… 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.
Friday, July 14, 2006
Monday, June 26, 2006
Smokescreen
The Annual Cannes Advertising Festival results are out. The creative department in the agency is agog. There’s a huddle around the computer downloading the winners’ list. It’s a great year for Indian advertising – 58 nominations, of which 12 have turned into gold, silver and bronze.
The brilliance is sizzling; humbling even. Some ideas leap off the screen and strike you between the eyes. Some creep up slowly and punch you in the gut. A whistle of appreciation. A dismissive snort. A reverential silence.
There’s this winning entry in the Outdoor/Poster category from Everest Advertising, Mumbai, that demands a closer look. There are two pictures. The first picture depicts an unusual vantage point – a view from the bottom of a freshly dug grave. A square patch of sunlight is visible; around the edge of the ‘grave’ stand mournful relatives and a priest ministering the final blessing.
The second picture shows the first picture stuck on a ceiling of a Smoking Zone. Two people standing under the poster with cigarettes dangling from their fingers look up at it with tremulous expressions.
The penny drops. It’s a poster for the Cancer Patients Aid Association. By putting it on a ceiling, it gives those smoking below the impression that they’re being readied for burial.
A bold new way to convey an age-old, almost clichéd message. The murmurs of approval from those huddled around the computer reaches a crescendo. Even the cynics among the lot hail it. The finger on the mouse pauses before moving on to the next entry. Two questions hover in most minds - How did they think of this? Why didn’t I think of this? This is the best Indian entry, one person declares. What a killer idea, another repeats for the fourth time, shaking his head in awe.
They troop out one by one and meet again in the passage outside the office. The sole lighter is passed around. Amid puffs of smoke, the killer idea is once again given the thumbs up.
P.S. I doubt if my description of the poster did enough justice. Here it is
The brilliance is sizzling; humbling even. Some ideas leap off the screen and strike you between the eyes. Some creep up slowly and punch you in the gut. A whistle of appreciation. A dismissive snort. A reverential silence.
There’s this winning entry in the Outdoor/Poster category from Everest Advertising, Mumbai, that demands a closer look. There are two pictures. The first picture depicts an unusual vantage point – a view from the bottom of a freshly dug grave. A square patch of sunlight is visible; around the edge of the ‘grave’ stand mournful relatives and a priest ministering the final blessing.
The second picture shows the first picture stuck on a ceiling of a Smoking Zone. Two people standing under the poster with cigarettes dangling from their fingers look up at it with tremulous expressions.
The penny drops. It’s a poster for the Cancer Patients Aid Association. By putting it on a ceiling, it gives those smoking below the impression that they’re being readied for burial.
A bold new way to convey an age-old, almost clichéd message. The murmurs of approval from those huddled around the computer reaches a crescendo. Even the cynics among the lot hail it. The finger on the mouse pauses before moving on to the next entry. Two questions hover in most minds - How did they think of this? Why didn’t I think of this? This is the best Indian entry, one person declares. What a killer idea, another repeats for the fourth time, shaking his head in awe.
They troop out one by one and meet again in the passage outside the office. The sole lighter is passed around. Amid puffs of smoke, the killer idea is once again given the thumbs up.
P.S. I doubt if my description of the poster did enough justice. Here it is
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, May 25, 2006
Friday, April 28, 2006
A glimpse of the desert
Doing a desert safari in the UAE is a bit like getting your picture clicked at the Eiffel Tower in Paris. It’s the touristy thing to do. And like most touristy things it looks good in pictures and ranks high on the ‘been-there-done-that’ scale. But it also feels a little dissatisfying, especially if packaged tours are not your idea of the right way to experience a place.
Having said that, I quite enjoyed the all-too-brief tryst with the dunes. Dubai does a great job of camouflaging the fact that it’s actually a desert. And in all the time I’ve been here, I’ve only heard travellers’ tales of the stark beauty of the desert. It was time to make an introduction – a formal one, albeit.
Desert safari operators in Dubai are a dirham a dozen. So considering it was the month end, we chose economy over effusive claims, and signed up with Fairyland Tours for 165 dirhams per person. Mustafa, our driver, arrived sharp at 4 p.m. to pick us up, and we set off to meet the rest of the group.
One of the redeeming features of Dubai is that you can get out of the city and cruise on the open roads in less than 20 minutes. The Dubai–Hatta Road was almost deserted on a Friday afternoon and we hurriedly rolled up the windows as the speedometer touched 140. The distances between the houses on either side of the road increased until only sandy hillocks and sparse trees were visible. Sand particles flew onto the road and receded like waves as vehicles sped by. The hour passed by unnoticed.
We reached an incongruous café and souvenir shop on the side of the road. People spilled out of half a dozen SUVs parked there. This was the last halt before we entered the dunes. While some used the opportunity to buy colas, chewing gum and other essentials, the drivers of the SUVs began preparing for the Dune Bashing (as the ride on the sand dunes is popularly called) by deflating the tyres. Apparently, flattened tyres ensure the vehicle doesn’t get stuck in gritty terrain.
Suitably deflated, our vehicles climbed into the dunes, which at first glance looked rather tame. There were mild undulations in the terrain, which stretched out for as far as the eye could see, and for someone who’s been awed by the topography of the Himalayas, this was not something to write home about.
I was unmoved when Mustafa began gearing up. First he pulled out a pair of wraparound shades. Then he fished out a zutra – a traditional Arabic headgear – and performed some complicated maneuvers before patting it down on his head. Next he asked all six of us in the vehicle to wear the seatbelt. Dune Bashing, indeed, I thought, rolling my eyes and blowing on my nails. This was going to be a ride on S.V. Road in Mumbai post-monsoons.
Dune Bashing requires special driving skills. Drivers usually have to undergo basic training and need a certification for desert driving. Mustafa mostly drove with one hand gripping the handle above the door and the other hand twisting, turning and pummeling the steering wheel. There were nervous giggles and muffled screams in the back when we went into a 45 degree slant or when we careened down the dune. Interestingly, the SUVs which customarily dominated the roads with their haughty presence, now seemed like little beetles scuttling in the sand.
We rode dune after dune in this similar jerky manner, and while my heart didn’t do any somersaults, I was dismayed to note that my stomach did. I had to ask Mustafa to stop the vehicle twice, and he willingly obliged. ‘Mostly happens with Asians’, he muttered, handing me tissues, and adding to my discomfiture.
The sun was a molten orb on the horizon when we made our next halt on the peak of a dune. Surfboards were brought out and those interested could surf down the dune. My friends and I tried it before we decided it sounded more exciting than it actually was. The ride was over in less than 10 seconds and climbing back up the dune with a heavy surfboard turned out to be an unanticipated aerobic activity.
Back in our vehicle, we headed to the campsite for an experience of Arabian culture. This included smoking (or for the inept, choking) on the sheesha, camel rides, henna tattoos and even dressing up in the hijab (for women) and the kandoora (for men). UAE law prohibits non-Emiratis from donning the national costume. However, an exception is made during safaris as long as one doesn’t step out of the campsite.
The perimeter of the camp was lined with tents where people could stretch out and allow their dune-bashed innards to recover before heading for the bar or for any of the other attractions. We took our time before heading to each of the tents where we got the henna tattoo, smoked an apple-flavoured sheesha and rode a camel called ‘Jaani’. The most novel part was posing for photographs wearing the hijab. There’s a certain mystique attached to the hijab, which cloaks everything but the eyes. For the few minutes that I paraded in it, there was a sense of having a secret vantage point to the world, of being more in control than those whose faces reflected every emotion, of being able to retreat easily into an inner space. But like I said, for me it was a novelty. A person required to wear it might opine differently. Or might not.
The star attraction of the evening was the belly dancer, who took to the podium in the centre of the camp. We watched for a while, but quickly tuned off when she began inviting members of the audience to dance with her, and who proceeded to imitate her moves to dreadful effect.
Soon, we were hustled into the food tent for an Arabic barbecue along the ubiquitous Indian food. It was 9 p.m., just 5 hours since we’d left home, although it felt like ages. Mercifully, we didn’t have to ride over the dunes to get back to the highway or I might just have done my Asian roots proud again. We reached the Hatta road in less than ten minutes and were home by 10 p.m.
A fun trip, no doubt, but I have a feeling that the real desert escapade is yet to come…
Having said that, I quite enjoyed the all-too-brief tryst with the dunes. Dubai does a great job of camouflaging the fact that it’s actually a desert. And in all the time I’ve been here, I’ve only heard travellers’ tales of the stark beauty of the desert. It was time to make an introduction – a formal one, albeit.
Desert safari operators in Dubai are a dirham a dozen. So considering it was the month end, we chose economy over effusive claims, and signed up with Fairyland Tours for 165 dirhams per person. Mustafa, our driver, arrived sharp at 4 p.m. to pick us up, and we set off to meet the rest of the group.
One of the redeeming features of Dubai is that you can get out of the city and cruise on the open roads in less than 20 minutes. The Dubai–Hatta Road was almost deserted on a Friday afternoon and we hurriedly rolled up the windows as the speedometer touched 140. The distances between the houses on either side of the road increased until only sandy hillocks and sparse trees were visible. Sand particles flew onto the road and receded like waves as vehicles sped by. The hour passed by unnoticed.
We reached an incongruous café and souvenir shop on the side of the road. People spilled out of half a dozen SUVs parked there. This was the last halt before we entered the dunes. While some used the opportunity to buy colas, chewing gum and other essentials, the drivers of the SUVs began preparing for the Dune Bashing (as the ride on the sand dunes is popularly called) by deflating the tyres. Apparently, flattened tyres ensure the vehicle doesn’t get stuck in gritty terrain.
Suitably deflated, our vehicles climbed into the dunes, which at first glance looked rather tame. There were mild undulations in the terrain, which stretched out for as far as the eye could see, and for someone who’s been awed by the topography of the Himalayas, this was not something to write home about.
I was unmoved when Mustafa began gearing up. First he pulled out a pair of wraparound shades. Then he fished out a zutra – a traditional Arabic headgear – and performed some complicated maneuvers before patting it down on his head. Next he asked all six of us in the vehicle to wear the seatbelt. Dune Bashing, indeed, I thought, rolling my eyes and blowing on my nails. This was going to be a ride on S.V. Road in Mumbai post-monsoons.
