Bombay Diary

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

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

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

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

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

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

The city’s changing too fast for my liking.

Back, but not quite...

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

Going trippin'

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

Idol Worship

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

Day 1

Day 2

Encroachers will be prosecuted

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Some maladies run in families…

A day in Bombay

Spot of green on a grey day - at Marine Drive

Shades of rain

Love that weathers

Shelter from the storm

A caged beast - outside Churchgate Station

A riot of elephants

Night lights - from a friend's window

Open-air kitchen

Rainproofing - Bollywood style

God in sight

Old train-ing kicks in

A few things that made me smile

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

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

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

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

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

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

Travellers Blues

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

Constant Readers

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

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

Ok grandma, what do I say tomorrow?

It’s a good day for singing the blues

My perfect weekend morning would unfold like this:

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

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

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

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

* Classical music while I tidy up the place

* Checking up on to do lists.

* Launching forth into the weekend

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

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

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

Either that, or we just overdid the Blues.

You Roack My Woald!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

Just logging on...

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

Check, cheque, cheik.

Car-ry on dreaming

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

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

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

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

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

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

I say, forget about dreaming big. Think small.

Gimme news

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

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

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

Parents should never be abused or disrespected

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


Person X: Yo, Lee, gimme news

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Note to self

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

Weekend checklist

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

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

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

A terse verse

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

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

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

It doesn't quite ad up

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

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

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

55% say advertising is not original

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

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

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

So what will bridge this cavernous gap?

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

Great idea.

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

Weather forecast: Good times ahead

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

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

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

Look ma...

... I'm in Gulf News today.

People in high places...

A priceless picture taken before one acquired the Red Devil

In defence of Dubai

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

3. It is really hot outside...

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

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

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

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

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

For the record, it doesn't happen anymore.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

LOL!

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

Paradox, thy name is Dubai.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

Really?

Prayer for today

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

Now listening to:

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

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

Just one of those weird moments

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

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

Ever noticed how one weird question inevitably leads to another?

Got a flat, mate?

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

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

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

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

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

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

Space Wanted

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

And that's only the assortment on the desk.

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

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

An early post on the collection junkie here

That Human Touch

Circa 2004

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


Circa 2007

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

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

The Red Devil takes a walk

The Dubai Creek at night...

Just in case you wanted my opinion

In response to my post - Facebook Face off - I received an email from Brian which I've reproduced here.

My name is Brian and I'm an intern at Box.net ( www.box.net). I wanted to let you know about Box.net's new Facebook Files application. It lets people manage all of their documents, photos, and files online so they can access them from anywhere, or share them with friends on Facebook or on their profile. You can take a look at it here:

http://www.facebook.com/apps/application.php?id=2220202359

Like I said in my post, I'm not too keen on numerous applications on my profile. And I like to keep my documents, photos and files offline. But if any of you find it helpful, just run along and add it.

Anyone out there wants me to review a Business Class trip to Paris? Or an opera in Venice? Or an evening with Christian Bale? Just let me know, ok.

Yay!

It's been an unprecedented 7-post week. It started out as a self-dare. I was curious to see if I could find something to write about every day. And I found that it wasn't as difficult as I'd imagined. Let's see how it goes from here...

(Ok, ok, I cheated with the date on this one. But that's only because it was the weekend and I don't have a net connection at home.)

Priceless Pictures # 10: Take the hair outta your eyes and read this...

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

Facebook Face off

For the two of you who don't know about Facebook, it's a bit like a college canteen that's online. You hang out, yak with friends, exchange gifts, music and photos, write graffitti, join groups - all this while bunking important stuff. In blogging terms, one could liken Facebook to the melee in the comment section of fun bloggers like Alpha, Smiley, Anita Rodricks etc. Fluff, fun and foolin' around.

Having been on Facebook and introduced several of my friends to the network, I find I'm beginning to enjoy it a bit. But some things have begun to peeve me lately. And since Facebook doesn't allow one to blow off steam, it's time for the good old blog to bear the brunt. So here goes:

Peeve # 1: Folks rush to add you on as a friend and you never hear from them again. Initially it was thrilling to find an inbox filled with friend requests - old colleagues, school mates, long forgotten college buddies, and I happily accepted requests, going so far as to customise a 'how do I know X' message. But few do anything more than add you to their burgeoning friend list. Well, if you had 150 or more friends, you wouldn't really be able to do anything more than click the 'add as friend' button, would you? And why on earth would you need 150 friends anyway? The 75 on my list make me nervous enough already.

Peeve # 2: What do you do after joining a Facebook group? You sign up with a cool group with an intriguing name - 'People Who Always Have To Spell Their Names For Other People' - but again, apart from joining the group, what else do you do? I mean, how many times can you get a laugh out of the time someone spelt your name as Leek Levers?

