My Korean Guru

My interactions with Korean taxi drivers are very minimal. The doormen at the hotel give the driver the destination. Most of them know where my office is and once we leave the hotel, the 40 minute drive is spent in near silence. And since I have resolutely refused to pick up any Korean, the only exchanges are the mutual Thank you-s and nice day-s said while alighting. This isn't the usual case however elsewhere. I really respect that profession where timings are so critical - be it a call taxi driver in Chennai or someone piloting A380s. Also, numerous drivers have made sure that I was at the station or airport on time more times than I can count now. I also feel bad for the tribe of drivers in general (Thank you Mr. Arvind Adiga!) what with all that waiting, negotiating through bad traffic and putting up with someone else's schedules. I have single handedly led to abnormal blood pressure conditions in many drivers across many lands. And hence, fuelled partly by guilt, even if I'm not in the mood for a conversation, which is when I get the most loquacious drivers, I tend to be polite and try to hold up my end of the conversation to the extent possible. But with my seriously limited Korean vovabulary (I still haven't picked up the word for "vegetarian", usually my first word in any language) I am saved even that trouble. Moreover, in Korea, as I'm always catching up on lost sleep, I'm not quite risen on the morning taxi ride and remain only clinically alive, sprawled out on the rear seat.

All that changed with my recent trip to Korea. On the first morning, a frail old man with his greying hair neatly parted and combed back, pulled up to the portico of the hotel in his beat up Hyundai. The doorman poked his head through the window and informed my destination. Which is when I heard a raspy, "Oph kors oph kors! I know." from within the cab. Instinctively I knew this could mean prtotracted conversations. Sure enough, as he was slipping into the traffic and I was slipping in to my "clinically alive" state, Mr. Lee, as I learned from the id card, looked into the mirror at me and asked, "Are you high crass gentreman?" As far as ice breakers go, this one worked like a power hammer on an ice cube. I quickly checked if someone else was riding in the cab. No, it was a question for me and a tricky one at that. Apparently what was quite obvious to me, wasn't quite so to Mr. Lee and I replied in the negative with what I thougt was a pleasant smile at that hour in the morning. Mind you, I had just gotten off a red eye flight.

I'm not sure if it was my smile or the answer that encouraged his second question, "You speekku Korea langvechi?" Relieved at a more straightforward question and the prospect that the gaping canyon that stood between us on the language front could quell further exchanges and actually let me go back to sleep, I again replied in the negative. As a subtle message, I even halved the previous smile, and adjusted myself to a more sleep-conducive position.

By this time, we were firmly stuck in the middle of the usual Seoul traffic snarl and barely moving. Good, more sleep! Right? Wrong.

"Okkkay! From hoteru to ophhice - 40 minute. I am Korea langvechi teacher, you student." I opened one eye, only half believing what I had just heard. Mr. Lee was looking right at me with a "You heard me kid" kind of look. Unsure of how to handle this situation, I propped myself up against the seat. I could have played asleep, but I was far too awake to pull that off.

A la Jerry Seinfeld, I was still quickly thumbing through my rolodex of excuses for something convincing to go back to sleep when I heard him go "'Ann yang ha se yo' in Korea langvechi. Engrishu meaning 'How are you?'" And he started repeating that a few times and urged me to do the same after him. After about 5 repeats, when I had lost all hopes of getting some shut eye, he stopped. Instead, he held out his right hand. Making chopping motions, he started counting with his fingers, making me repeat that phrase 10 times, extending a digit everytime. I tamely repeated, enrolling myself for Korean 101.

Apparently not inclined towards a gentle introduction, he followed that up with "Hwa jang shil aidi it su yo? Engrishu meaning 'Where is the rest room?'" and started making his chopping right hand movements. There I was, in a car, speeding down Highway 1, asking out aloud to no one in particular, the directions for a restroom in Korean. Ten times. Looking at my bloodshot eyes, people that heard me would have thought that I was having a particularly bad hangover and seeking a place to throw up.

'Take me to a place' (driver instructions), 'How much is this?' and 'Can you give me a discount?' rounded off the first session. I was clearly out of breath from all the vocal exertions. Just as I sunk back into the seat, he announced that it was time for a test. What?! Less than 15 minutes into the impromptu class and I was already up against the first pop quiz?! The only time a language teacher tormented me this way was when I was trying to learn Hindi as a kid in Chennai. And that was atleast a good 20 years back.

He was rigorous in his methods. I tried my best to answer his various questions and just as I was starting to mix up the phrases, we arrived at the office. As I was getting off, he asked me whether he could pick me up that evening - a usual request from drivers. Again, instead of mumbling myself out of the situation, I heard myself say "7 pm". I had bitten into the Korean language bait. The evening's lessons, held under the dim cabin light was decidedly more romantic with phrases for'You are pretty' and 'You are cute'. At which point, I, ever so subtly, asked him for the phrase for 'I'm married' (Keron het su mida), which triggered a surprised glance in my direction. By the end of day one, I was ready to have this conversation with anyone: "How are you? Pleased to meet you. You look pretty. Oh, and which way to the rest room?" Although I wonder what kind of an impression I would leave on that person.

Anyways, my progress was not bad at all given my Korean vocabulary was only two words strong before - kim chi and bibim bap - two atrocities that I routinely subjected my digestive system to. The routine continued over the next 4 days. The second morning, I had transferred my knowledge from day one onto a sheet of paper. Encouraged by this, he had 2 sheets of notes for me that evening with even more phrases. The third morning was spent on numbers and that evening on the Korean alphabet for which he had prepared extensive notes. He even became considerate enough to give me advance notice on the big test for the fourth morning. It was a massive revision of all the phrases. He then made me read out aloud the alpha-numeric license plate off every single vehicle that we crossed. I barely managed not throwing up all over the back seat from motion sickness. (For the record, I don't try to work in a moving vehicle even if I'm hard pressed for time.)

I wasn't quite sure what kind of a gurudakshina I could give him on the day that I was leaving. He had mentioned that he couldn't take me to the airport that evening. So I had one of my colleagues, who was taking an earlier flight, cancel the taxi ride that he had booked to the airport, and go with my guru instead. At $120 it wasn't all that bad a deal, I'm sure you'd agree. I then took the bus to the airport, practising my fledgling Korean on unsuspecting airport staff en route to the boarding gate.

One way to look at this is that Mr. Lee had used this as an opportunity to get more business. While that is a valid argument, I would anyways have stuck with the first morning's driver through the 4 days. It just happened to be him that morning. Also, he wasn't trying to rip me off or anything. He was just being enterprising. A man trying to make more money, employing entirely clean methods. And in that process, I have stood to benefit immensely. A great win-win, if you ask me. The next time I go there, I'm so buying him a gift and calling him up for level II Korean langvechi!

Religion and food often cross paths with my life. And they have a rather complicated cause and effect relationship that I have stood to benefit from as observed here. Over the many run ins, like the one that I'm about to chronicle now, I have been made to realize that there are no free lunches, or dinners for that matter, and that every morsel is earned either by dint of hard and honest work or at least a close enough impression.

Sunday mornings. That time of the week set aside by most of humanity as the chosen one for rejuvenation. The Sunday morning is the poultice for a battered soul and a bruised body that have borne the brunt of the week past. The getting up late and then the lounging in bed long enough to skip breakfast and slide straight to a lunch, though routine, are tasks that are performed reverentially every week. Tasks that ensure that Messrs. Soul and Body are prepared to take on the might of the next week that looms larger with every passing hour. There are very few priorities that can break this sacred routine. One among them is a pursuit of bhakti. And a second is the lure of great food. Not listed in any order.

As a graduate student, I lived in a household of 3 guy (myself included) whose enthusiasm towards cooking varied from I-can't to I-won't. Since the dawn of history, mankind has chosen, for reasons not clear to me, a 7 day work week. And precisely for that reason, dividing 7 cooking turns between 3 reluctant people continues to be a mathematician's nightmare. Thus it came to pass, since it was nobody's turn to cook, every Sunday was a gamble in terms of being able to get a square meal. The law of the jungle kicked in and I had to outrun the slowest gazelle for satiating man's most primal of instincts - hunger.