Dune Bashing requires special driving skills. Drivers usually have to undergo basic training and need a certification for desert driving. Mustafa mostly drove with one hand gripping the handle above the door and the other hand twisting, turning and pummeling the steering wheel. There were nervous giggles and muffled screams in the back when we went into a 45 degree slant or when we careened down the dune. Interestingly, the SUVs which customarily dominated the roads with their haughty presence, now seemed like little beetles scuttling in the sand.
We rode dune after dune in this similar jerky manner, and while my heart didn’t do any somersaults, I was dismayed to note that my stomach did. I had to ask Mustafa to stop the vehicle twice, and he willingly obliged. ‘Mostly happens with Asians’, he muttered, handing me tissues, and adding to my discomfiture.
The sun was a molten orb on the horizon when we made our next halt on the peak of a dune. Surfboards were brought out and those interested could surf down the dune. My friends and I tried it before we decided it sounded more exciting than it actually was. The ride was over in less than 10 seconds and climbing back up the dune with a heavy surfboard turned out to be an unanticipated aerobic activity.
Back in our vehicle, we headed to the campsite for an experience of Arabian culture. This included smoking (or for the inept, choking) on the sheesha, camel rides, henna tattoos and even dressing up in the hijab (for women) and the kandoora (for men). UAE law prohibits non-Emiratis from donning the national costume. However, an exception is made during safaris as long as one doesn’t step out of the campsite.
The perimeter of the camp was lined with tents where people could stretch out and allow their dune-bashed innards to recover before heading for the bar or for any of the other attractions. We took our time before heading to each of the tents where we got the henna tattoo, smoked an apple-flavoured sheesha and rode a camel called ‘Jaani’. The most novel part was posing for photographs wearing the hijab. There’s a certain mystique attached to the hijab, which cloaks everything but the eyes. For the few minutes that I paraded in it, there was a sense of having a secret vantage point to the world, of being more in control than those whose faces reflected every emotion, of being able to retreat easily into an inner space. But like I said, for me it was a novelty. A person required to wear it might opine differently. Or might not.
The star attraction of the evening was the belly dancer, who took to the podium in the centre of the camp. We watched for a while, but quickly tuned off when she began inviting members of the audience to dance with her, and who proceeded to imitate her moves to dreadful effect.
Soon, we were hustled into the food tent for an Arabic barbecue along the ubiquitous Indian food. It was 9 p.m., just 5 hours since we’d left home, although it felt like ages. Mercifully, we didn’t have to ride over the dunes to get back to the highway or I might just have done my Asian roots proud again. We reached the Hatta road in less than ten minutes and were home by 10 p.m.
A fun trip, no doubt, but I have a feeling that the real desert escapade is yet to come…
Sunday, April 02, 2006
Mozart, a desert safari and a heritage village
It’s been a busy month, March. But a nice kind of busy. Because it involved trips and new friends and achievements all coming together in a happy blur. And speaking of achievements, can one regard not having stepped into a mall in a whole month as a minor feat?
Mozart in the oasis
A couple of years ago, my travel wishlist had the following entry:
* Travel to Vienna in 2006 for Mozart’s 250th birth anniversary
I never really did much more than pen down that entry and entertain a vague hope. But I never imagined the universe would conspire (as Paulo Coelho would say) to bring Mozart right next door to me.
The Mozart Festival in Al Ain, Abu Dhabi, was magnificent for more than several reasons. To begin with, the setting was incredibly scenic: Al Ain is popularly known as the Garden City. But what was more enthralling was that the concert was staged at the Al Jahili Fort, which dates back to the 1890s. Listening to the Vienna Chamber Orchestra play the finest compositions of the prodigious composer who died when he was barely 35, was an experience that can best be described as magical. Speaking in a droll Japanese-Italian accent, Joji Hattori, the Japanese conductor attempted to add some humour as he introduced each of the pieces. The 1500-strong crowd tittered on cue. But the highlight of the evening was the Lebanese singer, who along with a few local musicians and the Vienna Chamber Orchestra did a soulful tribute to Mozart.
The Coffee pot roundabout at Al Ain
Al Jahili Fort
The stage is set for Mozart
The Vienna Chamber Orchestra
(Next: the desert safari)
Mozart in the oasis
A couple of years ago, my travel wishlist had the following entry:
* Travel to Vienna in 2006 for Mozart’s 250th birth anniversary
I never really did much more than pen down that entry and entertain a vague hope. But I never imagined the universe would conspire (as Paulo Coelho would say) to bring Mozart right next door to me.
The Mozart Festival in Al Ain, Abu Dhabi, was magnificent for more than several reasons. To begin with, the setting was incredibly scenic: Al Ain is popularly known as the Garden City. But what was more enthralling was that the concert was staged at the Al Jahili Fort, which dates back to the 1890s. Listening to the Vienna Chamber Orchestra play the finest compositions of the prodigious composer who died when he was barely 35, was an experience that can best be described as magical. Speaking in a droll Japanese-Italian accent, Joji Hattori, the Japanese conductor attempted to add some humour as he introduced each of the pieces. The 1500-strong crowd tittered on cue. But the highlight of the evening was the Lebanese singer, who along with a few local musicians and the Vienna Chamber Orchestra did a soulful tribute to Mozart.
The Coffee pot roundabout at Al Ain
Al Jahili Fort
The stage is set for Mozart
The Vienna Chamber Orchestra(Next: the desert safari)
Monday, March 20, 2006
Ha Ha Hee Hee
There's nothing I enjoy more than reading the newspapers out here. Apart from the daily exercise involved in merely lifting a single day's copy of the Khaleej Times or Gulf News , there are other salutary benefits. Most newspapers dedicate a page or less to the funnies; here, there's entertainment aplenty on every page you look. Like for instance, this little gem tucked away in the 7 Days (a hugely popular, free tabloid).
Interview 'attacker' cleared
A man has been found not guilty of molesting a woman who came for a job interview. The man was accused of molesting a woman, who applied for a job working at the Global Village. The woman claimed she asked him to stop, and was then offered money for sex, which she refused. The suspect denied the charges, and his boss testified that he was not likely to have molested anyone, because he had memorised the Koran.
Interview 'attacker' cleared
A man has been found not guilty of molesting a woman who came for a job interview. The man was accused of molesting a woman, who applied for a job working at the Global Village. The woman claimed she asked him to stop, and was then offered money for sex, which she refused. The suspect denied the charges, and his boss testified that he was not likely to have molested anyone, because he had memorised the Koran.
Thursday, February 23, 2006
And what a journey it is!
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.
Monday, February 20, 2006
The Dubai Marathon 2006: A little high, but mostly, dry
I was halfway through the 10 km run when the mild irritation turned into full blown steam. Up ahead, I could see the bright yellow marker with 6 Kms. inscribed on it. Standing on the right side of the broad, empty road was a Marathon volunteer in a bright yellow T-shirt. I waited until I was in his earshot and then hollered:
"6 Kms!! WHERE"S THE WATER?"
The volunteer, whose hand was in midair waving at me, looked sheepish. And then with a shrug said, "Ahead."
Friday morning at the Standard Chartered Dubai Marathon 2006 saw international runners, parachutists, life-sized toons, a few thousand runners, a few million green and blue balloons... but when it came down to providing the single most essential requirement for a run, someone had been sleeping on the job.
The Marathon was originally scheduled for January 4th when temperatures are below 20 degrees. It was postponed on account of Sheikh Maktoum's death to mid-Feb. On Friday, the temperature was close to 31 degrees C.
Further, the manual given to each participant at the start of the race clearly stated that there would be water stations every 5 Kms, which isn't the most ideal in any case. There ought to have been water provided every 2 1/2 - 3 Kms.
Finally, there was my own adherence to the rule book. I drank two glasses of water at 5 a.m., because the manual stated that one should drink water 2 hours before the run. So I was suitably depleted by the start of the run.
The fanfare and excitement proved to be a good distraction for the first few kilometres. I couldn't help pointing out the runners in costume to K, my running buddy. One had bunny ears and had a little tuft pinned on the back of her T-shirt. Another had a green nylon costume which I presumed was a frog of sorts. A third had butterfly wings. There was even an 'Old Mother Hubbard' with voluminous skirts and braided hair.
It was around the 4 Km. mark that the novelty wore off and the heat and dehydration set in. 2 Kms. later fury was added to the mix. How could the organisers have overlooked the provision of water? I finally spotted a water station on the other side of the road. Apparently, we were supposed to run all the way to the roundabout on Zabeel Road and get onto the other side to reach it. I estimated it would be around 8 Kms by then. I was beginning to work up more than a sweat.
The lack of water worked on my febrile mind like an obsession. The more I thought about it, the more I got incensed by the organisers' callousness. Other aspects about the run, which I would have barely noticed before, also stoked my ire. The 10 km. route which went past the Trade Centre and then onto Zabeel Road was exceptionally bland, whereas the 42 Km. marathon route went all over Dubai. I understood there would be logistics involved, but running up and down the same deserted stretch was undeniably boring.
There was a nasty surprise in store when we finally did reach the beleaguered water station around the 8 Km. mark. There was no water. Sanitation workers in orange overalls were clearing away the plastic cups and half-empty mineral water bottles strewn on the road. There was not a single volunteer in sight. Which was a good thing. Because at that point, you could have held a dry match under my nose and it would have burst into flames in an instant.
There was no option but to focus and run the last 2 Kms. Seething about the invisible organisers or worrying about collapsing from dehydration only made it tougher. I was feeling ok, and the sun hadn't become searing hot yet. So K and I just kept up a steady pace until the finish sign came into view. We sprinted the last 200 M. so that we could complete the run under 80 minutes. Incidentally, the winner of the 10 Km. race clocked in at 32.56 minutes.
We were handed medals as we entered the enclosure behind the Finish gantry. Complaining to the volunteers seemed futile at that point because not only were they preoccupied with taking away the chip embedded in the running bib, but also because it required energy, something I had all but run out of.
Comparisons are odious, but I couldn't help commenting to K, how much more thrilling the Bombay Marathon had been. Even though it was an uneven terrain, more humid and more chaotic, it was also a lot more colourful. If the 42 Km. run was the showcase event and the 3 Km. run was for charity and cheer, then the 10 Km. run fit nowhere in the scheme of things.
Possibly the only uplifting moment was watching the Marathon winner, Joseph Ngeny from Kenya, effortlessly race to the finish line, clocking in at 2.13 hours.
Will I run another Dubai Marathon? Most probably. But until then, i'm going to take a lesson or two on water retention from the camel.
