchairs and gurneys. How do they deal with the mortification wrought by illness? I recognise those who come in for their bi-weekly dialysis by their spindly legs and bloated abdomens. For some, it’s a well established routine; there’s a look of silent resignation and acceptance as they’re wheeled in to the Dialysis Room. Some bow low hand on their heart or touch their fingers to their forehead as they’re wheeled past the Prayer Room, adjacent to the Operation Theatre.

One elderly gentleman would regularly enquire about Preeti before entering the Dialysis Room. And then he’d say, ‘When they put those two big needles into my hand, I’ll offer it up for your sister.’ It struck me later that it was his way of transcending the indignity of suffering. By thinking of someone worse off than himself in his moment of agony, he’d cocked a snook at infirmity. And the more I looked, the more I began to see the quintessential human spirit triumphing over the human body.

One woman, also on ICU duty, was full of suggestions of what we could do for Preeti. She insisted I try Crystal Healing therapy, and offered to set up an appointment with a healer. She was adamant that we sue the the family doctor who had misdiagnosed Preeti. She also offered to read Preeti’s horoscope, although she admitted that she’d given up the practise. A little later I learned her daughter was in the ICU with renal failure; the third time in as many months. The girl’s hospitalisation had resulted in a broken engagement. She also told me that her husband had Parkinson’s disease and was in a nursing home. The irony of her healing and soothsaying suggestions was unmistakable, but her desire to reach out was palpable.

Another unforgettable image was that of an elderly couple who came to the Dialysis Room each week. The old man wheeled his wife in and waited outside on the uncomfortable chairs for four hours while she underwent dialysis. When she came out, her face contorted with pain and fatigue, and with the catheter sticking out of her neck, he unfolded her dupatta, drew it over her neck and shoulders, and bent down to tie her shoes. He then held her hand while the attendant wheeled her to the elevator.

The hospital isn’t quite the forbidding, depressing place I once thought it to be. It seems to bring out the best nature of so many people.

There are light-hearted moments as well. On one occasion, I was padding around barefoot in the ICU with the medicine tray, when the doctor glanced at me, and began making small talk. Suddenly, she asked, “Which standard are you in?” Now, I’ve been asked ‘Which college?’ before, but not in such incongruous surroundings. Besides, ‘standard’ reduced me to a schoolgirl, which isn’t quite as flattering. Worse still, the doctor looked like a teen herself, and had it not been for the stethoscope, I would have pegged her for an earnest accountant type. Still, indignation expressed, I tiptoed out of the ICU feeling more than a little chipper.

A couple of weeks ago doctors recommended that we talk aloud to Preeti, reassure her of our presence, play her music etc. in the hope that something might trigger off an awakening. We began telling her about how we believed in her, about the prayers and good wishes of all the people, about how her vital signs were improving. One visitor taking the cue from us began telling her, “Yes, Preeti, you are doing really well. Your vital statistics are improving…." I couldn’t keep a straight face for a long time.

Someday I hope Preeti will laugh at this too.

**********

As of today, Preeti’s condition has been deemed stable and she’s been moved out of the ICU to a private room, where she’s being monitored around the clock. She’s still in a coma, but there are minuscule responses. She opens her eyes intermittently but it’s a vacant, unfocussed stare. Her mouth moves occasionally and yesterday I caught her yawning. She responds to pain stimuli (which doctors and nurses demonstrate by pinching her with remarkable alacrity. We hope for more than one reason that she begins moving her limbs soon.)



I began writing about Preeti, three weeks ago, as a catharsis of sorts. I also hoped that a few prayers and good wishes would come her way. To say, I’m overwhelmed with your response, would be an understatement. A heartfelt THANK YOU to all of you who’ve left comments, shared your experience, written to offer support, and all of you who’ve spread the prayer request through your blogs:

Pallavi, Smiley, Uma Mahadevan-Dasgupta, Parmanu, Moonie, Swetlana Sweety, Skunkstink, Neelima, Poonam, Rhyncus Kahini, Rash, Down to Earth, Mad Club, Hirdu, Drum Bum, Twilight Fairy and Alpha

(I hope I haven’t left out anyone. Write to me - dotdotdot@gmail.com)

What is best for Preeti?

