Visa drama in Taipei - Part II

Part I of this series is the previous post. I recommend you head over and read that only so this post makes a bit more sense. 

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It was pouring heavily when the black Merc deposited me in front of my destination exactly 10 minutes ahead of my interview slot. Unlike the ones in Chennai or Singapore, the US consulate in Taipei doesn't have imposing walls, snaking lines along the compound or traffic constables looking to make a quick buck by offering to safeguard cellphones. It is a rather non-descript building, tucked away in a corner, just a stone’s throw from the Taipei 101 tower. Once inside, I was quickly ushered through fee payment and document verification by neatly dressed stewardesses. Although not very fluent in English, they were very helpful, very efficient and very pleasant. In stark contrast to the nose-in-the-air, holier-than-thou attitude that is the hallmark of the Indian staff manning the visa seekers at the US Consulate in Chennai. I remember getting hassled by a sari-clad lady who, I’m sure, would have given even G W Bush a tough time before letting him through to the counter.

The interview was rather short: I explained what happened and urged him to issue me a visa the same day so that I could take the flight back home the next day as planned. The visa officer, although slightly amused by my story, proceeded to review my application. After carefully ascertaining that I was a genuine applicant with no ulterior motives other than wanting to be home on time and escape the wife’s wrath, he promised to do his best to expedite the process. A married man perhaps. I was asked to pay the fees – a definite sign that my visa would get stamped. But the real question eating my brain was: When?

As if on cue, yet another stewardess appeared from nowhere and ushered me to yet another counter for some more processing. This time an Asian lady with impeccable English ran through an exhaustive set of questions the responses to none of which seemed to convince her to her fullest satisfaction. Finally, after interviewing me for what seemed like ages, she beamed a smile from behind the glass and asked me to return the following week to collect my visa. Mm mm, next week ain't gonna work ma’am. I had to explain my travel situation to her with the help of my itinerary and my previous conversation with the officer. She consulted with the officer that had interviewed me and finally consented to issue the visa the very same day. Tick tock tick tock…easily the longest five minutes in recent memory. It was at that moment that I chose to divulge to her that my passport had a solitary empty side, right behind my just expired visa. With a roll of her eyes, she walked in to the printing section and consulted with someone who reluctantly agreed to print it on that page. As an exception. Tick tock tick tock…easily the longest two minutes in recent memory. If they had refused, I had the Indian embassy’s address ready in my pocket to rush there and request a new passport. Phew!

I felt an intense feeling of relief wash all over me as I realized that my ordeal was coming to an end. I checked my watch. I had spent just over two hours at the embassy. However, in the bigger scheme of things, in less than 36 hours from when I landed in Taipei with a near-full passport and an expired visa, I had gone from being a person uncertain of when he would meet his family to a confirmed ticket holder with a freshly minted visa and on his way home as planned. Imagine walking on water, parting the seas and feeding a village with a lone fish – all in a single day. Although I had yet again brought another tight situation upon myself, I had yet again managed to break out of jail. If there is a God, he has a very twisted sense of humor. Unbeknownst to me, further proof lay ahead.

Stepping out of the embassy, I had my first meal in over 24 hours: a foot-long veggie delite at a Subway nearby. I classified that as breakfast and since I had a few hours to pick up my stamped passport, decided to get myself an Indian meal for lunch. A luxury that I decided to indulge in given the circumstances. God, despite his twisted sense of humor, finally was beginning to cut me some slack. I hailed a passing cab and asked him to take me to Ali Baba, a half-decent Indian restaurant that I had frequented on my earlier visits. The driver, who must have been licking his lips at the prospect of making some quick money, consulted with some fellow drivers nearby and started driving around. Although I knew I was being ripped off, I was not in the mood to protest.  

After about 10 minutes of passing through narrow lanes, he stopped in front of an Italian restaurant and tried convincing me that this is where I had asked him to take me. After much explanation, he drove around a bit more and this time stopped in front of an Iranian (Persian) restaurant. His next stops, I suspect, would have been Iraqi, Israeli, Indonesian restaurants before taking me to an Indian place finally. Instead I chose to call his bluff, settled his fare, collected the receipt and decided to ditch my Indian lunch plans in favor of a third “I” cuisine: Irish. That’s right. I started making my way towards a nearby McDonald’s to have a BigMac lite (a regular priced Big Mac without the meat. Every time I travel, McD’s make good margins) when the falling drizzle made me realize that I had left my umbrella behind in that taxi.

I started giving chase but the lights had already turned green and he eased into the sea of traffic and soon disappeared. Now keen readers may wonder why I would be running behind some random taxi for an umbrella that probably cost $5? It was no ordinary umbrella: it was my manager’s father’s umbrella with his name printed on it. That is why. Even if I did buy an exact replacement, my calligraphy skills would give me away. Moreover, the prospect of missing out on my meager professional output for the rest of the year had already given him a mild heart attack. Although the visa was obtained, I didn't want to do any further damage to my already besmirched image by reporting the lost umbrella.

Swearing to hunt it down, I entered a branch of the Taishin International Bank that was right there and urged the security guard to call the taxi to return my item. In English. The nonplussed guard, who spoke nary a bit of the Queen's language, pointed me to the Savings Deposit counter which, I suspect, also doubled up as the “Miscellaneous Stupid Requests” counter as needed.

I explained the situation to the lady behind the counter.

“Taxi. Umbrella. Take. Call. Taxi. Return. Umbrella. Please” Repeat after me: less is better.

When she stood up, a very pregnant lady that could go into labor any minute, and started to go to the security desk, it wasn't fully clear whether it was to help me trace the missing umbrella or call the cops on me. But I've read somewhere that pregnant ladies are better judges of character*.

* To be verified.

Although the bank wasn't exactly teeming with depositors eager to conduct financial business, bear in mind, it was still peak hour and she must have had banking duties to take care of. Yet, she parked herself at the security desk and started dialing the cab company's phone number from my receipt. I silently wished her a happy child birth whether or not my manager got his umbrella back. She must have been on the phone for a good ten minutes.The poor soul even passed me hand-written notes while still on the phone to keep me updated on what was happening.

“I catch the taxi owner.” “Umbrella on the taxi.” “Taxi driver move back fast.”

* Sniff.* People, if this doesn't make you believe in the general goodness of humanity, I don’t know what will.

