It's that time of the year...
A gang of girls is planning a backpacking trip through France, Switzerland, Italy and Spain.
Someone else will go off to the hills.
And others will find holiday spots like Egypt, Scotland, a cruise ship...
I've got my hands full monitoring social networking sites which have become so complex that people who are networking socially are evidently not working officially.
But I've a job to do. And a master breathing down my neck...
So I think I'll take a vacation. And go Facebooking instead!
Cheers!
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
Today
Took a decision today that I should've taken ages ago.
Hopefully, I won't change my mind. Or my resolve.
Takes a huge burden off these drooping shoulders.
No looking back now...
Cheers!
Friday, April 18, 2008
China's Party
There is so much being written and broadcast about the Olympic torch these days that everyone is out to cash in on it... including a virus!
But that's not the point...
In Paris last week, I missed the run by a day but saw the protests on TV (CNN and BBC were the only two English channels available in the hotel). I saw, too the chaos that happened in 'Frisco.
Yesterday, the torch reached Delhi but there was no way anyone could get past the 20,000 securitymen on duty. The page-three sports-celebs did their duty as did some actors (though it looked like everyone was acting).
And India got some brownie points from big brother...why are we so petrified and hypocritical? Read these two columns by Antara Dev Sen (Pico to us in college) and Mahesh Dattani which I came across in The Week a couple of weeks ago - both very incisive and going straight for the jugular.
In ancient Greece, all battles ceased for the duration of the Games and athletes were protected. While the modern Olympics are still about brotherhood and all that jazz, they have been the perfect stage for protests. So Presidents will cop out, China will get upset and refugees like the Tibetans will be let down.
Given the amount of effort and money the Chinese have pumped into their coming-out party, they're going to go ahead regardless of whether a senile American president or a playboyish French premier attend or not. What's a few protests got to do with the biggest celebration that country will see in a long, long time.
China, when uttered in Bengali, means "don't want". They definitely don't want their party being gatecrashed. Unless the Dalai Lama and his supporters do pull off a coup.
August 8 is still some time away... aagey aagey dekho hota hai kya.
But that's not the point...
In Paris last week, I missed the run by a day but saw the protests on TV (CNN and BBC were the only two English channels available in the hotel). I saw, too the chaos that happened in 'Frisco.
Yesterday, the torch reached Delhi but there was no way anyone could get past the 20,000 securitymen on duty. The page-three sports-celebs did their duty as did some actors (though it looked like everyone was acting).
And India got some brownie points from big brother...why are we so petrified and hypocritical? Read these two columns by Antara Dev Sen (Pico to us in college) and Mahesh Dattani which I came across in The Week a couple of weeks ago - both very incisive and going straight for the jugular.
In ancient Greece, all battles ceased for the duration of the Games and athletes were protected. While the modern Olympics are still about brotherhood and all that jazz, they have been the perfect stage for protests. So Presidents will cop out, China will get upset and refugees like the Tibetans will be let down.
Given the amount of effort and money the Chinese have pumped into their coming-out party, they're going to go ahead regardless of whether a senile American president or a playboyish French premier attend or not. What's a few protests got to do with the biggest celebration that country will see in a long, long time.
China, when uttered in Bengali, means "don't want". They definitely don't want their party being gatecrashed. Unless the Dalai Lama and his supporters do pull off a coup.
August 8 is still some time away... aagey aagey dekho hota hai kya.
Friday, April 11, 2008
Monsieur Murphy’s Laws
This is a long post… so sit back and grab a glass of whatever your poison is.
I first got to know about Murphy in Calcutta at what used to be the annual Book Fair on the Maidan. I say “used to be” because this year there was no book fair thanks to pseudo-environmental wrangling between the guild that hosts it and the Army on whose land we used to spend hours every day of that last week of January when the book fair would bring the city to a halt (even the political demonstrators paused for those days). I had a knack of spotting odd titles and Murphy’s Law became part of my collection. Over the years, my admiration for the man grew as I found hundreds of his laws applying to the weird situations I’d land up in. I even made some of my own…
And then, Murphy came back to me with a vengeance over the last few days.
It started last Saturday.
I’d requisitioned a Blackberry despite my aversion to the damn thing, as I was to fly out of the country on Monday morning and didn’t want to be without the office email (the laptop data card I have works only in India because no one has bothered to cater to a Mac user). Unwilling to be faced with another five-digit bill from Vodafone in less than two months (a three-day conference in Thailand in February had set me back by over Rs 18,000!) I thought I was being smart. My secretary had compared tariffs of Vodafone and Matrix (who have been doing some splendid advertising lately) and reached the conclusion that I wouldn’t save too much. Damn Swapan, I muttered… his agency’s ads were a delight to read but it looked like here was a repeat of a brand being better than the service offered.
The Blackberry that was handed over to me on Friday was temperamental. It refused to connect to the GPRS network without warning and I was left holding an ugly, unreliable object. The office replaced it on Saturday morning with another, even uglier looking piece. It took me 15 minutes to realise why its previous owner had orphaned it: the click-wheel wouldn’t work. I could scroll down with difficulty but not go up. So, there I was with all the mails downloading beautifully but not accessible. Frustrated I was. And increasingly paranoid.
Even my boss – among the wealthiest in the land – counselled me and suggested I check out Matrix. So I did and called dear Swapan. It is Saturday evening now and I am getting irritated that the last few hours I have are being wasted in stupid logistics. But Swapan is true to his word and so is his client. Kunal from Matrix calls back and assures me he’ll meet me Sunday morning.
I reach office at 11 am on Sunday. And Murphy strikes again.
An untrained office maintenance worker has accidentally pulled the plug on a UPS that leads to several servers going down – including the one that hosts the email. So, no office email – not on the Blackberry, not on the Mac, not on the Internet. Twiddle, twiddle…
But the Matrix man arrives and takes over. He has an engineer somewhere on standby who gets on to the phone and guides him meticulously through the set-up (it’s the first Mac installation Kunal is doing) and, after one aborted attempt and forty minutes into the process, the data card comes alive. Bye-bye Blackberry! The office technicians haven’t even surfaced – they have bigger problems to fix. Then Kunal explains why their country-specific SIM cards are more economical and I am convinced. Two cards are handed over and it looks like my problems are over.