Peeve # 3: Where is the 'Facebook for Dummies' when you need it? I realised how complicated Facebook was when I tried to explain to a tech challenged friend how to access a photo album on my profile. It took me a few weeks before I discovered that clicking on the little 'house' icon next to the Facebook logo on one's profile unearthed what all friends had been up to. In excruciating detail. "X is now friends with P; R sent a flower to H; M has ended a relationship and is now single; V squeezed the pimple on his nose and some white stuff oozed out..."

Peeve # 4: Let's not even start on all the curious widgety things that make ones profile look like an overdone Christmas tree. It's not enough to have a Wall, one must have a Super Wall. A Poke's irritating enough, but one must add a Super Poke where you can drop kick, throw a sheep at and defenestrate people. (Defenestrate! You've got to hand it to the creators of that application.) Some of the widgets are fun, but you won't find me adding Vampires or Fortune Cookies or Fluff Friends or Pimp my Facebook in a hurry.

Peeve # 5: The online/offline distinction gets blurred once again. As with blogs where people get carried away with online personas, on Facebook people want to carry as much of their offline world online. So colleagues and neighbours get miffed if you don't accept their friend requests. I see you every day, for crying out loud. What would I want to say to you on Facebook? I even had a colleague ask me about a job on my Wall. Fortunately I hadn't added the Super Poke application or she'd have b*#@h slapped me.

Whines notwithstanding, Facebook isn't all as bad as I've made it out to be. One of my original motivations for signing up was that my taciturn teenage cousins were on Facebook. Long, impassioned mails returned with monosyllabic replies. It seemed the only way to get across was to join them on their turf. And I've gotten to see quite a different side of them. Not so much the sanitised, studious picture their parents paint of them but the wild, fun, adolescents that they are (and ought to be!)

Also Facebook helps rekindle that community feeling one experienced in college, at some workplaces and even in good old blogland. Sort of brings all your friends to the same party. Even if they happen to be clueless aunts or ex-bosses or friends who've only set up a Facebook account but don't know how to proceed from there.

Still, when it comes right down to brasstacks, it's Facebook, not face-to-face.

Really want to...

Was catching up with one of my old favourites - Hugh Macleod's Gaping Void. And I discover I'm not the only one who's been irregular on the blog. Hugh explains it nicely

"With new tools like Facebook and Twitter springing up, there's no need to have a blog unless you really want to, unless you really want to devote that kind of time and effort to it."

For the record we never gave up...

I still have the half-finished post on the Russell Peters show which I started writing a few months ago. The other half's written out in my head, now buried under layers of other incomplete pieces. Friends who've been tracking the blog have repeatedly asked why I've stopped writing. Just like that, I say. Are you ever going to write again, they persist. Maybe, I shrug. It's a habit that just fell away one day. And stayed away for five months. If not for Alison's birthday post which has become a ritual of sorts, I might have dragged my feet some more.

Coming back feels good though. Like returning to a house you once lived in, and finding it both familiar and strange. Should one attempt to recreate the old magic? Should one try something new? Ah, let's not try to figure it all out. For now, this feels good.

Let's see what new-s the blog's missed lately...

A new acquisition - the Red Devil.
A new obsession - Alternative Rock
A new passion - the gym, resulting in...
A new weakness - strained back
A new ad award - five, actually
A new close friend - T
A new history - R
A new groove - salsa
A new discipline - waking at 6
A new ritual - the Morning Pages
A new freedom - from old blighters
A new discovery - peace


Right, that sums it up.

Thanks Keya and Fairy for the 'welcome back'. And Patrix for dutifully commenting on an old post which Bloglines mysteriously posted. Thanks to all who've left a comment while I went AWOL.

Lindsey, of course I remember you!! There's no way to get in touch on your blog. Mail me or leave an i.d.

You know you've got good karma when...

...you arrive at Deira City Centre on a Saturday evening and nail a parking spot within 3 minutes

...you enter the mall bracing yourself for shoppers, smokers and shrieking kids, and instead are greeted by opera singers doing a mesmerising, goosebump-inducing rendition of your favourite Lakme Flower Duet.

... you end up in the shortest queue at the check out counter, and even get a smile from the checkout clerk

... you get a free parking spot not too far from your building even though it's past 11 p.m.


You know your good karma's good run is over when...

... you stagger to your door, arms quivering with grocery bags and realise you've left the keys in the car.

Seven

I picked it up on a lark. It was so kitschy, so flimsy, I thought you’d get a laugh out of it.

But I was wrong. You loved it. I could tell from your voice that you were giddy with delight. They told me you couldn’t wait to come home and get your hands on it. And once you did, you didn’t put it down for the whole weekend. Maybe you even dreamed of it at night. For someone with a short attention span, that sure counts for something.

Perhaps, if I were six and I’d been gifted a glittery tiara with fake diamantes along with a shiny, star-tipped wand, I’d have been the same. Every little girl dreams of being a princess. And given the right embellishments, namely a tiara and a wand, the gulf between the dream world and humdrum reality is finally bridged. This ‘Middle Earth’ is a lot more exciting and believable, and best of all, is free of boring, unimaginative adults.