In less than five minutes, the same taxi pulled up in front of the branch. A little while later, I thanked the kind lady profusely and left the place clutching the umbrella tightly. I was having a very lucky day by any measure: it seemed I couldn't do a thing wrong even if I tried. I wish I had bought a lottery ticket amidst all that was happening. I walked all the way back to the US embassy reflecting on my good fortunes. At the appointed hour of 3:30 pm, my now full passport with the visa printed on the very last page was ready for daddy to pick it up. As I ran my fingers along the smooth surface, I could imagine how Edmund Hillary and Sherpa Tenzing would have felt at the summit of Mount Everest. Even if they had gone back to pick up something Edmund had left behind on their first climb. 

The return flight home next day was easily the best trans-pacific hop I've ever taken. The crummy United Airlines 747 aircraft felt like a Singapore Airlines 777ER. The cramped economy class cabin felt like the luxurious first class zone. The aging, rude flight crew appeared like the cheerful, pleasant ones from Singapore Airlines. The Asian vegetarian goo though still felt like badly cooked cardboard. 

Visa drama in Taipei - Part I

A last minute business trip to Taiwan popped up at work recently. Just as I was entertaining hopes of closing out another low-travel year, my chain of management decided otherwise. When I broke the news to my wife, I could predict her reactions fairly accurately. After years of holding a traveling job while being married earns you some smartness. Up first is the period of quiet immediately after the news is broken. Followed by the big bang – a fiery show of anger and annoyance at having to run a one-woman show while I'm away. Soon supplanted by resignation that this trip will happen too, like the many ones before. Or the ones in future. This time however, the individual doses were stronger than normal as this would be the first time she will be all by herself with our kid in the US where she hasn't yet started driving. And to add to the list of woes, the kid was not keeping well with a bout of fever, cold and cough resulting in sleepless nights and a very runny nose. Talk about a perfect storm. Oh, and the weather was forecast to be stormy with incessant rains. This was the one window of bad weather in the otherwise gorgeous Bay Area climate. 

In the melee leading up to my departure for the trip, I failed to take note of a critical aspect: my US visa had expired and had to be renewed before I could return home. Happily unaware, I took to the skies to try and be productive for my company half way across the globe.

Most countries make Indian passport holders part the seas while walking on coals before issuing a temporary visa valid for only the duration of the visit. I must mention that the blessed nation of Taiwan issues their visa without any questions to all valid US visa holders. That's right: so long as a current, valid US visa is stamped on your Indian passport, Taiwan throws open its doors. For 30 days. 

Upon arrival at the Taipei airport, I was thumbing through my passport to open the US visa page which needs to be verified to allow entry. To my horror, I realized that it had expired exactly two weeks before. The Taiwanese immigration official didn't notice this discrepancy and waved me in. As soon as I checked in to my hotel, I shot off an innocuous email to the attorneys in CA whether I needed a visa to re-enter the US with nothing more than hope that something in the background had happened unbeknownst to me that would magically let me in. A curt email confirmed my fears: I had to get my visa renewed before I could return home. If this was a typical Indian movie, this would be the moment when the room starts spinning slowly as I barely manage to clutch the edge of the table to steady myself while loud music, mostly violins, plays in the background. Yeah, it was that bad. It felt as if I was living through a bad nightmare.

Folks that have gone through the grind will appreciate how difficult it can be to get an American visa stamped on your passport. Be it getting the photograph taken to specification or completing the applications or arranging the supporting documents, it requires a lot of preparation and can be an arduous task on a good day, even in your own city with the assistance of your travel desk. And here I was, an Indian, sitting in Taiwan by myself trying to get an American visa stamped. This was disastrous on a global level. 

My fears were many and the odds were firmly stacked against me. Will there be an appointment slot available within a reasonable time? Will they accept my application or ask me to go to India (my home country) or Singapore (where my previous visa was issued)? Will there be additional administrative processing involved that could potentially leave me stranded in Taiwan or Singapore or India for weeks? If so, I would then have to go to India to even apply as my Taiwanese visa would run out in a few days’ time. Will I be able to return before New Year’s? Will my son recognize me when I meet him again? The taxi ride to work was spent battling all these questions. Oh and did I mention that my passport was completely out of pages except for one empty side right behind another visa? Slowly but steadily, the gravity of the situation sunk in.

At the office, I informed my manager, who was also traveling with me, about the hole that I found myself in. The one dialog that would capture the essence of his response: மண்ணடி பின்னாடி. முதல்ல visa-வை கவனி.

I rolled up my sleeves and got down to tackle the task at hand. I looked up the next available visa appointment. Luckily for me, a slot was available at 7:45am the very next day. Woot! I had nailed down one variable. Now I had a deadline in sight to get all the prep work done by. I then completed the application form and shot off emails to various people to send me the supporting documents. As it was still evening back in California, the responses started trickling in right away. The attorneys were going to send me the visa petition and an assortment of other required documents, the HR group my employment verification details and support letters.

I then sat down to make that all important call back home to my wife and break the good news to her. And also ask for copies of my educational certificates and some more obscure documents. If I had it my way, I would have got on the phone not before a couple of shots of Grey Goose. But hey, when the going gets tough, the tough get going. Alcohol or not. Needless to say, the call went longer than expected. Much longer. Although I didn’t expect to exchange sweet nothings with my wife, her reactions traced a wide arc, touching upon qualities that an education had failed to instill in me to scrutinizing my capabilities to run a family or even be gainfully employed for that matter. I weathered the storm rather admirably (doodling on the hotel notepad) and when she finally let me do it, I read out the list of documents that I wanted sent. A colleague of mine living nearby in the Bay Area graciously agreed to pick up the documents from her and email me a soft copy. With that aspect also taken care of, I walked out into the driving rains to finally meet my beloved customers: the original purpose of my trip.

That evening, I got my picture taken at a studio. A first for me in Taiwan. The studio didn't have dirty combs, smelly half coats, forlorn ties or even a dented tin of Cuticura of Jurassic vintage – standard issue items in any Chennai studio. As a result, I could hardly identify myself in the picture. But it had a white background and was two inches square and that is all that matters.

Once back in my hotel room I had no inclination to have dinner: food was the last thing on my racing mind.  I grabbed an apple, got online and started monitoring the incoming documents.  The attorneys sent me what they said they would. My colleague sent me the copies. The HR folks, as usual, were the last ones to turn in their homework. At 4 AM, with all documents received and sleep refusing to grace my eyelids, I walked down to the hotel’s business center and started putting together my visa application package. I decided to pack in a whole bunch of documents that were not required including my travel itinerary. More is better when it comes to visa applications. By 5:30 AM, I was showered, dressed up in a dandy suit –can’t skimp on any niceties with so much at stake - and waiting for the cab to take me and a very pregnant manila folder to Taipei. 

