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.

Saravana Bhavan Bay Area: And the saga continues...

I have documented my experiences with the Hotel Saravana Bhavan franchise here. Thanks to my past experiences, I have remained aloof from their culinary offerings in spite of being based in the Bay Area and having taken up residence within a few miles from their Sunnyvale outlet. I mean, why bother when there are like half a dozen other places that don't manage to get under my skin as easily as HSB does.

But this don't-go-don't-get pissed off policy of mine was blown last weekend when my dear friend K (who finds honorable mentions here and here and who blogs here) drove into the Bay Area from LA with his wife. Now, K has his roots in KK Nagar, Chennai, a stone's throw from one of the earliest HSB restaurants, if not the earliest. Even after living in the US of A for over 10 years now, there is still enough KK Nagar blood coursing through his veins. So he owes his allegiances to the LA Lakers and HSB in no particular order and makes no bones about it too. In other words, while many see Saravana Bhavan as a restaurant, it is a venerated temple of food in his eyes. So even as he was crossing San Luis Obispo, a good 200 miles from my apartment, he announced loudly that we would be having dinner at Saravana Bhavan. Of course!

So when he was about 10 minutes away, he alerted me and I reluctantly drove down to their restaurant, not sure what lay in store. He pulled in around the same time and after the exchange of pleasantries, we entered at 9:52 pm (car clock). Their official closing time on Fridays, according to their website, was 10:30pm, leaving us with a clear 40 minutes of chow time. Plenty, if you ask me, for a casual desi dinner.

There were no ushers in sight nor were any guests waiting to be seated; this was after the wave of diners had faded away for the night. I approached the guy at the cash counter, the only employee that was around, and asked if we could seat ourselves. He specifically asked us to find an empty table in the far section of the restaurant as the other section was being serviced. Sure, no problem. We threaded our way through the diners to an empty and cleaned table for four. Just as we were getting settled, out comes this lady with an attitude.

"Who asked you to sit here?" Apparently, HSB specializes in cold appetizers served with a side of attitude.

"Well, the chrome dome at the cash counter did. Why?"

"We are closing this section now and you will need to be waited to be seated."

"But he specifically asked me to find a seat in this section."

"No."

Conversation was not her strong suite and she being the usher, somehow felt the need to show who wore the pants in the house.

HSB: 1 Slowelectron: 0

So we got up deliberately and moved back to the empty guest waiting chairs. Remember that scene from the movie Meet the Parents where Ben Stiller is forced by the ground staff to wait his turn to board an airplane in an empty gate? Just like that. Anyways, after a few long minutes ticked by, she emerged from somewhere with a clutch of menu cards. We followed her to a table right next to the one we were previously sitting at! Great!

KJ, who, probably because of the long drive that he had just completed, was too hungry and tired to be put off by their "service". He immediately started ordering and shot off a few items from memory and a few others from the card. Our waiter for the night, a portly middle aged man, took our orders and vanished in the general direction of the kitchen. And we started catching up on each other's lives as we awaited for our food to arrive.

With facebook, email and this ancient invention called the phone, we had very little actual catching up to do and since we were really hungry, started casting eager looks, waiting for the food to emerge. Instead, our waiter emerged bearing no food but only bad news.

"Sambhar vadai illa, mysore bonda-vum illa" (We're out of sambhar vadai and mysore bonda)

I may hold HSB in very little esteem. But I've got to admit that I do relish their sambhar vadai, the only redeeming aspect about the whole HSB experience. And so this revelation was particularly damning for me.

"Hmmm...sambhar idly oru plate, vegetable pakkoda oru plate kuduthudunga" shot back K, refusing to be dejected by the freshly delivered bad tidings.

"Sir, dosai mattum dhaan irukku, vera edhuvum illai" (There's dosai and nothing else.) He even closed his notebook with an air of finality. At HSB, bad service was always on the house.

"Oru onion rava and oru plain dosai kudunga" offered K, clearly unable to hide his disappointment. His KK Nagar pride had been punctured by the complete lack of service. By this time, I had lowered all my expectations and was ready to eat anything edible that was still available.