The food Gods must have smiled on me for one fine morning in 2002, I got invited by a very orthodox friend of mine (an Iyengar fundamentalist, to be specific) to take part in the parayanam (chanting) of Sri Vishnu Sahasranamam (Lord Vishnu's 1000 different names). The deal was this: Get up at the ungodly (no pun) hour of 7-ish on Sundays and get a ride to the venue where it was being held that day. This would invariably involve bumming a ride by cramming into a recent graduate's Camry or a Corolla and ride to the hub. Even if one didn't have the address, all that was required was to park behind the last Camry or Corolla and follow the trail of parked Toyotas and Hondas to the house - the only place teeming with human activity at that time of the day. The place would be bursting with TamBrams of all sizes and colors, many of them in veshtis and jibbas to affirm their identity. The routine was fixed: 55 minutes of chanting followed by a 10-minute discourse on the burden of a verse from VSN itself. But the main draw, as with any Hindu ritual, was the mahaprasad (blessed food) that was available afterwards. The menu would be simple, nothing fancy. But some households took it very seriously and would prepare a sumptuous spread. Either ways, I wasn't complaining.

A word here on my religious inclinations wouldn't be out of place. I must have been 7 or 8 years old when my mother thought that it was not a bad idea to get me enrolled in a shloka class. While I don't question the intention, the only problem was that the class met every Sunday morning at 7-ish. Needless to say, after a few weeks, I dropped out. I was intimidated not by the complex shlokas themselves but by the well dressed girls and boys, who had obviously showered, that would turn up with a spring in their step while I, in stark contrast, dragged my feet to Ayodhya mandapam in West Mambalam, barely awake and trying in vain to look as showered as possible. Ever since, I have been careful to avoid religious exercises that started too early in the mornings or ones that didn't culminate in a hearty meal.

Nothing over the years had made me change my attitude and thus when my friend offered the invitation in 2002 I was initially cautious. They say that there aren't free lunches. And as much as I hate it, I accept that paradigm. Getting my Sunday lunch meant that I had to get up very early. But the effort was adequately rewarded. It didn't take me too long to weigh the getting up early part against chowing down food and decide in favor of the latter. Mind you, I would have already foregone my Saturday morning's sleep on account of cricket (somehow that never seemed to be a tough task). Thus began my Sunday routine which remained unchanged for the rest of my time in the US.

People attended the parayanam sessions with multiple motives. Yes, bhakti, good karma and the resultant warm fuzziness and a sense of fulfilment were all there in plain sight. But also around, barely camouflaged, were the furtive looks of eligible bachelors, recently armed with a MS Degree and a job, scanning the crowd for prospective partners and looking to move on to the next stage. Equally keen were the parents/uncles and aunts of eligible bachelorettes, scouting the guys and checking items off a mental list that would qualify them as "eligible" material. Also in attendance were people that had a solution to every known problem afflicting mankind at large, ranging from US foreign policy through the US housing market to the inevitable malaises troubling India and what exactly they would do to address them. And they would loudly make their point to one and all within earshot. Some would bring along their retired parents visiting them, who would in turn take back tales of the religious aspirations of the Indian diaspora in a distant, clean land. Students, in general, participated for food and networking - seeking that little push, and that good word while forwarding their resume to companies. Against this backdrop, I was clearly a misfit and stood out like a sore thumb. My primary motivation to attend, as pronounced earlier, was food. I could not recite VSN by heart. I relied on the printed version and yet ad libbed through the bulk of the text. Being still in school (a good 3 years shy of breaking into the eligible bachelor circuit), I never registered on the radars of the various mamis and mamas around. And yet there I would be, er, religiously, every Sunday morning, nursing sore muscles and joints from the exertions on a cricket field the previous day and playing catch up with the recitation.

My role in the proceedings would take on significance only after the recitation was over. In essence, I was like the first change bowler who comes on after the shine of the new ball has been taken away. I would be fully risen once the smell of food wafted in from the kitchen in preparation for the nivedhanam. Once the go ahead was given by the chief, signalling the end of the religious aspects of the day, I would come into my own. I will skim across to the food area, opening the closed dishes and working up my appetite while surveying the goodies that awaited us. I would appoint myself as the prasadam Nazi, trying to bring a semblance of order to the ensuing chaos. People, who have seen me in action on earlier occasions wouldn't question my authority. I would choose buddies as volunteers to man the various dishes, and I would myself oversee the distribution of a couple of dishes or play the role of a cop, coordinating the sea of people lunging towards the dishes. After doing this long enough to quell any sense of guilt or till the main dishes reached critically low levels (whichever happened earlier), I would then casually pick up a plate and join the lines that I had just been manning to fulfill the overarching goal of participation.

Looking back, I'm not ashamed about setting gastronomical goals in a spiritual event or the level of my participation itself. That was who I was and, truth be told, I haven't changed all that much from those days. And honestly, I did do something before I partook of the meal. One thing that used to baffle me was how hard worked professionals by the week could get themselves to prepare good food enough for about 50 people on their hard earned weekend. And I had an opportunity to get the answer myself when we were asked to host the parayanam in our apartment. And that is material for a separate post sometime.

Dumped at Copenhagen, winner at Oslo

A Nobel peace prize awarded on the evidence of dreams, promises and intent. On top of a couple of inherited wars, a bad economy and multiple national issues comes this awkward moment under a global limelight that could leave even his most ardent fans feeling a bit uneasy. Many recipients, when they receive that big call from the committee will go on record about experiencing various human emotions including surprise, happiness and thrill. But I'm sure that awkwardness won't be one among them. To this man must go yet another first - feeling squirmy upon receiving the Nobel.

This whole peace prize is a dicey one with the metrics significantly influenced by the prevailing politics and hence is often prone to polarize the world. Agreed that even the decision to pick the winners in science, economy and literature is subjective. But at least, they have to pick one from among various actual accomplishments and tangible results and not mere potential. And I think the Nobel is a tad too big a recognition for, well, being not-Bush. Reminds me of a Will and Grace quote, reproduced to the best of my ability here:

Karen: Remember how I once saved Rosario's life?

Will: Not dropping the toaster into her bathtub does not amount to saving her life!

The living up to this tag of a peace dove part is going to be tough with all future decisions and actions to be viewed against this backdrop. And what else is going to be tough? All those "promising" Ph.D students with a lot of "potential" working on their Nobel acceptance speeches instead of on their thesis and projects.

இன்று ஒரு (தாமதமான) தகவல்

(Pic. courtesy: Asian Tribune)

I've been meaning to post this for the past few days and couldn't get around to doing it in decent time, if there is one. Thenkachi Ko. Swaminathan, the man that made the weekday morning grind bearable to thousands across Tamil Nadu, has passed away on Sep 17th, 2009.

To the internet/video game/twitter generation, he is a nobody. But to those who have had the pleasure of tuning in to A.I.R around 7:xx in the mornings, he was a colossus. His daily program, indru oru thagaval (Daily piece of information), all of 5 minutes long carried a message and a humorous piece at the end. It was a menu that was unchanged for the entire time that he did the show. The topics that he touched upon was wide and varied and his specialty was his use of simple language that could resonate with just about anybody. The humor was subtle and didn't so much hammer the funny bone as it tickled it, leaving behind an amused smile rather than a loud guffaw.

Some faces are just designed to be funny. Jay Leno, for example. If a person, with absolutely no knowledge about who Jay Leno is, were to take a guess about his profession, I'm sure comedian will be among the first three guesses. It isn't as clear cut in the case of a few others and Swaminathan's was one such. But behind that sombre and morose facade was a voice with a nasal ring to it that was cut out just for humor. His voice brings back a flood of old memories. Memories of getting ready to school. Of my mother cutting vegetables for the day's cooking while listening to him. Of those mornings when I caught the show at Capital Hair Dressers (and later at Penguin Saloon) while getting a long over due haircut. Of a simple and less hurried life. A reassuring voice that could coax people into facing the day that lay ahead with vigor. A voice that conveyed that all is well with the world as we know it.

For someone that was very popular and well known, he was quite simple and down to earth in his appearance and demeanor. I still remember his appearance in one of the short lived talk shows on Vijay TV where it was mentioned that he took the bus to work everyday. And, not surprisingly, the news of his passing away has been under the radar and hasn't found more than the casual mention in the media with no politician paying a visit. Not that it signifies anything. Even The Hindu has a rather poor and pixelated picture accompanying the news item.