Did the slowelectron get the visa stamped? Did he fly back home in time for the holidays? Watch this space for the final part. 

A dozen dates; you join the dots

01/01/01 - In Tempe, AZ, trying to shake off the effects of a block party ushering in the new year with a bunch of friends.

02/02/02 - Still in Tempe, AZ. Going through the grind of the spring semester at ASU.

03/03/03 - No points for guessing: still based in AZ. Going through the routines of yet another spring semester at ASU. A few of us are beginning to look like Mike Murali: forever in college.

04/04/04 - In Chennai.  A period of growing anxiety about finding a job in India/Chennai after having returned from the US in January. Anticipating a call from the company that I had interviewed with in February. I did receive the call a few days later and I joined on 04/15.

05/05/05 - In the Bay Area, CA on some assignments. Little do I know that this will become my place of residence in another 5 years.

06/06/06 - In Grenoble, France. Working at a customer site on a short term assignment. I recollect attending a meeting that day with the top guys there in a conference room with a fine view of the mountains.

07/07/07 - In upstate NY, wrapping up a very interesting project at IBM. Two of my colleagues have their respective second kids, both girls, born on this day.

08/08/08 - In Chennai. Performing the 8th day ceremonies for my mother who had passed away a week earlier.

09/09/09 - In Singapore. Email archives say that it was a meh day at work. I was preparing to go to Korea the following week. Interesting note: nearly all of the people from those emails have since moved on to different careers.

10/10/10 - In Singapore. Preparing to move to the US via India a month later. My wife is pregnant with our kid and is battling morning sickness while we mentally prepare ourselves for the cross-continental move. Good times.

11/11/11 - In the Bay Area, CA which has become home for nearly a year.Yet again the email archives and office notebook entries (mostly doodles) seem to suggest an uneventful Friday. The wife has returned from a trip to India and we are real parents, taking care of our 7-month old kid ourselves.

12/12/12 - Typing up this post! Maybe I will update on how this Wednesday turned out. Stay tuned.

Salutations to the Mahakavi

Chinnaswami Subramanya Bharathi

December 11, 1882 - September 11, 1921

I just have to say this

Between Adi Shankara, Goundamani and Jerry Seinfeld, a man has solutions to nearly all problems in life. 

Kumud Electronics - A Dirty Business

If you are of Indian origin and live in the San Francisco Bay area, chances are you have stepped into Kumud Electronics at least once. Given my addiction to Indian cuisine, we employ industrial blenders and grinding machines in our household to help churn out one perfect dish after the other. And machines being what they are, tend to break down and require an intervention of some sort. This is where Kumud electronics enter the picture.

For the benefit of the uninitiated, this is the "largest and oldest 110-220V electronics store" in the Bay Area, but let's cut to the chase. It is a cramped, over priced desi store that tries to sell everything under the sun (from carbon brushes to puja items) at an exorbitant mark up. And the icing on the cake is it is run by people that haven't yet heard about customer service. Doing business with them is the best way to appreciate the essence of anti-monopoly laws. 

Our Preethi mixer decided to strike sometime on September. And how! It was working fine one moment and our kitchen smelled like melting plastic the next. My entire engineering education flashed before my eyes and immediately prompted me to do the right thing: unplug it and rush it to Kumud electronics.

Trip 1: Mileage: 10 miles

The store bears more than a passing resemblance to that store from Pulp Fiction. And if that is not enough reason for you to keep away, two bald guys (for descriptive purposes only), that may or may not be brothers, are always behind the counter. They sport an expression that wouldn't seem out of place on the face of a person living through the consequences of a particularly bad burrito from the previous night. But since they seem to be the one store in this region that may carry items that you will need to keep those kitchen gadgets from the old country running, they are still in business, raking in the hard earned dollars of the desi diaspora.

We stepped in and laid the ailing mixer on the counter, walking them through the symptoms. He fired it up and sure enough a plastic smell swept over the place. Just as we were beginning to asphyxiate, he turned it off and turned towards me.

"Hmmm...brush ees gone" He carefully chose his words to explain the gravity of the situation.

"Really? But why is there a plastic smell?" I shot back with the confidence of a vague understanding from many years back that the motor brush isn't exactly made of plastic.

"Yeh toh...." he cleared his throat and proceeded to give me a lecture on the principles of electromagnetism, occasionally throwing in a "daalar". In chaste Hindi. The assumption of my Hindi quotient was more annoying than an impromptu lecture aimed at milking money.

My inner mind started sending me unwanted text messages: Remember that Hindi teacher who looked like T. N Seshan having a bad day? You should have paid attention. Or remember Electrical Machines from 4th semester? Guess what? You should have paid attention. At least once in a while.

"Iyere, ennavaam Saettukku?" I turned to my wife and inquired, much like the Hindi challenged Velu Nayakar would ask his consigliere, Delhi Ganesh. (Yes, in my eyes, Nayagan was a poor attempt to make an Indian Godfather. You knew that too, didn't you?)

"Brush poidthungaraan...pudhu brush velai $10, adha maatha labor $40 aahumaam" my wife sprang to my rescue with a swiftness honed by the many Hindi movies (two and a half movies, to be exact) we've watched together. The pleasures of being married to a multi-linguist!

Since I had paid less than $100 for the new mixer purchased less than a year back, I quickly decided to buy only the brush and try to fix it myself. Although my wife, who has an intimate understanding of my engineering abilities, wanted to protest, she decided to hold back and we left the store with a carbon brush, which, I must admit, I was seeing for the first time ever.

Once home, I opened up the mixie with the air of an experienced electrician (again, for the first time ever) and the problem was immediately obvious even to my untrained eyes: the Kumud store guy doesn't have a good nose for electrical faults. The switch, which has a plastic casing, was severely burnt and need to be replaced. The brush, wherever it was located within the depths of the mixer, was doing just fine. I carefully unplugged the wires from the terminals, marked the sequence with a pen and turned up again at Kumud with the carbon brush.