It’s a question we ask ourselves anew each day. Would Preeti have wanted to go through this or would she have chosen differently? Does the fact that she’s pulled through for 25 days after doctors told us, ‘No hope, call your relatives,’ mean that she wants to fight it out or is that what we want to believe? Do we surrender to whatever has to happen or do we lasso her back with fervent prayers and heartfelt desires?

The days go by but the questions don’t get any easier. We are people of hope and faith. We affirm that whatever happens will be best for Preeti. But several times, we find ourselves having to make a choice on Preeti’s behalf. And that’s when the questions terrorise…

Early last week, Preeti caught an infection, and all the fledgling signs of improvement backed up and vanished. Her temperature started climbing into the alarming 100s, the kidney output decreased and she was back on the ventilator. There was more bad news, this time from two consulting neurologists. Both echoed the gloomy diagnosis of the first neurologist. (One of them used a quaint expression when I asked for chances of improvement – ‘hugely small’. The other said even if she recovered, brain capacity would be ‘greatly reduced’. Are neurologists trained to speak in oxymorons, I wonder?)

Confronted with bad news and worse news, all the doubts – effectively suppressed by hope - came rushing back in. Would we have to make that decision now? Is that what Preeti wants?

‘Make a decision’ is the euphemism that medics use to suggest that a patient has poor chances of recovery. Doctors are understandably cagey when you ask them for their recommendation. What do YOU want to do, they ask? We’ve never had to deal with this before, we say.

Between euphemisms and oxymorons, we deduce the options. One is to stop dialysis or switch off the ventilator. But can we do it knowing fully well that part of her brain still functions, that she can still breathe a little and that some body functions are stable? Another option is to continue the treatment, hoping for some improvement in the brain functioning, which might or might not happen. Neither of these is painless. For Preeti or for us.

Ultimately, each of these options is linked to the monetary factor. As one doctor told us, "The deciding factor in such cases is how long you can sustain the treatment. The day you can’t afford to pay for the dialysis and the expensive injections, the option is clear.” Mercifully, we haven’t reached there yet.

In the midst of these hopeless, confused moments, we’re truly thankful for Dr. Thomas. Three days ago, he told us, “She’s young, her heart is strong. Give her a chance.” That’s all we needed to hear. That’s all we wanted to do, despite the moments of torment and confusion.

Two days ago, the kidneys began responding to treatment. The dour nephrologist actually had a smile when he told us that. The new batch of antibiotics worked away at the infection and yesterday even the ventilator came off.

This morning, the nephrologist said, “The kidney output is extremely good. I may not even need to see her again. My work is done.” Family members and visitors gaze reverentially, even admiringly, at the urine bag hanging over the side of the bed. (Pardon this mention of unmentionables. It is a matter of celebration.)

Now, it’s the turn of the brain. Dr. Thomas warns, “It’s not a rosy picture. Be prepared for a prolonged, sometimes frustrating journey.” The damaged areas might never recover, but perhaps, the brain can find a way around them. We continue to hope.


A big Thank You to each one of you who’s praying and continues to pray for Preeti. I appreciate all of your comments. I’m also grateful to all of you who’ve written in sharing your stories of hope, and for those of you who’ve linked the previous post. I’ve shared all your comments and mails with my family and it has given us a great deal of strength to know that Preeti has so many well wishers. Please continue to keep her in your prayers.

You can write to me - dotdotdot@gmail.com

Spare a prayer for Preeti

The blog break didn’t turn out as expected. But then, neither has life in the last two weeks. I’m driven to write here on account of the extraordinary circumstances in my life.

I’m back in Bombay. I’ve been here for exactly two weeks. When I boarded the flight from Dubai on April 1, I hoped against hope that the call from home had been an April Fool’s joke. How could my beloved sister, Preeti, be in the ICU? How could a simple case of Rheumatoid Arthritis result in the doctors pronouncing her as being at death’s door? For god’s sake, she’s just 32. Her little girl, my ‘best friend’, Alison, is not even five years old.

I had to bow and scrape with the medics to be allowed to see her on the 1st evening. “I will only look at her for 30 seconds,” I beseeched. I stood by her bed in shock, totally unprepared for what I was to see. She was gasping for breath; her eyes were turned upwards, half-closed, revealing cloudy white eyeballs. Even as I stood there, her eyes flew open and focussed on me. Her wide, beautiful eyes were unnaturally large and there was that characteristic, pearly smile, which even the tubes sticking out of her face did little to diminish.