"6 Kms!! WHERE"S THE WATER?"
The volunteer, whose hand was in midair waving at me, looked sheepish. And then with a shrug said, "Ahead."
Friday morning at the Standard Chartered Dubai Marathon 2006 saw international runners, parachutists, life-sized toons, a few thousand runners, a few million green and blue balloons... but when it came down to providing the single most essential requirement for a run, someone had been sleeping on the job.
The Marathon was originally scheduled for January 4th when temperatures are below 20 degrees. It was postponed on account of Sheikh Maktoum's death to mid-Feb. On Friday, the temperature was close to 31 degrees C.
Further, the manual given to each participant at the start of the race clearly stated that there would be water stations every 5 Kms, which isn't the most ideal in any case. There ought to have been water provided every 2 1/2 - 3 Kms.
Finally, there was my own adherence to the rule book. I drank two glasses of water at 5 a.m., because the manual stated that one should drink water 2 hours before the run. So I was suitably depleted by the start of the run.
The fanfare and excitement proved to be a good distraction for the first few kilometres. I couldn't help pointing out the runners in costume to K, my running buddy. One had bunny ears and had a little tuft pinned on the back of her T-shirt. Another had a green nylon costume which I presumed was a frog of sorts. A third had butterfly wings. There was even an 'Old Mother Hubbard' with voluminous skirts and braided hair.
It was around the 4 Km. mark that the novelty wore off and the heat and dehydration set in. 2 Kms. later fury was added to the mix. How could the organisers have overlooked the provision of water? I finally spotted a water station on the other side of the road. Apparently, we were supposed to run all the way to the roundabout on Zabeel Road and get onto the other side to reach it. I estimated it would be around 8 Kms by then. I was beginning to work up more than a sweat.
The lack of water worked on my febrile mind like an obsession. The more I thought about it, the more I got incensed by the organisers' callousness. Other aspects about the run, which I would have barely noticed before, also stoked my ire. The 10 km. route which went past the Trade Centre and then onto Zabeel Road was exceptionally bland, whereas the 42 Km. marathon route went all over Dubai. I understood there would be logistics involved, but running up and down the same deserted stretch was undeniably boring.
There was a nasty surprise in store when we finally did reach the beleaguered water station around the 8 Km. mark. There was no water. Sanitation workers in orange overalls were clearing away the plastic cups and half-empty mineral water bottles strewn on the road. There was not a single volunteer in sight. Which was a good thing. Because at that point, you could have held a dry match under my nose and it would have burst into flames in an instant.
There was no option but to focus and run the last 2 Kms. Seething about the invisible organisers or worrying about collapsing from dehydration only made it tougher. I was feeling ok, and the sun hadn't become searing hot yet. So K and I just kept up a steady pace until the finish sign came into view. We sprinted the last 200 M. so that we could complete the run under 80 minutes. Incidentally, the winner of the 10 Km. race clocked in at 32.56 minutes.
We were handed medals as we entered the enclosure behind the Finish gantry. Complaining to the volunteers seemed futile at that point because not only were they preoccupied with taking away the chip embedded in the running bib, but also because it required energy, something I had all but run out of.
Comparisons are odious, but I couldn't help commenting to K, how much more thrilling the Bombay Marathon had been. Even though it was an uneven terrain, more humid and more chaotic, it was also a lot more colourful. If the 42 Km. run was the showcase event and the 3 Km. run was for charity and cheer, then the 10 Km. run fit nowhere in the scheme of things.
Possibly the only uplifting moment was watching the Marathon winner, Joseph Ngeny from Kenya, effortlessly race to the finish line, clocking in at 2.13 hours.
Will I run another Dubai Marathon? Most probably. But until then, i'm going to take a lesson or two on water retention from the camel.
Saturday, February 18, 2006
Overshot by 4.49 minutes...
Time taken to run 10 Kms: 79.49 minutes
End of race state: Hot, thirsty and bite-your-head-off angry
P.S. Marathon update to follow
End of race state: Hot, thirsty and bite-your-head-off angry
P.S. Marathon update to follow
Thursday, February 16, 2006
Another city, another marathon
There's always an incredulous cab-driver incident.
A few minutes after I'd sat in the cab and said, "World Trade Centre", the cab-driver piped up, "Aap kyon ja rahen hai World Trade Centre?" (Why are you going to the World Trade Centre?) Perhaps my faded jeans and T-shirt and shapeless backpack didn't suggest that I was a World Trade Centre regular. Taken aback as I was, I hemmed a bit before replying, "Kal daud hai, number lena hai." (There's a run tomorrow, I'm collecting my number.)
There were no questions after that. He'd pegged me for a loony for sure. I mean, whoever talks of walking in Dubai, leave alone, running. Two years ago, there was another cab-driver who looked at me with narrowed eyebrows when I told him of a 'daud' in Bombay.
Skeptics notwithstanding, a few thousand runners are going to hit the streets of Dubai tomorrow in the Standard Chartered 2006 Dubai Marathon. Yellow signs have appeared all over Zabeel Road which read, 'Caution Runners'. (Caution us, about what??)
Runner No. 3045 isn't doing the 42 km. Marathon. Not this year, at least. In the absence of a Half Marathon, Runner No. 3045 will be doing the 10 Km run.
I can't say I've been training like I did two years ago. A mere 3 km. jog three times a week doesn't really qualify as training. But I'm going along for the fun of it. I'm keen to see how Dubai handles a Marathon. I'm also looking forward to those fabulous Kenyan runners. And to all the assorted madness that's part of a Marathon.
I collected my T-shirt and running bib at the World Trade Centre. Interestingly, there's a chip attached to the running bib which will record the finish time. The run starts at 7:10 tomorrow. If all goes well, I should hopefully complete the run in 1.15 hours. Hopefully.
A few minutes after I'd sat in the cab and said, "World Trade Centre", the cab-driver piped up, "Aap kyon ja rahen hai World Trade Centre?" (Why are you going to the World Trade Centre?) Perhaps my faded jeans and T-shirt and shapeless backpack didn't suggest that I was a World Trade Centre regular. Taken aback as I was, I hemmed a bit before replying, "Kal daud hai, number lena hai." (There's a run tomorrow, I'm collecting my number.)
There were no questions after that. He'd pegged me for a loony for sure. I mean, whoever talks of walking in Dubai, leave alone, running. Two years ago, there was another cab-driver who looked at me with narrowed eyebrows when I told him of a 'daud' in Bombay.
Skeptics notwithstanding, a few thousand runners are going to hit the streets of Dubai tomorrow in the Standard Chartered 2006 Dubai Marathon. Yellow signs have appeared all over Zabeel Road which read, 'Caution Runners'. (Caution us, about what??)
Runner No. 3045 isn't doing the 42 km. Marathon. Not this year, at least. In the absence of a Half Marathon, Runner No. 3045 will be doing the 10 Km run.
I can't say I've been training like I did two years ago. A mere 3 km. jog three times a week doesn't really qualify as training. But I'm going along for the fun of it. I'm keen to see how Dubai handles a Marathon. I'm also looking forward to those fabulous Kenyan runners. And to all the assorted madness that's part of a Marathon.
I collected my T-shirt and running bib at the World Trade Centre. Interestingly, there's a chip attached to the running bib which will record the finish time. The run starts at 7:10 tomorrow. If all goes well, I should hopefully complete the run in 1.15 hours. Hopefully.
Monday, February 13, 2006
Wednesday, February 08, 2006
Freedom & Censorship
It's not uncommon to come across a sign like this one while surfing the web in the UAE. Etisalat, the sole service provider, has the onerous responsibility of protecting the religious, social, cultural and moral fabric of the UAE, and so goes about its job with righteous zeal. Initially I was a bit amused by the blue sign - putting it down to another of the quirks of the Muddle East, until I found www.flickr.com inaccessible. No reasons were offered as to what was found objectionable in a photo site. Using the feedback form proved futile too. Since I used to upload most pics for the blog on Flickr, this development was downright irksome. But the greater struggle was in trying to reconcile the anachronistic censorship in a “progressive” and “modern” city like Dubai.
While we chafe at the moral policing in this corner of the world, freedom of speech has stirred up more than a hornet’s nest in another part of the world. Jyllands Posten, the Danish newspaper, might have anticipated ruffled feathers when they printed a dozen caricatures of Prophet Mohammed as an expression of their right to free speech. But they couldn’t possibly have envisaged the extreme backlash all over the world. “Clash of civilizations”, some editorials have called it. The outbursts have reached ludicrous levels with embassies getting torched, bomb threats and a rash of riots around the world. Free speech has never had to pay a higher price.
Which brings us really to that all-important question – Is free speech really the absolute it’s made out to be? While there’s absolutely no justification for the violent response from some sections of the Muslim community, there seems to be no excusing Jyllands Posten either. Is freedom of speech more supreme a virtue than tolerance and respect for another person’s beliefs?
The gratuitous expression of free speech is as bad as censorship of the media. Both extreme. Both unwarranted. If there ever was a middle path, a way out of the madness, then this – www.sorrynorwaydenmark.com - would be it.
Tuesday, January 17, 2006
The Inscrutable Cube
When I'm not gazing at the sky and wondering about the birds, I am absorbed by another distraction - Rubik's Cube.
One of our clients had launched a new mall; the Cube, with the mall logo printed on one of the sides, was a souvenir. The plastic-covered, multi-hued Cube was distributed to everyone at work. Some turned it around, scratched their head and tossed it into the back of a drawer, plastic wrapping untouched. Others took it home for the kids - who would probably look up from the video game console, shrug and go back to killing one-eyed aliens.
None of that for me. I viewed the Cube as a wonderful opportunity to brush up my mechanical and logical skills. I remembered having a go at it once when in school, and the rush of triumph when I managed to complete one side without even realising how I'd done it, puffed up my not-so-tiny ego. The Cube, I figured, could provide the much needed relief when lateral thinking hit a roadblock or when logical thinking by Client Servicing proved impossible. I'd heard about pros who cracked the Cube using their feet. I figured it would be a matter of time before I could work it using one hand only.
Perhaps Rubik made some complex modifications to the Cube since my Primary School days. But how was one expected to get the pink squares on adjacent sides to meet on the same side? Maybe pink wasn't my colour. So I tried green. Ok, that wasn't so bad. Let's not split hairs over light and dark green now. Clients' logos will always be a pain in the posterior; you can never get them right, either in a layout or on Rubik's Cube. If I got the bottom row, the top row would stray. And vice versa. And vertically. And so on. And so forth.