Hold on… the credit card authorisation Matrix requires as a backup doesn’t go through. I have a 5-lakh rupee limit on this card and we can’t get 15,000 authorised! Murphy works Sundays too. It does happen eventually but not before some more calls are made and pressure vessels ruptured.
I head home and all is well.
Monday morning at the airport is glitch-free. The 9 am Lufthansa flight to Paris via Munich takes off finally at 10.10 thanks to Delhi’s air-traffic jams. Does Murphy have a Shengen visa too, I wonder? Is he following me?
Midway into the flight, I drop my co-passenger’s tomato juice on his video remote control – a minor disaster compared to what follows.
The flight lands at Munich at 2.20 pm – an hour late. And I have just 10 minutes to make it to the connecting Paris flight. Immigration takes a while and I run with an 8-kg handbag in true Microsoft Corporate Challenge style, dodging trolleys, kids and duty-free shoppers (looks like a nice airport that’s blurring by). I am the last person to make it – in the nick of time. And I am exhausted.
Paris airport. Baggage belt no 1… no bag though. I made it to the connecting flight, the suitcase didn’t. So much for the fabled German efficiency. Claim forms are filled and the first Parissiene I am talking to assures me in her condescendingly official way that I will get my bag that night itself. It is Monday evening and the conference I have come for starts at 9 am Tuesday. I tell myself never to wear jeans, a denim shirt and sneakers on an international flight and to carry a spare change of clothes. I am so worn out now that I cannot find the energy to figure out the bus/train to town and opt for the more expensive but less stressful taxi.
The rest of that evening – what’s left of it – passes incident-free in the hotel room itself. It is the second time I am in Paris; alone. And I am too worried to try and explore the city or any of its cafes.
Before turning in, I try Lufthansa again. Big mistake… Now there’s a man at the other end who chides me for assuming my bag would come that night. “Tuesday” he growls. And I set out to find a grocer who will sell me a basic toilet kit so that I can brush and shave (this hotel is a tiny boutique hotel that offers free wi-fi broadband but no shaving kit – and no one’s figured out a website yet that’ll clean you up and make you look presentable). Sleep comes fitfully and I am up at 5 am wondering what to do. Having slept in my underwear, I am prepared to turn them inside out and wear them again (no clothes could be bought at night ’cause no shops were open) but I am already feeling dirty and disgusted with life. I have no clothes, no cell-phone charger… so I go down to ask the hotel if they have one. And voila! I am told that my suitcase had arrived at some unearthly hour – why they didn’t send it up is a mystery but it would have saved me some stress.
So I hurriedly bathe and change into fresh clothes and look presentable enough, thank you. Murphy leaves me alone that Tuesday – perhaps he’s a Hanuman devotee and this is his Sabbath.
(This post is not about Paris so don’t look for anything to do with my stay there. Ok?)
Wednesday dawns and I am wondering why the red thread on my wrist (acquired from a temple some weeks ago) isn’t warding off the evil eye. Even the suitcase had a red ribbon (for easy identification) on its handle. Perhaps I should switch to black threads and ribbons.
Murphy strikes again! The email data on my Mac in a program called Entourage (an Outlook equivalent) disappears! Data binding and backup happens on its own but I cannot find my mails…it’s there somewhere on this machine but I’ve just about had it!
The conference ends on Tuesday and I wander around seeing parts of Paris I’d missed earlier. No further encounters with Murphy that day.
Thursday dawns and I checkout; the receptionist guides me to a bus depot nearby and I drag the suitcase, buy a 13 euro ticket and board the bus to the airport. One hour is what I was told… along the highway I see a sign that indicates Charles de Gaulle airport is in the direction this bus is not taking. “Don’t be paranoid,” I chide myself. I’d asked three people, including the bus driver – a tall dark Moroccan I think. But the anxiety grows as the city gets left behind and the countryside appears… I walk across to the driver to confirm and he is aghast! The bus is not going to CDG Terminal 1 but to some place called Beauvais… I’m doomed. He points to a sign on the front of the bus – except that I’d approached it from the side while boarding. Beauvais has a tiny airport and that’s where he’s headed. I’m now cutting it fine and frantic calls to the office tell me I can catch another flight four hours later but I have to make it to the right airport first!
I grab the only cab at Beauvais airport, the driver discards his coffee and we set off again… 80 kms, 45 minutes and 117 euros later I reach CDG. In time. But I’ve lost money, many heartbeats and a few years of my life.
So much for Paris. I’m not coming back. Not alone, at least.
I first got to know about Murphy in Calcutta at what used to be the annual Book Fair on the Maidan. I say “used to be” because this year there was no book fair thanks to pseudo-environmental wrangling between the guild that hosts it and the Army on whose land we used to spend hours every day of that last week of January when the book fair would bring the city to a halt (even the political demonstrators paused for those days). I had a knack of spotting odd titles and Murphy’s Law became part of my collection. Over the years, my admiration for the man grew as I found hundreds of his laws applying to the weird situations I’d land up in. I even made some of my own…
And then, Murphy came back to me with a vengeance over the last few days.
It started last Saturday.
I’d requisitioned a Blackberry despite my aversion to the damn thing, as I was to fly out of the country on Monday morning and didn’t want to be without the office email (the laptop data card I have works only in India because no one has bothered to cater to a Mac user). Unwilling to be faced with another five-digit bill from Vodafone in less than two months (a three-day conference in Thailand in February had set me back by over Rs 18,000!) I thought I was being smart. My secretary had compared tariffs of Vodafone and Matrix (who have been doing some splendid advertising lately) and reached the conclusion that I wouldn’t save too much. Damn Swapan, I muttered… his agency’s ads were a delight to read but it looked like here was a repeat of a brand being better than the service offered.
The Blackberry that was handed over to me on Friday was temperamental. It refused to connect to the GPRS network without warning and I was left holding an ugly, unreliable object. The office replaced it on Saturday morning with another, even uglier looking piece. It took me 15 minutes to realise why its previous owner had orphaned it: the click-wheel wouldn’t work. I could scroll down with difficulty but not go up. So, there I was with all the mails downloading beautifully but not accessible. Frustrated I was. And increasingly paranoid.
