The title itself is worth reading... and a riot at that!
Only I might have replaced the 'oo' with a 'u'.
Enjoy...
Friday, May 09, 2008
Sinful Stomach
With no disrespect to Keats...
My tummy aches, and a bloody cramp pains
My sense, as though of fiery fries I had ate,
Or emptied some Old Monk to the drains
Four years past, and again surgery seems the fate...
This is now way to end the week... but I am too weak and worried to argue with myself.
Did I speak/blog too soon? I hope not... homeward I head with the sinful stomach. Neither fries nor a bottled senior priest have I encountered... and there is no other appendix to be removed (I mean, you can't go through three surgeries for the same damn thing... or can you??).
Un-cheers!
My sense, as though of fiery fries I had ate,
Or emptied some Old Monk to the drains
Four years past, and again surgery seems the fate...
This is now way to end the week... but I am too weak and worried to argue with myself.
Did I speak/blog too soon? I hope not... homeward I head with the sinful stomach. Neither fries nor a bottled senior priest have I encountered... and there is no other appendix to be removed (I mean, you can't go through three surgeries for the same damn thing... or can you??).
Un-cheers!
Thursday, May 08, 2008
No Cannes Do
The annual screening of the Cannes award-winning commercials takes place later today in Delhi with brilliant ads in a dark room and a crowded bar outside. It's the minor Mecca for advertising creatives who can't make it to the real thing and a great place to meet old friends, former colleagues et al.
There was a time I used to be there... but no longer. I think 2004 was the last time I went and had a truly memorable time.
But that was in another life...
I can go there today. But should I?
Perhaps I would have had I not got another life to kickstart...
So long Cannes!
There was a time I used to be there... but no longer. I think 2004 was the last time I went and had a truly memorable time.
But that was in another life...
I can go there today. But should I?
Perhaps I would have had I not got another life to kickstart...
So long Cannes!
Monday, May 05, 2008
The L-Spot
I’ve not been much of an athlete, considering that my mother was the Hurdles champion of Uttar Pradesh in her younger days.
Frequent illnesses as a child ensured that I was constitutionally- challenged – by the age of 11 I’d had three bouts of jaundice, two of malaria, one para-typhoid wrongly diagnosed as malaria with an overdose of quinine leading to a cardiac seizure and a fit… I mean, running or playing any other sport was out of the question. I was grateful that I could walk… grateful to the prayers of my parents, the school-church, Mother Teresa and God. Not to mention, the sundry quacks who mistook me for their medicinal guinea-pig.
Over time, I survived without much exercise until 2005 when the first Microsoft Corporate Challenge pushed me to the limits of my endurance and helped me lead the team to the third position. People who knew me were amazed that I, the perennially-plagued person, could win at a highly physical (and somewhat mental) event. I even managed to temporarily overcome my fear of water and dived into a swimming pool at night to pick out clues from the bottom…NDTV has me on camera if you don’t believe me. I won’t go back into a pool again; although I did do the rapids at Rishikesh once – with my breath held all through that mad ride!
Last year, I was thrown into the Microsoft Corporate Challenge again and was I unfit! The team was aghast when we met for a trial at a farm near Bombay – this last-minute substitute skipper they had was surely going to let them down. It required a huge amount of psychological boosting and the gentle but firm inspiring of two colleagues that made me strap on a pedometer and run hard enough over three weeks, despite a sprained ankle, to be good enough for them and to make it to the no. 2 spot in the event.
But I slackened again, only to run occasionally on weekends. Lazy boy that I am… the two prime movers of my last fitness binge are too far away – and too immersed in their lives - to scold or goad me.
And then, a couple of days ago, I looked at myself and swore I’d put on the grey and yellow Reebok running shoes I’d so loving bought as part of my prepatory pep-up last year. So, I walked at first yesterday. And walked a bit more on Sunday – and ran as well. It felt good, great actually.
Sting was belting out Fields of Gold over the clunky iPod that I must now replace for a lighter one with video-capability.
The weather was warm but a gentle wind kept me going… all was well until an sms stung me.
At 7.16 on a Sunday morning, the boss had no business to be up and online, spotting a minor error on a recently-launched site. I was first aghast that he hadn’t partied all night and then put it down to a loo-break he must be taking, within which he took a ‘let-me-see-the-site-just-once’ sub-break as well.