“You’ve come?” she asked half-astonished, “You’ve come on holiday?”.

I told her I had.

“For how long?” she inquired. The tube in her throat made it difficult to talk.

“My boss said I could take a holiday for as long as I wanted,” I lied.

I told her that she must be strong and fight. She beamed and nodded.

“Don’t make her talk”, scolded the nurses, and I was just so thankful to them. I could not stand there for a moment longer without openly sobbing.

I was the last person she spoke to. Preeti was put on the ventilator that night. She slipped into a coma the next morning, and continues to be in a coma until this moment, almost 15 days later.



****

Preeti has had Rheumatoid Arthritis for the last 6 years. How a 26 year old could contract a sickness typically associated with old-age is another fateful story. She was walking on the road near our home when a monkey – part of a street entertainer’s troupe – bit her. She took the three prescribed anti-rabies injections. Exactly a day after the last injection she developed debilitating pains in her joints. The doctors diagnosed it as Rheumatoid Arthritis.

In the last six years, not a single remedy, therapy or exercise has been spared, not a single prayer remained unsaid. But never did Preeti ever complain or be less than cheery. Her joint stiffness became apparent in the way she walked, but she never talked about it even with friends. In fact, her replies used to be a standing joke at home.

“How are you Preeti?”…. “Better”

“Have the pains started again?”….. “Only a little”

With her limited mobility – sitting cross legged on the floor, a gesture we take for granted, is something she hasn’t attempted for many years – she continued to lead as normal a life as possible, going to work, bringing up Alison, even occasionally, and very cautiously, shaking a leg. At the small farewell party before I left for Dubai, it was she who insisted on the dance music.

A warning bell should have sounded when she took sick leave for the first time ever in mid-March. A little knee pain, she said. When one week of sick leave turned into two, and when the steroids prescribed by the family physician didn’t offer any relief, the alarm bells should have woken up the neighbourhood. But sadly, Preeti’s tendency to downplay her illness, along with neglect and mis-diagnosis led to unfortunate delays. In the two weeks that she’d been at home, the inflamed knees had developed an infection, leading to pus, which invaded her blood stream, throwing her kidneys off gear. Advanced septicaemia, they wrote, on admission. Doctors roared at my parents when they discovered that her blood pressure was only 40. “What were you’ll doing for so long?” they asked. A question we’re still coming to terms with.

*******



The last two weeks have been plagued by what-ifs. Each morning we steel ourselves to hear the worst.

“Her kidneys have failed”

“Her blood pressure isn’t stable”

“She’s in total coma”

“She’s slowly sinking”

“Now her blood sugar has shot up”

“Call your relatives…”

The MRI report six days ago, confirmed the doctors worst fears - extensive and possibly irreparable brain damage.

On Monday, 11 April, Preeti was entirely on life support – dialysis took care of the kidney functions, breathing was with the help of the ventilator and powerful drugs regulated the the blood pressure and heart rate. A decision was to be made. We waited for the doctor to tell us our options.

He came in half hour late. “I’ve disconnected Preeti from the ventilator for the last 15 minutes. She’s breathing on her own.”

It was the first sign that Preeti wasn’t ready to give up. Preeti breathed on her own for the first time in 11 days. She was put back on the ventilator an hour later so as not to tire her or to let the oxygen saturation drop. Since that day, she’s been breathing on her own intermittently. Her kidneys which had completely failed produced a small amount of urine yesterday, in what doctors admit is the very early sign of kidney recovery.

But these tiny rays of hope signs are clouded by an unbeatable knowledge – that her brain might never recover. What’s more, most of the doctors on the panel, save the chief doctor and the orthopaedic surgeon, have subtly or unequivocally told us to give up. And here’s where logic and faith, optimism and pragmatism, love and self-interest have locked horns.

Until Monday morning, we were ready to let Preeti pass on. All the signs pointed to the fact that she wanted to. She has suffered enough, we told ourselves. We whispered in her ear that we would take care of her unfinished business.

But her grasp on life has surprised us all. Each day there are tiny signs – her eyes twitch, she sometimes responds to pain stimuli, on occasion when people pray over her, teardrops roll down her eyes.