Even my boss – among the wealthiest in the land – counselled me and suggested I check out Matrix. So I did and called dear Swapan. It is Saturday evening now and I am getting irritated that the last few hours I have are being wasted in stupid logistics. But Swapan is true to his word and so is his client. Kunal from Matrix calls back and assures me he’ll meet me Sunday morning.
I reach office at 11 am on Sunday. And Murphy strikes again.
An untrained office maintenance worker has accidentally pulled the plug on a UPS that leads to several servers going down – including the one that hosts the email. So, no office email – not on the Blackberry, not on the Mac, not on the Internet. Twiddle, twiddle…
But the Matrix man arrives and takes over. He has an engineer somewhere on standby who gets on to the phone and guides him meticulously through the set-up (it’s the first Mac installation Kunal is doing) and, after one aborted attempt and forty minutes into the process, the data card comes alive. Bye-bye Blackberry! The office technicians haven’t even surfaced – they have bigger problems to fix. Then Kunal explains why their country-specific SIM cards are more economical and I am convinced. Two cards are handed over and it looks like my problems are over.
Hold on… the credit card authorisation Matrix requires as a backup doesn’t go through. I have a 5-lakh rupee limit on this card and we can’t get 15,000 authorised! Murphy works Sundays too. It does happen eventually but not before some more calls are made and pressure vessels ruptured.
I head home and all is well.
Monday morning at the airport is glitch-free. The 9 am Lufthansa flight to Paris via Munich takes off finally at 10.10 thanks to Delhi’s air-traffic jams. Does Murphy have a Shengen visa too, I wonder? Is he following me?
Midway into the flight, I drop my co-passenger’s tomato juice on his video remote control – a minor disaster compared to what follows.
The flight lands at Munich at 2.20 pm – an hour late. And I have just 10 minutes to make it to the connecting Paris flight. Immigration takes a while and I run with an 8-kg handbag in true Microsoft Corporate Challenge style, dodging trolleys, kids and duty-free shoppers (looks like a nice airport that’s blurring by). I am the last person to make it – in the nick of time. And I am exhausted.
Paris airport. Baggage belt no 1… no bag though. I made it to the connecting flight, the suitcase didn’t. So much for the fabled German efficiency. Claim forms are filled and the first Parissiene I am talking to assures me in her condescendingly official way that I will get my bag that night itself. It is Monday evening and the conference I have come for starts at 9 am Tuesday. I tell myself never to wear jeans, a denim shirt and sneakers on an international flight and to carry a spare change of clothes. I am so worn out now that I cannot find the energy to figure out the bus/train to town and opt for the more expensive but less stressful taxi.
The rest of that evening – what’s left of it – passes incident-free in the hotel room itself. It is the second time I am in Paris; alone. And I am too worried to try and explore the city or any of its cafes.
Before turning in, I try Lufthansa again. Big mistake… Now there’s a man at the other end who chides me for assuming my bag would come that night. “Tuesday” he growls. And I set out to find a grocer who will sell me a basic toilet kit so that I can brush and shave (this hotel is a tiny boutique hotel that offers free wi-fi broadband but no shaving kit – and no one’s figured out a website yet that’ll clean you up and make you look presentable). Sleep comes fitfully and I am up at 5 am wondering what to do. Having slept in my underwear, I am prepared to turn them inside out and wear them again (no clothes could be bought at night ’cause no shops were open) but I am already feeling dirty and disgusted with life. I have no clothes, no cell-phone charger… so I go down to ask the hotel if they have one. And voila! I am told that my suitcase had arrived at some unearthly hour – why they didn’t send it up is a mystery but it would have saved me some stress.
So I hurriedly bathe and change into fresh clothes and look presentable enough, thank you. Murphy leaves me alone that Tuesday – perhaps he’s a Hanuman devotee and this is his Sabbath.
(This post is not about Paris so don’t look for anything to do with my stay there. Ok?)
Wednesday dawns and I am wondering why the red thread on my wrist (acquired from a temple some weeks ago) isn’t warding off the evil eye. Even the suitcase had a red ribbon (for easy identification) on its handle. Perhaps I should switch to black threads and ribbons.
Murphy strikes again! The email data on my Mac in a program called Entourage (an Outlook equivalent) disappears! Data binding and backup happens on its own but I cannot find my mails…it’s there somewhere on this machine but I’ve just about had it!
The conference ends on Tuesday and I wander around seeing parts of Paris I’d missed earlier. No further encounters with Murphy that day.
Thursday dawns and I checkout; the receptionist guides me to a bus depot nearby and I drag the suitcase, buy a 13 euro ticket and board the bus to the airport. One hour is what I was told… along the highway I see a sign that indicates Charles de Gaulle airport is in the direction this bus is not taking. “Don’t be paranoid,” I chide myself. I’d asked three people, including the bus driver – a tall dark Moroccan I think. But the anxiety grows as the city gets left behind and the countryside appears… I walk across to the driver to confirm and he is aghast! The bus is not going to CDG Terminal 1 but to some place called Beauvais… I’m doomed. He points to a sign on the front of the bus – except that I’d approached it from the side while boarding. Beauvais has a tiny airport and that’s where he’s headed. I’m now cutting it fine and frantic calls to the office tell me I can catch another flight four hours later but I have to make it to the right airport first!
I grab the only cab at Beauvais airport, the driver discards his coffee and we set off again… 80 kms, 45 minutes and 117 euros later I reach CDG. In time. But I’ve lost money, many heartbeats and a few years of my life.
So much for Paris. I’m not coming back. Not alone, at least.
Monday, April 07, 2008
Cat and Comma
What's the difference between a cat and a comma?
A cat has claws at the end of its paws.
A comma has a pause at the end of a clause.
Now, have a good Monday...
Cheers!
A cat has claws at the end of its paws.
A comma has a pause at the end of a clause.
Now, have a good Monday...
Cheers!
Monday, March 31, 2008
A Shogi State of Mind
(Originally written: Sunday, March 30, 2008)
When you start the morning with an hour-long trek in the hills of Shogi, clambering over avalanche-hit slopes, dirt tracks and paths beaten by hill goats, it looks like the day ahead will be good.