Trip 2: Mileage: 20 miles

I explained to him about his wrong diagnosis and how it is the switch that needs replacement rather than the brush. He didn't flinch a bit or show any sign of guilt. Instead, he offered me a replacement switch that cost $25. Bear in mind that $40 gets you a brand new, low end mixer at Walmart. Left with no choice, I returned the brush, paid the additional $15 and this time went home with a new switch of questionable credentials: although it was of the same type, it  looked and felt cheap and was a dirty black color. Well whatever floats the boat.

It wasn't until a couple of weeks later that my wife's pushing and prodding finally prompted me to sit down and try to replace the switch. My 18-month old son assumed the role of an electrician's helper by depositing his toy car into the mixer's cavity and slipping away with the screw driver. After shutting myself up in a room, I tried to mount the one purchased from Kumud. As it turned out, it was either meant for a different brand/type or was a poorly made duplicate. It was slightly larger than the original and hence wouldn't fit into the housing at all. Super! 

I drove back a third time to their store fully prepared for a confrontation. One of the bald brothers heard me out and displayed no sign of remorse, guilt or anything of that sort.

Trip 3: Mileage: 30 miles

Me: This is the wrong switch!
Bald Bro1: I know...
Me: You knew?? Then you should have told me when you sold me this.
BB1: Ai will phit it.
Me: But I'm telling you I just tried that. Won't fit. I want the original switch.
BB1: No original sweetch.
Me: No original, no fit.
BB1: I know...I masheen mixie to phit the sweetch. Labor only thurty phive dolars.

I stormed out of the store, vowing not to let him, his brother or their crew lay their dirty hands on my mixer. I requested a colleague of mine traveling to India to get me an original switch. Despite his extremely packed schedule (he was getting engaged!), he found time to accommodate my request and last week I had a brand new, original switch flown in straight from Chennai. Total cost: Rs 61 (approx US$ 1.10) I immediately tried this one and it fit perfectly! I connected the leads, plugged it in and gingerly fired it up.

Whirrrrrrrrrrrrr!

I tell you, the noise of the running motor to my ears was like the crisp notes from a symphony. Images of arachu vitta sambhar, thogayals, chutneys and curries seasoned with grated coconut, floated by. But there were still miles to go before I could eat. I took the f***-ed up switch back to Kumud for a full refund.

Trip 4: Mileage: 40 miles

This time, Bald Brother 2 received me and sought full details of the case going all the way back to September. When I finally demanded my cash back, he pointed his crooked finger to a paper stuck on the top rack of the shelf behind the counter: No refund. Only store credit. Dirty a****les!! No amount of reasoning could make him sway from his store policy. So I had to accept a hand scribbled note saying that I can buy anything from the store for $25 by March 2013.

I plan not to patronize this dirty business in future except to get something overpriced for the $25 store credit. They seem to be running the store on the spider web model: squeeze anyone that strays in to the maximum extent possible. Pleasant customer service, valuing your business and nurturing customer loyalty seem to be abstract topics as far as these guys are concerned.

I love you son. But daddy would like to...

1. Read a book without having to hide it from tiny, curious fingers trying to shred  for every turn of the page.
2. Watch a (good) movie in one sitting without a diaper change/fight for control of the remote inbetween.
3. Spend a couple of hours on a lazy afternoon at a Fry's/BestBuy store without running through aisles behind a (really fast) kid.
4. Step out of the house without a plan, multiple bottles, tiny jackets, fresh diapers, change of clothes, the pram...
5. Visit the local library without having to apologize to random patrons, hide from the staff or be heard at all. 
6. Attend a conference call from home without blurting out the fragile nature of items around the house and hoping nobody noticed. 
7. Discuss anything but poop details over dinner.
8. Listen to a song with none of the following words in its lyrics: Wheels, bus, wool, sheep, twinkle, little, star, or the names MacDonald, Johnny or Jack. Unless it is Johnny Walker or Jack Daniels, that is. 
9. Enjoy a cold beer without staving off tiny hands reaching for the bottle and insisting on having a swig of "juice". 
10. Update the blog without having to wait until the little one has gone to bed. Which is at well past late every night. 

Sachin Tendulkar and the retirement

Quote 1: "Despite the enormous popularity and willingness from the rest of the cast to return for a tenth season, Seinfeld decided he should end the show after its ninth season in an effort to maintain quality and "go out on top". NBC offered him $110 million but he declined the offer." Wikipedia on Jerry Seinfeld wanting to end the show after 9 successful seasons. 

Quote 2: "You see, this profession is filled to the brim with unrealistic ******s. ******s who thought their ass would age like wine. If you mean it turns to vinegar, it does. If you mean it gets better with age, it don't." - Marsellus Wallace, Pulp Fiction. 

It was the 3rd of April, 2011. No Indian cricket fan needs to be reminded of what had happened a day earlier at the Wankhede. The adrenalin was still coursing through my veins. The world seemed a beautiful place. As I started reliving the victory by reading every single article penned on the topic, I was expecting one particular announcement: Sachin's retirement. Amidst the euphoria that was washing the nation down, I was fervently hoping that Sachin would declare his innings, signing off in the most perfect way. The title was won at the end of what was a successful campaign for arguably India's greatest player. Right in his home ground. In front of his adoring fans who had waited to witness that one moment. But that particular announcement never arrived. Not till today as I write this. The fan in me only hopes that he has not missed the opportunity to time his exit from the game gracefully despite growing fears of the contrary. 

Call me stupid but sporting careers are better cherished when the one overwhelming question at the curtain call is a resounding Why rather than an embarrassing Why not. "The bugger had at least a couple more years of cricket left in him" is a much better way to reminisce about your sporting hero than a "You know when he should have quit?" discussion. Signing off on a high is perhaps the toughest achievement in any sport that easily eludes even the most supremely gifted of performers.

Of late I have seen arguments calling for his continuing in the team, about his ability to score runs at will and the "leave him alone, he knows when to quit" being bandied around. They seem even more absurd coming from ex-players and otherwise sensible journalists. I'm no expert in team selection. But some common sense suggests that future potential rather than past achievements should be the overriding factor in selecting the best eleven men to represent the nation and take the team forward. If that is not the case, then I would like to see Gavaskar open the Indian innings for the next test. Sachin has had the touch of the divine no doubt, but at the end of the day we are talking about the limits of human ability in a performance sport. Allowing emotion and fondness of the heart dictate selectorial decisions may not be in the best interests of Indian cricket.