Straws, scoffs the neurologist. But he also admits that the dilemma is tricky. One the one we could be “killing off the patient”, while on the other hand we could rack up huge bills, face months or even years of uncertainty, medical complications and even with best efforts, a patient with diminished capacities (I absolutely DETEST the word ‘vegetable’. I will never use it to describe a human being, whatever the condition.)

It’s a testing time for all of us who love Preeti. There are no easy answers. Each day brings new challenges and demands fresh thinking. I have followed the Terri Schiavo case intermittently. Living it, I can tell you, is a wholly different experience. As a family, we’ve discussed it extensively. And we’ve decided to take things one step at a time. Where there is life, even the small, negligible sign of it, there is hope, we believe. We have no desire to hold on to her for our sake, but if she is hanging in there, so are we. There are voices which oppose out of interests that are perhaps misguided. But we believe they too are there for a purpose. Each day we discover new reserves of strength, courage to fight disappointment and forbearance to see the larger plan.

****



One of the most beautiful and unexpected outcomes of Preeti’s hospitalization has been the reaction of people – family, friends, colleagues, neighbours, acquaintances, even perfect strangers. An announcement was made at our church two weeks ago to pray for her. And the prayers haven’t stopped ever since. Scores of people, some of who barely know us, have offered prayers to their favourite saint or at the holy place they have utmost faith in. Prayer groups across the country, even the world, have been mobilized to intercede for Preeti. Emails have been flying furiously (now I know how the chain mails start) and each day we come across mails from distant family, friends of family, friends of friends of family…

The phone has been ringing off the hook at all times of day and night. The steady stream of visitors has only one refrain on their lips, ‘We’re praying for her’. A woman who came to the hospital last week said to us, ‘Can I please see her? I’ve been praying for her all week. I want to know who she is.’ I was extremely surprised to receive a call from a neighbour of ours who we knew was also very unwell. It turned out she was calling from Hinduja Hospital and was due for a bone-graft surgery the next day. “I’m praying for Preeti,” she said.

Early last week, Preeti required almost 22 units of blood. An email went around Preeti’s workplace, ICICI Bank. Three days later I got a frantic call from the blood bank. “Does Preeti need any more blood? If not, please stop the donors. We’ve got 17 bottles extra and there are five more people waiting to donate. We’re running out of storage space.”

We’ve been truly humbled by the deluge of prayers, hope, optimism and simple, unswerving faith. We, who see Preeti every day, who listen to the doctors, who hear all kinds of ‘expert’ advice, are far more pragmatic. But we also believe that all that positive energy has to produce SOME result. Medical science may have its limitation but the human spirit has none.

So here’s my entreaty to all my friends in blog world, even passers by. If you believe in prayer, please say a prayer for my sister, Preeti. Even if you don’t pray, please send positive thoughts her way. She needs it. We all need it.


(If you have heard of similar cases and have something to share, leave a comment or write to me - dotdotdot@gmail.com)

Blog break coming up…

Too much happening in the offline world. I will be back in May. Hope to see you all then.

Another silver lining

One year ago, Monisha and I, went up on the stage, and with trembling hands, lifted the silver Abby. Our first Abby. I thought my tryst with the Abbies had come to an end. Until I received the sms on Saturday evening: “Lee, I got a silver Abby.”

That was my younger brother. I had once tried to dissuade him from joining Advertising because I didn’t think he could handle the pressure. In a typical big-sisterly voice, I told him, “You’re too laidback, too sensitive, not at all focused.”

I’ve never been more thrilled to be proved wrong. Very proud of you, bro.

Just another weekend…

All of last week, a raccoon stared back at me from the bathroom mirror. And I swore every single morning, as I dragged myself to work, that the moment the clock struck 4 on Thursday evening, I would switch off my phone, unplug my mind, fluff up my pillow and seal my eyes, unsealing them only on Saturday morning, 7 a.m.

I must have been so immersed in this delicious fantasy that it didn’t register when I accepted a dinner invitation on Thursday night, a lunch with friends on Friday afternoon and a blogger’s meet in the evening. My poor, neglected cousins also decided the weekend was the perfect time for the heart-to-heart chats we’d been planning since the time I got here.

There was going to be no rest for the wicked, on the weekend; no rest at all.