The trek is just about the only exercise one gets in an otherwise lazy weekend getaway at the Park Woods Resort in Shogi, a tucked-away village 15 kms below Shimla and easily accessible from Delhi via the Kalka Shatabdi. Bamboo huts, Swiss tents and an activity centre where the physical minded can generate adrenaline are all that there is in this resort popular with corporates looking for team-building venues.
But, throw in a few motley families with children and a bunch of schoolgirls from classes 9 and 11 - who have driven nine hours by bus all the way from Dehra Dun for an excursion - and you have an interesting amalgam. The families can’t make up their minds whether getting away from the hustle of daily life means doing nothing through the day or whether it means finding things to do in that paisa-vasool mode some people get into (every minute then must be planned and not be permitted to pass idle). The girls are evidently close to becoming women and even a nine-year old boy can’t help but comment that “they are a bit top heavy”. ‘Small trees, big fruits’ was the descriptor in our college days – but today’s youth probably employ more graphic and less subtle metaphors. Affluence is on show in their designer apparel and their physical structures indicate that they enjoy eating. So, every meal in the common dining room becomes a feast. The bonfire after sunset is a time for mirth and giggle-filled squeals rent the cold air. And treks are abhorred.
It is, honestly, not cold. Our morning trek started out with jackets that were soon pulled off and tied around waists as the sun went up. The path itself was a meandering one and largely safe except for an avalanche-hit stretch. No animals were encountered though some dung piles were crossed carefully (probably belonging to cattle). A late lunch under pine trees that shed their needles without warning into the raita, ensured that weary bodies would sink into slumber for at least a couple of hours and would rise only to the continuous growling of thunder in the distance. The hills are notorious for rains that come without warning: this one was threatening to rain forever it seemed (almost like that falsely-macho Mohun Bagan supporter who threatens to attack his East Bengal opponent unless he is held back by his adda cronies!).
But rain, it did. And when the drops came down, they were blown by a strong wind that abruptly made the place cold. Should one leave a warm bed and enjoy the rain or stay within the sheets and hear the pitter-patter of tiny drops on bamboo walls and thatched roofs (how can you hear rain on straw-covered roofs? oh, but I did!)? The birds one had heard in the morning chirped away again – all of them except the parrots that were still gallivanting somewhere and would return only after sundown. A long-tailed black-and-white bird with an orange beak and a tiny black crest was the highlight of the morning and a call made to an ornithologist friend resulted in no real clarity save a long SMS referring to Dr Salim Ali’s book but not quite getting the species right. Not that it mattered though – the effort though was well worth it and pretty much what a true friend would do.
What else does one do when it rains in the hills? Ask for a cup of steaming hot masala chai and watch the rain come down. It’s freezing but that’s what it’s all about (as Billy Joel might say). So the hour after the rains cease and the fresh, damp smell of the soil has evaporated is spent watching two completely contradictory events.
Their accompanying teachers have rounded up the gaggle of 45 girls – reluctantly, it would appear, from their complaints. The excitement of crawling Shimla’s Mall Road in their Saturday best is being replaced by the dread of exercising their rather heavy bodies with a frenetic round of rope-crossing, rappelling and other similar energy-draining activities. That’s what one can see from the end of what the resort clichedly refers to as Sunset Point.
The other end, with a conveniently-parked bench, is for watching the sun set. Obvious, isn’t it?
I clip on the iPod and listen to Billy Joel nursing the piano keys as only he can and crooning New York State of Mind and The Stranger. The sun is making its way down slowly, fighting a losing battle to beat the dark clouds that still hang heavy. The hills are shaded in various hues of grey (they were a myriad shades of green in the glorious morning light) and you wonder why the same sun goes down in such a rush in the city while – like all things else – it slows down in the hills and the sea. You think back of the days that were, of the chaos you’ve left behind at work, the stress that wasn’t packed in the small Muscat-acquired strolley that’s on its last wheels after 10 years of being trundled around. And how easy it would be to get tempted into leading this life minus the pressures of the daily grind.
And then, you spot a villager in the distance, on the same path you’d climbed breathlessly just hours ago, carrying firewood on her head. That’s when it comes home that, no matter what your state of mind may be, the state of your life isn’t going to allow you to sit back and watch the sunset every day from a place like this.
Which makes this moment even more rare and worth cherishing. It’s been a great break thus far, and instead of moaning mentally about the Monday that will hit me when I return to work, I’d rather look forward to the next break.
The sun will set soon. But, thankfully, it’ll rise again tomorrow.
I pick up the bottle of water I’d brought along – it’s still half full. Mercifully.
When you start the morning with an hour-long trek in the hills of Shogi, clambering over avalanche-hit slopes, dirt tracks and paths beaten by hill goats, it looks like the day ahead will be good.
The trek is just about the only exercise one gets in an otherwise lazy weekend getaway at the Park Woods Resort in Shogi, a tucked-away village 15 kms below Shimla and easily accessible from Delhi via the Kalka Shatabdi. Bamboo huts, Swiss tents and an activity centre where the physical minded can generate adrenaline are all that there is in this resort popular with corporates looking for team-building venues.
But, throw in a few motley families with children and a bunch of schoolgirls from classes 9 and 11 - who have driven nine hours by bus all the way from Dehra Dun for an excursion - and you have an interesting amalgam. The families can’t make up their minds whether getting away from the hustle of daily life means doing nothing through the day or whether it means finding things to do in that paisa-vasool mode some people get into (every minute then must be planned and not be permitted to pass idle). The girls are evidently close to becoming women and even a nine-year old boy can’t help but comment that “they are a bit top heavy”. ‘Small trees, big fruits’ was the descriptor in our college days – but today’s youth probably employ more graphic and less subtle metaphors. Affluence is on show in their designer apparel and their physical structures indicate that they enjoy eating. So, every meal in the common dining room becomes a feast. The bonfire after sunset is a time for mirth and giggle-filled squeals rent the cold air. And treks are abhorred.
