Much as we malign our cricketers, no one gives them credit for their vital contribution to India's rising economy. Journalists and TV channels can continue their lazy coverage of non-topics by analyzing India's performance or non-performance with plump spaghetti-clad starlets and anyone who has seen a bat (not necesarily the cricketing one). Politicians get another non-issue of which they have no clue to debate about in the 20 minutes in a year that they actually attend Parliament. Company and agency ad-honchos have ample opportunity to exercise their creativity by trying to decide the optimal combination of cricketers in a single ad and whether they should be pictured in their playing fatigues or otherwise. And the public gets to eat food that comes straight from the kitchen of Sachin and Tendulkar - talk about a double whammy.
And of course, we also win an occasional home series, for those really interested in the game.
In India, everyone and their bai (not to be confused with bhai, the kindly Big Bro who, alongwith BCCI, ensures sustained interest in cricket worldwide at great personal and financial risk) has an opinion on cricket. So it is too tempting for me to not say my two-taka about the Great Indian Cricketing Non-Show. Here goes -
The BCCI has completed its assessment of the poor performance of the Indian cricket team in the World Cup, and come up with some radical suggestions for a make-over of Indian Cricket & Company (ICC):
Vandana Luthra, the owner of one of the largest slimming and beauty clinics in the country, will be the new coaching agency for the team. Luthra’s staff will provide special grooming and beauty treatments to the players, with special pre-shoot ‘glow’ packages. VLCC will provide these services free of cost – in return, the players will be the new brand ambassadors for the chain. The hottest selling item in Luthra’s bouquet is expected to be the Sehwag Special, which is targeted at balding middle agers who have trouble distinguishing their waist from their stomach. Confidential sources tell us that a special make-over for BCCI Chief Sharad Pawar is also planned.
Acknowledging that new talent is needed in Indian cricket, the BCCI has declared an annual Mr. World-Cricketer pageant, which, like the Fairina Miss India, will be sponsored by the Timespass Group. In an attempt to draw young talent, the contest will carry an age restriction of 45 years. The BCCI will also invest in a chain of World Cup Salons all over the country to groom candidates, and is planning to hire Salman Khan, Mandira Bedi and Navjot Singh Sidhu as Special Advisors. Tie-ups with Indian Idol, Jhalak Dikhla Jaa and other reality shows are also being explored.
BCCI has also decided to petition the International Cricket Council (ICC-2) for a change in the cricketing format. Under the new format, a team will be allowed only upto 30 runs through ‘running between the wicket’, and an individual player will not be permitted more then 10 such runs. The top five batsmen of a team will be prohibited from running between the wicket. BCCI officials have used a scientific approach to arrive at these numbers – an analysis of singles and doubles made by Indian batsmen over the past 5 years.
Said a top BCCI Official – We are stung by criticism that the Indian batsmen are unable to make singles and always go for un-necessary big shots. Feedback collected by us (from current and former cricketers) indicate that no one wants to watch two aging, de-motivated and over-hyped men running between two pieces of wood. And you know we as a country dislike hard work when short cuts are available. We realized that the game needs a radical makeover, and it is up to India to seize the money, err, I mean, momentum.
The Board has also responded positively to criticism about composition of the Selection Committee. Henceforth, only politicians, mafia lords and small time Marwari businessmen will be drafted into the Selection Committee. A special quota has been set up for politicians with police cases pending against them. This will help bring more professionalism into the art of fielding and arm twisting, said a senior Board official.
Meanwhile, the Indian cricket team and its management (15 team members with families, 100 staff with family, neighbours and their friends) is preparing for a whirlwind site seeing tour of the West Indies (we had booked for post Super-Eight stage, and it’s really difficult getting five-star bookings now – said an exasperated official). The boys are really looking forward to unwinding after all the hard work, remarked Greg Chappell, the Indian coach.
In a minor development, the BCCI has been rechristened Board of Cash (and Cricket) Control in India, and has elected Sharad Pawar as its first life-time President. A new selection committee consisting of Lalu Prasad Yadav, Pappu Yadav, Mulayam Singh Yadav and Amar Singh has also been appointed. A Senior Board official said that they were awaiting acceptances from Narender Modi and Arjun Singh.
Post Script:
Sachin Tendulkar, who was planning a third restaurant chain called Sachin Tendulkar’s, after Sachin's and Tendulkars, has launched a nationwide talent hunt for a new name for the restaurant. We recommend Shhhhot
Thursday, March 29, 2007
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
Last Night - A Tale
Last night your faded memory came to me
As in the wilderness spring comes quietly,
As, slowly in the desert, moves the breeze,
As, to a sick man, with cause, comes peace.
Raat yun dil mein teri khoyi huyi yaad aayi
Jaise veerane mein chupke se bahaar aa jaaye
Jaise sehraaon mein haulay se chale baade e nadeem
Jaise beemar ko bewajah karaar aa jaye
-Last Night by Vikram Seth, translated from the Urdu of Faiz Ahmad Faiz
I
Happy Diwali, jaan !
He woke up to the fragrance of halwa wafting in from the kitchen, the sweetness suspended in the air, mingled with the scent of bitter almonds…just like the smell of oft-visited memories that you wish you could forget.
Diwali was when he had last spoken to her. She said that she was driving, no actually, waiting for the traffic light to turn green, when he had called . He heard her pick up the phone, then a Shit, then the phone was disconnected - she probably recognized his home number just as she pressed the ‘Answer’ key. He persisted, and as he had expected, she relented and picked up the phone the fifth time. Happy Diwali – he had murmured. Happy Diwali – she replied brightly. Only he would have recognized the false cheerfulness in the voice. How are you? I am driving, let me call you back – she had said, using his aversion to talking while driving as her excuse.
Of course she hadn’t called back. He kept on waiting throughout the party, even leaving the phone switched on till the last moment as he boarded his flight. She had surprised him for once.
So those were the last words they had spoken. Last words to last a lifetime of absence. Nothing grand, when you think about it. But then, reality is seldom as dramatic as we would like it to be. It is the mundane and everyday occurrences that create the real drama in life.
He smiled as he kissed his wife of five years. Happy Diwali, he whispered. There is no going back, he thought. Only an eternity of looking back.
***************************************
Somewhere within your loving look I sense,
Without the least intention to deceive,
Without suspicion, without evidence,
Somewhere within your heart the heart to leave.
- Interpretation, Quatrains by Vikram Seth
II
She typed in the first two alphabets of the name, then stopped. Why are you doing this? –admonished an inner voice. That chapter ended years ago. Keep on scratching an open wound and it never heals, and you have only yourself to blame. Life has moved on, and so should you.
Besides, didn’t you tell him yourself, in no uncertain words, to stay out of your life for ever?
Yes I did, she thought. But I wonder how much of it I really meant, and did I really mean for ever? The hurting words were the only way I had to express the hurt I felt inside. Pity that fleeting words and actions are taken to be a permanent expression of your thoughts and intentions.
She finished typing the name, but the fingers lingered…what I am letting myself in for, she thought? But I wonder where he is, how he is, what he is doing ….She took a deep breath, and pressed Enter.
There was a brief write-up, and a picture. He was growing a beard now – the kind that was sported by wannabe-kool-dudes or the creative-types during her college days. Funny, for he was neither. The wife had a pretty smile, and a possessive hand on his arm. And there were two little children. The boy had inherited his big brown eyes, the girl his frown as she peered into the camera.
Maybe Pandora’s pithos is best left unopened, maybe some wounds never heal.
***************************************
If you had known…if I had known…ah well,
We played our cards so suavely, who could tell?
Ten years ago, so suavely, with such pain…
And, being wise, will do so once again.
-Reunion, by Vikram Seth
As in the wilderness spring comes quietly,
As, slowly in the desert, moves the breeze,
As, to a sick man, with cause, comes peace.
Raat yun dil mein teri khoyi huyi yaad aayi
Jaise veerane mein chupke se bahaar aa jaaye
Jaise sehraaon mein haulay se chale baade e nadeem
Jaise beemar ko bewajah karaar aa jaye
-Last Night by Vikram Seth, translated from the Urdu of Faiz Ahmad Faiz
I
Happy Diwali, jaan !
He woke up to the fragrance of halwa wafting in from the kitchen, the sweetness suspended in the air, mingled with the scent of bitter almonds…just like the smell of oft-visited memories that you wish you could forget.
Diwali was when he had last spoken to her. She said that she was driving, no actually, waiting for the traffic light to turn green, when he had called . He heard her pick up the phone, then a Shit, then the phone was disconnected - she probably recognized his home number just as she pressed the ‘Answer’ key. He persisted, and as he had expected, she relented and picked up the phone the fifth time. Happy Diwali – he had murmured. Happy Diwali – she replied brightly. Only he would have recognized the false cheerfulness in the voice. How are you? I am driving, let me call you back – she had said, using his aversion to talking while driving as her excuse.
Of course she hadn’t called back. He kept on waiting throughout the party, even leaving the phone switched on till the last moment as he boarded his flight. She had surprised him for once.
So those were the last words they had spoken. Last words to last a lifetime of absence. Nothing grand, when you think about it. But then, reality is seldom as dramatic as we would like it to be. It is the mundane and everyday occurrences that create the real drama in life.
He smiled as he kissed his wife of five years. Happy Diwali, he whispered. There is no going back, he thought. Only an eternity of looking back.
***************************************
Somewhere within your loving look I sense,
Without the least intention to deceive,
Without suspicion, without evidence,
Somewhere within your heart the heart to leave.
- Interpretation, Quatrains by Vikram Seth
II
She typed in the first two alphabets of the name, then stopped. Why are you doing this? –admonished an inner voice. That chapter ended years ago. Keep on scratching an open wound and it never heals, and you have only yourself to blame. Life has moved on, and so should you.