May his soul rest in peace!

Two good interviews

I enjoyed these two interviews on cricinfo recently. The interviewer, in both instances, was Nagraj Gollapudi. Sensible questions that led to a smooth and coherent exchange, making it a pleasure for the readers.

Allan Donald

This wonderful interview brought out the wealth of knowledge that Allan has in the art of fast bowling . A must read for aspiring pacers. And for others too.

Virender Sehwag

It is common knowledge that Sehwag has a simple and no-nonsense approach to the game. This response goes to reconfirm it:

"There is this story about you declining a nightwatchman, where you said you were not an able batsman if you couldn't last 25 balls at the end of the day. Is that true?

It is true. What is the difference between batting at the end of the day or at the start? If you make a mistake you'll get out. So I don't think a batsman really needs a nightwatchman, but it is totally an individual decision. Whenever a captain or coach asked me for a nightwatchman I would say, "No, why? If I can't survive 10 or 20 balls now, then I don't think I'll survive tomorrow morning." I believe that's the best time when you have the opportunity to score runs, when everybody on the field is tired and you can score 20 runs off those 20 balls."

While it is debatable, to the followers of the game, if his appetite for risk could jeopardize the chance of winning/saving a game, it speaks volumes of his philosophy of keeping it simple: if it is there to be hit, it will be hit.

The Fox speaks out

It was an evening in December 2001 that we first met. It was at a showroom in Chennai. I was there with others. It wasn't quite the love-at-first-sight thingy. He first spent some time with me, doing the getting-to-know routine. His touch was nice and yet I instinctively knew that I wasn't his first and definitely not his last either. But something told me that he wasn't looking for a casual fling. Although he did flirt that night with others, it was only a matter of time before I became his. He was very quick to introduce me to his family. His father initially had some concerns about my qualities and even made discrete enquiries. But Slowelectron had an understanding of who I was. He did well to assure them that I was his type and that we would be fine. But his father cautioned him: "Not unless you find a job!"

He was 30 something at that time and I was 32. Yet, the two of us had many things in common. Both of us believed in a long term relationship. He was a traditionalist and I was conservative and believed in formality. In spite of all the similarities, initially there was clearly a gap between us. I wasn't custom made to meet all his requirements. Moreover, those were early days and it is not a perfect world. But over time, he filled that gap and we became closer and enjoyed each other's company. We used to go out atleast once a week - to the movies, restaurants, parties. Although I wasn't a head turner, people did pay him the occasional compliment on his taste. I've heard people go "A nice pair!".

We soon settled into a routine that was predictable yet fun. I became an integral part of his life, taking part in all his daily life activities. He had a traveling job and took me on many of his trips. Life was good. I attended his family weddings, anniversaries and get togethers. I could hold him in his moments of happiness and grief.

He was caring and took all efforts to keep me comfortable. Although I wasn't exactly needy, I clung on to him whenever we hung out. There was his space, my space and then our space. All three were well defined leaving no room for doubt. He gave me enough time and made sure there was very little between the two of us. We complemented each other.

Alas all good things can't last forever. There comes a stage in a relationship where one outgrows the other leading to compatibility issues. He was a grad. student when we first met and he had grown up since. He found a job that provided him with growth opportunities. And he made use of them. One thing led to another and before long, it was no longer fun.

I had my short comings too. I couldn't change myself to suit his changing needs. Try what I might, I couldn't budge an inch from who I was when we first met. Was I adamant? May be. But somethings just don't change no matter what. I could have cut him some slack, but that just didn't happen. In fact, I tried to be the same through all the tumbles of my life and succeeded.

The sad part was the blame game that ensued. Who was the cause? What led to the situation? Whose fault was it? His family did not like the way he was turning out to be. Yet, they could only do so much. He had clearly changed and the strain was beginning to show. And unfortunately, changes aren't always for the better.

Things got to a point where he started feeling a bit uneasy with me around him. And sadly, there was no room for adjustment. Time was marching and was taking a toll on my appearance as well. At this rate, it was evident that there could be no happy ending to this. It became increasingly clear that we weren't cut from the same cloth.

Finally last week, after 8 years, the curtains came down. We decided to part. It was not a sentimental parting. As I said before, I knew I was not his last. So it was a practical and simple one. Like a change of guard ceremony. He brought in my replacement indicating that it was time for both of us to move on. But even in separation, there was respect and gratitude for each other, for the great times we've had together and for the highs and lows that we had witnessed while together. He said that it was him and not me and I'm sure he meant it.

The confessions of a pair of well loved khaki trousers.

P.S: Fox was inducted into the Hall of Fame and was given an honorary discharge. Fox now leads a leisurely retired life in the wardrobe. The two of them still have a good time together every once in a while. For old times' sake.

The Kasab quandary

I had vented my feelings on the Kasab-P. Chidambaram issue here. Further developments since:

Kasab's growing list of demands has this new item on it: Basmati rice. The man has taste, agreed. And the home minister has been sufficiently stirred to come out with a statement of the blazingly obvious on Pakistan's role in the the proceedings of the investigation.

And the next episode of this intriguing soap opera will be staged in the US. P.C flies there to plead the case. The US will, no doubt, lend a patient ear while signing some more financial aid to their trusted ally in their war againt terror. The wheels on the bus go round and round.

For crying out loud, hang the rascal and get it over with!

March of progress

Here's a thousand words on the inevitable march of progress. Found by the pavement. Abandoned by someone who has moved on.

A vegetarian, a sea food buffet and a sandwich

Last Friday saw the finishing up of a week-long trip on the road. Dinner was with the GM of our division and with my manager. The venue was a seafood buffet place not too far from the hotel. The assumption, as we set out, was that I would, by virtue of earlier visits, be familiar with this place. The only problem? I'm vegetarian and I'd walk past a seafood buffet place like it was, umm, a seafood buffet. Paying no attention whatsoever. We started walking in the general direction of the place and in a few minutes it was unanimously agreed that we were completely lost. The combined intellect of a trio of professionals sometimes comes up short in the simplest of occasions. We stood by the entrance to a subway station, pointing in different directions, covering an 180 degree arc when, out of nowhere, appeared a lady enquiring if we were lost. To clarify, I don't think it needed any confirmation. But I think she was just being polite. After sheepish admissions, she offered to walk us to the place and even helped us get on the waiting list.

A vegetarian at a seafood buffet place is like a fish out of water. (Bear with the pun.) Food was everywhere but not a morsel for me. After much investigation, I ended up having a couple of varieties of salad and a bowl of cream of broccoli soup with a questionable broth. I also nearly ended up having snails. Trust me, they look exactly like button mushrooms. And by my book, they had no business to be in a seafood restaurant. Anyways, $20 and as many calories later, I was stepping out of the place with a smile.

Why? Cut to earlier in the afternoon.

The party of 3 had split in the afternoon to hold two different meetings. My manager and I had Korean bibim bap at a local joint after our meeting on the way back to the office. The GM, bless his soul, unaware of our lunch plans, got us an expensive sandwich each. He handed me one assuring that it was vegetarian. It was like a premium-free insurance policy and I put it aside for dinner in case things didn't work out well for me. Which, if you haven't skipped the earlier part, was exactly what happened.

Cut to my room, post dinner.

I entered the room and went straight to the sandwich, sitting in the fridge. I let it thaw out while I changed and freshened up. With a flourish that accompanies the comforting thought that my hunger was about to be satiated, I sunk my teeth into it. If you've been a vegetarian all your life, chances are good that you haven't tasted meat. I bit a second crescent out and was chewing away, eyes closed, enjoying the mozzarella chunks. They were particularly tasty and warranted a look - a look of gratitude and admiration at nature's benevolence. I parted the buns and there it was. Seated above the juicy mozzarella was a pinkish slice of what I assumed was ham. Either the sandwiches were switched while being handed out or ham is considered vegetarian in Korea.