Well, he broke my momentum and the mood as well. My legs stood still and the only part of me that frenetically moved were my fingers playing sms-sms… and the playlist had moved on to An Englishman in New York and I couldn’t help but hear Sting refer to himself as a Legal Alien…
It’s moments like these that make me feel at odds with the world I currently live and work in. The house needs me to go and get bread; the boss wants me to respond to his sms-es… I just want to listen to music and get a good run.
Has anyone read Shobha Narayan in Mint Lounge yesterday? My admiration for Mint grows with every passing Saturday... I discovered that the L-spot is not just a lactic threshold that gives runners/cyclists a high. It’s what I’d call a Life Spot. And the faster some people get it, the better it’ll be for me.
Frequent illnesses as a child ensured that I was constitutionally- challenged – by the age of 11 I’d had three bouts of jaundice, two of malaria, one para-typhoid wrongly diagnosed as malaria with an overdose of quinine leading to a cardiac seizure and a fit… I mean, running or playing any other sport was out of the question. I was grateful that I could walk… grateful to the prayers of my parents, the school-church, Mother Teresa and God. Not to mention, the sundry quacks who mistook me for their medicinal guinea-pig.
Over time, I survived without much exercise until 2005 when the first Microsoft Corporate Challenge pushed me to the limits of my endurance and helped me lead the team to the third position. People who knew me were amazed that I, the perennially-plagued person, could win at a highly physical (and somewhat mental) event. I even managed to temporarily overcome my fear of water and dived into a swimming pool at night to pick out clues from the bottom…NDTV has me on camera if you don’t believe me. I won’t go back into a pool again; although I did do the rapids at Rishikesh once – with my breath held all through that mad ride!
Last year, I was thrown into the Microsoft Corporate Challenge again and was I unfit! The team was aghast when we met for a trial at a farm near Bombay – this last-minute substitute skipper they had was surely going to let them down. It required a huge amount of psychological boosting and the gentle but firm inspiring of two colleagues that made me strap on a pedometer and run hard enough over three weeks, despite a sprained ankle, to be good enough for them and to make it to the no. 2 spot in the event.
But I slackened again, only to run occasionally on weekends. Lazy boy that I am… the two prime movers of my last fitness binge are too far away – and too immersed in their lives - to scold or goad me.
And then, a couple of days ago, I looked at myself and swore I’d put on the grey and yellow Reebok running shoes I’d so loving bought as part of my prepatory pep-up last year. So, I walked at first yesterday. And walked a bit more on Sunday – and ran as well. It felt good, great actually.
Sting was belting out Fields of Gold over the clunky iPod that I must now replace for a lighter one with video-capability.
The weather was warm but a gentle wind kept me going… all was well until an sms stung me.
At 7.16 on a Sunday morning, the boss had no business to be up and online, spotting a minor error on a recently-launched site. I was first aghast that he hadn’t partied all night and then put it down to a loo-break he must be taking, within which he took a ‘let-me-see-the-site-just-once’ sub-break as well.
Well, he broke my momentum and the mood as well. My legs stood still and the only part of me that frenetically moved were my fingers playing sms-sms… and the playlist had moved on to An Englishman in New York and I couldn’t help but hear Sting refer to himself as a Legal Alien…
It’s moments like these that make me feel at odds with the world I currently live and work in. The house needs me to go and get bread; the boss wants me to respond to his sms-es… I just want to listen to music and get a good run.
Has anyone read Shobha Narayan in Mint Lounge yesterday? My admiration for Mint grows with every passing Saturday... I discovered that the L-spot is not just a lactic threshold that gives runners/cyclists a high. It’s what I’d call a Life Spot. And the faster some people get it, the better it’ll be for me.
Saturday, May 03, 2008
Saturday
OK... made sure Friday stayed a dry day. And felt great!
Dined by 9.30 pm. Unwound with Criminal Minds (am into Season 2, episode 13) and continued to be fascinated with Gideon and Reid. More on them later...
Saturday morning and am back on track (literally) - walked, ran, sweated, panted after ages... gorged on cherries and plums and strawberry jam on crisp brown toast.
And am also back at work when the rest of the known world is probably selling old papers, dusting, cooking or just trying to shake off last night's hangover which, as a graffiti artist once wrote, is the wrath of grapes (with due apologies to Steinbeck, I guess).
So what's new?
Dined by 9.30 pm. Unwound with Criminal Minds (am into Season 2, episode 13) and continued to be fascinated with Gideon and Reid. More on them later...
Saturday morning and am back on track (literally) - walked, ran, sweated, panted after ages... gorged on cherries and plums and strawberry jam on crisp brown toast.