Besides, didn’t you tell him yourself, in no uncertain words, to stay out of your life for ever?
Yes I did, she thought. But I wonder how much of it I really meant, and did I really mean for ever? The hurting words were the only way I had to express the hurt I felt inside. Pity that fleeting words and actions are taken to be a permanent expression of your thoughts and intentions.
She finished typing the name, but the fingers lingered…what I am letting myself in for, she thought? But I wonder where he is, how he is, what he is doing ….She took a deep breath, and pressed Enter.
There was a brief write-up, and a picture. He was growing a beard now – the kind that was sported by wannabe-kool-dudes or the creative-types during her college days. Funny, for he was neither. The wife had a pretty smile, and a possessive hand on his arm. And there were two little children. The boy had inherited his big brown eyes, the girl his frown as she peered into the camera.
Maybe Pandora’s pithos is best left unopened, maybe some wounds never heal.
***************************************
If you had known…if I had known…ah well,
We played our cards so suavely, who could tell?
Ten years ago, so suavely, with such pain…
And, being wise, will do so once again.
-Reunion, by Vikram Seth
Wednesday, December 27, 2006
Whose Life is it Anyway?
Met Life wants to offer me ‘a strategy for managing my life’ (I’ll do the strategizing dude, why don’t you try out the implementation for a change?)
Airtel wants to call me at least thrice a day when I am on roaming, precisely when I’m taking a well deserved siesta, watching a movie or listening to my favorite song, 'to take feedback on their services'……@@####, Need I say more? Now if you’ll pay for my roaming charges please?
My banks want to appoint an investment advisor to help me manage my money:
We believe the stock markets will still rise Ma’am
Sure, I’m sure Harshad Mehta believed that too
Hehe, You are funny Ma’am. We are not Harshad Mehta – we have done analysis and have experience in this field
Err, what’s your background? Are you a Certified Financial Planner?
No Ma’am, (chest heaving out, evident pride) I am an MBA from Mahabharata Institute of Management, and I have been in this role for the past 6 months …I will send you literature too Ma’am…now if you look at Downthedrain Mutual Fund…what phenomenal returns Ma’am..Shall I send my junior to meet you Ma’am…he will bring all the papers
The receptionist at my beauty parlor (he’s male btw – what do you call a male receptionist ?) wants me to undergo ‘spa treatment for my damaged hair’ when I ask him for a shampoo. Or else, at least buy the most expensive shampoo he has (One of the numerous L’Oreal varieties, all exorbitantly expensive!). As I leave without making a purchase, he volleys that they have a discount on the combo pack for ‘problem skin and hair’. Touche’
Every bank in the country wants me to take a personal loan – very cheap, miss, interest rates will rise in a month miss….
My mom’s LIC agent calls me early morning each day (9 AM – I just begin dreaming then) to tell me about the latest ‘best scheme’, when the only scheme my mind is willing to acknowledge is sleep, sleep, sleep.
My neighbourhood kirana shop helpfully volunteers with the latest ‘blemish reducing cream – top class, just like Shehnaz’, when I ask him for toothpaste.
Salma, my maid in Bangalore, wants to teach me how to make pasta (the one with kadi-patta in it…straight from Mysore), how to assert myself with my sweet landlady, how to keep my room clean, how to rear the fledging sapling my flatmate picked up on an impulse….
My Mom wants me to get married, buy a house, wash my face every night, learn how to cook, read less, not bite my nails while I read, drink less coffee, lose some weight, eat some more of the gajar-ka-halwa she made only for me, be less stubborn, curb my short temper, be less trusting, …..take charge of my life…wait a moment, I SHOULD TAKE CHARGE OF MY LIFE WHEN EVERYONE WANTS TO TELL ME HOW TO RUN IT?
Airtel wants to call me at least thrice a day when I am on roaming, precisely when I’m taking a well deserved siesta, watching a movie or listening to my favorite song, 'to take feedback on their services'……@@####, Need I say more? Now if you’ll pay for my roaming charges please?
My banks want to appoint an investment advisor to help me manage my money:
We believe the stock markets will still rise Ma’am
Sure, I’m sure Harshad Mehta believed that too
Hehe, You are funny Ma’am. We are not Harshad Mehta – we have done analysis and have experience in this field
Err, what’s your background? Are you a Certified Financial Planner?
No Ma’am, (chest heaving out, evident pride) I am an MBA from Mahabharata Institute of Management, and I have been in this role for the past 6 months …I will send you literature too Ma’am…now if you look at Downthedrain Mutual Fund…what phenomenal returns Ma’am..Shall I send my junior to meet you Ma’am…he will bring all the papers
The receptionist at my beauty parlor (he’s male btw – what do you call a male receptionist ?) wants me to undergo ‘spa treatment for my damaged hair’ when I ask him for a shampoo. Or else, at least buy the most expensive shampoo he has (One of the numerous L’Oreal varieties, all exorbitantly expensive!). As I leave without making a purchase, he volleys that they have a discount on the combo pack for ‘problem skin and hair’. Touche’
Every bank in the country wants me to take a personal loan – very cheap, miss, interest rates will rise in a month miss….
My mom’s LIC agent calls me early morning each day (9 AM – I just begin dreaming then) to tell me about the latest ‘best scheme’, when the only scheme my mind is willing to acknowledge is sleep, sleep, sleep.
My neighbourhood kirana shop helpfully volunteers with the latest ‘blemish reducing cream – top class, just like Shehnaz’, when I ask him for toothpaste.
Salma, my maid in Bangalore, wants to teach me how to make pasta (the one with kadi-patta in it…straight from Mysore), how to assert myself with my sweet landlady, how to keep my room clean, how to rear the fledging sapling my flatmate picked up on an impulse….
My Mom wants me to get married, buy a house, wash my face every night, learn how to cook, read less, not bite my nails while I read, drink less coffee, lose some weight, eat some more of the gajar-ka-halwa she made only for me, be less stubborn, curb my short temper, be less trusting, …..take charge of my life…wait a moment, I SHOULD TAKE CHARGE OF MY LIFE WHEN EVERYONE WANTS TO TELL ME HOW TO RUN IT?
Thursday, December 07, 2006
Millenia's Angry Young Men
The Angry Young Man is dead. Long live The Angry Young Man.
Amitabh Bachchan got a second life, and possible cinematic immortality, by playing reel and real life Godfather (the latter by seeding working class crorepati’s). Meanwhile, his Angry Young Man – the role that created a superstar of a tall, gauche and deep throated youth three decades ago, a role that could be played to perfection only by him – has been resurrected, albeit in a new avatar.
Take a look at three of the recent hits in Bollywood – Rang De Basanti, Lage Raho Munnabhai and Khosla ka Ghosla – and you know what I mean. While Amitabh’s angry young man gave form to a middle class that was just beginning to find its identity and voice, these movies depict the new middle class –one that is comfortable with its new found stature, yet recognizes its limited control over major events. And the best part is that the new Indian middle class no longer relies on the emergence of the lone rebel who becomes a part of the very system that he seeks revenge on – our new pilots, engineers and local dadas can take on the role just fine, thank you. And they will do it more smartly too – drawing upon not just the brawn carefully cultivated in the local gym, but also all other resources at their disposable (brains, family, and most importantly, society).
Take the directionless youths in RDB, out to have a good time with no care in the world, till they lose a close friend to corrupt politics. What do these guys do? Unlike our old angry young man, they don’t just surrender themselves to Big Brother after they’ve killed the joker-politician. No, they first take over a radio station and create awareness of what they have done, and why they did what they did. The rich son doesn’t just leave Dear Corrupt Father to be given his dues by ‘kanoon’ or the local deity – he finishes him off. True, a lot of people found the solution extreme, but then, desperate situations sometimes call for desperate measures.
Or the nerdy engineer in Khosla Ka Ghosla - bent on escaping his embarrassing middle class family and creating his dream life in the US. But when his father is fleeced of his lifetime’s savings and his dream house, he doesn’t flex his Mister India muscles and go out and challenge the goons of the corrupt land grabber. Instead, he enlists the support of a renegade thief and his girlfriend’s drama troupe to fool our smart developer and get back the house, with interest!.
And lastly, good old Munnabhai and Circuit, who effect a change of heart in hardened Lucky Singh by deploying the Gandhian principles of non violence and compassion. A contemporary revisiting of ahimsa.
Why do we like these guys so much? Coz like Amitabh Bachchan was to the 70’s generation, these people are just like you and me. We can relate with their dreams, and empathize with their sometimes vacuous lifestyles. And what happens to them could have happened to any of us. No one knows whether their solutions would work in real life, but then, how many people could have realistically gone and physically fought the bad guys too? What is important is that they are bothered enough by the injustice to do something about it. Madhavan’s friends could have buried him and got on with their foreign dreams. Nerdy engineer could have told his father to write off the house – he would make enough money in a year to buy him two such houses. And Munna-Circuit could have forcibly evicted Lucky Singh and grown their stature in BhaiLand. That they don’t take the easy way out is what earns them our admiration and accolades.
And the trend is not just limited to reel life. In real life too, Delhi, struggling with continued rapes and road rage deaths, is celebrating the conviction of Satish Sharma for the tandoor murder case, even as it waits for justice to be handed out to Manu Sharma and the Yadav clan. As I write this, Shibu Soren has been handed life sentence for conspiring to kill his secretary, and Navjot Singh Sidhu has been sentenced three years imprisonment for a road rage death.
True, most of these judgments have taken over a decade to arrive, leaving the accused free in this period – in an ironic twist, Manu Sharma, accused of killing Jessica Lal in a pub upon being refused a drink by her, has gone ahead and set up his own pub, which is doing quite well. These cases may also be a drop in the ocean (who knows how many cases go un-convicted, un-reported or buried), and have created concerns of ‘who will judge the judges’ (as Barkha Dutt pertinently pointed out).