I've seen in movies where vegetarian characters, particularly girls, throw up everything upon realizing that they have consumed a piece of meat. I've always dismissed that as cinematic exaggeration. Wrong. One moment I was chewing and the next, regurgutating it, the finer details of which I've avoided here. What followed was a session of substance abuse. The substance in question being listerine. And abuse being rinsing all corners of the mouth. Twelve times.

You know what is worse than having salad at a seafood buffet for dinner after a long day? Throwing it all up and trying to sleep on an empty stomach.

Avani Avittam 2009

This year's avani avittam was truly a strange one. And, trust me, I've seen some real strange avani avittams so far. I've changed my poonal at strange places. Hell, I've even been the makeshift vadhyar, when I was in gradschool, by virtue of being in possession of a spare veshti and new poonals (Smartha variety) and a familiarity with the routine that was good enough to con my friends into believing in my non-existent ritualistic abilities. When it comes to the business of changing poonals, the buck stops with me.

So, what made AA'09 strange? Was it an exotic location? A la 2001 in the balcony of our apartment in Tempe, AZ with 2 guys in line, waiting to avail my services? Or 2005 in Shirakawa, Japan, in my small (8'x8') hotel room facing distant mountains? Or, perhaps, 2006 at Hotel Holiday Inn Express, Grenoble, with a great view and a plastic cup doubling up as the pancha paathram? No. This time, it was right at home, in the comfort of our living room.

At least, was it an adventurous one? Like in 2004 where I turned up, in shorts, taking time off from an early morning work assignment, for the first morning session in an ante-room in Komala Vilas, Sunnyvale, CA and had to scramble, at the last moment, for a veshti to conform to the dress code? (I managed a new one and that, by the way, is a separate post in itself) No, it was a much sedate one, lacking the drama or adventure that have spiced up previous editions.

So, you are wondering, what made this one strange. Well, this was the first all-male avani avittam in our household. But, avani avittam, amidst all the female oriented festivals where the men folks are relegated to being a side act or even a stagehand, is indeed a male celebration - the religious equivalent of the guys day out, you might argue. The one occasion on the Hindu calendar where the focus is on the man and not the woman. Well think again. It is the mother, or the wife, as the case may be, that prepares the site with the kolam, pulls out the pattu veshtis from the deeper recesses of the cup board, locates the spare sets of pancha pathrams, prepares the prasadam and finally puts up, at least in our case, with all the strutting around and attention seeking indulgences of the guys wanting to make the most of this one day. There is an undercurrent of feminity throughout the whole affair and that makes it complete.

This time around, With amma in a different world, and the wife away in a different city, it was an avani avittam minus the scent of the women - an ingredient without which avani avittam is as complete as vathakuzhambu without vellam. And with the brother away in a different country, it was left to the two of us - self and father, to go about the tasks before plugging into the regular routine a little behind schedule.

This year, we could not get a hold of "the sheet" in its physical form, with this year's sankalpam - usually delivered by the family vadhyar. Instead we had to rely on a soft copy of the same that was forwarded by email. And that meant Mr. Dell Latitude, was indeed the vadhyar, and at 15" across, a particularly lean one. The laptop was positioned between the two of us, facing us and the upakarma duly got underway.

It needs to be mentioned here that typically men do little else besides what is asked of them by the scriptures. But that day, since the two of us were racing against the clock to run some errands, and since our cook, a lady, perhaps helping with her husband's upakarma, wasn't in that day, we were forced to multitask. We decided to finish cooking, in parallel, so that we will be left with a few more precious minutes. In other words, we were trying to forge a win-win situation that didn't exist. What ensued was a juggling act of culinary and religious tasks with me scurrying back and forth between the hall and the kitchen in response to a sound or smell from the kitchen.

We got started only for the cooker to sound a third time. By the time we got around to yagnyopaveetha dhaaranam, the preliminary concoction for the rasam was not smelling the way it should and required my immediate attention. Kanda rishi tharpanam was done with one eye on the beans in the frying pan that threatened to demonstrate its inflammable properties. Amidst all the chaos happening around, the vadhyar, I mean the laptop, which could not be plugged in because of our location, went into hibernation twice, prompting violent scrubs on the mouse pad or frantic pounding of the space key to resuscitate it and finally having to log in again.

They say, all's well that ends well. We managed to complete, to the best extent possible, the religious requirements and also fixed ourselves a pretty decent meal along the way. The laptop was not exactly dry and had a few sesame seeds stuck beneath the keys, but hey, who is perfect?

But there were lessons in there all the same that can help us come 2010:

1. Give the lady of the house the Aung San Suu Kyi treatment a good week before avani avittam day. I meant only the house arrest.

2. Make sure that preparing a meal isn't on the agenda.

3. And if you plan to have an e-avani avittam, plug in the computer to a power source. It helps.

I can observe the above rules. If I don't, I'll blog on this topic in a year from now.

Judgement (for the) reserved

I read this news item and was stunned. Beyond words. Five students of IIT Delhi have been expelled based on their poor academic performances. They happen to belong to the scheduled caste and lo behold, all hell has broken lose. What baffles me is that the expelled students have moved the court and the court, in turn, has ruled in their favor! Let me see if I understand this. You don't measure up to some well established, high standards of world renown and instead of improving yourself, or dealing with the fact that you just don't belong there, you turn around and blame the system. And by the looks of it, it doesn't seem to be a bad idea at all.

The Supreme Court, in its ruling has said that the IITs can neither "just cite pursuit of academic excellence as a reason to expel SC/ST students" nor "apply the grading system mechanically to backward class students, especially those belonging to SCs and STs". In other words, the SC has just made a mockery of one of the last refuges of the merit system in India and has dubbed it "mechanical grading". Maybe the IITs should consider developing a more comprehensive grading system that takes into account a student's culinary, oratorical and histrionic skills and factors in his caste and social standing and also maybe, if required, note his academic results while deciding on letting him continue or not.

Or here's an even better and more elegant solution to this knotty problem: An exclusive IITs for the backward, downtrodden classes. If, in the words of the highest judicial authorities of the land, these students are part of a "separate class by themselves", it only follows that this "class" deserves its own IIT. Ladies and gentlemen, welcome the Flexible In-n-Out Institute of Technology (FIIT)s wherein, upon entering, a student is assured of a degree at the end of 4 years, come what may. The FIIT graduates can then be tasked with building all the court buildings and judges' bungalows. My professor used to explain to the new students the pass/fail grades for the periodic safety tests to gain entry into our lab thus: "You don't want to be standing next to someone that got an F in safety". He was not a fool. Sometimes corners can simply not be cut. Period.

The learned(?) men have also reasoned thus: “It is relevant to mention that admittedly all these students had joined IIT Delhi in the academic year 2006-07 and 2007-08 after clearing All-India JEE conducted for all the IITs in the year 2006 and 2007. It shows that they were successful in securing the minimum cut-off marks earmarked for the SC/ST categories”. That is, they were good at some point in the past and hence their current dipping grades should be overlooked. By an extension, if Ajmal Kasab, the nabbed terrorist from the Nov 2008 Mumbai shootout, had been a philanthropist and a man of good standing in society till a couple of years back, should he be absolved of his latest crimes and be set free? If this argument is used as a model, I think so.

If an individual is not good enough to excel in a certain sphere of human activity, it is not a crime. And that individual, should take it on the chin and learn to cope with the truth. Not everyone is blessed with what it takes to go through the grind of premier institutions like the IITs. And if you are one such, hard luck. Go find what suits you best. But resorting to bend an already abused system and lowering the bar so that one can scrape through is just bad. It is like Sourav Ganguly asking for juicy half volleys so that he can unfurl his silky cover drives to cover up his weakness on the leg side. This judgement aims to do just that: mollycoddle failure and breed mediocrity.

Reservation is a double edged sword that can cut both ways. While I agree that the real backward folks (not the creamy layer, rich, urban OBCs/SCs/STs) need to be provided opportunities to develop, it also poses a threat, in its present form, to churn out mediocre or even downright sub-standard products that can't stand up to scrutiny in the job market. This system is doing nobody any favor besides placing a strain on tax payers' money. These students got into the portals of such hallowed institutions through a concession (the backdoor). Now to expect such concessions to continue and shepherd them through the rough seas of rigorous standards and exacting syllabi is really pushing it.

This is OK (till you learn to ride)

(Image courtesy: www.ehow.com)

But this? I don't think so.

