Right Side Up

This picture adorned the walls of many of the houses that I lived in. Never quite understood which way it was to be put up. Now why would anyone play the guitar the way this gentleman is . I even hung it horizontally for a very long time because that seemed more right than its actual orientation.
I once asked Anna why she bought this painting which seemingly made no sense. Disappointed she said, "So that you could try and make sense of it". That made sense to me immediately.

Gandalf and the Balrog

The Gandalf impersonator woke up unusually early. The mystic princess was still asleep.

He was seized by the pangs of an empty void in the middle zone and a pulsating tsunami in the higher lands, caused by the golden concoction brewed specially for the celebration the previous night by the famed wizards, Justrini and Brooks (popularly known as J&B).

He knew that the crystal waters would soothe the violent sensations that engulfed him. It was time for the wizened 33 year old Gandalf impersonator to make his way to the Kitchen Cave.

As he trudged from the cool comfort of the corner cabins to the still airs of the cave, he failed to notice the seemingly innocuous stirring caused by the Balrog.

It was only when he reached the edge of the kitchen cave that he became aware of its presence. It as then that he recalled the words of the Mystic Princess, "Beware of the Balrog. If it manages to reach the Kitchen Cave, it is capable of creating havoc of such magnitude that will take eons (in mosquito years) to correct. Be extremely careful wise one, under no circumstances let this happen."

The flashback in his mind over, Gandalf turned around and the still airs resounded with his hoarse voice as he uttered the words, "You shaaalll not Pass."

The Balrog looked up at him and uttered the words "ku ku" and pitter pottered ahead of him into the kitchen cave.

Mind you

The mind is the enemy.
No mind, perfect harmony and peace.

Red Bull

Played tennis for 2 hours today. Was dripping in sweat after 5 minutes. There is some virtue in getting your clothes drenched in sweat. Gives one a sense of white collar accomplishment. Foolishly accepted a Red Bull from a colleague. And here I am at 2:30 in the morning wide awake like a bat.

Checkers meets Dash

Checkers Kishore

Grey Skies, Cold Showers and Stereotypical Metaphors

The sky is a melancholy Grey. Not because of clouds laden with moisture (that's straight out of my 7th class geography text book) but instead due to a dust storm that's covering the upper echelons of Troposphere. The sun irrespective of how potent and powerful it maybe has not been able to penetrate this layer.

Down below it's a sauna. Those who are in Bombay might be able to relate to this to some extent. Imagine that its been raining over night and then a merciless sun comes out. Only the sun is not out here.

The one thing that I miss the most these days is a cold shower. That morning alarm that send jolts down your spine the moment it touches your hair and face and shakes up your mind and body from a state of weary lethargy and makes you alert and energetic like a tiger who has just sensed the presence of prey. The one moment in a persons day when he is perhaps in the present and the cacophonous rumble in your mind comes to a halt.

The above feeling is restricted to a fraction of a second for me as the water in the shower is always just a little hotter than lukewarm. The kind does not scald and feels pleasant. It might be nice but not quite what I am looking for.

Luck

Unfortunately you cannot choose when or what you will be lucky with.

The week that went by

Had a very tough week. Tough like not in quite a while. Endlessly long meetings with deliveries and a lot of external and self induced pressure. The mind just didnt know when to stop. Got very little sleep. At 7 pm this evening could feel it having shrunk into the size of a golf ball. The weeekend is here but still no signs of sleep.

Statistical Probabilities

Ananth has a gift for insight.

The other day as he commented that "A goal is nothing but a statistical probability".

Remarkable observation.

One needs to dwell on this for a moment cause it would be very easy to jump to the conclusion that all effort is pointless. Afterall, the instinct to be lethargic is the most dominant instict in most individuals (sorry for the generalisation, whats true for me need not be true to you though I have a feeling that you do agree with me).

Moral of the story, one can be nothing but a trier. The harder you try, the better your chances of success which incidentally is not guaranteed. After 80 minutes of trying hard, Ronaldo manages to pass one to Figo who heads it over the goal post. Two of the highest paid football players in the world. Highest paid because they try the hardest amongst the best.

Lukman - the heart broken Pathan

My mother used to tell me that I was named after Hakim Lukman. As the title suggests he was a medicine man, an exceptionally gifted one at that. It seems that he would roam in the forests and the herbs and the plants would talk to him and tell him about the uses that they could be put to.

Unlike my brothers and cousins I was small built. My mother hoped that like my namesake I would one day become a famous doctor. I too harbored the same illusions and when I was young I used to walk in the small stretches of shrubs that dotted the vast barren, arid vastness that surrounds my hometown - Dara Adam Khail in Peshawar.

I would listen hard to the shrubs but they never talked to me. I concluded that the shrubs were not of any use and that’s why they had nothing to say. At times I imagined that they would talk to me. And my mind would convince me that it was indeed the shrubs that were talking, so I would pluck a few leaves and dutifully administer them to my younger sister who would often complain of stomach aches or to my dim witted neighbor, Majid who often got beaten up my the village bullies.