But then, ridding India of corruption is like cleaning the mythical Augean stables. Granted, what we have now is probably just a wayward, spluttering stream. But let us not downplay the importance of these small victories either – for they open the frontiers of possibility, and give us hope. And it is up to us now to not just applaud, but seize the momentum. Long live the Angry Young Man.
Amitabh Bachchan got a second life, and possible cinematic immortality, by playing reel and real life Godfather (the latter by seeding working class crorepati’s). Meanwhile, his Angry Young Man – the role that created a superstar of a tall, gauche and deep throated youth three decades ago, a role that could be played to perfection only by him – has been resurrected, albeit in a new avatar.
Take a look at three of the recent hits in Bollywood – Rang De Basanti, Lage Raho Munnabhai and Khosla ka Ghosla – and you know what I mean. While Amitabh’s angry young man gave form to a middle class that was just beginning to find its identity and voice, these movies depict the new middle class –one that is comfortable with its new found stature, yet recognizes its limited control over major events. And the best part is that the new Indian middle class no longer relies on the emergence of the lone rebel who becomes a part of the very system that he seeks revenge on – our new pilots, engineers and local dadas can take on the role just fine, thank you. And they will do it more smartly too – drawing upon not just the brawn carefully cultivated in the local gym, but also all other resources at their disposable (brains, family, and most importantly, society).
Take the directionless youths in RDB, out to have a good time with no care in the world, till they lose a close friend to corrupt politics. What do these guys do? Unlike our old angry young man, they don’t just surrender themselves to Big Brother after they’ve killed the joker-politician. No, they first take over a radio station and create awareness of what they have done, and why they did what they did. The rich son doesn’t just leave Dear Corrupt Father to be given his dues by ‘kanoon’ or the local deity – he finishes him off. True, a lot of people found the solution extreme, but then, desperate situations sometimes call for desperate measures.
Or the nerdy engineer in Khosla Ka Ghosla - bent on escaping his embarrassing middle class family and creating his dream life in the US. But when his father is fleeced of his lifetime’s savings and his dream house, he doesn’t flex his Mister India muscles and go out and challenge the goons of the corrupt land grabber. Instead, he enlists the support of a renegade thief and his girlfriend’s drama troupe to fool our smart developer and get back the house, with interest!.
And lastly, good old Munnabhai and Circuit, who effect a change of heart in hardened Lucky Singh by deploying the Gandhian principles of non violence and compassion. A contemporary revisiting of ahimsa.
Why do we like these guys so much? Coz like Amitabh Bachchan was to the 70’s generation, these people are just like you and me. We can relate with their dreams, and empathize with their sometimes vacuous lifestyles. And what happens to them could have happened to any of us. No one knows whether their solutions would work in real life, but then, how many people could have realistically gone and physically fought the bad guys too? What is important is that they are bothered enough by the injustice to do something about it. Madhavan’s friends could have buried him and got on with their foreign dreams. Nerdy engineer could have told his father to write off the house – he would make enough money in a year to buy him two such houses. And Munna-Circuit could have forcibly evicted Lucky Singh and grown their stature in BhaiLand. That they don’t take the easy way out is what earns them our admiration and accolades.
And the trend is not just limited to reel life. In real life too, Delhi, struggling with continued rapes and road rage deaths, is celebrating the conviction of Satish Sharma for the tandoor murder case, even as it waits for justice to be handed out to Manu Sharma and the Yadav clan. As I write this, Shibu Soren has been handed life sentence for conspiring to kill his secretary, and Navjot Singh Sidhu has been sentenced three years imprisonment for a road rage death.
True, most of these judgments have taken over a decade to arrive, leaving the accused free in this period – in an ironic twist, Manu Sharma, accused of killing Jessica Lal in a pub upon being refused a drink by her, has gone ahead and set up his own pub, which is doing quite well. These cases may also be a drop in the ocean (who knows how many cases go un-convicted, un-reported or buried), and have created concerns of ‘who will judge the judges’ (as Barkha Dutt pertinently pointed out).
But then, ridding India of corruption is like cleaning the mythical Augean stables. Granted, what we have now is probably just a wayward, spluttering stream. But let us not downplay the importance of these small victories either – for they open the frontiers of possibility, and give us hope. And it is up to us now to not just applaud, but seize the momentum. Long live the Angry Young Man.
Monday, October 02, 2006
The Road
Vajpayee’s Golden Quadrilateral appears poised to change all of that. Call it one man’s vision, but you have to also give credit that, in a country notorious for inaction, for once a grand idea was translated into concrete. I have driven with pleasure down the Bangalore-Mysore Expressway (gateway to Srirangapatna, Mysore & Coorg, amongst others) and the Bangalore-Pune highway (Mangalore, Pune, Goa,..). Two weeks ago, we decided to test out the National Highway from Bangalore to Chennai.
The drive, of course, is breathtaking. You’d think it’s just a road, but each road has a different tale to tell. The gentle cruising at 100 kmph, racing with an infinite expanse of white and blue, the many-hued flowers mushrooming in the middle of the road, the numerous shades of green, the exclamations of joy as the road plays hide and seek with you, now swerving to the left to reveal huge rock formations benevolently gazing upon you, now curving up to reveal an expanse of silken paddy fields. It is a feeling that can best be described as coming back home – joyous and unencumbered – after a long and arduous journey.
But what lends character and distinction to driving in India is the numerous sights and sounds that you encounter on the way. When you drive in other parts of the world – US, Europe, others – you are at best an observer of beauty. The landscape is like a beautiful ice maiden that holds you at arm’s length – to be admired from afar. In India, you are the actor and the spectator. You wave at the numerous children and adults cramped into a three-wheeled vehicle, and they respond with joy. You curse at the bike driving on the wrong side of the highway, but you make way for him. You recognize the right of way of the bullock cart and the odd cow. You stop for tea at Reddy’s Punjabi Dhaba, smiling at the attempt at all-inclusion. You laugh at restaurants that go by the names of Cup and Up and Roots and Shoots, and try to stomach Drive and Digest with unending glasses of fresh nimbu-paani. You smile when the chai-wala calls you back to return the 50 paisa left over from your bill of 4 rupees 50 paisa for four, steaming hot cups of delicious tea. You make a stop to take in a breathtaking sunset, and are amused to see Fair and Lovely amongst other emergency items in a small tea stall. You run around with the kids (and the goat and the dog), even as you show them ‘magic’ by opening and closing your car door from 50 meters afar.
Driving in India is not just about getting from place A to B. It is getting to know all that lies in between – the people, the places, the sounds - the good and sometimes the ugly. In a way, it is descriptive of Hindu philosophy – the journey is much more fulfilling than the destination.
May God Be With You
I’m a Hindu by birth – a has-been believer in God who does not believe in religion and its associated symbols (such as temples). Over the past year, I have started questioning the existence of God, but I still feel irresistibly drawn to a Church.
As I sat quietly in the last row of an ancient Church in downtown Costa Rica, I wondered what it is that makes so many people – young and old, rich and poor, men and women – come to a Church. There they are, surrounded by images of Jesus, Joseph and Mary immortalized in glass and color, sitting quietly with themselves. Maybe the martyred Jesus gazing benevolently upon them, the wooden benches and the warm yellow light, and the quiet all around, gives them a sense of warmth and isolation – of being with yourself, finding yourself. You can shut out the world out here, I thought…till the loud screeching of car brakes from outside reminded me that the world is all around you…
As I sat quietly in the last row of an ancient Church in downtown Costa Rica, I wondered what it is that makes so many people – young and old, rich and poor, men and women – come to a Church. There they are, surrounded by images of Jesus, Joseph and Mary immortalized in glass and color, sitting quietly with themselves. Maybe the martyred Jesus gazing benevolently upon them, the wooden benches and the warm yellow light, and the quiet all around, gives them a sense of warmth and isolation – of being with yourself, finding yourself. You can shut out the world out here, I thought…till the loud screeching of car brakes from outside reminded me that the world is all around you…
Monday, September 04, 2006
Two can Win
Numbers can be misleading. They tell you the facts, but not the stories that weave those facts. A bit like ends without the means.
Take a tennis match. The score-line tells you who won the match, but pretty much nothing else. It does not tell you how close the match can sometimes be, and how the guy who wins may not always be the one who played better. It does not tell you how long, and how intensely, a rally was fought, nor does it tell you the role played by that fickle lady called luck. It does not tell you about the exhilaration of an exquisite drop shot that caught your opponent unawares, or the agony when your perfect backhand lands just beyond the line. It does not tell you about the mental strength that makes you climb an insurmountable Everest even when you keep on slipping down, and the disappointment when your body gives in just when you have the summit in sight.
Numbers tell you that that a legend made it to the second round of his last professional Grand Slam, beating a 21young upstart 6-4, 6-4, 3-6, 5-7,7-5. They do not tell you how close the winner came to losing, and how valiantly he fought to win.
They do not tell you that a 21 year old Cyprian clawed back from two sets down and 0-4 in what appeared to be the penultimate set of the match to stage an Agassi-like comeback – against Andre Agassi. Had he succeeded, which he nearly did, he would have been the first man in six years to snatch away a 2-0 set lead from Agassi. And the last man to beat him in a Slam match.
Numbers do not tell you that this young man would have put a 36-year old legend out of his last professional match on his home ground, had he not suffered sever cramps - and how he still hung on, forcing several dueces and then holding on to his serve, despite being barely able to move.
They do not tell you how valiantly this young man fought back every time defeat appeared to be a certainty for him, and how he never lost his wide grin despite a partisan and hostile crowd. How he fought for every point as if his life depended upon it, even when playing seemed like a physical impossibility. Nor do they tell you about his magnanimity and graciousness towards a lucky victor.