(Image courtesy: www.strangevehicles.com)

Ticked off by stickers

Is it just me or is everyone annoyed by the stickers on fruits?

Thanks. I knew I wasn't alone.

I don't have anything against stickers per se. I used to have a collection as a kid. Of fast cars, bikes, fighter jets, super heroes and such else stuck on just about any surface. Besides their "artistic" service, there are the other applications as well - price tags, labels etc. So what drove me against these sticky friends? Things started to go wrong when the fruit folks, particularly the apple guys, at some point between the fruits getting plucked to being stocked on the store shelf, decided to get some critical piece of information attached to their products. Only, their products are edible and the piece of information-bearing sticker isn't. By any stretch of imagination. The sticker bears a number and, in most cases, the picture of a solemn apple for good measure. In theory, the sticker helps charge the customer the right price for the right variety, which is fine with me. Swindling a farmer is the last thing on my mind. But in reality, it happens to be the quickest way to get apple under your fingernails. This glossy piece of inconvenience gets a life of its own when it senses that it is about to be evicted from its fruity perch. The time between when you pick up an apple from the fridge and when you can finally sink your teeth into it could be between 20 minutes, if you possess the dexterity usually demonstrated by neuro-surgeons, to an hour, if you are me. Even if I manage to get it off, there is the lingering doubt about what kind of residue still sits at the former site (never mind that the apple is soaked in pesticide) which prompts a neurotic scrub and the eventual decision to amputate a chunk and consign it to the trash can. I can already see someone accepting the Nobel prize for his work on adhesive toxicity in apples and I don't want to be a statistic. Although I'm not on an apple-a-day regimen, I still end up sending a significant quantity of otherwise edible fruit chunks to the dump in a year. Surely there must be an elegant solution to this. Sigh.

Next in this line of madness are the steel vessel manufacturers who put them at the most inconvenient places. Like the business end of a ladle, for instance, or bang in the middle of the inside of a plate and other such places where the sticker is as useful as an elephant in a kitchen. I don't know if things were this bad traditionally and I'm beginning to notice this only now or if these guys have decided to get creative with pushing their brands only recently. We had christened a steel container as the "J.K dabba" (J.K being the letters on the tenacious sticker that could not be removed at all, passing the tests of multiple washes). These are not informative stickers, mind you. And even the critical wash instruction tags on garments get stitched only on to the insides. Unobtrusively. Now, I'm all for sensible advertisement and disseminating information. I mean, how else do you expect people to know about your wonderful products? But, if these annoying pieces come off easily, I wouldn't be writing this stuff. Instead, the guys over at T.S.K Steel Works (and Apsara Steels) believe that it is not a bad idea to use industrial grade super adhesives to affix these wonderful stickers that cling on to the surface with a wicked force. Along with the price tag that the retailer affixes. You know whats more annoying? People choosing to leave the stickers on and use the vessel. Last week I tasted adhseive flavored cabbage curry.

I've now officially condemned 3 tonnes of utensils as "unusable" and sent them on their way to rebirth in some other form. Probably with a different sticker. I wonder if and when will the folks over at T.S.K Steel Works (and Apsara Steels) realize that people don't exactly flock to buy their particular brands. A ladle is a ladle and as long as it doesn't cut my fingers and doesn't have a sticker at the most inconvenient place, I'm fine with whoever makes it. And if you are keen to spread your name around, stick that darned thing on the handle/outside!

(Image courtesy: http://www.ddbseattle.com/blogs/hillary_miller/)

A walk down memory lane (Warner Road)

Epilogue

I don't know what possesses men (and women, but mostly men) to identify tasks that defy logic (stupid), undertake them and revel in the afterglow of accomplishing them. In every university, at any point in time, there exist a few guys that are capable of executing such tasks with finesse. These guys exist outside the confines of a university too, but I use it to include everyone in the general age group of early twenties. That phase in life when nothing, barring a few things like showing up for that early morning class in winter or timely submission of homework assignments, appears impossible. And in that elite group, there exist two sub groups. One try to cover up their stupidity, leave no tracks and carry their acts to their graves, whenever possible. The second group wear their stupidity on their sleeves like it was a bravery medal. And a few, for the benefit of those that couldn't get to lay their eyes on their sleeves, blog about it...

I am a walking person. I enjoy getting from point A to B on foot. In fact, I'm blessed to be living within walking distance from work, which, for the most part, is a great advantage. Before you berate me for being not truly appreciative, I must dare you to walk 20 minutes in hot, wet tropical climate, trying to reach work in time for that important meeting or conference call. But, on most days, I do enjoy the ~ 20 minute walk, particularly the one back from work. K, my good friend at ASU, and I shared this passion for walking and were part of the walking club of Indian graduate students (members: 2)

We were in the habit of taking long walks on Friday nights. Fridays signalled the end of our part-time work/full-time study week and no matter what state our academic pursuits were in, a long walk was always on the cards. It was a routine that the two of us would look forward to from Wednesday. Elaborate plans would be made, in reverential tones, about the route and the pit stops. But we didn't set ourselves any goals. We would go as far as our legs would take us and our legs would usually take us about 4 miles one way. The pitstops would be gas stations for a drink(for both of us) and cigarettes (for K only) and the topics discussed would include anything from the dinner that night to solutions for all social evils (including the said dinner) and everything in between. Before long, we became the butt of many jokes and earned the moniker "Forrest Gump(s)" from the rest of the friends. A few of them would talk about joining us, one actually did once and swore not to do it again. But we were pretty serious about it, often choosing a good walk over watching a movie with friends and alcohol in the comfort of an air-conditioned apartment. And mind you, this was Phoenix, AZ where the heat, dry and sapping, hung like a blanket well into the night, 8 months a year. We've had people calls us names, dogs straining at their leashes, eager to try Indian food, eggs thrown at us (OK, only at me) and yet, we walked. Every Friday night.

It was around 9pm on one such non-descript Friday night that we realized that we had run out of racquet balls for our weekday evening games. A critical situation, you might agree, that demaded our immediate, undivided attention. So, naturally, our agenda for that night was to walk to the Walmart store (about 3 miles away) and stock up on a pack or two. We reached there in due time to find their doors locked. If sanity had prevailed, we would have walked back home that night, putting off buying them until the next opportunity presented itself. It was Friday, remember, and sanity had taken off early, leaving us under the grip of it's stand in, stupidity. K suggested that we go, as in walk, to the nearest Walmart Supercenter, open for business 24x7, to buy the very critical, life-saving raquet balls. It was unanimously agreed, in under 3 seconds, that that was the best course of action under the circumstances. Only, the nearest supercenter was located a good 10 miles away.

Our march began in right earnest. Great ideas and thoughts spurred us on and the conversation was interesting as always. Girls? Check. Cricket? Yes. Movies? Done. Girls? Yes. Religion? Sure. Politics? Mm hmm. Girls? Yes. Well, you get the drift. We were doing a good job, keeping up a good pace. The first few miles went by without much trouble. We stopped at one of the gas stations to fuel up on gatorade and Marlboro lights. It needs to be mentioned here that the summer of 2002 had taken hold of the Sonoran desert and it was a particularly intense summer. The pitstop was longer than usual and 500ml of the liquid was gone without a trace. But not once there was a mention of beating a retreat. The march continued. We were not too sure about the exact location of the store and were heading out in the general direction of our destination. Since Phoenix has a grid system of roads, we wouldn't be doing additional miles unless we were walking in the opposite direction.

It was well past midnight and we would have done about 5 miles and a couple of hours, on top of the first 3, when things started getting funny and took on a sado-masochistic flavor. With another 5 miles to go, of which we weren't aware at that time, conversation had thinned down and we were walking past silent neighborhoods, with only the occasional car whizzing past. The mouth had gone as dry as the air and the throat parched and I was feeling light. The dinner from early on in the evening was digested and it felt like we hadn't had a drink in ages. Our plight wasn't very different from people trying to sneak into the US from across its southern border, lost in a desert without maps or water. Doubts, about the wisdom behind undertaking this trip, were beginning to creep into our minds and the bodies, dehydrated, were clearly unable to match the spirit (stupidity) that was available at the start. That was when we spotted lights in the distance. As we approached, we realized that it was a Sonic outlet - America's Drive In. Charged at the prospect of a drink and some rest, we quickened the pace and reached there. There were only a couple of cars parked randomly with engines running. We walked up to the menu and sat on the bench opposite, to catch our breath and to rest our legs while debating the drink of choice. We decided on a tall glass of some juice each and as we stood up to order, I'm not making this up to spice up the story, the lights went out and the staff left in the waiting cars, in a mix of squealing tires and exhaust fumes.