If sky gazing left me all dreamy-eyed, cube-grappling had me scowling. A colleague feeling sorry for me (or perhaps, irked by my frequent groans of despair) showed me a few easy moves. Things improved a little after that. Now I could get two rows out of three in the same colour.
The more I sweated over the Cube, the more I came to appreciate (and loathe, in equal parts) its elegant yet fiendish complexity. Crosswords, I could crack with ease, even the ones with obscure American or Brit references. Sudoku ceased to be a challenge after a while. But the Cube, with its many million combinations, confounded me thoroughly. And I was still struggling with just one side. Logic simply collapsed and sat with its head in its hands, looking glum.
And then the weirdness began.
I would toss the confounding Cube on my desk, one side pathetically close to completion, and the next morning I'd find the offending side immaculately resolved. I questioned my colleague but he refused to take credit. It happened several times, sometimes during the day as well. The Mystery of the Self-Solving Rubik's Cube was almost as bad as the Misery of the Un-resolvable Cube. How did the Cube gremlin nudge that single square, that had foxed me, into place? And how did it succeed in completing TWO sides?? I was ready to concede defeat to this genius when even the other sides were in varying stages of completion.
One day, in utter frustration, I just said aloud to no one in particular, "Who's working out my Rubik's Cube??"
A colleague looked up from a magazine and said, "Oh that. I've seen Raju playing with it."
"Raju?!" I asked, hoarsely
"Raju," she repeated, "our canteen boy."
One of our clients had launched a new mall; the Cube, with the mall logo printed on one of the sides, was a souvenir. The plastic-covered, multi-hued Cube was distributed to everyone at work. Some turned it around, scratched their head and tossed it into the back of a drawer, plastic wrapping untouched. Others took it home for the kids - who would probably look up from the video game console, shrug and go back to killing one-eyed aliens.
None of that for me. I viewed the Cube as a wonderful opportunity to brush up my mechanical and logical skills. I remembered having a go at it once when in school, and the rush of triumph when I managed to complete one side without even realising how I'd done it, puffed up my not-so-tiny ego. The Cube, I figured, could provide the much needed relief when lateral thinking hit a roadblock or when logical thinking by Client Servicing proved impossible. I'd heard about pros who cracked the Cube using their feet. I figured it would be a matter of time before I could work it using one hand only.
Perhaps Rubik made some complex modifications to the Cube since my Primary School days. But how was one expected to get the pink squares on adjacent sides to meet on the same side? Maybe pink wasn't my colour. So I tried green. Ok, that wasn't so bad. Let's not split hairs over light and dark green now. Clients' logos will always be a pain in the posterior; you can never get them right, either in a layout or on Rubik's Cube. If I got the bottom row, the top row would stray. And vice versa. And vertically. And so on. And so forth.
If sky gazing left me all dreamy-eyed, cube-grappling had me scowling. A colleague feeling sorry for me (or perhaps, irked by my frequent groans of despair) showed me a few easy moves. Things improved a little after that. Now I could get two rows out of three in the same colour.
The more I sweated over the Cube, the more I came to appreciate (and loathe, in equal parts) its elegant yet fiendish complexity. Crosswords, I could crack with ease, even the ones with obscure American or Brit references. Sudoku ceased to be a challenge after a while. But the Cube, with its many million combinations, confounded me thoroughly. And I was still struggling with just one side. Logic simply collapsed and sat with its head in its hands, looking glum.
And then the weirdness began.
I would toss the confounding Cube on my desk, one side pathetically close to completion, and the next morning I'd find the offending side immaculately resolved. I questioned my colleague but he refused to take credit. It happened several times, sometimes during the day as well. The Mystery of the Self-Solving Rubik's Cube was almost as bad as the Misery of the Un-resolvable Cube. How did the Cube gremlin nudge that single square, that had foxed me, into place? And how did it succeed in completing TWO sides?? I was ready to concede defeat to this genius when even the other sides were in varying stages of completion.
One day, in utter frustration, I just said aloud to no one in particular, "Who's working out my Rubik's Cube??"
A colleague looked up from a magazine and said, "Oh that. I've seen Raju playing with it."
"Raju?!" I asked, hoarsely
"Raju," she repeated, "our canteen boy."
Sunday, January 15, 2006
The best laid plans...
I look at my blog each morning, and my promise of being on the blog more often glares at me. Has it already been 15 days since I wrote that? After dawdling along for months, life seems to have picked up its skirts and is sprinting ahead faster than I can catch up.
For once, there are no complaints. The most delightful weather is upon us. A bit like the oxymoronic 'Bombay winter' - nippy, but comfortably so. The sky goes berserk with colour at sundown. I eagerly throw open the blinds on the window in front of my work desk, and look out as the yellow streaks turn orange, and then purple, blue, mauve, maroon... until it's dark enough to see my own reflection in the glass. The giant metal crane swings in long, lazy arcs, adding the finishing touches to the skyscraper which now blocks the central view. Down below, the toilers are ensuring that it will only be a matter of months until a new building comes up to shut out a little more of my view.
Why do birds fly in circles before sunset? Where exactly are their nests if there aren't any trees around? What do birds really think when they see airplanes? Questions spring unbidden and linger awhile; the answers aren't really important.
It's perfect weather for walking along the Creek, for meeting friends, for long conversations and convulsive laughter. Even the Gods agree. In the first two weeks of the year, we've barely had 4 working days. I happily count out the holidays to anyone who'll listen: three day New Year weekend, three day mourning for Sheikh Maktoum, five days off for Eid Al Adha. In between lazy brunches and frenzied shopping, movies and dinners ice-skating and lame attempts to work off all that food... the days blissfully merge into each other.
The blog and other resolutions feel like they belong to another lifetime. To-do lists are coldly ignored. Musts and shoulds are sent packing. Living in and for the moment has never felt more blissful.
For once, there are no complaints. The most delightful weather is upon us. A bit like the oxymoronic 'Bombay winter' - nippy, but comfortably so. The sky goes berserk with colour at sundown. I eagerly throw open the blinds on the window in front of my work desk, and look out as the yellow streaks turn orange, and then purple, blue, mauve, maroon... until it's dark enough to see my own reflection in the glass. The giant metal crane swings in long, lazy arcs, adding the finishing touches to the skyscraper which now blocks the central view. Down below, the toilers are ensuring that it will only be a matter of months until a new building comes up to shut out a little more of my view.
Why do birds fly in circles before sunset? Where exactly are their nests if there aren't any trees around? What do birds really think when they see airplanes? Questions spring unbidden and linger awhile; the answers aren't really important.
It's perfect weather for walking along the Creek, for meeting friends, for long conversations and convulsive laughter. Even the Gods agree. In the first two weeks of the year, we've barely had 4 working days. I happily count out the holidays to anyone who'll listen: three day New Year weekend, three day mourning for Sheikh Maktoum, five days off for Eid Al Adha. In between lazy brunches and frenzied shopping, movies and dinners ice-skating and lame attempts to work off all that food... the days blissfully merge into each other.
The blog and other resolutions feel like they belong to another lifetime. To-do lists are coldly ignored. Musts and shoulds are sent packing. Living in and for the moment has never felt more blissful.
Sunday, January 01, 2006
Priceless Pictures # 6: Happy New Year
A special thanks to all those who've been around this blog a lot more than I have. Am working on changing it this year :)
Also see: Priceless Pictures # 1, # 2, # 3, # 4, # 5
Monday, December 05, 2005
In (extended) Absentia
A blog friend recently mailed me – "Blog silence usually means a hectic offline life… yes?"
Right on target. It's been unimaginably hectic catching up with family, meeting old friends, shopping, trying to unwind, plugging a leaky nose and remembering to check the wrong side of the road before crossing. I was in Mumbai for a couple of weeks on a trip that was as unexpected as it was welcome. The timing was exquisite – close family from abroad was visiting, as were old friends from College who I hadn't met in years. Going back this time had happier reasons, and all I could do was count days and hours until I touched down in Bombay
The days zipped by, as they're wont to do when you're having fun. But there were moments which stood out; the kind you want to store and replay at a later date. Some of them were funny, some poignant, and some others which made me smile and think, 'Only in India…'
A day after I returned, I was walking back home, up the narrow slope leading to my lane, when I heard a symphony of blaring horns. An empty autorickshaw stood in the middle of the road. The driver was standing beside the vehicle, insulting the women folk of the driver in the green Santro, and also trying to assess the damage to his shattered taillights. He seemed in no hurry to stop either of the two activities, despite the fact that the BEST bus behind the Santro seemed ready to steamroll both vehicles and their respective drivers. The four autorickshaws, one motorbike and two cars behind the bus had no idea what was holding things up, but they hoped their strident horns would create a clearing in the snarl ahead. The spectacle was amusing and comfortingly familiar. I walked home with a smile.
There was nostalgia of another kind when I took the 5-year old 'bess friend' for a movie she wanted to see - Hanuman. The last movie we'd gone for - Polar Express at the IMAX Dome Theatre - had been a bit of a washout. Ten minutes into the movie and she was thoroughly bored, and kept looking longingly at the exit. Hanuman turned out to be a surprise package. The animation was excellent; the soundtrack, delightfully peppy and the narration, engrossing. I was relieved to see Alison dancing in her seat. When war was declared on Lanka, I was hooked. The arrows flying thick and fast reminded me of Sunday mornings many many years ago, when we used to run home from Church to watch 'Ramayana'. (The irony hadn't sunk in then.) It reminded me of those entire episodes devoted to those incredible, flying arrows - the single-arrow-mutating-into-many arrow, the lightning-head arrow, the midair-shape changing arrow... It all came back vividly, right down to the dismayed expression on the face of the archer whose arrow was annihilated. I was enjoying myself thoroughly, when a plaintive voice rung out, loud enough for the whole theatre to hear, "Leela, when does the movie get over!" Goldfish and Alison have a lot in common.
A pilgrimage to the Strand Bookstore was mandatory. Books, when one can find them in Dubai, are prohibitively expensive. Besides, there's only one incredible Mr. Shanbag. I can't remember a single time when I haven't been treated like a VIP customer, even if I've only gone there to browse. This time, I came away with a sizeable haul, but without the slightest twinge of guilt. Dirhams be praised! The ever-courteous staff not only weighed the books to ensure I wasn't going to ground the aircraft, but also reminded me that they could ship me me consignments of up to 5 kgs. for just Rs. 500. I spotted another VFM (or value for money, in ad lingo) offer on a poster in the shop window. This should explain why friends will receive, 'Love poems by Love Poets' in lieu of a Christmas card this year.