Numbers do not tell you about the tenacity and hunger of a 36-year old man playing his last professional tournament, who fights for each point as if he is a youngster in his debut season, much less a man preparing for a comfortable retirement. A man who continues to push the boundaries of physical and mental endurance, constantly challenging himself, and in the process, some unlucky opponents.
They do not tell you that if this man uses all and sundry means at his disposal to secure victory – some fair, like his talent, hunger and perseverance – and some not so fair, likely an unruly and partisan crowd and his opponent’s physical weakness – you forgive him. For the world loves fighters, especially those who win.
Numbers do not tell you that like it or not, patriotism and sentimentality will count more than respect for talent, and money will continue tightening its vice over sports. Why else would an educated crowd loudly cheer a double fault by a gutsy player who was badly cramping, only because he was playing against their aging countryman? Or why the patronizing and idiotic commentator would make a statement like – ‘If Agassi loses today, the game of tennis would lose, the US Open would lose’. I couldn’t understand how the game of tennis could lose from the victory of a worthier man in one of the best matches in recent times, till I realized that an aging 36 year old American was the reason for packed Center Court attendance and record breaking TV viewership. Jimmy forgot to add that the game and the tournament would lose money.
Numbers also do not tell you if Andre Agassi is the ‘nice person’ that he nobly exhorted his colleagues to be at the start of this tournament, or merely a devious person hungry for victory. Was it Agassi’s conscience that made him nervous and repeatedly drop serve and net shots even when Baghdatis could barely move, or was he selfishly trying to prolong his opponent’s agony to force him off the court, thus denying him the possibility of a win. One would like to believe the former.
It is debatable whether Andre Agassi deserves to be in the third round of his last professional tournament. Or whether 21 year old Marcus Baghdatis deserves to return home after an awe inspiring comeback. ‘Deserve’ is always a matter of perspective.
What is beyond doubt is that I saw one of the best games of tennis I’ve seen in a while between two great players. And realized that sometimes there are no limits to human courage and endurance. And when you have crossed that line, there are no losers.
Take a tennis match. The score-line tells you who won the match, but pretty much nothing else. It does not tell you how close the match can sometimes be, and how the guy who wins may not always be the one who played better. It does not tell you how long, and how intensely, a rally was fought, nor does it tell you the role played by that fickle lady called luck. It does not tell you about the exhilaration of an exquisite drop shot that caught your opponent unawares, or the agony when your perfect backhand lands just beyond the line. It does not tell you about the mental strength that makes you climb an insurmountable Everest even when you keep on slipping down, and the disappointment when your body gives in just when you have the summit in sight.
Numbers tell you that that a legend made it to the second round of his last professional Grand Slam, beating a 21young upstart 6-4, 6-4, 3-6, 5-7,7-5. They do not tell you how close the winner came to losing, and how valiantly he fought to win.
They do not tell you that a 21 year old Cyprian clawed back from two sets down and 0-4 in what appeared to be the penultimate set of the match to stage an Agassi-like comeback – against Andre Agassi. Had he succeeded, which he nearly did, he would have been the first man in six years to snatch away a 2-0 set lead from Agassi. And the last man to beat him in a Slam match.
Numbers do not tell you that this young man would have put a 36-year old legend out of his last professional match on his home ground, had he not suffered sever cramps - and how he still hung on, forcing several dueces and then holding on to his serve, despite being barely able to move.
They do not tell you how valiantly this young man fought back every time defeat appeared to be a certainty for him, and how he never lost his wide grin despite a partisan and hostile crowd. How he fought for every point as if his life depended upon it, even when playing seemed like a physical impossibility. Nor do they tell you about his magnanimity and graciousness towards a lucky victor.
Numbers do not tell you about the tenacity and hunger of a 36-year old man playing his last professional tournament, who fights for each point as if he is a youngster in his debut season, much less a man preparing for a comfortable retirement. A man who continues to push the boundaries of physical and mental endurance, constantly challenging himself, and in the process, some unlucky opponents.
They do not tell you that if this man uses all and sundry means at his disposal to secure victory – some fair, like his talent, hunger and perseverance – and some not so fair, likely an unruly and partisan crowd and his opponent’s physical weakness – you forgive him. For the world loves fighters, especially those who win.
Numbers do not tell you that like it or not, patriotism and sentimentality will count more than respect for talent, and money will continue tightening its vice over sports. Why else would an educated crowd loudly cheer a double fault by a gutsy player who was badly cramping, only because he was playing against their aging countryman? Or why the patronizing and idiotic commentator would make a statement like – ‘If Agassi loses today, the game of tennis would lose, the US Open would lose’. I couldn’t understand how the game of tennis could lose from the victory of a worthier man in one of the best matches in recent times, till I realized that an aging 36 year old American was the reason for packed Center Court attendance and record breaking TV viewership. Jimmy forgot to add that the game and the tournament would lose money.
Numbers also do not tell you if Andre Agassi is the ‘nice person’ that he nobly exhorted his colleagues to be at the start of this tournament, or merely a devious person hungry for victory. Was it Agassi’s conscience that made him nervous and repeatedly drop serve and net shots even when Baghdatis could barely move, or was he selfishly trying to prolong his opponent’s agony to force him off the court, thus denying him the possibility of a win. One would like to believe the former.
It is debatable whether Andre Agassi deserves to be in the third round of his last professional tournament. Or whether 21 year old Marcus Baghdatis deserves to return home after an awe inspiring comeback. ‘Deserve’ is always a matter of perspective.
What is beyond doubt is that I saw one of the best games of tennis I’ve seen in a while between two great players. And realized that sometimes there are no limits to human courage and endurance. And when you have crossed that line, there are no losers.
Tuesday, August 29, 2006
Fear of Flying
I don’t know how or from where I got it, but I’ve had this mad desire to go bungee jumping for the past week. There is a spot close to San Jose – on a bridge 265 feet over a river – that is a world famous spot for bungee jumping. I made up my mind to go there this weekend and try my luck.
We reached the spot around 11 am, just in time to see a guy get strapped and stand on the narrow platform. He turned back and gave me a nervous smile, and I smiled back encouragingly. He stood for two minutes at the edge, shook his head, came back and sat down. All the while, his two friends (who were gonna jump next) were encouraging him in Spanish. I wandered around and took in the breathtaking view – lush green foliage all around, plunging into a narrow river strewn with huge boulders. Suddenly, I heard a shriek – the guy had jumped. We watched in amazement as he almost touched the river, shouting like mad all the while, and gently swayed below the bridge….there he’d be on one side, and then I’d run over to the other side of the bridge to catch a sight of him. When he came back, he was grinning like a Cheshire cat, all pumped up.
I was excited. What did that guy think as he stood on the platform, and how did he make the leap? I wanted to do this, I was gonna do this!
The second guy was cucumber kool. He’s gonna go down in a flash, without a sound – I thought. I was wrong. The moment he stood up, he started shaking his head, and after a few minutes of to-and-fro, he was back on the bridge, unstrapping his gear.
If you think too long, you’ll never jump – I told my companion knowledgeably, as if I’d done this all my life. I’d been chatting with the third guy, and he told me they were from Portugal. You jump? – he asked. I think so, though I’ll be shit scared – I answered. Im very scared too…the toughest part is getting yourself to make the jump. I’ve jumped from a parachute, but there was someone else who made the actual jump – I just followed him. Getting myself to jump will be tough. I nodded, mentally mapping out how I’d make the leap.
In the end, the third guy, the one who’d jumped from a parachute and who’d dragged his friends to do the bungee, couldn’t jump either.
I was next. I was cool, calm and confident, as I asked Charlie the instructor to repeat the instructions and tested out the clasp for the rope that I’d have to grasp for the return to the platform. I’d pumped myself up, and my strategy was clear – I wouldn’t look down. I’d look into the trees, stretch out my arms, and imagine that I was Jonathan Livingstone Seagull. Charlie says the women are better at this, remarked my Portuguese friend. I smiled back confidently – I wasn’t gonna prove Charlie wrong.
The moment I stood up on the platform, more than 250 feet above the river, I started blabbering, just as I’d seen the other guys do. I have to be crazy to be doing this, why am I doing this, etc. Initially, my knees were shaking, but after a few moments, I was steady. Move forward, your toes should be slightly outside the platform, commanded Charlie. Gingerly, holding the support to my left, I made my way forward. To gain confidence, I let go of the support and stretched out my arms horizontally. After a couple of minutes of nervousness, I managed to let go of the support, with my toes slightly outside the platform, and my arms stretched out. I was in position for the jump.
You’re good, now jump, said Charlie. I tried….but I just couldn’t. I closed my eyes, I thought all kinds of things to myself, I imagined myself dancing to music, but I just could not jump. I just couldn’t understand it. I was prepared for this, I had wanted to do it, I had thought about how I would do it, I wasn’t scared of death (the worst possible outcome) But the left side of my brain had sensed danger and completely taken over, and my feet appeared to be locked and glued to the spot. All the advice I had doled out to my predecessors was forgotten in a trice. I can’t do this, but I soo badly want to do this, can you push me Charlie? I asked in desperation. He wasn’t allowed to push me, but he stood behind me and gave me a countdown. Jump at zero, and he began, but the moment he’d reach two I’d ask him to start all over again.
I still believed I was gonna do it, but I think the Portuguese guys sensed otherwise. Adios, one of them called out to me, if you stand there too long you don’t make it, shouted another, echoing my thoughts of ten minutes ago.
In the end, I did not jump. As I stood there, my brain convinced me that it was not worth doing, that it was beautiful just standing on the platform with my arms stretched out (it was), what more joy could I get from jumping…the works. I still can’t believe it, for I had looked with a bit of contempt at the last two guys who did not jump. I will do it, I had told myself – I want to do it and I can do it.