I want you to picture this. It was about 1:00 am on a 90+ deg. summer night and there we were, two graduate students - a couple of semesters away from graduating, laying sprawled out, tired and thirsty, on the bench of a dark and empty Sonic outlet that had just closed. We were about 8-9 miles from our apartment, without a cell phone to call either friends or even a taxi. A good 15 minutes must have passed in complete silence before we gathered our wits and decided that we didn't have a choice but to continue to press ahead.

And with that agreement, we trudged along, knowing that we were on the final leg of the journey. We had left behind neighborhoods and were walking down a lonely stretch with nothing but empty lots on either side. The pitstop routine became leaning against lamp posts, waiting for the swimming vision to settle, swearing and trying to preserve ourselves. With the shirt buttons undone and the shoe laces free, if the cops had spotted us that night and wanted to lock us up on suspicion, they would have had very little reason not to do it, in spite of our ID cards. After another hour of labored progress, the destination loomed into sight. I've never felt good about Walmart and their practices. But that night, their store sign was the most pleasing sight I could ever hope for. I pinched myself to see if it was really happening and the skin remained pinched. Entering the comfortable interior of the store we crawled straight to the cooler section. A litre of cold water and sports drinks later, the body and the soul were revived enough to face our next problem: the return journey. If you're thinking, "But didn't you guys think about it earlier?", chances are you skipped the epilogue.

Sanity had just returned and we unanimously ruled out walking back as an option. Over a couple of more bottles of water, we hatched what was a reasonably good plan: we'd take any available late night (or very early morning) bus service in the general direction of our apartment. We scanned the check out counters and picked our target, a native American girl with a pleasing countenance even at that hour. We had gotten smart enough to acknowledge that any random, grumpy late night sales person wasn't going to make the cut. Approaching her gingerly, we brought ourselves to ask for the Valley Metro bus schedule. As unusual as the request was, coming from a couple of idiots, she started looking for it. Unable to find one, she paused, and went "Why do you guys need one?". A very valid question, you might notice. We weren't sure where to begin or how much detail to share when K sprang to life and came clean in one breath. He narrated the entire story very animatedly, including our agenda, as I stood there, still taking swigs from the bottle. I'm not sure about K, but the look that she gave us both was something that will stay with me for a long while. I think this picture would convey more about that situation than any length of prose.

"There ain't no late night services", said the girl, slowly and deliberately, as if she were talking to a couple of kids demanding candies after having brushed their teeth for the night. What followed was truly an awkward silence, interrupted only by the beeps of night owls checking out stuff in the adjacent counters. There was a lot of staring going on back and forth between the three of us. Finally she broke the silence with, "Which direction are you guys headed towards?"

"ASU campus", K and I cried out in unison, sensing that she, and not us, might have a solution to the situation that we had walked into.

It might not have taken her much time to decide that we were a couple of dorks capable of much more stupid things. "I'm getting off work in another 15 minutes and may be I can drop you guys off at the campus", offered the dusky angel. As to why I didn't sweep her into my arms and plant a kiss on her forehead that moment, I'm not sure. It was a small red Chevy truck she had and we piled into the cabin. The entire drive, 10 minutes long, went in listen mode for us. She filled us in about her family, their tribe and their handicrafts shop somewhere in Northern Arizona. She dropped us off at the campus, accepted our gratitude, wished us good luck and drove off into the night.

As her tail lights faded away, one thought was foremost on our minds. "How to buy racquet balls for Monday night?", for there were none in stock that night at the supercenter.

K and I decided to write about this incident independently. For a racier version of the same story, go here.

Artful flu

It appears that the flu is going to be around for a while. The management is sparing no effort to keep all their eggs safe, since they are all in one basket. Temperature screening, which required only visitors from abroad to get checked upon entering the building, has now been extended to all employees. Upon passing the test, you get a nice sticker on your badge with the date, that you wear around all day and, on the way out, you contribute to this avant garde piece of art that is evolving everyday. Thanks to the combination of a well meaning health measure and this nation's neurotic sense of cleanliness, an otherwise comatose staff have now caught the found art bug.

This is my third post related to the swine flu outbreak (after this and this) and I intend to stay away from this wonderful topic. You're welcome. Unless something really blogworthy comes up.

Guns n' roses - India style

Following the progress, or the lack thereof, in the trial of Kasab is an experience of its own. An exercise in probing the very depths of our patience. Introductions first. Kasab is the lone surviving Lashkar-e-Tayiba gunman captured from the November terror attacks in Mumbai, dubbed conveniently as "26/11", a la 9/11. There is videographic evidence available showing his involvement and he has been positively identified by eye witnesses. He is a part of a group that let loose terror on our soil, smoking out innocent human lives.

What have we done since 27/11? We have housed Kasab in a high security jail. He has been provided legal counsel and has promptly pleaded not guilty and a trial that adheres to and upholds the law of the land, trying to prove beyond reasonable doubt that the accused is indeed guilty and, of course, holding him innocent until then, is well underway. His excellency has requested for Urdu newspapers, Urdu Times, to be specific, perfumes and toothpaste to be provided in jail. He has also requested to be allowed to go for walks within the jail complex without which, he claims, he might lose his mental balance. And, he has also directed the police to deposit into his jail account the amount seized from him when he was captured. Mood lighting and channel music are next on his list, perhaps. I'm sure the righteous, secular, bleeding hearts in New Delhi would have fallen over each other in rushing to ensure that all his requests are met and he has been made comfortable and cozy in his new nest. Over the progress of the trial, the emboldened Kasab laughs when his pictures are shown during the trial which has led to a reprimand from the judge. All this while Dr. P Chidambaram was busy answering a series of questions regarding the attacks posed by our friendly neighbor to the west. He has responded to all questions, complete with a 400-page dossier. "We have put together answers to the 30 questions submitted by Pakistan. It is a very comprehensive document, answering each of the 30 questions," beamed the diligent, obedient student, chest swelling with pride. Even as we continue to go around in circles with our procedures and self-righteousness, Pakistan has released Hafeez Saeed, the founder of the Lashkar organization and the alleged brain behind the Mumbai terror attacks, cancelled petitions against his release, cancelled Sarabjit Singh's mercy petition and has been suitably rewarded by the US, which has tripled its aid with very few conditions on how it needs to be spent. A failed state Pakistan may be, but one with a very clever and quick government that knows how to work the right knobs.

Assuming that Kasab is found guilty and handed the death penalty at some point of time in future, there is always the legal system that allows for re-trials, appeals and prayers at many levels even for such a straight forward case that was a slap on the combined faces of our intelligence, security and preparedness. And finally, if all else fails, the mercy petition kicks in. Given our government's unbreakable, 'one-mercy petition-per-month' rule that is written in stone, Kasab might actually end up giving Afzal Guru, convicted of conspiracy in the Dec 2001 attack on our parliament building and a veteran of the 28 member long death row waiting list, company and bide his time until our Prez. Patil clears the pending petitions. In one of the interrogation scripts published online, Kasab says that he was promised jannat (heaven), after completion of the terror attacks. For someone who was wallowing in stone age across the border throughout his sorry life, waking up within a high security prison every morning, brushing his teeth with toothpaste, going for a brisk walk and reading free Urdu newspapers, after applying some perfume, all provided free, Kasab has indeed reached the gates of jannat. The L-e-T has delivered what it had promised him.