It is, honestly, not cold. Our morning trek started out with jackets that were soon pulled off and tied around waists as the sun went up. The path itself was a meandering one and largely safe except for an avalanche-hit stretch. No animals were encountered though some dung piles were crossed carefully (probably belonging to cattle). A late lunch under pine trees that shed their needles without warning into the raita, ensured that weary bodies would sink into slumber for at least a couple of hours and would rise only to the continuous growling of thunder in the distance. The hills are notorious for rains that come without warning: this one was threatening to rain forever it seemed (almost like that falsely-macho Mohun Bagan supporter who threatens to attack his East Bengal opponent unless he is held back by his adda cronies!).
But rain, it did. And when the drops came down, they were blown by a strong wind that abruptly made the place cold. Should one leave a warm bed and enjoy the rain or stay within the sheets and hear the pitter-patter of tiny drops on bamboo walls and thatched roofs (how can you hear rain on straw-covered roofs? oh, but I did!)? The birds one had heard in the morning chirped away again – all of them except the parrots that were still gallivanting somewhere and would return only after sundown. A long-tailed black-and-white bird with an orange beak and a tiny black crest was the highlight of the morning and a call made to an ornithologist friend resulted in no real clarity save a long SMS referring to Dr Salim Ali’s book but not quite getting the species right. Not that it mattered though – the effort though was well worth it and pretty much what a true friend would do.
What else does one do when it rains in the hills? Ask for a cup of steaming hot masala chai and watch the rain come down. It’s freezing but that’s what it’s all about (as Billy Joel might say). So the hour after the rains cease and the fresh, damp smell of the soil has evaporated is spent watching two completely contradictory events.
Their accompanying teachers have rounded up the gaggle of 45 girls – reluctantly, it would appear, from their complaints. The excitement of crawling Shimla’s Mall Road in their Saturday best is being replaced by the dread of exercising their rather heavy bodies with a frenetic round of rope-crossing, rappelling and other similar energy-draining activities. That’s what one can see from the end of what the resort clichedly refers to as Sunset Point.
The other end, with a conveniently-parked bench, is for watching the sun set. Obvious, isn’t it?
I clip on the iPod and listen to Billy Joel nursing the piano keys as only he can and crooning New York State of Mind and The Stranger. The sun is making its way down slowly, fighting a losing battle to beat the dark clouds that still hang heavy. The hills are shaded in various hues of grey (they were a myriad shades of green in the glorious morning light) and you wonder why the same sun goes down in such a rush in the city while – like all things else – it slows down in the hills and the sea. You think back of the days that were, of the chaos you’ve left behind at work, the stress that wasn’t packed in the small Muscat-acquired strolley that’s on its last wheels after 10 years of being trundled around. And how easy it would be to get tempted into leading this life minus the pressures of the daily grind.
And then, you spot a villager in the distance, on the same path you’d climbed breathlessly just hours ago, carrying firewood on her head. That’s when it comes home that, no matter what your state of mind may be, the state of your life isn’t going to allow you to sit back and watch the sunset every day from a place like this.
Which makes this moment even more rare and worth cherishing. It’s been a great break thus far, and instead of moaning mentally about the Monday that will hit me when I return to work, I’d rather look forward to the next break.
The sun will set soon. But, thankfully, it’ll rise again tomorrow.
I pick up the bottle of water I’d brought along – it’s still half full. Mercifully.
Friday, February 29, 2008
Just Chill
Hey chill! I'm talking to myself... I've read what I've written the last few weeks and need to snap out of it... it's only one life and it ain't that bad. Or sad.
It's like bitter chocolate... bitter, dark yet delicious.
Managed some today. Must find more...
But chill first, Jack!
It's like bitter chocolate... bitter, dark yet delicious.
Managed some today. Must find more...
But chill first, Jack!
Friday, February 22, 2008
Won't be down...
I will not let this day get me down. Nor any other day like this.
No matter what, no matter when.
Not even when Don McLean is played back...
No matter what, no matter when.
Not even when Don McLean is played back...
Friday, February 15, 2008
Connections
It's been a mixed day thus far.
One connection broken - a dear colleague decides to quit despite much persuasion that obviously hasn't worked. I'll miss him. I'm also hoping he'll miss us.
And one old, fractured link re-established - not repaired but established again at least.
Amazing how easy it is to connect people, situations, coincidences. Like last night, surfing channels on the dumb box watching V-Day being celebrated, I got the feeling that Someone up there's trying to tell me something...
First this on MTV:
Then this on VH1
One connection broken - a dear colleague decides to quit despite much persuasion that obviously hasn't worked. I'll miss him. I'm also hoping he'll miss us.
And one old, fractured link re-established - not repaired but established again at least.
Amazing how easy it is to connect people, situations, coincidences. Like last night, surfing channels on the dumb box watching V-Day being celebrated, I got the feeling that Someone up there's trying to tell me something...
First this on MTV:
Then this on VH1
Thursday, February 07, 2008
Murgi
A friend in Radio Mirchi shared this wonderful spoof they've created on the Bird Flu... in brilliant Bengali!
See it, listen to it, enjoy it.
And remember, chicken is good for you, your soul, whatever!
See it, listen to it, enjoy it.
And remember, chicken is good for you, your soul, whatever!
Wednesday, February 06, 2008
The Dentist
I seem to have this love-hate relationship with my teeth.
I love the way they help me nibble (not just food but other heavenly-body protrusions as well). And I hate looking after them.
Mercifully, I've never smoked; but endless cups of black or lemon tea have left their mark. A craving for sweets has added to the torture the teeth go through. And not brushing regularly at night has been the last nail on the calcium.
So, fillings and root canal treatments are things I'm au fai with. And I love my dentist as well - enough to traverse 32 kms. (one-way) to try and get 20 minutes with her. She’s good and gentle with my pearlies. And she’s nice to talk to as well. Plays good instrumental music, is fussy about cleanliness – obsessively so. All this out of a tiny but very-much-in-demand clinic out of her home.
I’ve been going to her for some years now but something sparked off a chain of thoughts that led to this post...
Sitting in her waiting room yesterday, leafing through back-issues of magazines, I came across a book review in an old issue of The Week. It’s not the book that interests me but the person it’s about and one particular quote... Echoes & Eloquences: The Life & Cinema of Gulzar’ by Saibal Chatterjee, in which he quotes Gulzar saying “ No relationship ever ends completely. No relationship ever dies. It transcends to a different meaning.” (He must've said it with far more evocative words in Urdu - need to find it and post it in its original form).