Five months is too short a time to make statements like, 'Nothing's changed back home', but I was surprised at how easily I slipped back into old routines. Like sipping my mother's strong tea in the afternoon, cornering the PC at home and wearing down the remote with my frenzied channel-surfing. Old allergies returned to torment me as well, and I spent many a precious day sniffling and clutching a heavy head. But there were huge departures from my prior experience as well. Like the time I handed over a Rs. 100 note to the person at the Borivli Station ticket window. My eyebrows shot right off my forehead when the teller first apologised, and then, very politely, requested me to check if I had a smaller note tucked somewhere in my purse. I managed to locate the requisite change, when the teller from Mars continued, "Actually, I shouldn't be asking you for change. But I feel helpless right now. Thank you for helping me out." I looked around for hidden cameras or for Cyrus Broacha to jump out from a corner with the funny cap. This certainly wasn't the Western Railway I'd known for years!
There was another interesting episode at the ticket window at Churchgate Station. The queue, made up mostly of men, was inching
forward, when a woman of formidable girth jumped the queue. The men hissed disapprovingly, but intimidated by her size, said nothing. Until one braveheart called out from behind, "Excuse me Ma'am, we are in queue. This is not fair."Ma'am coolly replied, "It's fair. If you want, I'll buy your ticket as well."The braveheart sputtered at this unanticipated offer, "That's not the point..." But by then she'd collected her ticket and walked away, delivering a gem of parting shot, "What's your problem? Don't you know how to respect a lady!"The braveheart hasn't recovered, I suspect.
My 'Priceless Pictures' collection grew a bit in Bombay, thanks to gems like these.
Spotted above a ticket window at Borivli Station.
Spotted outside a building complex at Bandra. Canine literacy must be especially high in this area...
There are still some places in Bombay where you can avoid the rush hour completely, where crowds are conspicuous by their absence and where the only sounds you hear are the lapping of the waves and the rustle of the wind in the tall grass. One such place is Manori. Not the popular beach area, but a little way ahead where the craggy rocks end in the sea. I had the good-fortune of going rock-climbing here with a friend, who regularly organises getaways of this nature. (His website if you're interested.) It had been almost two years since I'd done any climbing, but it still felt as good. The muscles protested fiercely the next day, but the vacation felt complete.
Ambivalence ruled when it was time to leave. It had been a wonderful trip, but I was also looking forward to getting back to the Muddle East, which was slowly beginning to get a little un-muddled. The official at the check-in counter frowned when I offered my bags to be weighed. I'll never shop at Strand again, I swore fervently. I got away with an injunction to "Carry less than 8 kilos in hand baggage next time."Whew!
Stepping aboard the Indian Airlines flight, I was confronted by a sizeable, pot-bellied Steward who greeted me with a gap-toothed smile. It took me a few moments to recover, but I told myself I wasn't going to be judgemental about the national carrier. Still, I was reminded of Rhyncus's experience a few months ago, and wondered what else was in store. I didn't have to wait long.
I was engrossed in one of the new books when they announced that the film 'No Entry' would be shown. I was curious to know what had made it such a hit, so I plugged in the earphones, and looked at the single screen in front of the middle aisle. The opening soundtrack began. The screen was blank. The dpening dialogues began; Anil Kapoor, I could tell. The screen was blank. I looked around, wondering if I was the only one who had a problem seeing anything on the screen. Nobody else looked nonplussed. I leaned as much to the right as I could without giving the person in the next seat any wrong ideas. Finally, it sunk in. No Entry was a no-show; the entire film was going to be played only on the headphones. No one else was complaining. Indian Airlines regulars, I thought and went back to the book.
Right on target. It's been unimaginably hectic catching up with family, meeting old friends, shopping, trying to unwind, plugging a leaky nose and remembering to check the wrong side of the road before crossing. I was in Mumbai for a couple of weeks on a trip that was as unexpected as it was welcome. The timing was exquisite – close family from abroad was visiting, as were old friends from College who I hadn't met in years. Going back this time had happier reasons, and all I could do was count days and hours until I touched down in Bombay
The days zipped by, as they're wont to do when you're having fun. But there were moments which stood out; the kind you want to store and replay at a later date. Some of them were funny, some poignant, and some others which made me smile and think, 'Only in India…'
A day after I returned, I was walking back home, up the narrow slope leading to my lane, when I heard a symphony of blaring horns. An empty autorickshaw stood in the middle of the road. The driver was standing beside the vehicle, insulting the women folk of the driver in the green Santro, and also trying to assess the damage to his shattered taillights. He seemed in no hurry to stop either of the two activities, despite the fact that the BEST bus behind the Santro seemed ready to steamroll both vehicles and their respective drivers. The four autorickshaws, one motorbike and two cars behind the bus had no idea what was holding things up, but they hoped their strident horns would create a clearing in the snarl ahead. The spectacle was amusing and comfortingly familiar. I walked home with a smile.
There was nostalgia of another kind when I took the 5-year old 'bess friend' for a movie she wanted to see - Hanuman. The last movie we'd gone for - Polar Express at the IMAX Dome Theatre - had been a bit of a washout. Ten minutes into the movie and she was thoroughly bored, and kept looking longingly at the exit. Hanuman turned out to be a surprise package. The animation was excellent; the soundtrack, delightfully peppy and the narration, engrossing. I was relieved to see Alison dancing in her seat. When war was declared on Lanka, I was hooked. The arrows flying thick and fast reminded me of Sunday mornings many many years ago, when we used to run home from Church to watch 'Ramayana'. (The irony hadn't sunk in then.) It reminded me of those entire episodes devoted to those incredible, flying arrows - the single-arrow-mutating-into-many arrow, the lightning-head arrow, the midair-shape changing arrow... It all came back vividly, right down to the dismayed expression on the face of the archer whose arrow was annihilated. I was enjoying myself thoroughly, when a plaintive voice rung out, loud enough for the whole theatre to hear, "Leela, when does the movie get over!" Goldfish and Alison have a lot in common.
A pilgrimage to the Strand Bookstore was mandatory. Books, when one can find them in Dubai, are prohibitively expensive. Besides, there's only one incredible Mr. Shanbag. I can't remember a single time when I haven't been treated like a VIP customer, even if I've only gone there to browse. This time, I came away with a sizeable haul, but without the slightest twinge of guilt. Dirhams be praised! The ever-courteous staff not only weighed the books to ensure I wasn't going to ground the aircraft, but also reminded me that they could ship me me consignments of up to 5 kgs. for just Rs. 500. I spotted another VFM (or value for money, in ad lingo) offer on a poster in the shop window. This should explain why friends will receive, 'Love poems by Love Poets' in lieu of a Christmas card this year.
Five months is too short a time to make statements like, 'Nothing's changed back home', but I was surprised at how easily I slipped back into old routines. Like sipping my mother's strong tea in the afternoon, cornering the PC at home and wearing down the remote with my frenzied channel-surfing. Old allergies returned to torment me as well, and I spent many a precious day sniffling and clutching a heavy head. But there were huge departures from my prior experience as well. Like the time I handed over a Rs. 100 note to the person at the Borivli Station ticket window. My eyebrows shot right off my forehead when the teller first apologised, and then, very politely, requested me to check if I had a smaller note tucked somewhere in my purse. I managed to locate the requisite change, when the teller from Mars continued, "Actually, I shouldn't be asking you for change. But I feel helpless right now. Thank you for helping me out." I looked around for hidden cameras or for Cyrus Broacha to jump out from a corner with the funny cap. This certainly wasn't the Western Railway I'd known for years!
There was another interesting episode at the ticket window at Churchgate Station. The queue, made up mostly of men, was inching
forward, when a woman of formidable girth jumped the queue. The men hissed disapprovingly, but intimidated by her size, said nothing. Until one braveheart called out from behind, "Excuse me Ma'am, we are in queue. This is not fair."Ma'am coolly replied, "It's fair. If you want, I'll buy your ticket as well."The braveheart sputtered at this unanticipated offer, "That's not the point..." But by then she'd collected her ticket and walked away, delivering a gem of parting shot, "What's your problem? Don't you know how to respect a lady!"The braveheart hasn't recovered, I suspect.
My 'Priceless Pictures' collection grew a bit in Bombay, thanks to gems like these.
Spotted above a ticket window at Borivli Station.
Spotted outside a building complex at Bandra. Canine literacy must be especially high in this area...
There are still some places in Bombay where you can avoid the rush hour completely, where crowds are conspicuous by their absence and where the only sounds you hear are the lapping of the waves and the rustle of the wind in the tall grass. One such place is Manori. Not the popular beach area, but a little way ahead where the craggy rocks end in the sea. I had the good-fortune of going rock-climbing here with a friend, who regularly organises getaways of this nature. (His website if you're interested.) It had been almost two years since I'd done any climbing, but it still felt as good. The muscles protested fiercely the next day, but the vacation felt complete.
Ambivalence ruled when it was time to leave. It had been a wonderful trip, but I was also looking forward to getting back to the Muddle East, which was slowly beginning to get a little un-muddled. The official at the check-in counter frowned when I offered my bags to be weighed. I'll never shop at Strand again, I swore fervently. I got away with an injunction to "Carry less than 8 kilos in hand baggage next time."Whew!
Stepping aboard the Indian Airlines flight, I was confronted by a sizeable, pot-bellied Steward who greeted me with a gap-toothed smile. It took me a few moments to recover, but I told myself I wasn't going to be judgemental about the national carrier. Still, I was reminded of Rhyncus's experience a few months ago, and wondered what else was in store. I didn't have to wait long.
I was engrossed in one of the new books when they announced that the film 'No Entry' would be shown. I was curious to know what had made it such a hit, so I plugged in the earphones, and looked at the single screen in front of the middle aisle. The opening soundtrack began. The screen was blank. The dpening dialogues began; Anil Kapoor, I could tell. The screen was blank. I looked around, wondering if I was the only one who had a problem seeing anything on the screen. Nobody else looked nonplussed. I leaned as much to the right as I could without giving the person in the next seat any wrong ideas. Finally, it sunk in. No Entry was a no-show; the entire film was going to be played only on the headphones. No one else was complaining. Indian Airlines regulars, I thought and went back to the book.