And am also back at work when the rest of the known world is probably selling old papers, dusting, cooking or just trying to shake off last night's hangover which, as a graffiti artist once wrote, is the wrath of grapes (with due apologies to Steinbeck, I guess).
So what's new?
Friday, May 02, 2008
Friday
It's Friday evening.
I'm supposed to go cross-country to Noida for a colleague's birthday bash. But a site has gone down and then been resurrected with several glitches. Murphy is still around me...
The weekend is clearly becoming a mirage. There are a host of other landmines exploding around me and I am reminded of Ogden Nash: "Candy", he wrote, "is dandy. But liquor is quicker."
And Friday must not be a dry day.
Cheers!
I'm supposed to go cross-country to Noida for a colleague's birthday bash. But a site has gone down and then been resurrected with several glitches. Murphy is still around me...
The weekend is clearly becoming a mirage. There are a host of other landmines exploding around me and I am reminded of Ogden Nash: "Candy", he wrote, "is dandy. But liquor is quicker."
And Friday must not be a dry day.
Cheers!
Thursday, May 01, 2008
Women!
Women get harassed at work by men who have nothing better to do.
They say they don't rise to the top unless they agree to being on top.
They get the short end of the stick because they have a long list of things to do at home, children to bring up, husbands to cook for, mums-in-law to please.
They come into my room and cry because they are arbitrarily reassigned.
I listen to them because God gave me two ears and one mouth. I talk to them after they're done and get things done to make sure they feel better. I don't always succeed in making them take back their resignations but they do go away smiling and mail me "You’re gifted with the skill of bringing smiles on people’s faces. Here’s to (sic) hoping we get to work together again."
I lead a dog's life and have crow's feet around my surgically-repaired eyes; feet that some say don't show up as often as they used to but, when you make others happy, you will end up being less happy yourself. Q.E.D. The bath sponge can never be dry, by definition of its very existence, can it? Unfortunately, though, I can't do this for everyone every time.
At the risk of distressing these damsels who I may have helped de-stress all in a day's work, I am reminded of Professor Higgins...
But I thank my stars for Hum Tum:
Some months ago, I threw out an inebriated colleague whose paws felt up two women at an office party. Unfortunately, I couldn't throw him out of the office for reasons that are best left unblogged.
Someday... men will learn their lesson and women will be happier. The right way.
They say they don't rise to the top unless they agree to being on top.
They get the short end of the stick because they have a long list of things to do at home, children to bring up, husbands to cook for, mums-in-law to please.
They come into my room and cry because they are arbitrarily reassigned.
I listen to them because God gave me two ears and one mouth. I talk to them after they're done and get things done to make sure they feel better. I don't always succeed in making them take back their resignations but they do go away smiling and mail me "You’re gifted with the skill of bringing smiles on people’s faces. Here’s to (sic) hoping we get to work together again."
I lead a dog's life and have crow's feet around my surgically-repaired eyes; feet that some say don't show up as often as they used to but, when you make others happy, you will end up being less happy yourself. Q.E.D. The bath sponge can never be dry, by definition of its very existence, can it? Unfortunately, though, I can't do this for everyone every time.
At the risk of distressing these damsels who I may have helped de-stress all in a day's work, I am reminded of Professor Higgins...
But I thank my stars for Hum Tum:
Some months ago, I threw out an inebriated colleague whose paws felt up two women at an office party. Unfortunately, I couldn't throw him out of the office for reasons that are best left unblogged.
Someday... men will learn their lesson and women will be happier. The right way.
Made My Day
When you're having a lousy day trying to drill sense into thick-headed people, you need this to make your day:
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Yesterday Once More
Whoever Mr/Ms Anonymous is, thank you for your comment(s) on this post...sparked off some nice memories and thanks to YouTube, here it is:
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
Mindblowers
One of the best things about this job is that you get to discover at least one new, mindblowing website every day.
Today was a better-than-average day: the score is five.
Should I share these?
Or be selfish?
The latter... for some time at least.
Hee...hee.
Today was a better-than-average day: the score is five.
Should I share these?
Or be selfish?
The latter... for some time at least.
Hee...hee.
Monday, April 28, 2008
Losing it
Am really losing it...
First my memory fails me and it becomes difficult to pinpoint places/people/ incidents/ birthdays...
Then, without warning, my Seagate 100 GB drive fails to be recognised by my Mac after it's worked perfectly for months. I'm told that all the work I've backed-up over the last three years is there; so are the music files and the photographs.
Everyone's reassuring me that the data can be recovered.