The future replacement for Sachin Tendulkar cannot be, wait for this, a Sachin Tendulkar. If we had had the ability to replace past greats of the game with an equivalent player, we wouldn't have had a Sachin in the first place. For, there has never been someone like him before nor will there be someone hereafter. It is a bit ironical then, that the void that he will leave behind will best reflect the magnitude of his majestic presence in the team. But on the same token, what better way to motivate a whole generation of players that have grown up on Sachin's feats than to aspire to be called his replacement?

And while I'm at it, might as well add my two cents on the other elephant in the room: the Bharatratna. It goes without my stating it here that Sachin has been the greatest Indian batsman of our generation. For the longest period, he has been the strength of an otherwise weak team and has admirably shouldered the expectations of a cricket crazy nation. He has indeed inspired by example - a truly fine specimen of our species. But at the end of the day he is an extremely gifted sportsman and conferring the nation's highest civilian honor on the grounds of excellence in a team sport just doesn't seem to sit well with me. If the Rajya Sabha membership is awkward, the BR would only be more so. Why don't we simply reserve that honor to eminent scientists, scholars, statesmen and leave sports people alone?

Adios Laxman!

By the time I have managed to get this one wrung out India have just won the Under-19 World Cup and also the first test against New Zealand - a largely expected result. This post, not unlike Sachin Tendulkar's retirement, is long overdue. But better late than never.

VVS Laxman's retirement.

A sporting retirement is inevitable. It is the sole aspect that is common to all sorts of careers and personalities. But some, when timed really well, leave us with a sense of longing and a sadness. Especially when time is called on a career that had come to define a rare quality of Indian cricket - defiance. Watching Laxman's retirement go by is like finally selling a car that you were really fond of. Especially if that car happens to be a Toyota Corolla. Far from flashy, not remotely flamboyant and a 0-60mph number that may not be the most impressive. Yet you don't remember when it has stalled on a Monday morning, or on a rainy night on your way home. Ever reliable in getting you from point A to B. Point A, in this case, often being a precarious situation against quality opposition in a tense test; while point B was, just as often, a position of safety or, on many occasions a victory. For, make no mistake, Laxman was the Toyota Corolla of Indian cricket - the no fuss, all-weather, everyday man.

Most of Laxman's memorable knocks were an artisan's assignment executed with the flourish of an artist - artisan in the no fuss acceptance of the team's needs and going about the rescue act; artist in the magical methods that he chose. Occupying the lower part of India's greatest middle order, and always in the shadow of the hype and exploits of the bigger names, his role has been one of understated efficiency. His crucial contributions, though, were consistent and often delivered when it mattered the most.

Together with Rahul Dravid, the other gentleman cricketer to hang up his boots recently, Laxman formed a partnership, that can be best described as thayir sadham (curd rice). The great Indian cricket feast has seen  its share of spicier and tangier dishes together with the accoutrements that are readily remembered when recalling the feast. It is the humble, smooth and mellow curd rice that one remembers least, yet it is that very dish that rounds off any square meal; providing the much needed relief and comfort for the connoisseurs.

Laxman, over his entire career, has entertained the fans of the game, helped supplant despair and resignation with hope when the chips were down and brought a certain measure of balance to a star studded team.

The sight of the old school stylist from Hyderabad - the honest man's Azharuddin, if you will, walking in at the fall of the 4th wicket will be missed. The silken mastery that helped conjure gaps and angles unseen by mortal eyes will be missed. The man wearing a toothy grin and a white hat at second slip will be missed. Thank you Laxman. 

Vignettes from a LA trip

We have just returned from a quick trip to LA last week. Taking advantage of a brief lull in the work world, I hastily planned a dash to the entertainment capital with the extended family in tow. I've been to Los Angeles on multiple occasions before. As a graduate student, as a newly employed single guy, as a newly married couple. This was my first trip in my new avatar: father of a particularly mischievous 15-month-old tyke.

The onward journey

We set ourselves a start time of 8AM from the Bay Area intending to escape traffic snarls at both ends of the journey. However, it was only after 10:00AM that the one-kid circus hit the road, packed with enough food to feed an army. 90 minutes into the drive, we were wolfing down idlies (+ gojju), tamarind rice (+ chips) and curd rice (+ home made pickles) in a rest area along the I-5. One coffee stop and 75 songs later, we were in LA: nearly 7 hours after we had started. Surprisingly, the LA traffic was mild and we could check into the hotel at 5pm.

Universal Studios

Visit #4 for yours truly. Yes it is over priced. Yes it is over crowded. But you've got to hand it to the Universal folks that successfully manage to keep people interested in this place even after all these years. With a new ride (Transformers 3D), a change here (King Kong 3D in the studio tour), a tweak there - the place seems to be reinventing itself at some level to live up to its title of "the entertainment capital of LA". They have built it and the crowds indeed keep coming.

The Jurassic Park Ride

When it comes to going on rides, I will admit without shame that I am reduced to a quivering mass both before and after the ride. And I throw up three of my four previous meals both during and after the ride. Yet, about once in five years, I do end up going on one, only to curse myself for the next five years.

1997: Giant wheel in Black Thunder, Mettupalayam. Culprits: Taunting friends, my own ego and stupidity. Outcome: (pun intended) the lunch - a full meals in TN parlance, if I may add, and the last few morsels of that day's breakfast.

2001: A centrifuge posing as a ride, New Year Block Party, Tempe, Arizona. Culprits: Taunting friends, my own ego (there was a girl in the group) and plain stupidity. Outcome: The Thai dinner and two cans of Pepsi.

2006: The Mummy ride, Universal Studios. Culprits: The smooth talking staff "It goes forward at 40mph and returns to the starting point at 40mph." I'll bet that guy would have described the Pope as a German guy in white wearing a cross. Outcome: although I didn't do the technicolor yawn, I was caught in nauseous spells for the next two days.

I have only been on bus/plane rides since then, save for a nano-roller coaster ride in Malaysia in 2008. A wife can be extremely persuasive on the first anniversary.

2012: The five year cycle was up and I told myself that I would go on the Jurassic Park Ride that seemed less evil than the rest. The wait time was nearly 60 minutes and as the line snaked through to the boarding point, my stomach kept churning. As we rounded the last corner, I was ready to sneak out under any pretext. However, when my wife pointed to a young girl taking the ride in spite of her right leg being in a cast, my pride was stung and I had to take the ride.