Monday, November 07, 2005
Of cat eaters and the sexy Bill Gates
"Do you eat cats?" my Indian colleague asked the Filipino Art Director, R. We were traveling home together after work; I was nodding off in the front seat of the car, but the grisly vision of a mewling, skinned cat jerked me awake.
The usually genial and now, nonplussed R, queried, “Cats?? You mean catfish?”
“No, I mean cats,” persisted my Indian colleague with the subtlety of a marauding rhino. “I’ve heard you Filipinos eat cats.”
Torn between being affronted and laughing at his ignorance, R settled for a snort and a dismissive wave of hand.
“What about dogs then? Do you’ll eat dogs?” The Indian colleague was unstoppable. We might have gone through the entire animal kingdom, but fortunately for R, he’d reached his destination.
The exchange was amusing, no doubt, but to me, it also underlined the appealing aspect of a multicultural workplace. Apart from Indians, there are Pakistanis, Indonesians, Filipinos, Syrians, an Iraqi and a couple of Bangladeshis – just a handful of the 180 different nationalities that Dubai touts with pride. But add to this clutch, our clients and suppliers, and you have Lebanese, Japanese, Emiratis, Brits, French, Moroccans, Koreans, Saudis, Egyptians, Jordanians and more. A small effort at international integration.
Each interaction offers a tiny glimpse of a distant land and helps chip away at a few preconceived notions. There’s so much to learn and marvel at. Not only have my Hindi conversational skills improved a great deal, I’m told I do a mean Urdu as well – thanks to the influence of a Pakistani colleague and close friend, H. Our conversation lately revolves a lot around recipes – with me being the recipient mostly – and Pakistani cuisine. H, a firm believer in my latent cooking skills, generously plies me with recipes and cooked samples.
My Syrian colleague, Z, on the other hand, provides the much-needed humour. He was delighted when my desk was moved next to his, because he would finally be able to write love letters to his sweetheart in Syria, with correct spellings. All through the day I’m interrupted with, “How do you spell daily?” or “…appreciate” or “…impossible”. Finally, I told him in exasperation that I’d charge him 5 dirhams per spelling. I’ve lost count, but he easily owes me a few hundred bucks.
Z’s conversational English is much better though, and on occasion he comes up with a sparkling witticism. Sometimes, unintentionally as well. Like the time he told me, “You know, the Europeans are very sexyful.” I kept a stony face, silently groaning and thinking, spare me your conquests. He took my impassivity to mean incomprehension and launched forth with gesticulations, “You know sexyful… like Bill Gates?” Stone face gave way to shock face. You Syrians have strange ideas of sex appeal, I thought, until it hit me like a sledgehammer – he meant successful.
I’ve gotten pretty good at Syrian-English now. A week ago when he said, "I have to go to the quarter office,” I promptly corrected him, saying, “It’s called headquarters.” Or when he recently expressed his desire to see India, exclaiming, “I’ve heard it’s very beautiful. I want to see that… that… big house!” Without batting an eyelid I told him, “It’s called the Taj Mahal.” He smiled broadly and nodded.
R, the Filipino colleague, is similarly fascinated with India. “What’s tikke?” he asked me recently. For once, I was stumped. “You’ll keep saying it after every sentence…” he prompted. A bit of cranium scratching and the lightbulb shone. “Ohhhh…. You mean theek hai! It means ok.”
“Like sige in Tagalog,” (the Filipino language) he mused.
Now, all mails to me are signed off with tikke. Interestingly, I discovered that R is a Born Again Christian who’s also ‘been a Hindu’. Apparently, he joined the Hare Rama Hare Krishna movement in Manila, until he decided that the life of a monk didn’t suit him. Being a Born Again however hasn’t stopped him from fasting during Ramadan, ‘just to see what it feels like.’
If you thought mentally converting foreign currency to rupees was an irksome Indian trait only, think anew. The Germans do it too. “Getting a driving license is so cheap out here,” boomed T, my German flatmate, when we got chatting in the kitchen one evening. My eyes widened. Just signing up for the initial tests cost me an elbow and a knee. In Indian currency, of course. “In Germany, I paid…” he paused, punching the invisible calculator, “Yes, I paid 6000 dirhams*.” No meeting of the East and West on this issue.
We soon got talking about Bombay, and for a brief moment, I was tongue-tied when they asked me, “Is Bombay very crowded?” Loyalty battled with honesty and in the end, tact won. I just shot off the population figures and they both looked at me with awe. “In our town, there are only 80,000 people,” T exclaimed. They were equally surprised when I told them I didn’t understand or speak the language of the other Indian flatmates.
“So the only language you use to communicate with each other is English?” asked A. It did sound odd and funny when put that way.
On a personal level, I’ve enjoyed and felt enriched by my interactions with people from different cultures and countries. However, it’s not a common attitude, I’ve noticed. It’s bizarre how some people do their best to recreate the country they’ve left behind, and shut out all people and experiences that don’t fit in with that notion. I’ve met Indians who are prejudiced towards other Indians from a different state. The Letters to the Editor column of a well-known daily are filled with Emiratis denouncing expats and vice versa. Friends have cited racist experiences at some of the trendy nightclubs and hotels. When I was house-hunting recently, I was asked more than a couple of times which country I was from, and if it was an Indian landlord, I even had to specify which state and city; twice I was asked to state my religion.
It's such a pity. Such attitudes only cause ungainly lumps in the melting pot. People get richer without ever getting enriched. And some might just spend their entire lives not knowing that an ex-Hindu, Born Again, roza-upholding Filipino would never make a meal of cats.
(*1 dirham = approx. Rs. 12)
The usually genial and now, nonplussed R, queried, “Cats?? You mean catfish?”
“No, I mean cats,” persisted my Indian colleague with the subtlety of a marauding rhino. “I’ve heard you Filipinos eat cats.”
Torn between being affronted and laughing at his ignorance, R settled for a snort and a dismissive wave of hand.
“What about dogs then? Do you’ll eat dogs?” The Indian colleague was unstoppable. We might have gone through the entire animal kingdom, but fortunately for R, he’d reached his destination.
The exchange was amusing, no doubt, but to me, it also underlined the appealing aspect of a multicultural workplace. Apart from Indians, there are Pakistanis, Indonesians, Filipinos, Syrians, an Iraqi and a couple of Bangladeshis – just a handful of the 180 different nationalities that Dubai touts with pride. But add to this clutch, our clients and suppliers, and you have Lebanese, Japanese, Emiratis, Brits, French, Moroccans, Koreans, Saudis, Egyptians, Jordanians and more. A small effort at international integration.
Each interaction offers a tiny glimpse of a distant land and helps chip away at a few preconceived notions. There’s so much to learn and marvel at. Not only have my Hindi conversational skills improved a great deal, I’m told I do a mean Urdu as well – thanks to the influence of a Pakistani colleague and close friend, H. Our conversation lately revolves a lot around recipes – with me being the recipient mostly – and Pakistani cuisine. H, a firm believer in my latent cooking skills, generously plies me with recipes and cooked samples.
My Syrian colleague, Z, on the other hand, provides the much-needed humour. He was delighted when my desk was moved next to his, because he would finally be able to write love letters to his sweetheart in Syria, with correct spellings. All through the day I’m interrupted with, “How do you spell daily?” or “…appreciate” or “…impossible”. Finally, I told him in exasperation that I’d charge him 5 dirhams per spelling. I’ve lost count, but he easily owes me a few hundred bucks.
Z’s conversational English is much better though, and on occasion he comes up with a sparkling witticism. Sometimes, unintentionally as well. Like the time he told me, “You know, the Europeans are very sexyful.” I kept a stony face, silently groaning and thinking, spare me your conquests. He took my impassivity to mean incomprehension and launched forth with gesticulations, “You know sexyful… like Bill Gates?” Stone face gave way to shock face. You Syrians have strange ideas of sex appeal, I thought, until it hit me like a sledgehammer – he meant successful.
I’ve gotten pretty good at Syrian-English now. A week ago when he said, "I have to go to the quarter office,” I promptly corrected him, saying, “It’s called headquarters.” Or when he recently expressed his desire to see India, exclaiming, “I’ve heard it’s very beautiful. I want to see that… that… big house!” Without batting an eyelid I told him, “It’s called the Taj Mahal.” He smiled broadly and nodded.
R, the Filipino colleague, is similarly fascinated with India. “What’s tikke?” he asked me recently. For once, I was stumped. “You’ll keep saying it after every sentence…” he prompted. A bit of cranium scratching and the lightbulb shone. “Ohhhh…. You mean theek hai! It means ok.”
“Like sige in Tagalog,” (the Filipino language) he mused.
Now, all mails to me are signed off with tikke. Interestingly, I discovered that R is a Born Again Christian who’s also ‘been a Hindu’. Apparently, he joined the Hare Rama Hare Krishna movement in Manila, until he decided that the life of a monk didn’t suit him. Being a Born Again however hasn’t stopped him from fasting during Ramadan, ‘just to see what it feels like.’
If you thought mentally converting foreign currency to rupees was an irksome Indian trait only, think anew. The Germans do it too. “Getting a driving license is so cheap out here,” boomed T, my German flatmate, when we got chatting in the kitchen one evening. My eyes widened. Just signing up for the initial tests cost me an elbow and a knee. In Indian currency, of course. “In Germany, I paid…” he paused, punching the invisible calculator, “Yes, I paid 6000 dirhams*.” No meeting of the East and West on this issue.
We soon got talking about Bombay, and for a brief moment, I was tongue-tied when they asked me, “Is Bombay very crowded?” Loyalty battled with honesty and in the end, tact won. I just shot off the population figures and they both looked at me with awe. “In our town, there are only 80,000 people,” T exclaimed. They were equally surprised when I told them I didn’t understand or speak the language of the other Indian flatmates.
“So the only language you use to communicate with each other is English?” asked A. It did sound odd and funny when put that way.
On a personal level, I’ve enjoyed and felt enriched by my interactions with people from different cultures and countries. However, it’s not a common attitude, I’ve noticed. It’s bizarre how some people do their best to recreate the country they’ve left behind, and shut out all people and experiences that don’t fit in with that notion. I’ve met Indians who are prejudiced towards other Indians from a different state. The Letters to the Editor column of a well-known daily are filled with Emiratis denouncing expats and vice versa. Friends have cited racist experiences at some of the trendy nightclubs and hotels. When I was house-hunting recently, I was asked more than a couple of times which country I was from, and if it was an Indian landlord, I even had to specify which state and city; twice I was asked to state my religion.