The dinner on Thursday was at a little Chinese restaurant in the expansive City Centre Mall in Deira. The parking lots were full, the restaurants were packed and shoppers and stragglers alike crowded the aisles. Everyone’s in a shopping frenzy on the weekend; even denizens of the surrounding Emirates throng the malls in Dubai. Since my friend and I were only in the mood to nibble, we ordered a salad and a starter. As it turned out, each was a meal in itself. And when the perky waitress came around with her note pad to take our ‘main course order’, we groaned audibly, scaring her off.

My plans of waking up late were shot to bits when my treacherous eyelids flew open at seven in the morning. (Why that never happens on a weekday I will never know.) S & K picked me up at 11 for a drive around town. The roads, minus the appalling rush-hour traffic (one long post on that coming up), were a speedster’s dream, and there we were, tearing down the arterial Sheikh Zayed Road at over 160 kmph.

Our first halt was the Dubai Marina, ostensibly, the world's largest manmade marina and planned waterfront development. (Superlatives abound in every sq. km of Dubai.) Every major construction group in Dubai has some colossal project underway and there are residential towers all around in varying degrees of completion. There’s also a charming promenade with outdoor cafes and the likes; Dubai’s answer to the French Riviera. You could spend a languid morning sitting on a bench (ergonomic benches, as K noted) overlooking the azure waters, and watching the boats bobbing in the marina.

But before we could give in to these lazy thoughts, S shepherded us back into the car. ‘To the Royal Mirage’, he announced. I got the feeling that the Royal Mirage Hotel, was trying a little too hard to conjure an aura of exclusivity when the signboards leading to it, read, ‘The One & Only Royal Mirage’. But I learned later, that it’s part of the One & Only chain of resorts. On stepping into the Royal Mirage, however, I decided that it deserved its exclusive tag. Such opulence, such grandeur! From the ornate chairs to the intricate domed ceiling, to the gilded, frozen tableau of a group of Bedouins in the main courtyard, everything was excruciatingly perfect.

What I liked most about the Royal Mirage, and the Madinat Jumeirah, our next halt, was the classic Arabian architecture. Too much of Dubai is a tawdry imitation of Western style architecture. Everywhere you turn, there’s glass and neon. There are few indigenous elements that I’ve come across. The Madinat Jumeirah is a welcome relief. Walking through the Souk Madinat (the shopping arcade) is a thrilling experience. Long walkways with wooden beam ceilings, rough-hewn flooring, brass studded doors – all attempt to recreate a bygone era, but only just. I even spotted a chemist with a sign that read, ‘Apothecary: Estd 1266’. It had a charming, albeit unconvincing, old-world look. In another part of the Souk are tiny caravans, which sell curios and handicrafts.

I’d been to the Souk Madinat earlier, so I could expertly show off to K, ‘The best part about the Madinat Jumeirah is the gondolas which ferry guests from the Souk to their rooms.’ We stood and watched the gondolas from the sunny terrace, marveling at the spectacle, and muttering silently like Obelix, ‘These Arabs must be crazy’!

Back on the Sheikh Zayed Road, we raced back to Deira all the way to Makhtoum Street, halting at the Intercontinental Hotel. Established in 1975, it’s one of the oldest luxury hotels in Dubai (30 years is a long time in Dubai terms, I’ve discovered.) It also has a reputation for the best food in all of its 13 restaurants. I can vouch for the China Club at least!

Since I had a little time before I caught up with the bloggers, I browsed through the BurJuman Mall. My eyebrows repeatedly threatened to fly off my forehead when I checked the price tags in the stores, so I gave up and waited for the bloggers. Of the 9 who were to show up, only 2 did - Amit and Joshua. And as it usually happens at a blog meet, perfect strangers will find many things to talk about. All through our chat, Amit’s slight smile had me convinced that I was being hugely entertaining. Little did I know about the strappy red top at the next table!

We continued our conversation all the way to the bookshop that Amit should never have taken me to. And the storekeeper even gave me a disount on the three books I bought, which she shouldn’t have. Because it only means I’ll be throwing away all my hard earned dirhams there. And I’ll never be able to afford all those eyebrow-vanishing items in BurJuman.

I got home only at 9 that evening, not as tired as I imagined. But the raccoon’s back in the mirror these mornings. And I drag myself to work each day, swearing that on Thursday at 4 o clock…

Back off, Big Media

Mediaah!, Pradyuman Maheshwari’s no-holds barred media blog is being forced to shut down. A Big Media Group (read, The Times of India) has slapped a legal notice on him, demanding that he pull off 19 posts, which critique the Times. Are the 19 posts defamatory? Read them and decide for yourselves. Would you like to voice your support for Mediaah and Pradyuman Maheshwari? Go ahead, sign the petition. Better still, write about it on your blog.