The night of the fight, you may feel a sting. That's pride ****ing with you. **** pride. Pride only hurts, it never helps. - Marsellus Wallace, Pulp Fiction. Truer words? Never spoken.

To make an already long story short, I survived the ride - the spitting dinos, the roaring T-rex, the fall and all. And honestly, it wasn't too bad. The regulation picture from the ride shows me clinging on for dear life, yelling like a mad man. But here is the best part: neither did I barf nor did I suffer from any dizziness afterwards. (Although, I might have as well thrown up the sorry veggie burger that I had for lunch.) Perhaps I'm getting better with time, like wine? Stand by for a confirmation in 2017.

The heat

I've spent the first twenty years of my life in the oppressive heat of Chennai. I've spent the next 4 years in Phoenix, Arizona where the heat was dry but just as oppressive. Add another 3 years in Singapore and I have no business complaining about heat anywhere on earth. But I felt really, visibly uncomfortable in LA when the mercury was above 104F. My complaining about the heat is like Manmohan Singh complaining about corruption, but that day I was as comfortable as Swami Nithyananda in a press conference. How soon the body gets used to the pleasures of milder climes. I sought out every mist blower, every square inch of shade, applied liberal quantities of sun block and yet was nearly dead by the end of the day.

The return drive in numbers

0 - food stops
1 - beverage stop
2 - diaper stops
3 - pm start from LA
4 - beverage stops we should have had
5 - times we told ourselves "No road trip till son turns two"

The car

My ride for the trip was a brand new 2013 Hyundai Sonata: the odometer read 10 miles when I picked it up and the new car smell was very strong. I have been among the people that have been blown away by the looks of the reincarnated Sonata - the Koreans have hit this one out of the park surely. After the 900 mile journey, I was seriously toying with the idea of replacing my 8-year-old, used Passat. But then it doesn't take much to convince myself that a new car is never a good idea financially and my present ride, though not a head turner in any sense, is after all reliable and gets my family from one place to another in reasonable comfort.

My observations on Japan

This post is not about Japan's recovery from the WW II/the atom bomb/March '11 tsunami and the subsequent rise to the atmospheric levels of economic and technological development. If you've come here expecting to read about the never-say-die, you-can't-break-my-will spirit of the Japanese, I'm no expert in those topics. This post is also not about how clean, organized, respectful and culturally different/rich that nation is. Instead, these are some useless casual observations about the people/country that I have personally made over the time that I have spent there. In other words, if you've come here expecting any value at all in return for your time, I have two words: Hello newcomer! 

The scramble crossing. This is the best thing to happen to mankind since the tilting wet grinder. (Why does it always have to be sliced bread?) The light turns green and a sea of humanity crisscrosses at every major intersection in all possible directions. To give you an idea, I have written this post entirely from the time saved by using the diagonal crossing. And that is a lot of time given my writing skills. If big cities across the world haven't done this, they should. If most of them already do, I must travel more.

The pencil box. That's right. Every working adult in Japan seems to carry a fully loaded pencil box. The said pencil box would have, at a conservative estimate, multiple mechanical pencils (with spare leads, of course), an assortment of pens with multicolor refills, a few erasers [a Jap colleague of mine routinely doodles during meetings with his pencil and erases them afterwards with his eraser. I mean, how cool is that? Au contraire, I have to lock up my note books. Should someone rifle through the pages of my office notebook, I'll be sitting across from the HR head and answering very awkward questions.] some highlighters, a solitary correction ink dispenser and a six-inch ruler. Yes, you heard me: A six-inch ruler. Ever seen one since class X? Me neither.

The suit. The Japanese national obsession with suits never ceases to amuse me. (It seems to be the same case in Korea too.) Suits of many colors, materials, styles, prices. Suits for men, suits for women. Suits as uniforms, uniforms as suits. They are just everywhere. I'm all for dressing up for the occasion. But wearing a suit every single day of the week wears me out. Even if it is not me that is actually wearing one. Interestingly, this year, the thermostats are set higher because of the power shortage and the general agreement has been to do away with the suits during business meetings. Just when I finally got myself one and learned to knot a tie.

A quiet morning at the Tokyo Station

Eye drops. Moisturizing the eyes seems to be a national past time. Waiting for the train? A couple of drops. In the taxi? A couple of drops. Before lunch? A quick squeeze. After lunch? Reach for the bottle. Most, if not all, of the people that I work with seem to be carrying a tiny bottle of some concoction meant to keep their eyes moist and clean.

Wet towels. Simple, handy and convenient. Saves you a pre-meal trip to the wash basin, saves so many (t)issues during the meal and offers a means to salvage some pride to even the most clumsiest of eaters. A dollop of curry on your favorite shirt? No problemo! A drop of soy sauce on your tie? Worry not! As someone blessed with two left hands when it comes to handling chop sticks, I can't count the number of times I've carried out covert clean up missions with a wet towel on shirts, ties and pants. Of people sitting next to me.

Air craft boarding. This is the smoothest exercise involving the movement of an assembled group of people from one point to another. If aircraft boarding was a sport, Japan would be world champs. Everyone is small, lean, smart, organized and disciplined. Announce - board - settle is the routine. Compare that with the standard boarding procedure in Chennai: announce - mad rush - try taking the first class line with an economy class boarding pass - quick calls to bid farewell one more time - stuff that coffin-sized cabin baggage into the overhead cabinet while blocking the aisle - negotiate a seat change to sit next to a friend - demand a pre-take off whiskey. We have some catching up to do.

Texting and cellphone accessories. The Japs (And Koreans. And Singaporeans.) seem to be maniacal texters. People, girls particularly, are on the phone, typing away at 90 miles per hour. Particularly on trains. Flip open...type text....close...flip open....read....giggle....type text....close. Round and round they go till they finally get off at their station. And the cellphones look like a decorated cow on maattu pongal day: inconvenienced and clumsy.

Yamaguchi-san on a conference call. 