But when you stand on the platform, you undergo a transformation. What I felt then can best be described as preparing to commit suicide – for that is what the 265-feet jump appears to be as you stand on the 18 inch strip of metal, the protective ropes notwithstanding. Had I been blindfolded, not known what I was going in for, I think I would have done it. Or if someone had pushed me, or if it was a situation of desperation, a last resort. But having had enough time to see what I was in for, my brain just did not let me release my defenses.
I had looked forward to the jump as a symbolic way of letting go of my fears and defenses. I tried ... but in the end, I didn’t have enough guts to leap out of my secure armor.
I still haven't given up though.
We reached the spot around 11 am, just in time to see a guy get strapped and stand on the narrow platform. He turned back and gave me a nervous smile, and I smiled back encouragingly. He stood for two minutes at the edge, shook his head, came back and sat down. All the while, his two friends (who were gonna jump next) were encouraging him in Spanish. I wandered around and took in the breathtaking view – lush green foliage all around, plunging into a narrow river strewn with huge boulders. Suddenly, I heard a shriek – the guy had jumped. We watched in amazement as he almost touched the river, shouting like mad all the while, and gently swayed below the bridge….there he’d be on one side, and then I’d run over to the other side of the bridge to catch a sight of him. When he came back, he was grinning like a Cheshire cat, all pumped up.
I was excited. What did that guy think as he stood on the platform, and how did he make the leap? I wanted to do this, I was gonna do this!
The second guy was cucumber kool. He’s gonna go down in a flash, without a sound – I thought. I was wrong. The moment he stood up, he started shaking his head, and after a few minutes of to-and-fro, he was back on the bridge, unstrapping his gear.
If you think too long, you’ll never jump – I told my companion knowledgeably, as if I’d done this all my life. I’d been chatting with the third guy, and he told me they were from Portugal. You jump? – he asked. I think so, though I’ll be shit scared – I answered. Im very scared too…the toughest part is getting yourself to make the jump. I’ve jumped from a parachute, but there was someone else who made the actual jump – I just followed him. Getting myself to jump will be tough. I nodded, mentally mapping out how I’d make the leap.
In the end, the third guy, the one who’d jumped from a parachute and who’d dragged his friends to do the bungee, couldn’t jump either.
I was next. I was cool, calm and confident, as I asked Charlie the instructor to repeat the instructions and tested out the clasp for the rope that I’d have to grasp for the return to the platform. I’d pumped myself up, and my strategy was clear – I wouldn’t look down. I’d look into the trees, stretch out my arms, and imagine that I was Jonathan Livingstone Seagull. Charlie says the women are better at this, remarked my Portuguese friend. I smiled back confidently – I wasn’t gonna prove Charlie wrong.
The moment I stood up on the platform, more than 250 feet above the river, I started blabbering, just as I’d seen the other guys do. I have to be crazy to be doing this, why am I doing this, etc. Initially, my knees were shaking, but after a few moments, I was steady. Move forward, your toes should be slightly outside the platform, commanded Charlie. Gingerly, holding the support to my left, I made my way forward. To gain confidence, I let go of the support and stretched out my arms horizontally. After a couple of minutes of nervousness, I managed to let go of the support, with my toes slightly outside the platform, and my arms stretched out. I was in position for the jump.
You’re good, now jump, said Charlie. I tried….but I just couldn’t. I closed my eyes, I thought all kinds of things to myself, I imagined myself dancing to music, but I just could not jump. I just couldn’t understand it. I was prepared for this, I had wanted to do it, I had thought about how I would do it, I wasn’t scared of death (the worst possible outcome) But the left side of my brain had sensed danger and completely taken over, and my feet appeared to be locked and glued to the spot. All the advice I had doled out to my predecessors was forgotten in a trice. I can’t do this, but I soo badly want to do this, can you push me Charlie? I asked in desperation. He wasn’t allowed to push me, but he stood behind me and gave me a countdown. Jump at zero, and he began, but the moment he’d reach two I’d ask him to start all over again.
I still believed I was gonna do it, but I think the Portuguese guys sensed otherwise. Adios, one of them called out to me, if you stand there too long you don’t make it, shouted another, echoing my thoughts of ten minutes ago.
In the end, I did not jump. As I stood there, my brain convinced me that it was not worth doing, that it was beautiful just standing on the platform with my arms stretched out (it was), what more joy could I get from jumping…the works. I still can’t believe it, for I had looked with a bit of contempt at the last two guys who did not jump. I will do it, I had told myself – I want to do it and I can do it.
But when you stand on the platform, you undergo a transformation. What I felt then can best be described as preparing to commit suicide – for that is what the 265-feet jump appears to be as you stand on the 18 inch strip of metal, the protective ropes notwithstanding. Had I been blindfolded, not known what I was going in for, I think I would have done it. Or if someone had pushed me, or if it was a situation of desperation, a last resort. But having had enough time to see what I was in for, my brain just did not let me release my defenses.
I had looked forward to the jump as a symbolic way of letting go of my fears and defenses. I tried ... but in the end, I didn’t have enough guts to leap out of my secure armor.
I still haven't given up though.
All that Jazz
My Saturday evening didn’t turn out as planned. I wanted to attend the Camerata Klaipeda by the Lithuanian group at the National Theatre, but by the time I managed to locate an ATM and then beat the pouring rains, all the tickets were sold out. Only uno – I pleaded with the lady in a mix of English and Spanish– but she shook her head sympathetically.
Disappointed, I made my way back to the Multiplaza for a late lunch. Upon entering the hotel, I bumped into my favorite Jazz band – a Cuban (saxophone), a Tico (guitar) and an American (piano). You never returned last Tuesday – exclaimed the Cuban & the Tico. I smiled apologetically – remembering my un-kept promise of returning after dinner for their music. I’ll compensate today, I promised as I settled down on a sofa close to the piano.
Surprisingly, I was the sole audience (the small area is usually packed), so I was asked for requests. Umm, play some Louis Armstrong, I said, trying hard to recall names of some famous jazz players (blush). An excellent rendering of What a Wonderful World was delivered, followed by My Funny Valentine. Inspired, I asked for Something Stupid –they didn’t have the sheet music, but the Tico knew a bit of the tune, and they made a valiant, albeit a slightly inaccurate, attempt to play it for me. Very sweet.
He sings really well – said the Tico of Mark, the pianist, as I went over to chat with them. Requests for songs followed, and Mark sang Cry me a River, Sorry seems to be the Hardest Word and a pretty song called Moon and Sand that I hadn’t heard before, to the accompaniment of the piano.
And oh yes, there was a 15 year old kid who wandered over from a party in the vicinity and stood watching Mark play for some time. You play well - she told him. He smiled with evident pride. Do you play – he asked conversationally. A bit – I learnt the piano when I was 8. And then, she sat down and belted out some awesome Chopin – mindblowing. I could see Mark was humbled.
Not a bad evening at all…so what if I didn’t hear the Lithuanian band, I had a trio of artistes perform just for me. Not to mention the Chopin maestro.
And I think to myself…It’s a wonderful world.
Disappointed, I made my way back to the Multiplaza for a late lunch. Upon entering the hotel, I bumped into my favorite Jazz band – a Cuban (saxophone), a Tico (guitar) and an American (piano). You never returned last Tuesday – exclaimed the Cuban & the Tico. I smiled apologetically – remembering my un-kept promise of returning after dinner for their music. I’ll compensate today, I promised as I settled down on a sofa close to the piano.
Surprisingly, I was the sole audience (the small area is usually packed), so I was asked for requests. Umm, play some Louis Armstrong, I said, trying hard to recall names of some famous jazz players (blush). An excellent rendering of What a Wonderful World was delivered, followed by My Funny Valentine. Inspired, I asked for Something Stupid –they didn’t have the sheet music, but the Tico knew a bit of the tune, and they made a valiant, albeit a slightly inaccurate, attempt to play it for me. Very sweet.
He sings really well – said the Tico of Mark, the pianist, as I went over to chat with them. Requests for songs followed, and Mark sang Cry me a River, Sorry seems to be the Hardest Word and a pretty song called Moon and Sand that I hadn’t heard before, to the accompaniment of the piano.
And oh yes, there was a 15 year old kid who wandered over from a party in the vicinity and stood watching Mark play for some time. You play well - she told him. He smiled with evident pride. Do you play – he asked conversationally. A bit – I learnt the piano when I was 8. And then, she sat down and belted out some awesome Chopin – mindblowing. I could see Mark was humbled.
Not a bad evening at all…so what if I didn’t hear the Lithuanian band, I had a trio of artistes perform just for me. Not to mention the Chopin maestro.
And I think to myself…It’s a wonderful world.
Monday, August 28, 2006
Lessons in Language
On my flight into Costa Rica, my companion asked me – Do you speak Spanish? No, I replied. Oh well, just remember to say ‘No avayol Espanol’ – it means ‘I do not understand Spanish’.
Sage advice, as these turned out to be words I have most often used in Costa Rica in the last six weeks (apart from buenas and gracias). In a country where most people do not understand or speak English, communication is a challenge – and since no (wo)man is an island, this leads to encounters that are sometimes exasperating, sometimes touching, and always interesting!
There are tons of exhilarating moments…like the cheery ‘Comos Estas, Ina’ of the guards in office each morning and evening, and the answering smile when I manage to murmur a ‘Muy bien’ back to them. I make it a point to greet the guards every morning and evening – they are friendly, cheerful and give me the best lessons in Spanish!