What that “different meaning” is is something that every one of us has to individually fathom, I guess. But it struck a chord: some ageing teeth in my mouth may fall off, but hopefully the few friends I've found will remain for good. And the ones that have gone will return....even if the cavities in these relationships need filling.
Perhaps I need another kind of dentist...
I love the way they help me nibble (not just food but other heavenly-body protrusions as well). And I hate looking after them.
Mercifully, I've never smoked; but endless cups of black or lemon tea have left their mark. A craving for sweets has added to the torture the teeth go through. And not brushing regularly at night has been the last nail on the calcium.
So, fillings and root canal treatments are things I'm au fai with. And I love my dentist as well - enough to traverse 32 kms. (one-way) to try and get 20 minutes with her. She’s good and gentle with my pearlies. And she’s nice to talk to as well. Plays good instrumental music, is fussy about cleanliness – obsessively so. All this out of a tiny but very-much-in-demand clinic out of her home.
I’ve been going to her for some years now but something sparked off a chain of thoughts that led to this post...
Sitting in her waiting room yesterday, leafing through back-issues of magazines, I came across a book review in an old issue of The Week. It’s not the book that interests me but the person it’s about and one particular quote... Echoes & Eloquences: The Life & Cinema of Gulzar’ by Saibal Chatterjee, in which he quotes Gulzar saying “ No relationship ever ends completely. No relationship ever dies. It transcends to a different meaning.” (He must've said it with far more evocative words in Urdu - need to find it and post it in its original form).
What that “different meaning” is is something that every one of us has to individually fathom, I guess. But it struck a chord: some ageing teeth in my mouth may fall off, but hopefully the few friends I've found will remain for good. And the ones that have gone will return....even if the cavities in these relationships need filling.
Perhaps I need another kind of dentist...
Monday, February 04, 2008
A Lucknow Wedding
A Sindhi gem-trader based in Bangkok marries a Thai girl. In Thai style. Stylish, tranquil, very Buddhist.
They then come to Lucknow, where the boy's family lives, to repeat the rituals in a gurdwara. The priest, meanwhile, has forgotten to brief his folks that a pink turban is a must. So, everyone waits while three people dash off to find a long, pink satin cloth from which a turban will be made. The girl's two sisters accompanying her (two of 10 other siblings, mind it) are aghast and amused but maintain a straight face.
Many Sindhis have descended from Kolkata, Mumbai, Pune... all hosted in a hotel where 'running hot water' refers to housekeeping staff scampering floors with buckets of warm water; breakfasts, lunches and dinners are occasions to catch up, to meet cousins for the first time, to discover that a cult brand 0f t-shirts is owned by a nephew in Colaba who I've never met...old uncles are bonded with, babies drooled over, gossip is encouraged and mirth flows over some rather horrid paan, guitar strumming happens over a bonfire and presents are exchanged while unpleasantries are whispered.
Free time is spent rediscovering my mother's old school and home, the grand old Imambara and the bylanes of old Lucknow where bangles, saunf, munchies and mojris are bought.
Along with, if you please, red chillies by the arty brother in the khaandan.
Wonder what the poor bride had to say - she went from a red silk sari to a stunning white satin gown admirably. Her palate, however, has probably been laid numb by the curries and chaats that were omnipresent.
All in all, a hectic, crowded two days of socialising but a great way to escape from this mad world of work.
Pity, there aren't any more weddings coming up. But Ms Nair should consider a sequel...
They then come to Lucknow, where the boy's family lives, to repeat the rituals in a gurdwara. The priest, meanwhile, has forgotten to brief his folks that a pink turban is a must. So, everyone waits while three people dash off to find a long, pink satin cloth from which a turban will be made. The girl's two sisters accompanying her (two of 10 other siblings, mind it) are aghast and amused but maintain a straight face.
Many Sindhis have descended from Kolkata, Mumbai, Pune... all hosted in a hotel where 'running hot water' refers to housekeeping staff scampering floors with buckets of warm water; breakfasts, lunches and dinners are occasions to catch up, to meet cousins for the first time, to discover that a cult brand 0f t-shirts is owned by a nephew in Colaba who I've never met...old uncles are bonded with, babies drooled over, gossip is encouraged and mirth flows over some rather horrid paan, guitar strumming happens over a bonfire and presents are exchanged while unpleasantries are whispered.
Free time is spent rediscovering my mother's old school and home, the grand old Imambara and the bylanes of old Lucknow where bangles, saunf, munchies and mojris are bought.
Along with, if you please, red chillies by the arty brother in the khaandan.
Wonder what the poor bride had to say - she went from a red silk sari to a stunning white satin gown admirably. Her palate, however, has probably been laid numb by the curries and chaats that were omnipresent.
All in all, a hectic, crowded two days of socialising but a great way to escape from this mad world of work.
Pity, there aren't any more weddings coming up. But Ms Nair should consider a sequel...
Friday, January 25, 2008
Timepass
Today, I may have lost two of the brightest, nicest and most committed colleagues I've worked with.
I'm hoping that my charm will make them change their minds about moving on but it does look like the legendary allure I had is wearing off.
One is a gent who's asking me why I'm still here. The other is a young girl who's wondering how many damsels in distress will I bail out.
And then I recall Piet Bels...
(whose image I can't seem to set right by turning it in any clockwise direction!). He was sitting outside Wenger's in Connaught Place last Saturday sketching portraits. A Belgian language teacher who's been visiting India since 1998, Piet lives in Pahargunj and paints to pass away his time and also make a slow buck. that's what I'd like to do someday... only, I don't know how to paint!
And then, on another trip to Bombay, I see this homeless man (whose image is also lopsided!)
waking up on the porch of a watch repair shop. The irony of it: he's passing time as well - and his life badly needs repairing.
Makes me wonder whether I'm serving my time in this world in the ideal way.
Update (February 15, 2008):
The charm still works... thank God! At least 50% of it (the right 50%!)... as for the other half, am sorry but I failed. Perhaps he'll change his mind at the nth minute (eternal optimist that I am).
Update 2 (February 22, 2008):
Sunday, February 17th... the nth minute happened! The other half agreed to stay back... the charm - and some other stuff - worked. Phew!