Ten jobs I would love to have

1. Chief Minister of Tamil Nadu
2. Mayor, Chennai City - You will have something to defend Chennai against other metros. Not including the weather. Of course.
3. Commissioner, Chennai Corporation - That stink won't be the first welcome sign to Chennai.
4. Education Minister, Tamil Nadu - To start with, no more Anna, Kamaraj on Tamil text book faces.
5. Head of State Transport Corporation, Tamil Nadu - Conductors will go to you. Fares will go up.
6. Station Manager, Chennai Central Station - No human waste on tracks, no karuvaadu smell in the platform. A 15 member auto driver gang won't hound you as you get out.
7. Airport Manager, Chennai International and Domestic Terminals - Urine stench free boarding area, meaningful displays. Park and fly vs. an entire village to see a passenger off.
8. Chairman, Tamil Nadu Tourism Development Corporation - You will carry back some good memories.
9. Cabinet Minister, Indian Railways - Working toilets, clean food. Fares will go up.
10. CEO, Air India - Part of Star Alliance, no stewardess over 60 70!

You're welcome.

If you're my manager reading this, I absolutely love my job. What? Yes, I will get started on the report that you wanted done yesterday. 

The Shinjuku incident

I returned to Japan last month after a gap of nearly 6 years. A place that I used to call a second home back in the day when I spent more time there than anywhere else. When I could get around the Tokyo area by subway without having to refer to a map or stare at the map on a station wall like it was the Mona Lisa. When I could walk into a traditional Japanese restaurant and order food without my colleagues having to poke at it to confirm its vegetarian credentials. When I could talk, swear and even flirt delicately in primitive Japanese. Although I was visiting a part of Japan that I have never been to, the trip was definitely nostalgic and brought back many memories, including about this incident. So this trip was, in many ways, like meeting an ex girl friend with whom you've had a smooth break up. If that has ever happened in the history of mankind that is. 


While the passage of time has deeply eroded my Japan survival skills, the brain cells started firing and I felt like I could roll back the years and get back into the zone. 


The travel plans for one of the days left me with some time to kill in Tokyo around lunch time. I promptly decided to visit Raj Mahal restaurant in Shinjuku, a very busy district of Tokyo city and partake of their lunch buffet, an almost religious ritual that I undertook when I was posted in rural outposts. This restaurant was my hang out spot during the weekends. If I wasn't holed up in my small room, I was here. Or on a train headed here. I used to travel two hours one way on Sundays to make it to their doorstep. And in exchange for a 1000 Yen, I would then proceed to stuff myself with ginormous servings of all vegetarian dishes and go back to survive another week on jam sandwiches and cold milk. Good times. 


I got off the train at Shinjuku station - cited by Wikipedia as the world's busiest train station. I knew, from memory, how to get to Raj Mahal from there. Even though the station exits had undergone serious renovation, I could readily trace my steps from many years before through the milling thousands to Peace building (Peesu Biru in Japanese), the fifth floor of which housed Raj Mahal and deliverance from hunger. 


The building was nondescript and easy to miss and still retains that aspect today. But not to the eyes of this veteran of many feasts there. I stepped into the elevator, pressed for the fifth floor and ensured that I had enough finances to get me nourished. As I was planning on how to work my way through the buffet, the doors opened and instead of the usual smells and sights of an Indian restaurant around lunch hour, I was assaulted by a fishy smell. Smell of living fishes than cooked ones. It was as if the elevator went from Shinjuku to Ayodhya Kuppam. I stepped out and was in for a shock. Where once stood a tandoor (manned by sweaty cooks) was a stack of empty fish tanks. The buffet line had been replaced with a bench that had aquarium paraphernalia scattered all over. The cash register was gone and in its place was an office desk with no one behind it. I quickly stopped the elevator doors from closing and looked through the building directory inside. It confirmed that the place was indeed an aquarium supply business. I inquired about the vanished Raj Mahal with the convenience store clerk downstairs. The clerk, though sympathetic to my wails and howls, was not of much help and quietly led me out of the store. 

Fighting hunger in foreign lands somehow brings out the best in me. Imagine VVS against the Aussies. I immediately scorned the idea of taking refuge in a Saizeriya or some random pizza place and taking the train back to work. When fate throws me a tough one (and it seems to have made a habit), I rise up and shine and hunt down the nearest Indian restaurant and have a square meal. Go here for a similar incident. 


I knew Raj Mahal was a chain and that it had a restaurant in nearby Shibuya. The only problem was that I had never been to that particular outlet. Oh and Shibuya is Shinjuku's twin sister on steroids, with its own maze of streets and hurrying crowds and is the world's fourth busiest train station. I still took a train into Shibuya armed with little besides confidence. 


Bigger train stations around Tokyo have up to 6 main exits and your destination decides which one you take. Since I had no information except the name, I carefully randomly chose the West exit and approached the lady at the information booth. After many iterative attempts, she finally understood that I was looking for Raj Mahal Shibuya, an Indian restaurant. But once she got it, she was very quick in telling me that not only did she not know the place but that she couldn't access anything besides the train reservation system on her computer. hai domo!

Undeterred, I exited the station and scouted around a bit, hoping that Raj Mahal would give itself up and cross my field of vision. The chance for success from that approach is roughly the same as randomly breaking into the "family song" in crowded Bombay and reuniting with the long lost sibling in the last stanza. (The lost sibling always chimes in during the last stanza.) Happens only in the movies. Anyways, I quickly gave up this exercise and chose one that allowed a better shot at success.

We live in the age of Web 2.0. Although I don't have the foggiest clue of what Web 2.0 means (or for that matter, what Web 1.0 meant when it was smart to work that into a random sentence), it seems to be the smartest thing to say these days. Also, cloud computing. What does it really mean? That the clouds will do math from now? But back to the story. We live in the age of Web 2.0 (and cloud computing) and the best thing to do when lost is to whip out your cellphone and consult Dr. Inter Webs. Easy peasy. Except that my international data roaming rates skewed the math in favor of having a Big Mac without the beef patty.

Plan B was to tap into the resources of the telecom giants. I casually strolled into a phone showroom nearby, a nice, well lit place, looking every bit like a potential customer. Since it was the lunch hour, customers were few and in a couple of minutes I found myself face to face with a slim, smart and smiling sales assistant that was peddling slim, smart but non-smiling phones. I brought her up to speed on my situation and requested her to look up the place and give me the location. Well manicured fingers caressed an ipad screen and in less than 30 seconds, she gave me the phone number and location of the place written out on a piece of paper. I'm now officially in love with that girl Japan. And also very hungry. 


I must now let my readers in on a secret about Japan: they don't care much for naming their streets. That's right, no street names.Addresses in Japan are merely cryptic alpha numeric clues based on a complex, 3 dimensional, coordinate system, intended to take you in the general direction of your destination. In confusing circles. They overcame this problem by building great cars to drive around asking for directions. They have a numbering system that was invented when Tokyo was a collection of a few straw huts and everyone knew each other by first name and have never bothered to update it. E-mail may have been developed only so that the Japanese could finally stop delivering letters.


