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.