I'm hoping that my charm will make them change their minds about moving on but it does look like the legendary allure I had is wearing off.
One is a gent who's asking me why I'm still here. The other is a young girl who's wondering how many damsels in distress will I bail out.
And then I recall Piet Bels...
(whose image I can't seem to set right by turning it in any clockwise direction!). He was sitting outside Wenger's in Connaught Place last Saturday sketching portraits. A Belgian language teacher who's been visiting India since 1998, Piet lives in Pahargunj and paints to pass away his time and also make a slow buck. that's what I'd like to do someday... only, I don't know how to paint!And then, on another trip to Bombay, I see this homeless man (whose image is also lopsided!)
waking up on the porch of a watch repair shop. The irony of it: he's passing time as well - and his life badly needs repairing.Makes me wonder whether I'm serving my time in this world in the ideal way.
Update (February 15, 2008):
The charm still works... thank God! At least 50% of it (the right 50%!)... as for the other half, am sorry but I failed. Perhaps he'll change his mind at the nth minute (eternal optimist that I am).
Update 2 (February 22, 2008):
Sunday, February 17th... the nth minute happened! The other half agreed to stay back... the charm - and some other stuff - worked. Phew!
Saturday, January 19, 2008
Ho Calcutta :-)
When you're in Bombay every week and don't really want to be there, when you return to work in Gurgaon only to feel like running away from all the turmoil around, when yesterday has been tiring and you feel today should never have dawned, when you're getting nostalgic about things and people and places, thank God for people like these...
Monday, January 14, 2008
Happiness is...
I've been told - nay, ordered almost - to do at least one thing every day that makes ME happy all through 2008.
So, here goes...
Sunday was spent at the Auto Expo in Delhi, Dilli Haat and the country's longest shopping mall. Now, I hate crowds but ended up happy nonetheless.
The Auto Expo was a quick zip-in and zip-out visit to see a website's stall, the famous Nano, some vintage beauties, Audi and Mercedes. Fortunately, one managed to escape before Delhi's auto-drivers hit Pragati Maidan to check out Ratan Tata's replacement to Mr Bajaj's stuttering three-wheeler.
Dilli Haat was a disaster. Kashmiri food that wasn't very palatable and stuff on sale that couldn't be bought because they were overpriced and had a boring sameness to them. The only bit of excitement came when a gust of wind took an eight-feet signboard off its perch and it missed my head by a foot or so. The children, just behind me, gasped; one even exclaimed "Oh shit!" and then wondered if Daddy had heard it... you bet.
Having gained a second life (for the umpteenth time in this life) we then proceeded to Ambience Mall on the Delhi-Gurgaon Highway. Much to my dread, if I may add but I'd decided that happiness would happen today.
The mall was an eye-opener. I'd avoided it for months but the stores were truly world-class until one discovered Reliance Trends (Mukesh-bhai's response to Kishore-bhai's Panataloon just across the foyer). Good clothes at very affordable prices... so time was spent stocking up kids' wear for an imminent Sindhi-Thai wedding.
Shopping anywhere is tiring. But billing at Reliance Trends can drive you to tears. Not just because you have to queue up but because their billing system can't calculate percentage discounts. They either overcharge you or undercharge. And if you don't check every item and its final price meticulously, you could win or lose money depending on what your horoscope has in store that day (and this wonderful mall has several palmists hanging around to tell you your future). Be careful when you shop at Reliance... evidently you can't rely on them.
So shouldn't I have been irritated and angry?
Naah... I was happy because I'd lived that Sunday through the eyes of children, had candy-floss and enjoyed Delhi's rare winter sun all day.
Would I have been happier had that signboard fallen on me?
Figure it out, friend.
Cheers!
So, here goes...
Sunday was spent at the Auto Expo in Delhi, Dilli Haat and the country's longest shopping mall. Now, I hate crowds but ended up happy nonetheless.
The Auto Expo was a quick zip-in and zip-out visit to see a website's stall, the famous Nano, some vintage beauties, Audi and Mercedes. Fortunately, one managed to escape before Delhi's auto-drivers hit Pragati Maidan to check out Ratan Tata's replacement to Mr Bajaj's stuttering three-wheeler.
Dilli Haat was a disaster. Kashmiri food that wasn't very palatable and stuff on sale that couldn't be bought because they were overpriced and had a boring sameness to them. The only bit of excitement came when a gust of wind took an eight-feet signboard off its perch and it missed my head by a foot or so. The children, just behind me, gasped; one even exclaimed "Oh shit!" and then wondered if Daddy had heard it... you bet.
Having gained a second life (for the umpteenth time in this life) we then proceeded to Ambience Mall on the Delhi-Gurgaon Highway. Much to my dread, if I may add but I'd decided that happiness would happen today.
The mall was an eye-opener. I'd avoided it for months but the stores were truly world-class until one discovered Reliance Trends (Mukesh-bhai's response to Kishore-bhai's Panataloon just across the foyer). Good clothes at very affordable prices... so time was spent stocking up kids' wear for an imminent Sindhi-Thai wedding.
Shopping anywhere is tiring. But billing at Reliance Trends can drive you to tears. Not just because you have to queue up but because their billing system can't calculate percentage discounts. They either overcharge you or undercharge. And if you don't check every item and its final price meticulously, you could win or lose money depending on what your horoscope has in store that day (and this wonderful mall has several palmists hanging around to tell you your future). Be careful when you shop at Reliance... evidently you can't rely on them.
So shouldn't I have been irritated and angry?
Naah... I was happy because I'd lived that Sunday through the eyes of children, had candy-floss and enjoyed Delhi's rare winter sun all day.
Would I have been happier had that signboard fallen on me?
Figure it out, friend.
Cheers!
Thursday, January 10, 2008
Never Be Lonely
You have a raging fever for several days that makes you want to lie down and die and never get up because the office refuses to leave you alone and because you won’t switch off the mobile in case an ‘important’ call is missed.
You have to catch a fog-delayed flight to Hyderabad on Indian Airlines (or Air India as they now call themselves) and the soup tastes like dishwater, the food looks like it’s been eaten once already and the blanket is dirty (and you’re travelling Business Class!).