It's such a pity. Such attitudes only cause ungainly lumps in the melting pot. People get richer without ever getting enriched. And some might just spend their entire lives not knowing that an ex-Hindu, Born Again, roza-upholding Filipino would never make a meal of cats.
(*1 dirham = approx. Rs. 12)
Thursday, November 03, 2005
Monday, October 24, 2005
Musings on moving in
1. Real estate in Dubai is a myth. A few days of house hunting and one begins to conclude that all that’s available is unreal estate – take it or leave.
1.1 The place that you fall in love with at first glance will be hopelessly over your budget. It will take a truckload of rationalizations before the emaciated wallet looks at you less accusingly.
1.2 You may have crossed out an apartment from the list, but you will not be able to forget the sight of that family of 4, holed up in one cramped room, and letting out the other room. You will also be told that it’s the least of all the horrific stories others have heard and encountered. And you will feel grateful and guilty.
2. Sharing a flat with a German couple and two Indians from Kerala can prove mildly entertaining. You soon notice quirks which leave you chuckling, such as the German guy brushing his teeth after he’s dressed for work, or one of the Indian guys powdering his face. (Yes, I’m still the wicked girl-next-door.)
3. A rug in the middle of the room can make the room friendlier. But nothing quite like a bookshelf to make it feel like home.
4. You may long to throw open your curtains with a flourish and let the brilliant sunlight in, but you cannot eject the thought of a binocular-toting weirdo in the opposite building, from your mind.
5. You can make polite conversation with one of the Indian flatmates for a few seconds, before he assumes it’s ok to ask why are you’re living alone and not married, and if you don’t have plans to ‘settle down’. Sigh. You can take the Indian out of India but…
6. Hitchcock slipped up on his research. There is, verifiably, something more sinister and spine-chilling than getting murdered in the shower. And that is discovering a cockroach – a huge, menacing flying cockroach – on the shower curtain. It’s possible that your shriek could have weakened the building’s foundation. If there’s a choice between never stepping into the shower again and enduring the flatmates’ snickering for asking them to kill the creature for you, the latter is preferable. You at least have the satisfaction of knowing you’ve rid the world of one evil terrorist.
7. Women are from Venus; front-loading washing machines are from Jupiter. Perhaps you’ve misunderstood the German flatmates’ instructions – but one doesn’t start out spin drying the clothes and then washing them. (Or is that the vay it’s dun in Germany, eh Parmanu?)
8. When the friendly restaurant owner calls you up three times after you’ve placed a dinner order and gives you four missed calls the next day, you know it’s time to find a new takeaway.
9. A walk along the creek-side promenade (which you discover is within walking distance of your place) is the best prescription for a restless mind. Watching the plain wooden abras (water taxis) and the showy dhows bobbing lazily on the blue-black waters, hearing the adhaan in the distance and feeling the cool, salty breeze on your skin, can weave a magical spell around you. The magic will fade a few moments later when two women will plonk themselves on your bench and make perfunctory conversation. You beat a hasty exit, suspicious and confused by their over-friendliness, but you decide ‘better safe than sorry’ is the way to go.
10. You can try, but you will not be able to repay the kindness of the aunt who checks up on you twice a day, takes you grocery shopping every weekend, lends you pots, pans and a willing shoulder, and doesn’t interfere with how you live your life. You can only hope to pay it forward.
1.1 The place that you fall in love with at first glance will be hopelessly over your budget. It will take a truckload of rationalizations before the emaciated wallet looks at you less accusingly.
1.2 You may have crossed out an apartment from the list, but you will not be able to forget the sight of that family of 4, holed up in one cramped room, and letting out the other room. You will also be told that it’s the least of all the horrific stories others have heard and encountered. And you will feel grateful and guilty.
2. Sharing a flat with a German couple and two Indians from Kerala can prove mildly entertaining. You soon notice quirks which leave you chuckling, such as the German guy brushing his teeth after he’s dressed for work, or one of the Indian guys powdering his face. (Yes, I’m still the wicked girl-next-door.)
3. A rug in the middle of the room can make the room friendlier. But nothing quite like a bookshelf to make it feel like home.
4. You may long to throw open your curtains with a flourish and let the brilliant sunlight in, but you cannot eject the thought of a binocular-toting weirdo in the opposite building, from your mind.
5. You can make polite conversation with one of the Indian flatmates for a few seconds, before he assumes it’s ok to ask why are you’re living alone and not married, and if you don’t have plans to ‘settle down’. Sigh. You can take the Indian out of India but…
6. Hitchcock slipped up on his research. There is, verifiably, something more sinister and spine-chilling than getting murdered in the shower. And that is discovering a cockroach – a huge, menacing flying cockroach – on the shower curtain. It’s possible that your shriek could have weakened the building’s foundation. If there’s a choice between never stepping into the shower again and enduring the flatmates’ snickering for asking them to kill the creature for you, the latter is preferable. You at least have the satisfaction of knowing you’ve rid the world of one evil terrorist.
7. Women are from Venus; front-loading washing machines are from Jupiter. Perhaps you’ve misunderstood the German flatmates’ instructions – but one doesn’t start out spin drying the clothes and then washing them. (Or is that the vay it’s dun in Germany, eh Parmanu?)
8. When the friendly restaurant owner calls you up three times after you’ve placed a dinner order and gives you four missed calls the next day, you know it’s time to find a new takeaway.
9. A walk along the creek-side promenade (which you discover is within walking distance of your place) is the best prescription for a restless mind. Watching the plain wooden abras (water taxis) and the showy dhows bobbing lazily on the blue-black waters, hearing the adhaan in the distance and feeling the cool, salty breeze on your skin, can weave a magical spell around you. The magic will fade a few moments later when two women will plonk themselves on your bench and make perfunctory conversation. You beat a hasty exit, suspicious and confused by their over-friendliness, but you decide ‘better safe than sorry’ is the way to go.
10. You can try, but you will not be able to repay the kindness of the aunt who checks up on you twice a day, takes you grocery shopping every weekend, lends you pots, pans and a willing shoulder, and doesn’t interfere with how you live your life. You can only hope to pay it forward.
Wednesday, October 19, 2005
Take a bow, Fairy!
Twilight Fairy, posting from Finland, proves that she has only one thing on her mind.
Take a look, folks, and take a bow, Fairy. :)
Take a look, folks, and take a bow, Fairy. :)
Monday, October 17, 2005
Priceless Pictures # 4: Here comes the bride, bride, bride...
An offer for a) triplets getting married together? or b) A smart woman who's already begun work on the pre-nup? Any other guesses?
Also see: Priceless Pictures # 1, # 2, # 3
Tuesday, October 11, 2005
Count your chickens… they’re coming home to roost!*
The first time I took notice of Arindam Chaudhuri, ‘management guru’ and author, was when it was reported that he was making a movie. Nothing unusual about that, except when he mentioned that the movie was definitely going to be a hit because it was based on ‘sound management principles’. The pre-release publicity of the film (I forget the name) painstakingly detailed the focussed group interviews, the tracking of each ad and article for impact, the collation of data on a daily basis etc. Despite my lukewarm interest in Bollywood, I was curious. Would Chaudhuri succeed where the Ghais, Chopras and Akhtars had failed? Apparently not. Economic theories notwithstanding, the film bombed spectacularly, and that was the last I heard of Chaudhuri…
… until a few days ago. Two bloggers, Gaurav Sabnis and Rashmi Bansal, have been the victims of a particularly malicious attack for taking a closer look at Chaudhuri’s exaggerated CV and the tall claims made by his institution, IIPM. No sound management principles are needed to gauge the extent of IIPM’s desperation. The abusive, lewd comments ostensibly by ‘IIPM students’ on Rashmi’s blog and the threats to burn IBM laptops outside Gaurav Sabnis’s office (IBM being his employer) are proof that the bloggers’ investigations have struck a chord somewhere. In an incredibly brave move, Gaurav has chosen to quit IBM rather than delete his posts on IIPM.
In a way, this episode is reminiscent of the ‘Mediaah!’ controversy a few months ago. It’s commendable that Gaurav and Rashmi have dug in their heels and chosen to fight it out. Desipundit has done a great job of drumming up support for Rashmi and Gaurav, and even for allowing space for dissenting voices. Let’s show them how it’s done!
While on the subject of freedom of expression, there’s one bit of heartening news from the UAE as well.
Two journalists from the Arabic dailies Al Ittihad and Al Bayan were , for their articles incriminating the Sharjah Macquitted by the Sharjah Court of Appealunicipality in 1999. (Coincidentally, it’s known as the ‘chicken politics’ case.) The journalists lost the appeal in the Primary Court but the Federal High Court stepped in and ordered a retrial, which resulted in the journalists being acquitted.
What’s more, the lead stories in both Gulf News and Khaleej Times today are of General Sheikh Mohammed’s (Dubai Crown Prince and Defence Minister) address to the media urging them ‘to be bold, transparent and unbiased.’
Perhaps it’s spin, perhaps it isn’t. I’d like to believe it’s the latter. In the meanwhile, here’s another voice in support of Gaurav Sabnis and Rashmi Bansal. IIPM, it’s time to start counting your chickens…
* For those not in the know, 'Count your chickens before the hatch' is the, ahem, ‘best-selling’ management book by Arindam Chaudhuri.
… until a few days ago. Two bloggers, Gaurav Sabnis and Rashmi Bansal, have been the victims of a particularly malicious attack for taking a closer look at Chaudhuri’s exaggerated CV and the tall claims made by his institution, IIPM. No sound management principles are needed to gauge the extent of IIPM’s desperation. The abusive, lewd comments ostensibly by ‘IIPM students’ on Rashmi’s blog and the threats to burn IBM laptops outside Gaurav Sabnis’s office (IBM being his employer) are proof that the bloggers’ investigations have struck a chord somewhere. In an incredibly brave move, Gaurav has chosen to quit IBM rather than delete his posts on IIPM.
In a way, this episode is reminiscent of the ‘Mediaah!’ controversy a few months ago. It’s commendable that Gaurav and Rashmi have dug in their heels and chosen to fight it out. Desipundit has done a great job of drumming up support for Rashmi and Gaurav, and even for allowing space for dissenting voices. Let’s show them how it’s done!
While on the subject of freedom of expression, there’s one bit of heartening news from the UAE as well.