My onion rava came out under cooked in the center and the edges were burnt. How the chef managed to do that remains a mystery to me. K's earlier order, a mixed veggie parotta was somehow delivered and was pretty OK. And the other 2 dosais were nothing to get excited about.

Their red chutney (tomato/onion) was particularly good that evening and when we asked for an extra dollop, were told that, yes, it was not available ("segappu chutney aaidchu Sir").

All in all, that evening had all the elements of a "typical" HSB outing for me: bad service, a lot of attitude and ho-hum food. I'm now back to ignoring them. At least till K returns to the Bay Area.

The affair

I received the call around 2pm during an afternoon lull at work. I was wrapping up something when her face flashed on the phone screen. I quickly looked around and stepped into one of the small huddle rooms and closed the door behind me. Lately the calls from her were few and far apart, betraying shifting priorities in her life. And even on those rare occasions when she actually called, the conversations were quick and limited. How things had changed from those earlier times of long, free wheeling chats. But this was no time to reminisce, I told myself, and answered the phone.

We did away with the usual greetings and small talk. This was usual practice as phone time has become a luxury now. Although she spoke in hushed tones, she sounded relaxed. May be even a little cheerful.

"Is everything OK at home?" I asked.

"Mm hmm. Listen, can we go out this evening?" she queried with hope. There was expectation in her voice and also anxiety whether I would not be able to.

"Hmm..OK." Although I had a few approaching deadlines, I decided that I would take time to spend with her.

"I mean, if you're busy...I didn't mean to..." she trailed off, hardly masking her disappointment.

"No. It's fine. Really." I assured her.

"Great. 7pm tonight?"

"Sure, I'll pick you up when I get off work. But..."

"Yeah?"

"What about him?" I asked hesitatingly.

"He is...I've made arrangements." came back the reply in a hushed tone.

"Your mother?"

"Mm-hmm..."

I kept staring at the phone even after she had hung up. The phone seemed the only means of nourishing our relationship.

Though I quickly got back to work, I was basically counting the hours down. At thirty minutes past six, when I thought it wouldn't seem too odd, I slipped out of the office. For a Wednesday evening, traffic was pretty light. Within minutes, I was heading west along the freeway speeding towards my destination.

It was just before seven as I pulled into the street. I was surprised to see her waiting for me at the intersection, away from the apartment building. The evening sunlight was filtering through the leaves and highlighting her features even as the gentle breeze played with her black locks. She was fidgeting with her purse and gave furtive looks. She didn't take effort to hide her tension.

I pulled up beside her and she hesitated a moment before she got in. I couldn't help look into her tired eyes. She smiled at me and urged me to start.

When was the last time we had gone out? My mind traced out an obscure outing many months back. When things were different. We were just the two of us then. And the families were happy too. Everything was hunky dory. Until the the other man's arrival.

Her family approved him and took to him in a big way right away. And she got swept away by the chaos all around. And my side of the family rejoiced too. They saw reason and tried to rationalize what was happening around me. Sure, he was good looking and held much promise. He was all that I was and promised much more. I couldn't blame her then and won't blame her now.

On the big day, a couple of months back, when everyone was jostling to wish and congratulate her, she pulled me aside and promised that everything would be fine and same as before. I smiled and nodded, patting her hands that she quickly withdrew and joined him. I had been skeptical and this was her first attempt at making it come true.

"Shall we stop for a quick cup of coffee?" I offered.

"No dear. Not tonight...must be home soon." Of course. As expected. I smiled ruefully. Things would be same as before. Her words echoed in my ears.

"The usual place then?"

"Yes."

I pulled into the Babies-R-Us store to pick up an assortment of baby oils, lotions, powders and the regulatory 216-count box of diapers.

How the birth of a son changes everything!

English lessons from Taiwan straits

Many of the Asian countries kick off campaigns to try and get their native population to speak better English. A noble endeavor, if you ask me. Forget greater objectives like helping globalization or smoother business processes. On a more immediate and selfish note, I'll be saved the hassle of having to deal with emails like this. We can one day, perhaps, even eliminate ads like "Incheon: A world best air hub." Maybe I'm getting a little ahead of myself.