Your time starts NOW!

What’s the last thing you’d expect on a Sunday night, in a Mexican pub frequented by Indians, with a Sri Lankan band belting out pop melodies?

20 points and a free Mexican fiesta platter if you guessed ‘a quiz show’.

If I hadn’t been at Beyond El Rancho’s at the Marco Polo Hotel in Deira, I would never have guessed, for sure. Dubai’s nightlife is famed for many reasons, but none of them are inherently cerebral.

So, I was pleasantly surprised to discover that Dubai has a quizzing culture, and a flourishing one, at that. Most of the pubs in the city have a designated Quiz Nite and there are a couple of big quizzes each year – on the lines of the Brand Equity Quiz – conducted by the grand daddies of Indian quizzing, Siddhartha ‘Mastermind’ Basu and Derek ‘BQC’ O’brien. The prizes range from liquor company freebies to dinner vouchers at 5-star restaurants to gizmos and even, luxury cruises.

I got the lowdown on all of this courtesy two pals of mine - old timers on the Mumbai quizzing circuit, who even have a Brand Equity win to their credit. As it turns out, they’ve continued their winning spree on this side of the Arabian Sea as well, winning several of the pub quizzes and even an IT quiz. Now, with both of them in the same advertising agency here, and in between working on deadlines due ‘yesterday’, they came up with a plan to host an Indian quiz nite. (Apparently most pub quizzes are dominated by Brit quizzers and have a Brit trivia slant.)

The Marco Polo Hotel isn’t the most convenient location, especially on a weeknight (Sunday night, Muddle East… have I mentioned it before?) But there are a few regulars who drop by especially for the quiz. Some unwary stragglers are also coerced to participate with the assurance that it’s a ‘simple quiz, no dimaag ka dahi’.

The quiz follows a simple format: 40 questions, Bollywood-sports-trivia, a visual round, and a most generous sprinkling of ‘clues’. One of the questions last Sunday was, ‘Name the captain in the book Moby Dick?’ Faces turned into question marks. The clues all but spelt out the name. Sample: It’s an unusual name. Starts with A. Ends with B. One team piped up, “How many letters?”

The merits of flipping through the Bombay Times and other P3P-loving papers became apparent when I accurately guessed Ayesha Takia in the visual round. The need to stay updated on sports also became clear when I wrote Walter Matthau for Richard Hadlee. Actually, the poor lighting was to blame. That, and the watermelon breezer.

After two weeks of coming in a close third, my teammate and I claimed the top spot last Sunday. 33 out of 40. It was a thrilling moment. No Lexus, no 100 kilos gold, no 55” plasma TV, but it still felt good. Later, the Sri Lankan band, ‘Damage’, took over and apart, from a mutilated, non-recognisable ‘Imagine’, did a pretty good job on the other melodies. Not a bad way to spend an evening at all.

At the end of the evening, the only question that had us stumped was: How do you divide one XL Heineken t-shirt, three Jack Daniels beer glasses, one Dove sample kit and one Amstel light cushion between two teammates?

Sad but true

You know people have been spending way too much time in the office, when they look out of the window at dusk, spot the dull red orb in the sky and ask, “Hey, what’s that light?”

Life in the Muddle East

Have I been to the malls? Have I availed of fabulous, stupendous, never-before discounts at the Dubai Shopping Festival? Have I called up any of the 65 ‘contacts’ given to me by friends and acquaintances at the mere mention of the words, ‘going to Dubai’?

Sadly, none of the above. Life, in the last few days, has revolved around unlearning well-entrenched habits and re-orienting myself to the Muddle East.

Crossing the road – not even an issue on the harum-scarum Bombay streets – now requires planning, prayer and insurance. There I am, standing on the kerb, heart thudding. I look right and put one tentative foot out, only to throw it over my shoulder in morbid terror in the next instant. The driver in the gleaming Pajero, racing in from the left slams the brakes and looks at me balefully. Heart thudding still, I look back belligerently. It’s his fault, first, for driving on the wrong side of the road, and, second, for not honking incessantly, mindlessly and deafeningly from at least a mile away. How is one supposed to cross the road when vehicles sneak up in silence?