Let's say we hang this guy at the crack of dawn tomorrow and by noon the whole world has solid proof that it was a horrible mistake and that he was a wonderful, innocent chap - a nice son, a good brother and all such dung and that he just happened to be at the CST at the wrong time, toting a toy gun that he had bought as a gift for his nephew back in Rawalpindi or some other hell hole. Only, it turned out to be a real gun that took out a few lives. What would happen? Yes, Pakistan would rattle their sabre and the rest of the world will cry foul and will apply "diplomatic pressure" and spout vitriol laced advice on the need to exercise restraint. But our message would have been loud and clear: "You don't mess with us." We would have erred, but on the side of caution and it isn't all that bad when you consider that tiny nations like Bangladesh and Sri Lanka routinely pull the trigger first and ask questions later if their national pride is messed with. If, on the other hand, he is guilty, which he is, quite obviously, then again the same message would have been sent out, forcing wannabe terrorists to at least think twice. But here we are, running a seemingly endless trial at tax payers' expense. The lethargy that the Indian government has put on show in dealing with an event of such magnitude has instead set a wrong tone. Terrorists, trained or aspiring, following the events since 26/11, can conclude, quite correctly, that India is a soft, spineless and stupid state that can be attacked with nothing to fear.

While we take great pride in how quick we are to bounce back (The now famous "Mumbai spirit") every time after a terror attack, we must hang our heads in shame for having such an impotent government that drags its feet when it comes to dispensing justice, even when our national security was breached so brazenly. And provides enough occasions for the Mumbai spirit to shine. Justice delayed is justice denied. But we have our prince, nostro principe, on record saying, "There is a huge line and there are others before him (Afzal Guru). When his number (turn) comes, he will be hanged” - as simple as that. Till then, did you say Burberry for men? Right away, janab!

Adios Michael

Michael Jackson's death initially felt like a distant event. A happening outside my immediate sphere. It didn't quite register the same way with me as, say, Nagesh's or Shivaji Ganesan's did. The passing away of the latter two hit me closer. I grew up watching them perform and were a much bigger part of my childhood than MJ. Yet, it didn't feel right.

While being a kid, against my staple diet of Tamil music (MSV, Ilayaraja and AR Rahman, in that order), the only source of "Western music" that I was ever aware of, was Michael Jackson's. He visited India in 1996. Pepsi (It was Lehar Pepsi then, I think) was offering a free audio cassette of his Dangerous album with the purchase of some quantity of their products. And, as was the case back then, my cousins were among the first citizens of Chennai to get that cassette (as with any other freebie that came out with just about any product in the market) which was playing non-stop. That was the first time ever that I listened to his songs. I quickly caught on to "Black or White" and "Remember the time". Just those words, mind you, for I absolutely couldn't understand the lyrics. But the music was something out of the world and I was truly blown away.

When I was in college, I was bothering my parents to get me a music system. So much that we would have visited a half a dozen showrooms atleast 6 times each, and still managed to not buy one. Anyways, everytime we were there, the sales man would almost always play a MJ CD to demonstrate the capabilities of a system. As the clear beats flowed through the giant speakers, I would get goose bumps. 1200W PMPO was one thing to read on a brochure but a Jackson song gave it a different meaning altogether. Through the 90s, I caught glimpses of his stunning videos on MTV. While I can never claim to be his "fan" in the real sense of the word, he was always on the periphery. I was a long distance fan, if you will.

When trying to make sense of the MJ phenomenon, the first word that springs to mind is style. This man had tons of it and some more. The dance (although his crotch grab made me squirm), the walk, the costumes, the looks, everything had style about it. Style of the kind that was never seen before. It confirmed his status as the King of Pop. And the King had colonized the world. One could love him or hate him but nearly everyone had to have some opinion about him and that was proof of the influence he had over everyone out there.

Then yesterday, at a music store, they were playing a montage of his live performances with video clippings from his tours. Two words: mass hysteria. Be it Europe, the US or Asia, his mere presence on the stage could work the crowds into a mad frenzy. Colossal stadia were filled with people in tears, tearing away at their clothes. Women, and men, had to be helped away as they passed out. I don't know if it was the music or the musician behind such scenes of crowd adulation. This man possessed something that could touch the lives of millions. He was an entertainer. But in the eyes of the masses, he was a messiah. He was special, residing well beyond the realms of mere mortality. Whatever the case, it would be very easy for a person to be carried away at being worshipped by all races across the world. And what is stardom, anyways, without that touch of eccentricity or a streak of self destruction? He was in the news for all the wrong reasons, proven or not, and was getting good at living up to the "Whacko Jacko" label, what with his pale complexion, the weird nose job and financial troubles. The all too familiar tale of sublime talent gone wrong. But I continued to be a long distance fan: of his music and entertainment. As me and my wife stood transfixed, watching the probably 3-minute-long video, I had a lump in my throat. It finally sunk in that the pop icon, the performer, the prodigy, the entertainer that could rally mankind is no more. Somehow, it still doesn't feel right. RIP.

(Image courtesy: www.soulwalking.co.uk)

Beware the hand!

Warning: This post has scary images that are not suitable for the young or the faint at heart. Unless you are Singaporean, that is.

This image is what greets members of the general public these days. At train stations, bus stands, on the side walks and just about everywhere. The latest horror offering from Hollywood? An otherwise normal hand by the day morphs into this creepy one on full moon nights and attacks the city, striking terror among residents. The local priest knows it is the work of the spirit of a young girl that got killed last summer while camping in the woods under very unpleasant circumstances. The cops have closed the case as "Unsolved". This priest knows just what it takes to bring it to an end. He makes a bullet by melting the dead girl's silver pendant and together with the help of a smart guy and an extremely good looking girl, slay it in the grave yard after much blood and gore, you say. Possible, smart reader. But wrong.

The above image is the face of (hand of?) the Health Promotion Board's rather subtle campaign against, what else, the H1N1 virus. To promote washing hands as the first line of defense against the virus. These images started popping up, I'd say, nearly a month back when the virus threat was beginning to take hold. As of last night, there are over a thousand suspected cases of the virus here alone. And a line of child pyschiatrists at the BMW showroom. So much for choosing scare tactics to spread awareness. Here is a second image with more context. A picture is worth a thousand cases, I suppose.

Now, I'm no expert on creating such posters with graphic images. But I'm sure that the HPB would have spent a small fortune on coming up with the above masterpiece. But my question is, why reinvent the wheel? Why re-create when you can reuse? If the concern is to safeguard against germs from beyond your shores, a quick search would have yielded good results that convey the message just as effectively. Like this, for example.

Stop the horror with some common sense and punching the right key (in 2014)!

(Image courtesy: Kon Jirjo's media works for APCC)

Green tea + sleeplessness = Useless post

1:41AM: Decide to give it another try.

1:34AM: The birth of a clearly useless blog posting.

1:21AM: The Eureka moment: 2 cups of green tea at 4:40PM last evening. The motivation for my switch to this beverage from my usual Milo? A sore throat that was craving to be soothed by a hot, bland (vs. syrupy sweet) fluid. Note to self: STAY AWAY FROM CAFFEINE!!

1:14 AM: Tired of tossing around, get out of bed. Wondering what is keeping me awake in spite of having a long, busy day. Sitting in a dark room lit only by the computer screen.

12:37AM: A brain that steadfastly refuses to switch off. A couple of hundred sheep have jumped over the fence. Said brain latches on to some train of thought, spins a tale around it and just as sleep tries to take control, a hypnagogic myoclonus and I'm staring at the ceiling fan, wide awake. Try to think of positive thoughts, will myself to go to sleep: drawing a blank.

12:13AM: Shut down the computer and find that I'm not feeling all that sleepy. Still creep into bed, confident of falling asleep.

(Image courtesy: cartoonChurch.com)

A smelly convenience

My weekly grocery shopping travails have been documented here. Singapore's layout seems to have a one-point agenda: Make life miserable for Indian vegetarians. OK, I'm exaggerating a bit. But crave clean Indian vegetarian food? Go to Little India. Need Indian groceries and spices? Li'l India again! Throw in a two-leg bus-train journey, you are looking at anywhere upwards of 3 hours to fill yourself and your refrigerator. And, the return journey, hauling full bags, is sure to remind you of your weekend escapades well into the work week.

But all that has changed with the discovery of Sheng Siong - a chain of super markets with a very distinctive smell. It wasn't a discovery that I made while exploring a road less taken, it had been sitting right by the side of a very beaten track. I've walked past this store for nearly a year now, every day to and from work. But it was the smell that kept me from venturing in as I had mentally branded it as a store for the Chinese, replete with aquatic organisms dead, dying or dried. Yet, curiosity got the better of me one evening when I was using the ATM in front of the place and I took a few hesitant steps in.