As you ponder the possibilities, I would like to bring for your reading pleasure two signs that caught my eye on my recent visit to Taiwan. Without further delay, exhibit A.

Kiss and ride. Yes, you read that right. Kiss. And ride. There were multiple directional sign boards pointing to such an area in every high speed rail station. Polite inquiries revealed that it was the passenger drop off/pick up area: the dropped-off kiss the droppers-off and ride the train. Sometimes I wonder if the case for interesting sign boards is stronger than that of correct sign boards.

Side note: In my second visit to the country since the winter of '05, the biggest change is the high speed rail running along the west coast of the country. A train journey between Hsinchu in the north to Tainan in the south that took 180 minutes then now only takes 70. And the trains look and feel like the good ol' Shinkansen of Japan right down to the box-lunch laden carts pushed around by uniformed girls.

Exhibit B: "I want a cheese pizza." "I want my steak medium well done"

Don't find anything wrong with these sentences? Me neither. Except that these were posted on top of, umm, the urinal. That is right. A small glass frame holds these neatly printed sentences along with their Chinese translations. Three sentences per urinal. My immediate reaction was "But cheese pizza is bad for your health!". I'm kidding. The first thought was, and mind you, I'm all for spreading the knowledge of English: Why on top of the urinal? Do you really believe that the moments spent there while performing a very delicate task that demands your undivided attention should involve a certain level of parallel processing to acquire language skills?

"I want a cheese pizza and my steak well done please."

"Right away Sir. Have you wet your pants?"

If the rest room is where food oriented language lessons are to be indeed dispensed, I would hate to think what is on the doors of the toilet stalls. Selected sections from the Martha Stewart Living Cookbook?

"What made you become a chef?"

"Constipation."

Eww.

I'm stopping right now.

You're welcome.

The wait is over

June 25 1983 remains a hazy recollection. Of memories, recounted anecdotes and visuals. Some of them real, some imagined. Of being vaguely aware of a significant happening, seeing elders happy and excited. The momentousness of that summer day would only be realized over the years and recalled often; sometimes as a comforting memory and sometimes with fear that it may remain as only a memory.

1987 was sad but in a childish way. Cricket was still only a toy; not yet a religion or an opiate. Perhaps because, even at that age, the last ball six by that wily fox, Miandad, had tempered my expectations from this team. Or perhaps because a certain Sachin Ramesh Tendulkar hadn't yet arrived on the scene. Either ways, although it was held in India, that World Cup seemed distant and there was no real sense of loss when we were eliminated at the hands of England. I was able to quickly move on to the next distraction.

1992. Middle school is an unforgiving place and I was mature enough not to expect big things. It was a big stage and it seemed almost improper to expect that group to pull it off. Sachin was only beginning to give the nation a reason to believe. And the strength to hope for better cricketing fortunes. In the end, the sole comforting take away from that tournament was that we had beaten the eventual winners, the Pakistanis. And unsurprisingly, that was comforting; a dose of palliative strong enough to last four years.

It was on March 13th 1996 that it really hurt. I was about to graduate from high school. Adolescence, college, raging hormones and all that. Sachin had now come to mean cricket; an icon of hope, a comforting presence that could soothe almost every agony. Cricket ceased to be a team sport and became a one-man show. And the team's fortunes became synonymous with Sachin's. With his presence, the championship didn't seem all that big to aspire for. It was the first time that we had dared to dream big. Only for that dream to be rudely snatched away. Hence that loss stung. The team had failed it's champion. Yet again. The riots in Eden Gardens rubbed salt into open wounds. Even manhandling the Pakistanis in the quarter finals couldn't provide succor and the four year wait would be a painful one. With only the recollection of 1983 memories providing some relief.