Then there are the appreciations of my accent by my colleagues (hear, hear), and the gentle corrections – like with poqueeto, which I am told I still don’t enunciate correctly. This usually results in friendly banter in which I make them parrot some Hindi words (the most fun is when I ask them to say dhanyawaad)
I will also treasure the shopkeeper in Grecia who could not understand a word of English, but came running out into the middle of the street to help me when I repeatedly lost my way and drove around in circles (he finally asked for a paper and drew the map on it…..God bless him!),
Many strangers have helped me order my lunch or dinner, or make a simple grocery purchase. But my moment of pride came when I managed to get a customized meal from my favorite Mexican haunt. I wanted chicken fajitas from a combo-meal, but without the combo of French fries and Coke, and with no cheese. I also wanted to take the meal home. I managed to use broken Spanish and sign language to communicate how I wanted my food, and succeeded.
To-Go, I told the lady. Si?, she questioned. Parajevar, I said, groping for the word and hoping I got it right, but inwardly preparing myself for a series of useless gesticulations. Si, Si, To Go, Si? She smiled back, as she packed the food. Si, Si, I replied in happy exultation - I’d managed to make her speak Engles!
Some of my most frustrating experiences have been communicating with the so-called bilingual staff at the hotel. Like when I wanted to contact the seamstress, and they couldn’t understand …I used all kinds of words like tailor, repair, mend etc., till I figured out the Spanish translation (costurera). Or when I called to enquire about making a call to a local mobile phone, and they connected me to the beauty parlor instead! The morning wake-up calls are quite funny….my dreams are interrupted by a spattering of Spanish till I groggily reply ‘No avayol Espanol’ - it sure wakes me up!
Then there are times when you call up a tour operator, and in response to your hesitant ‘Engles?, no avayaol Espanol’, you hear a smattering of Spanish, followed by the phone slamming down. Or when people keep on talking to you in Spanish even after they have heard and acknowledged that you do not understand it. Sigh. Or when that guy at Subway smirked at me when I was trying to explain what I wanted in my sandwich – I could have strangulated him!
Language - communication of meaning in any way; medium that is expressive, significant, etc. No wonder the joy of getting through far outweighs the despair of incomprehension.
Sage advice, as these turned out to be words I have most often used in Costa Rica in the last six weeks (apart from buenas and gracias). In a country where most people do not understand or speak English, communication is a challenge – and since no (wo)man is an island, this leads to encounters that are sometimes exasperating, sometimes touching, and always interesting!
There are tons of exhilarating moments…like the cheery ‘Comos Estas, Ina’ of the guards in office each morning and evening, and the answering smile when I manage to murmur a ‘Muy bien’ back to them. I make it a point to greet the guards every morning and evening – they are friendly, cheerful and give me the best lessons in Spanish!
Then there are the appreciations of my accent by my colleagues (hear, hear), and the gentle corrections – like with poqueeto, which I am told I still don’t enunciate correctly. This usually results in friendly banter in which I make them parrot some Hindi words (the most fun is when I ask them to say dhanyawaad)
I will also treasure the shopkeeper in Grecia who could not understand a word of English, but came running out into the middle of the street to help me when I repeatedly lost my way and drove around in circles (he finally asked for a paper and drew the map on it…..God bless him!),
Many strangers have helped me order my lunch or dinner, or make a simple grocery purchase. But my moment of pride came when I managed to get a customized meal from my favorite Mexican haunt. I wanted chicken fajitas from a combo-meal, but without the combo of French fries and Coke, and with no cheese. I also wanted to take the meal home. I managed to use broken Spanish and sign language to communicate how I wanted my food, and succeeded.
To-Go, I told the lady. Si?, she questioned. Parajevar, I said, groping for the word and hoping I got it right, but inwardly preparing myself for a series of useless gesticulations. Si, Si, To Go, Si? She smiled back, as she packed the food. Si, Si, I replied in happy exultation - I’d managed to make her speak Engles!
Some of my most frustrating experiences have been communicating with the so-called bilingual staff at the hotel. Like when I wanted to contact the seamstress, and they couldn’t understand …I used all kinds of words like tailor, repair, mend etc., till I figured out the Spanish translation (costurera). Or when I called to enquire about making a call to a local mobile phone, and they connected me to the beauty parlor instead! The morning wake-up calls are quite funny….my dreams are interrupted by a spattering of Spanish till I groggily reply ‘No avayol Espanol’ - it sure wakes me up!
Then there are times when you call up a tour operator, and in response to your hesitant ‘Engles?, no avayaol Espanol’, you hear a smattering of Spanish, followed by the phone slamming down. Or when people keep on talking to you in Spanish even after they have heard and acknowledged that you do not understand it. Sigh. Or when that guy at Subway smirked at me when I was trying to explain what I wanted in my sandwich – I could have strangulated him!
Language - communication of meaning in any way; medium that is expressive, significant, etc. No wonder the joy of getting through far outweighs the despair of incomprehension.
Tuesday, August 15, 2006
Perhaps this could have stayed unstated...
I mentioned An Equal Music in my previous post. Given my current state of musical exaltation :-), I can't resist the temptation to quote this epigraph to the book, dedicated by Seth to his partner Philippe Honore':
Perhaps this could have stayed unstated.
Had our words turned to other things
In the grey park, the rain abated,
Life would have quickened other strings.
I list your gifts in this creation:
Pen, paper, ink and inspiration,
Peace to the heart with touch or word,
Ease to the soul with note and chord.
How did that walk, those winter hours,
Occasion this? No lightning came;
Nor did I sense, when touched by flame,
Our story lit with borrowed powers -
Rather, by what our spirits burned,
Embered in words, to us returned.
To me, these words, like any beautiful composition, have a timeless beauty to them - lyrical, magical and eternal.
Perhaps this could have stayed unstated.
Had our words turned to other things
In the grey park, the rain abated,
Life would have quickened other strings.
I list your gifts in this creation:
Pen, paper, ink and inspiration,
Peace to the heart with touch or word,
Ease to the soul with note and chord.
How did that walk, those winter hours,
Occasion this? No lightning came;
Nor did I sense, when touched by flame,
Our story lit with borrowed powers -
Rather, by what our spirits burned,
Embered in words, to us returned.
To me, these words, like any beautiful composition, have a timeless beauty to them - lyrical, magical and eternal.
Food, Music and Shopping
This weekend I decided to take it easy. I mean, getting a bit tired of the 'what-I-am-doing-this weekend' planning....I just wanted to have no To-Do's for a change.
So dragged along two Ticos and a Philipino-American for some yummilicous Indian food. I was going to have Indian food after 6 weeks - so I was obviously quite excited. Went to this place called Taj Mahal which is really pretty - it's actually a beautiful house converted into a restaurant. The weather was awesome, so we decided to eat in the courtyard, dust and bugs notwithstanding. Got really excited when I saw a tandoor, and even more when the cook turned out to be from Punjab - felt so good to finally talk to someone in Hindi!
We had a complete orgy - lassi, seekh kabab, lamb biryani, garlic naan, yellow dal, mughlai chicken - all under the pretext of 'introducing' Indian food to my companions. sigh. Travelling around the world has made me appreciate better the variety and richness (literally too!) of Indian food ... I mean this place served only North Indian food and had at least 50 items on its menu! Now if you were to just add South Indian (not just idli-dosa-sambar but more eclectic stuff), Konkani and Bengali cuisine to this, can you imagine how long the list would be !! Incomparable.
Did quite a bit of shopping too - sigh. I'm a compulsive shopaholic - one of those strange creatures for whom blowing up money is a sure-shot boost of adrenalin. Aargh.
The highlight of the weekend was Sunday evening, when I headed to the opulent Nacional Teatro for a performance by eight young cellists from Berlin. What a fantastic performance - I am amazed that a single instrument can create so much beauty !! I particularly enjoyed the performances by a trio (two men and a woman), and also some of the pieces where all eight performers played together - mindblowing! Can you imagine what coordination of individual brilliance it takes to get eight different composers to create melody and harmony with one instrument? And these weren't original compositions mind you - playing anyone else's music is always moe difficult, but when it's the likes of Bach and Mozart - you get the picture.
I loved the way one of the cellists would start off in the lead, then the second would take over and the first would fade away and complement the new lead, then the third, and so on. It's magic, pure magic....a social fusion of individual expression. As I closed my eyes to soak in the performance, I realized how meaningless words are for music of this nature. A thought that seemed to be reflected in the frequent exchange of glances and smiles between the cutest couple of the group.
"Music, such music, is a sufficient gift. Why ask for happiness; why hope to grieve? It is enough, it is to be blessed enough, to live from day to day and to hear such music – not too much, or the soul could not sustain it – from time to time."
Vikram' Seth's last lines in An Equal Music could not have said it better.
So dragged along two Ticos and a Philipino-American for some yummilicous Indian food. I was going to have Indian food after 6 weeks - so I was obviously quite excited. Went to this place called Taj Mahal which is really pretty - it's actually a beautiful house converted into a restaurant. The weather was awesome, so we decided to eat in the courtyard, dust and bugs notwithstanding. Got really excited when I saw a tandoor, and even more when the cook turned out to be from Punjab - felt so good to finally talk to someone in Hindi!
We had a complete orgy - lassi, seekh kabab, lamb biryani, garlic naan, yellow dal, mughlai chicken - all under the pretext of 'introducing' Indian food to my companions. sigh. Travelling around the world has made me appreciate better the variety and richness (literally too!) of Indian food ... I mean this place served only North Indian food and had at least 50 items on its menu! Now if you were to just add South Indian (not just idli-dosa-sambar but more eclectic stuff), Konkani and Bengali cuisine to this, can you imagine how long the list would be !! Incomparable.
Did quite a bit of shopping too - sigh. I'm a compulsive shopaholic - one of those strange creatures for whom blowing up money is a sure-shot boost of adrenalin. Aargh.