I’m told you went around waving the wand and making wishes. I still smile when I think of the urgent ISD call only to ask me for the ‘code which unlocked the wand’. I was stumped and mumbled something about whatever magic word you use that’s the code. Your snorted at that and querulously told me that I shouldn’t keep secrets from you. You weren’t going to buy a politically correct answer for sure. My next, equally unimaginative answer - Abracadabra – you dismissed as ineffective. D-uh, I almost heard you say.

I must have thrown in a few more options, but in a moment you forgot about that, and went on to tell me that the wand Really Worked. Yes, you said with conviction, I pointed it at the TV and it came on, and I also pointed it at the fan and the fan started moving. I found myself cheering along with you, ignoring the muffled laughter I heard in the background. Of course, it works, I said. It is a magic wand.

What's magic, anyway, if not a dream coming true. And don't all dreams start with a desire, a thought. There you have it. That's the 'code', the magic phrase.

So, as you turn SEVEN today, along with all the cutesy wishes, I wish you the power and possibility of magic. Don't ever stop believing...


Earlier posts: Five & Six

Tonight!

Update: What, nobody recognises 'RussellPetersLiveInDubai'? Enlighten yourself here, and do come back later for the update on the evening...

All that jazz...

The first thing you notice about Jamie Cullum, jazz wunderkind, is that he’s in dire need of a hair trim. For the first few minutes after he bursts forth on stage, belting out a single in his throaty voice, you can't help being distracted by the shaggy lock that hangs over his left eye almost until his chin. It stays in the way until he flicks it to the right. But the next moment, the drums roll, and his head follows. And follicular folly is back to veil his boyish face.




Jamie Cullum was the closing act of the scintillating 3-day Dubai International Jazz Festival. The acts which preceded him were big names, cool names – Acoustic Alchemy, Robin McKelle, Toto, 3 Ladies of Jazz, Freddy Cole. But in terms of sheer energy, entertainment and electricity, Jamie was unequalled. He not only played the grand piano, he drummed on the cover, and then leaped on top of the piano as the crowds gasped. He divided the audience into bass and tenor saxophone and gave each section a bar to sing. He was appreciative of the efforts – “I like the way you guys sacrifice pitch for volume.” He made everyone hold up and wave their cell phones with the screen glowing. He had everyone in splits when he crooned Justin Timberlake’s ‘Sexy Back’ and ‘Don’t Cha’ by the Pussycat Dolls, adding for effect, “Don cha wish your boyfriend was short like me.”

The crowd was putty in the hands of the pint-sized entertainer. But it could also have been the effect of the copious amount of Pinot Noir and Chardonnay swirling and sloshing in people’s veins. The inky blue backdrop strung with fairy lights and swaying lazily in the breeze took on the notion of a starlit sky, adding to the mesmerism of the moment.



The mildly discordant note in the whole evening – the serpentine queues outside the women’s room, and the enviable absence of them outside the men’s. Naturally the latter couldn’t stop gloating. More than one of them stepped out with an empty bladder and smug smile saying, "Isn’t it good to be a man".




Still, it was a minor quibble, when compared to the seamless organization all through the evening. And when pitted against the fact that one had free passes to the whole show including access to the Skywards Lounge, well, then, there was no complaint at all.

And the winner is...

Wang dropped by during lunch hour today with his familiar suitcase-on-wheels. Wang's the neighbourhood DVD pirate, and with Oscarmania in the air, has made quite a killing.

"Goot movie", he mumbles encouragingly, "very goot print..." Wang's a gentleman pirate. Not only can you check the DVD quality on an office computer before making your purchase, but you can also demand an exchange if it turns out to be a dodgy print. He'll also conscientiously tell you if a movie is a "cinema print" or a "goot deeveedee copy" so that you can steer clear of the former.

If not for the fact that he was robbing them of their bloated revenues, Hollywood would have loved Wang. He promotes a Steven Seagal with as much exuberance as a Stephen Spielberg. "Very beeg movie. Everyone likes," he says for every other DVD, almost keeling over with excitement. And you can never catch him saying he doesn't have a movie, even if you're almost sure he's never heard of it.

I asked him today, "Wang, do you have Big Fish?"

"Beeg Feesh?" he echoed. His eyeballs zigzagged in their sockets as he considered my query. As his frown deepened, his eyes almost vanished into his cheekbones.

"Ah-ha!" His face lit up like a lightbulb, and he nodded furiously. He wriggled past those thumbing through his DVDs and bent over his suitcase. He rifled through a dozen or more, before turning around triumphantly, flashing his crooked teeth.


"Here Beeg Feesh," he said, handing me a print of Jaws.

Paradox

Sitting down to write is tough, these days. But there's something else that's a lot more difficult... not writing.

I'll be back, soon.

P.S. Thanks for all your comments.