Two journalists from the Arabic dailies Al Ittihad and Al Bayan were , for their articles incriminating the Sharjah Macquitted by the Sharjah Court of Appealunicipality in 1999. (Coincidentally, it’s known as the ‘chicken politics’ case.) The journalists lost the appeal in the Primary Court but the Federal High Court stepped in and ordered a retrial, which resulted in the journalists being acquitted.
What’s more, the lead stories in both Gulf News and Khaleej Times today are of General Sheikh Mohammed’s (Dubai Crown Prince and Defence Minister) address to the media urging them ‘to be bold, transparent and unbiased.’
Perhaps it’s spin, perhaps it isn’t. I’d like to believe it’s the latter. In the meanwhile, here’s another voice in support of Gaurav Sabnis and Rashmi Bansal. IIPM, it’s time to start counting your chickens…
* For those not in the know, 'Count your chickens before the hatch' is the, ahem, ‘best-selling’ management book by Arindam Chaudhuri.
Thursday, October 06, 2005
Absolute Lee 3.0
I’d have liked to mark my 2nd blogversary with a little more elegance. There were many plans – a new look, a nostalgia-tinged post, some funny observations of life in the Muddle East. But not only have all plans been thwarted by a grueling offline schedule, even my existing template seems to have upped and left. I have to admit; the present look is pretty much what life looks like right now. A BIG thank you to all of you who visit and leave comments, even though I’m unable to reciprocate at the moment.
Now that I’ve begun, I thought I’d write a little about the unique experience of Ramadan. For reasons unknown to most out here, it’s ‘Ramadan’ and not ‘Ramzan’. A trifling disparity in pronunciation, but a huge departure from my experience of it in India. I had a close Muslim friend, who fasted sporadically. But I’d rarely come across anyone who kept up the arduous schedule of fasting and prayers.
I’m in awe of the way things work out here to assist people in maintaining the austerity required at Ramadan. From sunrise to sunset, life alters irrevocably for everyone – Muslims and non-Muslims alike. The most welcome change has to be the reduced working hours. All companies are required by law to alter office timings, with the result that offices everywhere start at 9.30 or 10 a.m. and end by 3 or 4 p.m. My driving classes have come to a halt because instead of 8 a.m. classes are only authorized to begin at 9.30 a.m. Even with the reduced work hours, little gets accomplished. It’s a well-accepted norm that any major business decisions, or even recruitments will happen only post-Ramadan.
Yesterday morning I inadvertently broke a Ramadan rule. I was waiting for the office car and overcome by thirst, I started sipping an orange juice. I almost choked when I remembered that eating or drinking in a public place is prohibited during Ramadan. No beady-eyed policeman was bearing down on me, but that didn’t stop my heart from thudding a little faster. Most restaurants are shut until sunset and those that stay open have to enclose the dining area. Even the 24-7 store in my office complex, which has all of 3 tiny tables, now has a cane partition demarcating the eating area.
Apart from fasting, the emphasis is on prayer. One of the first things I found fascinating in my office building was a Prayer Room on every floor with the prayer timings marked out. Perhaps anticipating an increased number of worshippers, the management has recently added a shoe rack outside the Prayer Room. One of my colleagues has set an adhan (call for prayer) alarm on his laptop. So every few hours, we’re treated to the plaintive call.
At sunset, the transformation is dramatic. The starving countenances are lit up with smiles in anticipation of Iftar (fast-breaking meal). Shuttered restaurants now throw open their doors, advertising lavish Iftar spreads. The messy traffic situation gets messier as families decide to go a-visiting.
There’s a distinct change in the weather as well. The days are shorter and somewhat cooler. The promised ‘good weather’ seems to be upon us, finally. The piety followed by gaiety adds to this pleasant mood. Far from treating the fasting and change in schedule as an obligation, most people seem to welcome it. My colleagues avidly discuss their experiences, what they eat at Sohour (dawn meal) and Iftar, their techniques for coping with hunger. I almost feel a wee twinge of guilt, stealing away behind the cane partition to have my lunch.
‘Ramadan Kareem’ is how people greet each other during this time. So, to all of you who drop by and leave comments, Ramadan Kareem.
P.S. The 1st post and the 1st blog-versary post.
Now that I’ve begun, I thought I’d write a little about the unique experience of Ramadan. For reasons unknown to most out here, it’s ‘Ramadan’ and not ‘Ramzan’. A trifling disparity in pronunciation, but a huge departure from my experience of it in India. I had a close Muslim friend, who fasted sporadically. But I’d rarely come across anyone who kept up the arduous schedule of fasting and prayers.
I’m in awe of the way things work out here to assist people in maintaining the austerity required at Ramadan. From sunrise to sunset, life alters irrevocably for everyone – Muslims and non-Muslims alike. The most welcome change has to be the reduced working hours. All companies are required by law to alter office timings, with the result that offices everywhere start at 9.30 or 10 a.m. and end by 3 or 4 p.m. My driving classes have come to a halt because instead of 8 a.m. classes are only authorized to begin at 9.30 a.m. Even with the reduced work hours, little gets accomplished. It’s a well-accepted norm that any major business decisions, or even recruitments will happen only post-Ramadan.
Yesterday morning I inadvertently broke a Ramadan rule. I was waiting for the office car and overcome by thirst, I started sipping an orange juice. I almost choked when I remembered that eating or drinking in a public place is prohibited during Ramadan. No beady-eyed policeman was bearing down on me, but that didn’t stop my heart from thudding a little faster. Most restaurants are shut until sunset and those that stay open have to enclose the dining area. Even the 24-7 store in my office complex, which has all of 3 tiny tables, now has a cane partition demarcating the eating area.
Apart from fasting, the emphasis is on prayer. One of the first things I found fascinating in my office building was a Prayer Room on every floor with the prayer timings marked out. Perhaps anticipating an increased number of worshippers, the management has recently added a shoe rack outside the Prayer Room. One of my colleagues has set an adhan (call for prayer) alarm on his laptop. So every few hours, we’re treated to the plaintive call.
At sunset, the transformation is dramatic. The starving countenances are lit up with smiles in anticipation of Iftar (fast-breaking meal). Shuttered restaurants now throw open their doors, advertising lavish Iftar spreads. The messy traffic situation gets messier as families decide to go a-visiting.
There’s a distinct change in the weather as well. The days are shorter and somewhat cooler. The promised ‘good weather’ seems to be upon us, finally. The piety followed by gaiety adds to this pleasant mood. Far from treating the fasting and change in schedule as an obligation, most people seem to welcome it. My colleagues avidly discuss their experiences, what they eat at Sohour (dawn meal) and Iftar, their techniques for coping with hunger. I almost feel a wee twinge of guilt, stealing away behind the cane partition to have my lunch.
‘Ramadan Kareem’ is how people greet each other during this time. So, to all of you who drop by and leave comments, Ramadan Kareem.
P.S. The 1st post and the 1st blog-versary post.
Sunday, October 02, 2005
Sunday, September 25, 2005
Wednesday, September 21, 2005
Pic courtesy: Gulf News
There couldn’t be a better picture to capture the poignant contrast that is Dubai. Lofty skyscrapers, mammoth billboards touting beautiful properties for beautiful people, and below it all, a jarring intrusion of almost-humans into a lovely fantasy.
Two days ago, almost a thousand of these almost-humans marched onto Sheikh Zayed Road and with unbelievable audacity squatted on it.
The road-watch RJ sounded surprised as she alerted commuters about this phenomenon. She wasn’t the only one. Even after the police arrived and herded the labourers to the side of the road, traffic continued to crawl, as drivers unaccustomed to the sight of protesting labourers, stopped to take in the spectacle. Traffic in the opposite lane slowed down for a similar reason.
A strike in Dubai? It sounded as abnormal as, well, rains in the desert. It turned out that the workers had taken to the streets to protest non-payment of wages for months. They couldn’t have chosen a better time (7.30 a.m to 9.30 a.m.) or a better place (the arterial Sheikh Zayed Road) to draw attention to their plight. Ripples were felt all the way down to Makhtoum Bridge, which was choked with cars and irate drivers.
The Labour Ministry came down heavily on the employers, Abu Dhabi-based Al Hamed Company for Development. They were ordered to pay salaries within 24-hours, faced a fine for delaying salaries and also a recruitment ban for 6 months.
Suddenly, the invisible almost-humans became celebrities. Photographers rushed to their camps; sound bites were recorded, their sorry lives and living conditions were documented.
Even the company’s administration manager was spoken to, who said,
"The reason why the workers succeeded in their protest is because they were large in number. Otherwise they would never have dared to do anything like this."
So true.
I mean, who in their right mind, would dare to demand clean drinking water or water to have a shower after a hard day's work in the sun. Or ask for facilities to cut fruits and vegetables. Or even require proper sewage facilities and, goodness, modern toilets. Why would almost-humans require all this, eh? And, on top of it all, demand salaries?
Following the 24-hour ultimatum, Al Hamed started paying out salaries but also managed to wrangle out extra time complaining that they could not pay all workers in one day.
How do you expect us to pay 6,000 people’s salaries in ONE day, they pouted. “We have to pay more than Dh5 million in salaries. There's no way we could have done that in 24 hours.”
Another erudite comment was made by a professor of political science of the UAE University.
"The stature of the UAE is superior to any other factor. Unfortunately, there are national companies… who harm the image of the country by abusing rights of workers.
That’s right, you awful national companies. Pay up your workers’ wages to uphold the stature of the UAE. Not because the almost-humans have worked for it.
No workers were arrested during the protest, Gulf News informs us.
An article in the Khaleej Times today elaborates a bit on the psyche of UAE labourers.
Interestingly, all these men believe that fate has brought them here and they have never considered the fact that they can ever be allowed to bring their families here and lead a happy life…
…The fatalism also helps them psychologically, makes it easier on them. "This is how we are meant to spend the rest of our life," they say.
Quick, bring back the lovely fantasy, the lofty skyscrapers…
Update: Surprise, surprise. The Indian government has blacklisted the construction company, Al Hamed.
Monday, September 19, 2005
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’.
Wednesday, September 14, 2005
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.
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.
Wednesday, September 07, 2005
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...
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...
Sunday, August 21, 2005
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.
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.
Friday, August 19, 2005
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’.
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’.
Tuesday, August 16, 2005
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.
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.
Wednesday, August 10, 2005
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.
Sunday, August 07, 2005
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?
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?
Monday, August 01, 2005
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.
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.
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