The highlight of the weekend was Sunday evening, when I headed to the opulent Nacional Teatro for a performance by eight young cellists from Berlin. What a fantastic performance - I am amazed that a single instrument can create so much beauty !! I particularly enjoyed the performances by a trio (two men and a woman), and also some of the pieces where all eight performers played together - mindblowing! Can you imagine what coordination of individual brilliance it takes to get eight different composers to create melody and harmony with one instrument? And these weren't original compositions mind you - playing anyone else's music is always moe difficult, but when it's the likes of Bach and Mozart - you get the picture.
I loved the way one of the cellists would start off in the lead, then the second would take over and the first would fade away and complement the new lead, then the third, and so on. It's magic, pure magic....a social fusion of individual expression. As I closed my eyes to soak in the performance, I realized how meaningless words are for music of this nature. A thought that seemed to be reflected in the frequent exchange of glances and smiles between the cutest couple of the group.
"Music, such music, is a sufficient gift. Why ask for happiness; why hope to grieve? It is enough, it is to be blessed enough, to live from day to day and to hear such music – not too much, or the soul could not sustain it – from time to time."
Vikram' Seth's last lines in An Equal Music could not have said it better.
Mindless Monday
Horrible day.
Spent hours filing my expense claims - my company has attained the pinacle of complexity in this goddamn activity. Felt soo irritated...all non value-add. Did a couple of administrative stuff - email followups, same-time clarifications, all that jazz.
Feel so useless...didnt do one 'meaningful' thing today (does not need to be necessarily in work)...terrible way to begin the week!
Hopefully it can only get better from here. Tomorrow is another day!
Spent hours filing my expense claims - my company has attained the pinacle of complexity in this goddamn activity. Felt soo irritated...all non value-add. Did a couple of administrative stuff - email followups, same-time clarifications, all that jazz.
Feel so useless...didnt do one 'meaningful' thing today (does not need to be necessarily in work)...terrible way to begin the week!
Hopefully it can only get better from here. Tomorrow is another day!
Friday, August 11, 2006
Othello and a Pirate
I finally managed to see Pirates Part 2. Frankly I was quite disappointed. I am a big Pirates and Johnny Depp fan, so maybe I was expecting too much. But I thought the first half-hour was a complete waste. All that tribal stuff was complete mambo jambo and entirely expendable. And just when the movie picked up pace and got us interested with the possibility of a romance between Depp and the fair maiden, it ended! Bah. So evidently intended for a sequel. And Davy Jones is slimy (literally!), but not half as wicked as Captain Barbossa - thank God Geoffrey Rush is returning in the sequel to the sequel.
My biggest grouse with the movie is that it had too little of Johnny Depp - he was the star of the first movie! And since he (alongwith Barbossa) had all the witty dialogues, the movie was like a 500-page P Smith novel with P Smith getting only 10 lines. Not enough, not enough.
Saw Omkara at a small Indian theatre in Atlanta...most of the women were wearing pretty embroidered stoles so it was like being back in Delhi in autumn :-) The language is gross, but I liked the movie. I especially liked the fact that he used a very relevant political backdrop, yet stuck to the story without getting mired in the politics. And the music is mind blowing.
I thought Saif's acting was awesome - he's growing into a very versatile actor! He looked more evil than Ajay Devgan, who I suspect has a canned shot of himself with eyes narrowed and perputual scowl and sells it to all his directors. Cheaper by the dozen...standardization at its best. Kareena was very ordinary, reducing a meaty role full of possibilities to pathetic wimpiness. Wonder how a Rani would have up scorched up a character like that.
My biggest grouse with the movie is that it had too little of Johnny Depp - he was the star of the first movie! And since he (alongwith Barbossa) had all the witty dialogues, the movie was like a 500-page P Smith novel with P Smith getting only 10 lines. Not enough, not enough.
Saw Omkara at a small Indian theatre in Atlanta...most of the women were wearing pretty embroidered stoles so it was like being back in Delhi in autumn :-) The language is gross, but I liked the movie. I especially liked the fact that he used a very relevant political backdrop, yet stuck to the story without getting mired in the politics. And the music is mind blowing.
I thought Saif's acting was awesome - he's growing into a very versatile actor! He looked more evil than Ajay Devgan, who I suspect has a canned shot of himself with eyes narrowed and perputual scowl and sells it to all his directors. Cheaper by the dozen...standardization at its best. Kareena was very ordinary, reducing a meaty role full of possibilities to pathetic wimpiness. Wonder how a Rani would have up scorched up a character like that.
What are you reading today?
I had some time to my flight while leaving the US, so I obviously ended up at a bookstore. I havent bought a book for a month now, so I was getting the itch to spend some money :-) Something well paced, engrossing and witty is just what I need to get over my blues, eh? Si.
The first section had the 'How-To' books - The Eight Habbit, Nice Girls Dont get the Corner Office/Man of Dreams, Why Men Fall Asleep After Sex ...all that kind of crap. I hate self-help books - I think they are an oxymoron anyway coz self-help means YOU help yourself. The gyan these books contain sounds very good but I would either not want to or be unable to implement most of it.
The next was the post Bridget Jones chick flicks - The Shopaholics series and other such stories about wacky-poor-girl who is out-of-job and/or out-of-money but gets handsome-rich-charming-man-of-dreams at end of novel after crazy/silly/sometimes-funny,always-unreal encounters. I call these the modern MB's. You enjoy reading them sometimes, hell, you want to read them sometimes when you want complete mindlessness, but after you have read a few they get tiresome. The problem is not that they are unreal and have no story (you don't read such stuff if you want a story), the problem is with the writing - there is no humor or wit at all. It's like someone has run a random program over a million words and generated these books. Gimme a Georgette Heyer or a Dorothy Sayers or even Precious Ramotswe for a chick flick!
The next was the 'popular authors' category - Dan Brown, Mario Puzo, Crickton, Archer, King - the lot. All wearisomely-very-similar. Aargh.
Then there was the 'poignant story' category - The Nicholas Sparks kinda sob-stuff. Any author who wants to be taken seriously today will write a poignant and moving tale about love or life and its purpose/meaning - preferably both together. Which is fine with me - some of them are quite nice to read. The problem is when these books become succesful, so the Sparks and Morrisons and Smiths of the world think that they can go on writing poignant stories for ever. A random program again, but on a different set of words. Sigh. Im giving up hope by now.
Is this what the world is reading today? Where are the good books that make you laugh, that make you cry, that make you think, that sometimes make you take a leap of faith? And each different from the other....whatever happened to variety in writing? When I think of some of my favorite writers - Maugham, Steinbeck, Russell, or even Seth and Rushdie - they always had a new tale to tell. Vikram Seth even has new ways of telling his tales - that's what makes him so interesting. Or if they had the same theme - like Stevenson (adventure) or Wodehouse (BritButler humor - right ho Jeeves!) or even Asimov, Bradbury or Adams - they made each work so thrilling and absorbing that you are left gasping for more. And the subtle humor that would light up even the most sordid tales - that's what makes a good book to my mind.
A great book is one that tells you different things each time you read it. You understand it bit by bit, and it never ceases to wonder or amaze you. It's like love, or old wine - it gets better with time. Most of the stuff that I saw at the bookstore was like a one-night stand - read it, shut it, forget it.
The first section had the 'How-To' books - The Eight Habbit, Nice Girls Dont get the Corner Office/Man of Dreams, Why Men Fall Asleep After Sex ...all that kind of crap. I hate self-help books - I think they are an oxymoron anyway coz self-help means YOU help yourself. The gyan these books contain sounds very good but I would either not want to or be unable to implement most of it.
The next was the post Bridget Jones chick flicks - The Shopaholics series and other such stories about wacky-poor-girl who is out-of-job and/or out-of-money but gets handsome-rich-charming-man-of-dreams at end of novel after crazy/silly/sometimes-funny,always-unreal encounters. I call these the modern MB's. You enjoy reading them sometimes, hell, you want to read them sometimes when you want complete mindlessness, but after you have read a few they get tiresome. The problem is not that they are unreal and have no story (you don't read such stuff if you want a story), the problem is with the writing - there is no humor or wit at all. It's like someone has run a random program over a million words and generated these books. Gimme a Georgette Heyer or a Dorothy Sayers or even Precious Ramotswe for a chick flick!
The next was the 'popular authors' category - Dan Brown, Mario Puzo, Crickton, Archer, King - the lot. All wearisomely-very-similar. Aargh.
Then there was the 'poignant story' category - The Nicholas Sparks kinda sob-stuff. Any author who wants to be taken seriously today will write a poignant and moving tale about love or life and its purpose/meaning - preferably both together. Which is fine with me - some of them are quite nice to read. The problem is when these books become succesful, so the Sparks and Morrisons and Smiths of the world think that they can go on writing poignant stories for ever. A random program again, but on a different set of words. Sigh. Im giving up hope by now.
Is this what the world is reading today? Where are the good books that make you laugh, that make you cry, that make you think, that sometimes make you take a leap of faith? And each different from the other....whatever happened to variety in writing? When I think of some of my favorite writers - Maugham, Steinbeck, Russell, or even Seth and Rushdie - they always had a new tale to tell. Vikram Seth even has new ways of telling his tales - that's what makes him so interesting. Or if they had the same theme - like Stevenson (adventure) or Wodehouse (BritButler humor - right ho Jeeves!) or even Asimov, Bradbury or Adams - they made each work so thrilling and absorbing that you are left gasping for more. And the subtle humor that would light up even the most sordid tales - that's what makes a good book to my mind.
A great book is one that tells you different things each time you read it. You understand it bit by bit, and it never ceases to wonder or amaze you. It's like love, or old wine - it gets better with time. Most of the stuff that I saw at the bookstore was like a one-night stand - read it, shut it, forget it.
Thursday, August 10, 2006
Indian Salsa
Browsing through the music collection at a gift shop at the Costa Rica-Nicaragua border, I stumbled upon an album titled World Salsa Beats. Salsa music from Mexico, Brazil, Zambiar, India, Timbuctoo and Latvia (no those weren’t the exact places, but a good imagination largely compensates for a bad memory), it ran.