Sitting at my desk at work is no less bewildering. The desk calendar has been tampered with. M T W T etc., is now S S M T... I’m not complaining about the weekend in the middle of the week, of course. It’s starting work on a Saturday, and working right through Sunday, when family and friends in the un-muddled parts of the world are doing weekend-ly things, that I find galling.

If all this wasn’t befuddling enough, my eyes are playing tricks on me. A few days ago, I logged on to google.ae and typed in a search word. Nothing happened. I hit a few more keys, and that’s when I saw the letters creeping in from the right. I shook my head, rubbed my eyes and tried again, all day and on the days that followed. It never happened again. But I could have sworn that it happened the first time. Or did it?

Guess settling down is unsettling right now. But two things are comfortingly familiar.

One, bloggers are some of the nicest people around. A big thank you to Manu and Amit who took me out on my first weekend-in-the-middle-of-the-week.

And two, advertising hasn’t changed one bit. Deadlines are still ‘yesterday’, clients continue to write copy and client servicing still stumble on the brief after the first round of creatives are presented.

Day 1 in Dubai

Puran poli for breakfast

Bhel puri in the evening

Amitabh Bachchan grinning from hoardings all across the city

Teen cousins singing along with the Hindi film songs on the radio

Traffic snarls at every intersection…


… maybe I’m not so far away from home.

Generation Zap!

A friend had this conversation with her 12-year old daughter recently.

Mom: You should start reading P.G. Wodehouse. You’ll like him.

Daughter: Is he the guy who started askjeeves.com?

Paperless, and now, nameless as well!

The weekly Bharateeya Blog Mela is on. And in between dissertations on India and China’s economic policy, essays on Republic Day, an interesting explanation of ethical conceit and Patrix’s guest blogger’s highly questionable views on dating, is one little tirade against a tyrannical, toilet-paper depriving Admin machinery.

I’m pleased, no doubt, to feature in the Blog Mela, but, pray, why have you omitted my name, Ravikiran Rao?

In any case, do check out the interesting mix at the Mela.

So long and thanks for all the pani puri

There was a commercial on TV in the early 80s for a brand which I can’t seem to recall now. (Was it Tango – the orange drink?) All I remember was a guy singing soulfully, with the resplendent Queen’s Necklace (Marine Drive for all you non-Bombayites) in the background. Sung to the tune of ‘Don’t Cry for Me Argentina’, the jingle went like this…

Don’t cry for me Bombay City
The truth is I don’t want to leave
All the excitement
The bhel puri…

I’ve been humming this tacky ditty – written no doubt by a COPYwriter – as I pack my somewhat meagre possessions into two suitcases, which by some miracle might end up weighing only 30 kilos.

It’s a moving time for me. For one, I’m moving back to mainstream advertising, after two years of revelling on the fringes. And two, I’m moving to Dubai. (Spare me, I beg you, all the sheikh, camel, mallu, harem, gold etc., jokes. In the last three weeks I’ve heard them all.)

The move is on account of a few reasons - some personal, some professional and some, just a tad irrational. Come Friday, and I’ll be opening another suitcase in another hall (well, since we’re ripping off Evita here…)

So, yes, I’m going to miss all the excitement, and not so much the bhel puri as the pani puri! Ever since the move became imminent, I’ve risked life, limb and entrails for pani puri at various places across the city. Two places, I’ve discovered, do immense justice to the humble pani puri – the not-so-little-anymore stall outside Elco Arcade, and the one outside Shopper’s Stop on Linking Road. The attendants with plastic gloves, smocks and chef hats made me feel a little less guilty about indulging.

Flippancy aside, there’s a lot more I’m going to miss. Having lived all my life in Bombay (Mumbai, if you insist) I can’t even begun to list all the things I’ve gotten attached to, used to or just plain inured to (Western Railway, are you listening?) Most of all I’m going to miss the people – family, friends and the incredibly spirited, crazy, generous, callous, friendly, confused, never-say-die, noisy, uncivil and ultimately, endearing denizens of Bombay. Fare well fair city (allow me some illusions), I’ll be back.

Absolute Lee will continue on the other side of the Arabian Sea.



P.S. Any co-relation between my departure and the absence of a certain paper as mentioned in the previous post is purely coincidental.