You reach ISB at midnight, seven hours after you left home, where you’re going to be part of a three-day course for which you’re completely unprepared… and discover that the campus is heavenly. Even though it’s dark all over.
You want to reach out and speak to someone, anyone.
But the people you’d like to unburden your fatigue on are either asleep or have turned against you or have gone far away to an alien land.
So, you’re alone. Which is good, because that’s what you’ve been yearning for anyway. Some time to yourself.
But there’s a difference in being alone and being lonely.
And then MTV plays Never Be Lonely… the number of times Never Be Lonely is repeated at the end is special – for me at least.
It’s better than a hot chocolate or a cognac. Though not as good as snuggling up… but hypnotic enough to get six hours of dreamless sleep.
You have to catch a fog-delayed flight to Hyderabad on Indian Airlines (or Air India as they now call themselves) and the soup tastes like dishwater, the food looks like it’s been eaten once already and the blanket is dirty (and you’re travelling Business Class!).
You reach ISB at midnight, seven hours after you left home, where you’re going to be part of a three-day course for which you’re completely unprepared… and discover that the campus is heavenly. Even though it’s dark all over.
You want to reach out and speak to someone, anyone.
But the people you’d like to unburden your fatigue on are either asleep or have turned against you or have gone far away to an alien land.
So, you’re alone. Which is good, because that’s what you’ve been yearning for anyway. Some time to yourself.
But there’s a difference in being alone and being lonely.
And then MTV plays Never Be Lonely… the number of times Never Be Lonely is repeated at the end is special – for me at least.
It’s better than a hot chocolate or a cognac. Though not as good as snuggling up… but hypnotic enough to get six hours of dreamless sleep.
Monday, December 31, 2007
Leap of Faith
Another year ends... a leap year begins and I look back (for once, not in anger but in pleasure). This has been a good year for a lot of people I know; and miserable for a few. But perhaps the wrongs of 2007 will be set right in 2008. Perhaps, too, the ones whose eyes I helped light up this year will light up mine from tomorrow. There is a cold fog creeping in tonight and warmth will be hard to find... which is where Tennyson's Ulysses helps:
The long day wanes; the slow moon climbs; the deep
Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends.
'Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
the sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down;
It may be that we shall touch the Happy Isles,
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.
Though much is taken, much abides; and though
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are---
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.
2008 will be a better year and while loved ones may not always be close at hand, distance is only in the mind.
It's the year of the Olympics... so let's see if one can make that leap of faith and not dither at the hurdles ahead.
So here's to a new year, a new blog template and a renewed love of life.
Cheers!
The long day wanes; the slow moon climbs; the deep
Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends.
'Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
the sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down;
It may be that we shall touch the Happy Isles,
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.
Though much is taken, much abides; and though
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are---
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.
2008 will be a better year and while loved ones may not always be close at hand, distance is only in the mind.
It's the year of the Olympics... so let's see if one can make that leap of faith and not dither at the hurdles ahead.
So here's to a new year, a new blog template and a renewed love of life.
Cheers!
Monday, December 24, 2007
Nostalgia @ Rs 5/kg
It can take over 20 years to squirrel away precious memories in the form of notes, letters, photocopied articles, workshop material, photographs...
And less than three hours to sift through cartons and discard most of them.
The cleaning up of painfully collected archives (physical not digital) is a mind-numbing exercise that leaves the shoulders aching. But nothing is as disconcerting as the fact that you can sell all of what you've discarded for just Rs 5 per kg to the loccal raddi-walla.
I may have been richer by Rs 145 on a cold Sunday morning. But what's gone are old remembrances that there is little room for in this weary world of mine.
Christmas is meant to be a season of giving. I just gave most of my memories away. I should be happy, I guess.
And less than three hours to sift through cartons and discard most of them.
The cleaning up of painfully collected archives (physical not digital) is a mind-numbing exercise that leaves the shoulders aching. But nothing is as disconcerting as the fact that you can sell all of what you've discarded for just Rs 5 per kg to the loccal raddi-walla.
I may have been richer by Rs 145 on a cold Sunday morning. But what's gone are old remembrances that there is little room for in this weary world of mine.
Christmas is meant to be a season of giving. I just gave most of my memories away. I should be happy, I guess.
Thursday, November 08, 2007
Light at the End of the Tunnel
Okay, so it’s been a long time since I wrote here. But then it’s been a busy time…
What with a vacation in China, a debut appearance on a ramp, my first (successful) attempt at throwing out an eve-teaser co-worker from an office party (but, sadly, not from the office itself), a dual eye surgery that was meant to be painless but ended up numbing the brain, the arrival of long-lost friends and some sundry things in between, life has been demanding.
Heck, it's been hectic. That’s what it’s been. But is it going anywhere?
An SMS from my brother, the other day, said “Due to cost-cutting, the light at the end of the tunnel has been switched off.” Imagine this: you know you’re hurtling through a tunnel, hoping it’ll soon end and you’ll be flung out. But the ride seems to last for ever – never straight, always unpredictably driving you round bends. That’s what life seems to have become.
The sadder part is that one doesn’t seem to be alone.
A friend who was to be married last December and had been Plutoed (not for the first time in her young life) came close to getting married to the same gent last week again but chose to defer taking the plunge for some months more – in a way, she extended the tunnel ride herself. Ask her and she’ll swear it isn’t by choice – it’s because she can’t get the man she wants and doesn’t completely want the man who wants her. Life is replete with difficult choices.
Sometimes you can be rescued by tragedy. Or killed by ecstasy. Don’t ask me to explain this – I know what I mean but cannot shed light on it at this point in the tunnel.
Which reminds me of a line I’d heard in a riveting performance by Jalabala Vaidya decades ago: “I am the agony and I am the ecstasy.” Aren’t all of us actually? Don’t we start with the honourable intent of making people happy but end up making either them or someone else in the same eco-system bitterly unhappy?
Sometimes I feel it’s best to be less sensitive to people’s needs and operate with tunnel vision. If the SMS is to be believed, you may never reach the light at the end of the tunnel but, at least, you won’t get distracted by side-lights either.
One life, one fate. No impossible choices to make. Just staying happy at trying to be happy.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)