Indian Salsa?? I turned the CD in happy anticipation, only to be left dazed and perplexed. A Shaan remix of a forgettable Hindi oldie (I cant even recall the song now..and I have grown up listening to 60’s and 70’s music thanks to my Dad) was India’s proud representation for world Salsa. Eh??
Indian Salsa?? I turned the CD in happy anticipation, only to be left dazed and perplexed. A Shaan remix of a forgettable Hindi oldie (I cant even recall the song now..and I have grown up listening to 60’s and 70’s music thanks to my Dad) was India’s proud representation for world Salsa. Eh??
Wednesday, August 02, 2006
City of Blinding Lights
So here I am...finally reached the USA !!!
Couldnt contain my excitement as the plane was landing...I was literally jumping in my seat like a little kid. The sun was just about to depart - at 7.30 in the evening! Wow looks like Im gonna have long days here.
Getting out of the Atlanta airport is a complete nightmare - in font 40, bold. You go thru the Customs check (answering inane questions, giving fingers and eye prints), wait for ure luggage to arrive, collect it, then re-deposit it (!!!), go thru ure security scan (take off shoes, laptop, blah-blah), take an airport train to reach the last stop, find ure way thru several levels to finally reach the last and the messiest stop - baggage re-claim - where you hunt for your poor lil bag amongst luggage from at least ten other flites on the same belt. Phew. They say if you can drive in India, you can drive anywhere in the world. I say if you can get outta a US airport unscathed, you can pretty much travel anywwhere in the world.
Of course the worst security check I had was at Charles de Gaulle, where the poker-faced lady asked me questions like 'Are you carrying weapons that can be used for attacking co-passengers' and 'Has your bag been used to carry forbidden substances' etc....I mean, does she really expect someone who is doing anything of that to declare aye aye !! And the building is soo ugly.. not what you'd expect from the gateway to the most romantic city in the world !
I'd asked the hotel to arrange for a pickup, and my worst fears came true when I couldnt locate him. I needed quarters to make a phone call, but no one seemed to have them! One lady helpfully loaned me two, which got quicly exhausted in a call that ended up in the answering machine. whew. finally found a cute lil kid who had tons if quarters but insisted - I can't spend my money. Finally convinced her that she wasnt spending it - she was just exchanging it for a nice, big note (my sales pitch for the crumpled dollar bill in my hand)...she finally consented after confirming with her Dad, God bless her, and keep her smiling!
As the cab drove across concrete, metal and glass buildings, I felt comfortable - as if I had come home. And I thought to myself - this is my world. This world of cars and street lights and signs in english and people and buildings all along - this is where I belong to. The mountains and the valleys and the blue skies and Spanish chivalry is good for a vacation, but I'm really an outsider out there.
Neon heart, day-glow eyes, The city lit by fireflies...And I miss you when you're not around
(Sorry U2!)
Couldnt contain my excitement as the plane was landing...I was literally jumping in my seat like a little kid. The sun was just about to depart - at 7.30 in the evening! Wow looks like Im gonna have long days here.
Getting out of the Atlanta airport is a complete nightmare - in font 40, bold. You go thru the Customs check (answering inane questions, giving fingers and eye prints), wait for ure luggage to arrive, collect it, then re-deposit it (!!!), go thru ure security scan (take off shoes, laptop, blah-blah), take an airport train to reach the last stop, find ure way thru several levels to finally reach the last and the messiest stop - baggage re-claim - where you hunt for your poor lil bag amongst luggage from at least ten other flites on the same belt. Phew. They say if you can drive in India, you can drive anywhere in the world. I say if you can get outta a US airport unscathed, you can pretty much travel anywwhere in the world.
Of course the worst security check I had was at Charles de Gaulle, where the poker-faced lady asked me questions like 'Are you carrying weapons that can be used for attacking co-passengers' and 'Has your bag been used to carry forbidden substances' etc....I mean, does she really expect someone who is doing anything of that to declare aye aye !! And the building is soo ugly.. not what you'd expect from the gateway to the most romantic city in the world !
I'd asked the hotel to arrange for a pickup, and my worst fears came true when I couldnt locate him. I needed quarters to make a phone call, but no one seemed to have them! One lady helpfully loaned me two, which got quicly exhausted in a call that ended up in the answering machine. whew. finally found a cute lil kid who had tons if quarters but insisted - I can't spend my money. Finally convinced her that she wasnt spending it - she was just exchanging it for a nice, big note (my sales pitch for the crumpled dollar bill in my hand)...she finally consented after confirming with her Dad, God bless her, and keep her smiling!
As the cab drove across concrete, metal and glass buildings, I felt comfortable - as if I had come home. And I thought to myself - this is my world. This world of cars and street lights and signs in english and people and buildings all along - this is where I belong to. The mountains and the valleys and the blue skies and Spanish chivalry is good for a vacation, but I'm really an outsider out there.
Neon heart, day-glow eyes, The city lit by fireflies...And I miss you when you're not around
(Sorry U2!)
Thursday, July 27, 2006
Sunset
As we waited for the elevator last evening, we saw a perfect globe of glowing amber poised over the horizon, standing out against a background of white, blue and grey. Reminded me of an ace swimmer poised to dive into the unknown deep. And just like the swimmer, the amber globe began its rapid descent, so that by the time we reached the ground floor, the sun had disappeared into the vast white-blue ocean, leaving behind only traces of golden light to remind us of its beauty, and hope in our hearts that it would be back in its kingdom tomorrow.
There is something magical about watching a sunset.
As I gazed at the white mist settling over the mountains that frame the central valley, I couldn’t help thinking that it’s like nature is retiring for the day too, settling into a comfortable white blanket to rest and recover … to leave behind all thoughts of joy and sorrow, for there is work to do on the morrow.
Tomorrow is another day...but for now it’s time to go home.
There is something magical about watching a sunset.
As I gazed at the white mist settling over the mountains that frame the central valley, I couldn’t help thinking that it’s like nature is retiring for the day too, settling into a comfortable white blanket to rest and recover … to leave behind all thoughts of joy and sorrow, for there is work to do on the morrow.
Tomorrow is another day...but for now it’s time to go home.
Habit
Costa Rica has managed another first – managed to bring consistency into the life of someone who hates habit and routine.
After about ten days of experimentation with restaurants and food, I have (subconsciously!) settled into a dinner routine that has very low variation. For my last meal of the day, I alternate between Matsuri and Rosti Pollos. From Matsuri, I order a Matsuri salad and Shake (Salmon) Maki or Salmon Skin Roll. From Rosti Pollos, I alternate between Chicken Fajitas and Quesadillas, both with 'maas papa fritos' (extra nachos – sigh!). Usually I brew a cup of tea in the room to go with dinner.
Aarrrgh. I cant believe it. I love variety, hate standardization (except while preaching it at work : -)), certainly hate routines. But I suspect I am beginning to enjoy my new found dinner schedule. Sheesh, I need to escape from here before it’s too late – my mom will actually believe there is hope for me if she hears of this.
Today is the Matsuri day.
After about ten days of experimentation with restaurants and food, I have (subconsciously!) settled into a dinner routine that has very low variation. For my last meal of the day, I alternate between Matsuri and Rosti Pollos. From Matsuri, I order a Matsuri salad and Shake (Salmon) Maki or Salmon Skin Roll. From Rosti Pollos, I alternate between Chicken Fajitas and Quesadillas, both with 'maas papa fritos' (extra nachos – sigh!). Usually I brew a cup of tea in the room to go with dinner.
Aarrrgh. I cant believe it. I love variety, hate standardization (except while preaching it at work : -)), certainly hate routines. But I suspect I am beginning to enjoy my new found dinner schedule. Sheesh, I need to escape from here before it’s too late – my mom will actually believe there is hope for me if she hears of this.
Today is the Matsuri day.
Where are the dogs?
While hunting for a Sushi place close to my hotel, I passed a huge mansion where I could hear some dogs barking. Somehow it sounded out of place, till I realized why – I hadn’t seen any dog in Costa Rica till now. And then it struck me – I haven’t heard/seen any street dogs in any of the countries I have visited (excluding Pakistan)! Let me say that again - across nine countries in five continents, I have never, ever seen a stray dog. Lots of pampered and well pruned pet dogs (though not necessarily well mannered), especially in US & Europe, but not a single stray dog.
Weird, given that you practically live with street dogs back home. I am usually greeted with at least five street dogs in my house lane, and the number multiplies after 11 pm. Several of my friends have repeatedly petitioned the government about the menace of these night creatures close to their homes – one of them carries a stick with him if he is returning home after 10. As a kid, I remember the sense of adventure in visiting my aunt’s house, because it was haunted by a street dog that would bite any non-family member who visited the house. Oh, the fun in sneaking through the back door, always on the look out for a sudden appearance of the deadly animal, and the thrill of horror when my favorite uncle had to take 16 stitches when he dared to enter the house in the dog’s presence.
Whoever said it’s a dog’s world was probably born in the sub-continent.
Weird, given that you practically live with street dogs back home. I am usually greeted with at least five street dogs in my house lane, and the number multiplies after 11 pm. Several of my friends have repeatedly petitioned the government about the menace of these night creatures close to their homes – one of them carries a stick with him if he is returning home after 10. As a kid, I remember the sense of adventure in visiting my aunt’s house, because it was haunted by a street dog that would bite any non-family member who visited the house. Oh, the fun in sneaking through the back door, always on the look out for a sudden appearance of the deadly animal, and the thrill of horror when my favorite uncle had to take 16 stitches when he dared to enter the house in the dog’s presence.
Whoever said it’s a dog’s world was probably born in the sub-continent.
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