You could be forgiven for thinking that you were entering a poorly maintained aquarium. They have the usual 3 sections: the aquarium, the dead zoo and the garden. While I can't comment on anything other than the smell about the first two, the garden section carries, besides the usual onion-capsicum-beans-carrot quartet, an impressive array of Indian vegetables. Podalangai? Check. Keerai? Check. Seppankizhangu? Yes, of course! Agreed, they don't carry murungakkai or kathrikkai, both critical requirements in my opinion. But, hey! It is a compromise I'm gladly willing to make in return for saving me a trip to Mustafa's on any weekend. Whats a little bad smell compared to a few hours of shopping hell? A chayote squash still tastes the same even if it gets billed as fo shou gua, right? Moreover, as I said before, this is located very conveniently on my way back home from work: more weekend hours freed up!

To my very pleasant surprise, they also offer a lot of Indian culinary requirements like mustard, cumin seeds, pepper, etc, except for a few, very specialized spices like asafoetida, fenugreek and the usual masalas. But these are items that I usually stockpile from India and won't need on a weekly basis. And, frankly, I won't expect a fully blown Ambika Appalam Depot in a foreign land. I'm reasonable.

But I still haven't touched upon the biggest advantage of all: rice. I thought that this was something available only in and around Little India. No Siree Bob! Parboiled ponni rice is available in 5kg and even 25kg packs! Good bye blue fingers and sore arms.

To top it all, this place even let me show some patriotism. There were two brands of rice available. One look at the bags and it was a very easy choice for me.

P.S: They also sell a dozen different varieties of biscuits in "loose": required quantities from a wholesale size tin!

Who was (being) the kid in the senate?

I watched with much interest the incident on the news about an Australian senator, Sarah Hanson-Young's infant daughter, Kora, being forcibly ejected from the parliament chambers. (Full story here) I was reminded of Somerset Maugham's short story about a bus condcutor and a lady with a Pekinese dog - the former asking the latter to get off a late-night bus, citing an obscure "no-dogs-on-buses" rule. (Although this sounds like I'm an avid reader, the only reason I know about this story is because this was an English lesson in high school.)

Update: That story was not by Somerset Maugham. It was "All About a Dog" by A.G Gardiner and is available here.

This was interesting to me for many reasons, one of which is the question "Can parents take their kids to work place?" And I'm not talking bring-your-daughter-to-work days. "Are you a fighter/commercial pilot?" "Do you control the operation of a nuclear power plant?" "Do you fire guns at enemies trying to infiltrate into your borders?" "Do you perform open heart (or any other) surgery?" If your answer to any of those questions is a yes, then the answer to the first question is an obvious no. I mean, you can't take your kid to work with you. If on the other hand, you had answered no to all the above questions, then the answer is, it still depends. Having a kid around when you are trying to get some work done - even if you hold a 9-5 desk job that involves no interaction with heavy machinery, wild beasts or members of the general public, is a distraction in general. It is an inconvenient situation not only for the parent but for the kid(s) too. There can be no two opinions about it. Parents, in many cases can avail the various options available these days - day care centers, maids, child care leave, work from home, to name a few, to take care of the child while they discharge their professional duties.

The second reason why my interests were aroused was because, as kids, we had to tag along with our father on many days to his office during our annual summer vacations and unscheduled school holidays like strikes, study holidays before exams, etc. We were at that age when we were too old for our day care center but too young to be left alone by ourselves at home. In the mid-80s, there were not available in Chennai, flexible day care centers or summer camps. We did not have the luxury of being packed away to grand parents' houses: we had never seen our maternal grandparents and our paternal grandma had to be taken care of by someone. Those were days before the age of computers/internet and hence working from home was not an option for anybody. And since our mom used to work for a bank, we ended up, as a last resort, in our father's office, a much quieter place, on many many summer days. On some days it was just the one of us and on others we'd both mark our presence. We tried to be as transparent as kids in vacation can ever be. I must say we were reasonably successful in that we were never asked to be evicted from the office. If he was embarrassed, which I'm sure he was on many occasions, our father never showed it. He did this for a couple of years until one of his colleagues, bless her soul, offered to let us be at her place, just behind the office building, along with her kids who were under the care of a maid. Raising kids when both the parents were employed used to be a much more daunting task than it is these days and our parents went through a lot to bring us up.

Coming to this specific situation, I don't think the parliament chamber is the right place for a toddler to be. Even a well behaved child could definitely be a distraction when you are deciding/debating on issues that will impact the entire population of your country. And it is something that she should have avoided at all costs. I don't know about Australia but the Indian parliament or any state assembly house for that matter is definitely no place for kids for the same reason that X-rated movies are not for kids. Enough said. I'm still unclear why the senator took the child in, given that a child care center was available on the parliament campus - a smart move that should be emulated by other countries to enable politician mothers to play a better role in law making, knowing that her kid is safe and being cared for. That said, the situation could definitely have been handled a lot better in my opinion. The adorable child, aged two, was doing fine when the Senate president decided to have her evicted. May be he could have waited till the voting was over to make his point. Instead he chose to have Kora taken away, which led to her crying and the issue becoming more dramatic and bigger than it already was, leaving me wondering which was a bigger issue: the kid in the parliament or the senator who was being the kid. Which was why I was reminded of the Somerset Maugham story whose title I still can't remember.

The PC show

It was a bleary Sunday afternoon. Lunch was partaken and the prospect of a siesta was bright on the horizon. But we had a role to play in helping the limping economy recover. Defying the lunch induced stupor, we decided to visit the PC show that was held between June 11-14 at the Suntec City Hall, Singapore.

I had a specific deal in mind: consolidate my home internet, cell phone and TV subscriptions into one bundle and sign up for a 2 year lease and thus avail the discounts and collect a spanking new laptop that was the sign up gift. Given the state of the economy, I was naive enough to believe that there would be thin crowds and all that I would be required to do was sign the paperwork, collect the gifts and return home by train. May be even stop by at the cafe on the way back and indulge in a hot chocolate, cradling the new laptop. The only difficulty that I anticipated was to decide on the laptop color. Would I go with the dignity of a grey or make a statement with a red?

We got off at the train station, exactly 800 metres away from the venue. We didn't have to refer to any maps. A sea of humanity was headed in that direction. All we had to do was to walk with the crowd. The show was held on mutiple levels at Suntec City with over 600 exhibitors occupying the space available. Strewn pamphlets carpeted the floors and people packed every square inch of the aisles and walkways. There was a maddening display of computers, accessories, consumer electronic goods. Vendors were going ballistic, yelling details of their offers into microphones and holding count down sales. The bargain hunters, clutching a bunch of pamphlets and comparing offers were cris-crossing, lending to the chaos. Triumphant folks heading out were hauling trolleys and carts, with an oversized LCD TV perched precariously and an assortment of other goods. It was a sight to behold.

Some statistics:

Visitors: 1.13 million (2008: 1.1 million)

Money spent: S$52.1 million (2008: S$51.7 million)

(Source: The Straits Times and Asiaone Digital)

(Image courtesy: The Straits Times)

If there was a depression or an economic slump happening, it was definitely not evident there.

The deal that I wanted was "Fully redeemed!", a tattered sheet of paper that was pasted on the counter announced. Probably gone in the first few seconds. My means may have been redeemed but I still had the goal of helping the economy. We ended up buying a portable HDD - a very relevant purchase, given the times, a speaker for the computer system - not entirely unnecessary and an ipod nano - may be considered an indulgence but then it has been on our wish list for too long now. Hey, I have an economy to revive, remember? I even thought of giving it a booster shot by eyeing the Sharp Aquos LCD TV (Panel from Japppan-la, response time 5 ms onleeee-la) But my better half has a way of bringing me to reality with very few words. Having done our part, we boarded the bus back home.

So, ladies and gentlemen, those of you that have concerns about the ongoing recession, economic slump, slowdown or anything else that this current phenomenon is called, can now sit back and relax. Rest assured that it will all be over. If it doesn't, you know why.