1999. College life would end in a year. Bigger opportunities were being pursued in life with gusto. A measure of uncertainty was always present and even acceptable, both in life and Indian cricket. Cricket was like a long time girl friend: you had your fights but could count on it when it mattered. Thanks largely to a team that had a genius and ten mortals, watching cricket often meant relishing valiant knocks from Sachin in losing causes. But Sachin's twin exploits in the Arab peninsula an year earlier in 1998 once again misled a nation into believing that the game was perhaps an individual sport. Only to be reminded by the Aussies that it takes collective performances from an entire team to lift the cup. The batting trio were finally in place: Sachin, Rahul and Sourav. But apart from a few sparkling individual performances, beating the Lankans and the Pakis provided the only high points in an otherwise indifferent tournament from an Indian stand point.

2003. Many firsts. First time watching the game in the US. First time with friends and alcohol. And of course, the first time paying out of my pocket to watch cricket. Grad school was fun and so was following cricket. For the first time in memory, I followed the tournament with an intense yearning. The fan inside me wanted the Famous Four to bring home the silverware. The maniac inside had not mellowed enough to realize that it was sport. The team had developed a spine, spunk and a personality under Sourav. The license to kill was acquired over a 3-test series against the Aussies in early 2001. The strong core was still resilient and the young blood held much promise. The 2002 Natwest series trophy win provided a glimpse of a hitherto unimaginable scenario: Team India winning despite a Sachin failure. The bowling had a bite and the batting had an edge. In my opinion, 2003 was the closest we came to winning as a team since, perhaps, 1983. Only to be outdone, rather embarrassingly, at the last step by a very strong Aussie team. A week's mourning with friends, replaying memories from the many sparks of individual brilliance shown by Sachin throughout the 90s and playing some actual serious competitive cricket helped mitigate the bad hang over.

2007. The tournament that never happened. Posing as a responsible adult, gainfully employed and a traveling job. Adulthood messes up priorities. Life was dealing a tough hand. Tougher than what cricketing victories could help soothe. Cricket ceased to be what it was and as if in reflection of my personal state, India had a very forgettable campaign. If your only recollection of this tournament is losing to Bangladesh, then you know it was a bad World Cup. The giants of Indian cricket were fast approaching their sell-by date. The last opportunity to win the World Cup for arguably the greatest generation of players that turned out for the nation was lost.

The only interest for me this time around was to see if we could win this for Sachin, the sole remaining member of the Famous Five (Shame on the ones that omit VVS). Between T20, the IPL circus and utter commercialization of the game, my appetite for cricket was significantly reduced. Or was it simply age? No more maniacal following, no more superstitious rituals during a game. Yet ahead of the QF, all the accumulated indifference melted away. The years were rolled back. There was a child like anticipation, a strong desire, a growing despair and the paralyzing fear of a familiar result of being so close yet so far. A fear of a void that could never be filled.

The clinical quarter final victory over Australia wasn't quite sweet revenge for the 2003 humiliation, yet it felt good. The semi final win over Pakistan was, dare I say, along expected lines; if it is the World Cup and if it is Pakistan, we will win. But at 31/2, chasing a non-violent 274 made by the Lankans, the feeling of staring down an all too familiar barrel was inevitable. And yet I clung on. Reconciliation would be very difficult this time. Even impossible. Would we have to rest on simpler laurels like the most number of runs and centuries? Would we have to settle for memories of valiant knocks from the past? Would the tag of "the greatest player to have not won the World Cup" be something to live with for the rest of eternity? Even if we won in 2015, the sight of Sachin in the stands, applauding in plain clothes would be too much to behold. But this group of men in blue were not to be denied. A seemingly tough challenge was surmounted. Victory seemed almost preordained. A sense of destiny was inevitable. Justice was done. Goose bumps. Moistened eyes. A lump in the throat that was very difficult to swallow. A wait comes to an end. A 19-year wait for me. A change, the seeds of which were sown a decade back, bore fruit. A relief sweeps over. A nation's collective fear that the game's ultimate award would somehow escape the game's greatest artist is laid to rest. Funnily, what started out as one man's struggle since 1992 has ended as a real team effort.

The quiet beer that I relished standing in solitude on my balcony on the morning of April 2nd, basking in the afterglow was the sweetest I've ever had. Thank you Team India!