On the one hand we have very detailed addresses like we do in Chennai that has a lot of information but actually conveys very little: 


Door No 12/4-D (Old No. 148/73-M), II Floor, Plot No: 26
14th Lane, 6th Cross Street, VII Sector, 
KK Nagar, Chennai 78. 


and on the other, we have addresses in Japanese that are more like a cryptic message. 

A sample Japanese address

So knowing pretty well that the address she had handed me in a piece of paper was of very little value, I pestered her for directions. But beyond (literally) pointing me in the direction and saying something about a Starbucks and a DVD store, she couldn't do much as some real customers that were actually willing to do some business had arrived. Stepping out and heading in the direction she had pointed me to, I spotted the Starbuck's logo a couple of blocks away and walked over there. After a bit of walking down small alleys, I did run into a store selling music CDs. And with that, I had run out of further directions. 


Still refusing to settle for a burger, I looked around for another phone show room. Thankfully, I located one not too far, walked in and repeated the routine. The sales attendant confirmed that I had been doing well and gave me almost turn by turn directions. She also printed out the map and drew lines for me to follow and highlighted a police booth to check in should I get lost. I'm now officially in love with this girl Japan all over again.

I finally arrived at RajMahal, Shibuya. I was informed that the Shinjuku branch had closed a few years earlier. They had also done away with lunch buffet altogether. I had to settle for a set lunch with nan, curry, rice and a lassi.

Sexual harassment awareness for dummies

I was immersed deeply in work the other day (work: following the Indian cricketers getting their asses handed to them at Sydney on cricinfo) when an email popped in. It was from HR and politely but firmly asked me to report to the HR head right away as I was caught staring at...Never mind. Let's pretend that you never read that.

It was an email that asked me to take the Sexual Harassment Awareness training.

My immediate response was "Hey! But I was drunk at the annual office party last month! OK?! And it wasn't my idea anyways. And finally it wasn't just me. In fact, if you watch the video...Damn it, I'm human too! To err is human..right?" Too many thoughts clouded my brain and I just sat there paralyzed trying to understand just why I, a paragon of exemplary behavior towards the opposite sex, was being asked to take this training. Just then my colleagues who had stopped by my cube to kick start the discussion on the pathetic state of Indian cricket confirmed that even they had been asked to take the same training.

Oh a mandatory training?! Phew! That was close! Slowelectron: now paranoid at a cube near you.

Anyways, I promptly forgot all about the training and it wasn't until the Indian team was being walloped in Perth when a final reminder came in from HR saying that I had a few hours to complete the test. Passing grade was a neat 90%. Gulp.

I enrolled myself for the web based course. I didn't have a pair of earphones and I couldn't locate an empty conference room either to listen to the audio. So I sat in my cube, muted my laptop and started the video, hoping to wing it. Needless to say, there were many men and women on screen that had a lot to say but to me, but it was like watching a Danish movie without subtitles. Or audio.

There were multiple modules with a test at the end of each. My approach to it was simple: Choose the most conservative, politically correct response and I should be safe. If it works at the DMV test, it should work for the HR group.

When you see an old person crossing the street, you should:

a. Honk incessantly as you approach them at 60mph

b. Race the engine, roll down your window and call them names till they cross the street

c. Come to a complete stop, wait till they cross the street, wish them a good day, chew with your mouth closed and leave the toilet seat down

The answer is rather obvious: a or b c. And I was pretty confident that I would ace this test too.

At the end of the first module, there was a question on what constituted quid-pro-quo harassment vs. a hostile work environment. Oh there are now flavors to harassment? Sure, I got it wrong. Note: I was watching the training with the audio muted.

By the second module, there were a few victimized women and men (men can be sexually harassed too? Hmmm..) on screen pouring their hearts out. Completely oblivious to what their stories were, I went into test #2.

Question 1: Justin is working out in the gym. His colleague Stacy, who is also working out at that time, is making advances on him. Justin is uncomfortable about this. Is he being sexually harassed?

My immediate instinct: Justin! You lucky dog! Stacy from accounting? Making advances on you? And you're feeling harassed? If there is anybody being harassed, it is the rest of your team man! Oh, oh, oh! I see. You're still in the closet? That's such a shame. Although there is nothing wrong with it.

But I forced myself to think more along the lines of, umm, passing the test. How dare Stacy make moves on Justin, a hardworking and ambitious star performer who also happens to be batting for the other side? That too in the gym? Men aren't pieces of meat, damn it! Verdict: Stacy is guilty.

Question 2: Carla has just joined the team. Steve, her manager, brings coffee for everyone in the team on Fridays. Carla doesn't feel comfortable about this. Is she being harassed by Steve?

Carla, are you kidding me? Two words: Free. Coffee. Yes, he could throw in a dozen donuts too. But if I were you Carla, I wouldn't push it. Leave Steve alone. Wake up and smell the coffee.

Again, I tempered my reasoning with the overarching goal of passing the test. I threw chivalry out through the window and instead directed my thoughts down a different path. That uncouth rascal Steve! It always starts with an innocent cup of coffee, doesn't it? I read you loud and clear Carla: sometimes a cup of coffee isn't a cup of coffee. Just ask George Costanza. Trust your instincts dear and report this unscrupulous harasser right now! Verdict: Steve is a sleazy pig.

Turned out that I was wrong on both occasions. Justin is just a nerd. It is OK to make your moves as long as it is outside work and doesn't spill over into the professional world. Oh, and Carla is just a hypersensitive woman that needs to mix more with people instead of with her 9 pet cats only.

Long story short, I completed the course with a score of, ahem, 37%. Yes, I failed. I shamed my family, let down my friends and harassers around the world.

Of course, I had to retake the test. But not before I had consulted google, fellow colleagues and took the opinion of women around me to get a feel for what is acceptable behavior and what is not. And I'm glad to announce that I've passed the test.

So my dear lady colleagues, if I offer you a cup of coffee at the gym, please cross the road. But just be quick.

Bonus feature:

/ jjmn ,,, \|}{" - My 9-month old son came up with this as he crawled past on the keyboard while I was typing up this post. I'm leaving it in as it is even though some of you may be inclined to think that this makes more sense than what precedes it.