Okay, now you know it and let's say, I also know it. Question is: does the drive know it!
I need the work-files back. And the photos. Everything else is sacrificeable.
This is all I have of my memories and, until the day they can backup our brains in a real-time environment, Seagate will have to be my crutch.
Fingers crossed, I await the data recovery guy's report. Makes me feel like I'm in surgery and waiting the doctor's prognosis...
First my memory fails me and it becomes difficult to pinpoint places/people/ incidents/ birthdays...
Then, without warning, my Seagate 100 GB drive fails to be recognised by my Mac after it's worked perfectly for months. I'm told that all the work I've backed-up over the last three years is there; so are the music files and the photographs.
Everyone's reassuring me that the data can be recovered.
Okay, now you know it and let's say, I also know it. Question is: does the drive know it!
I need the work-files back. And the photos. Everything else is sacrificeable.
This is all I have of my memories and, until the day they can backup our brains in a real-time environment, Seagate will have to be my crutch.
Fingers crossed, I await the data recovery guy's report. Makes me feel like I'm in surgery and waiting the doctor's prognosis...
Jab We Separated
We are distanced from our friends either by physical gaps or by time.
Of the two, geographical distances are somehow bridgeable.
Time is the one we struggle with. At least I do. And the longer we are separated, the further we seem to grow.
You don’t have to be in different time zones to grow remote. Even the same latitude-longitude co-ordinates are often not enough to be connected.
There are stories, films aplenty about people who meet after ages and reconnect as though they were never apart.
I’d like to be like them. And if there’s any reason to see Jab We Met once again, it’ll be for just this.
I spent an entire Sunday afternoon enjoying the antics of Kareena Kapoor (if only she could act better) interspersed by long commercial breaks. It’s a silly film but, if strangers can meet on a train by accident – or by a scriptwriter’s design – and lose each other after they grow so fond of one another only to meet again after nine months (why the symbolic nine I wonder?) perhaps it’ll happen to real people too.
There are so many people I'd like to link up with again... people I miss scattered around the world, colleagues - and former colleagues - in various cities all caught up in their own mad lives. People I'd like to share memories with but can't because the cell phone can be intrusive. And changing status updates twenty times a day on a social networking site isn't my cup of chai.
Time for a sanity break, I guess.
As the chubby little girl in Sound of Music sang, "... the sun has gone to bed and so must I".
Of the two, geographical distances are somehow bridgeable.
Time is the one we struggle with. At least I do. And the longer we are separated, the further we seem to grow.
You don’t have to be in different time zones to grow remote. Even the same latitude-longitude co-ordinates are often not enough to be connected.
There are stories, films aplenty about people who meet after ages and reconnect as though they were never apart.
I’d like to be like them. And if there’s any reason to see Jab We Met once again, it’ll be for just this.
I spent an entire Sunday afternoon enjoying the antics of Kareena Kapoor (if only she could act better) interspersed by long commercial breaks. It’s a silly film but, if strangers can meet on a train by accident – or by a scriptwriter’s design – and lose each other after they grow so fond of one another only to meet again after nine months (why the symbolic nine I wonder?) perhaps it’ll happen to real people too.
There are so many people I'd like to link up with again... people I miss scattered around the world, colleagues - and former colleagues - in various cities all caught up in their own mad lives. People I'd like to share memories with but can't because the cell phone can be intrusive. And changing status updates twenty times a day on a social networking site isn't my cup of chai.
Time for a sanity break, I guess.
As the chubby little girl in Sound of Music sang, "... the sun has gone to bed and so must I".
Friday, April 25, 2008
Surprising Life
There is so much that's happening to me on so many fronts right now that I don't know whether I should be angry, worried, happy, dismayed, stressed, depressed, disgusted, nostalgic, optimistic... or simply amazed at life's twists and turns.
Last night, Radio Mirchi played this...
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
Ulcer
Whatever you do, don't get an ulcer.
Don't then land up in hospital.
Don't eat at odd hours only to suffer all your life. Don't drink coffee if you can get tea.
And don't think this is the only life you have to change the world.
Have seen too many friends lives being affected... and am only talking to myself here.
Haven't got any ulcers yet... I think.
Don't then land up in hospital.
Don't eat at odd hours only to suffer all your life. Don't drink coffee if you can get tea.
And don't think this is the only life you have to change the world.
Have seen too many friends lives being affected... and am only talking to myself here.
Haven't got any ulcers yet... I think.
Vacation
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!
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!
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.
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