My father put an end to my medical aspirations one day when my sister started to vomit after I had fed her my magic potion. The entire village cracked up laughing at me when Majid earnestly volunteered to put my medicine on my back side to heal it. The mockery of the villagers and the beating given to me by my father squashed all my desires to heal any of them. They simply did not deserve it.

Dara Adam Khail lies in FATA (Federally Administered Tribal Areas). Federally administered means that there is no one to administer. My village comprises mostly of my relatives. All of us lived in a cluster of mud houses that was surrounded by a wall made of clay and brick. The design was such that the entire village could be sealed off by just locking the front doors of two houses. One large Afridi family we were, all living and quarrelling together.

The only thing that brought us together was our frequent fights with the neighboring clans. And that we did often. Once my uncle thought that a Pathan from a neighboring village had stolen his slippers so he decided to take him to task and started off a blood feud that continues to this day.

No reason was small enough to start a fight. It would usually start with individuals and before sun set would engulf the entire clan. The elders would pack their guns and were off to ravage the enemy. And any one old enough to hold a locally made rifle was considered an elder. 4 of my elder brothers, 13 cousins and 6 uncles died by the time I fought my first battle aged 11.

Since the area was so arid that it could not even support subsistence level agriculture, the primary occupation of most tribes is gun making and gun running. An occupation that has been relevant historically and contemporarily in the region. Being a region that gives very little, we are used to having and making do with very little. This makes us Pathans well suited to hard work.

A region that provides its young with very no options other than war mongering, those who have a peaceful nature have no option but to look for a livelihood elsewhere. That was my predicament by the time I was 18.

My distant uncle was working as a construction worker in Dubai and he offered to get me a job in his company. In exchange my father had to agree to marry off my younger brother to his not so pretty daughter without any dowry. I have since made it up to my brother. He was the first person in the entire village to own a mobile phone with a camera. Just one of the gifts that I gave to him and to my ugly sister in law the last time I went there.

I felt sad at leaving but at the same time was excited at the thought of going to a foreign land. My entire family came to bid me farewell at the airport. The plane lady showed me my seat. After sometime I could hear a voice but did not know where it came from. I thought that it must be someone talking on a wireless as it sounded similar to that.

The plane started and the passenger next to me did something to the belt that was in his chair. The plane lady went around looking at everyone’s crotches. Why was she doing that? She came to me and I stiffened. She pointed to the belt and gestured something with her hands. I could not figure out what she was saying. So I just sat still and looked straight ahead. She bent down and tried to do something to my stomach and my crotch. I jumped up with a start and shouted, "Don't you have any shame, touching me like that".

The fellow in the seat next to mine told me that she was trying to tie my belt and showed me how to do it. I felt my face gleaming with embarrassment as I said, "Sorry madam".

I felt sad looking at the mountains as the plane took off from Peshawar airport. But then I realized that I had 9 glasses of Coca Cola. The most I have ever had at a stretch, beating my record of 7 that I had at my cousin Ismails wedding. I felt the urge to relieve myself but I was scared to ask the plane lady to open the door so I could do so. How could I bring myself to tell her what I needed to do? Also what if I fell down.

I looked out of the window realized that the skies above the clouds was just a vast stretch of blue, quite uniform and arid like the vast rubble stretches of my home land. From time to time I could hear a voice but did not know where it was coming from. After some time I could feel the plane going down. My heart sank. But then I looked out of the window and realized that the descent was gradual. I realized that I was about to reach my destination. Soon I could see the ground and what I saw and felt I cannot forget to this day. Barren, vast stretches of sand. My home was also dry and barren but the mountains were beautiful. And here I was about to land in a dead desert.

daily resolves

Everyday I resolve that will start writing the any one of the few essays/ stories that I have in mind. Everyday I end up doing everything other than that.
I am quite bemused by the idotic grin that I have on my face as I watch reruns of The 70's Show or Just Shoot Me or something like that.
This evening was similar. I packed my laptop with the resolve that I have not been living up to. Went and saw Omen instead. Was disappointing to say the least.

My new look

7islandsfilm.googlepages.com/

Proof of Global Warming

A few hours at InSports

Moto Mukul

Lucky Number Slevin

Thought it was going to be a comedy from the plot outline. Parul agreed to watch it on that premise. The option was to watch American Dreams but somehow I was not quite up to it. Turned out to be a thriller, quite in the genre of Payback. But had a better mystery element. You don't quite know whats going on till quite late in the movie.

Interesting characters - Josh Hartnett , a guy having a really bad day but managing to take it in his stride (Coming to think of it, that did seem a bit strange); Bruce Willis, the hitman; Ben Kingsley and Morgan Freeman, two warring mafia dons who stay in buildings across the street.

Thoroughly enjoyed it. Think I can write one too.

My next life

In my next life, I want to be an officer in the East India Company posted somewhere remote in India where I can build roads and railways.

Idle Time

Have downloaded myself a few GB of music. All that I always wanted to listen to. Have not gotten round to listening to any of it. Do most of my listening at work and the music played usually needs the approval of those around me. So the Travelling Wilbury's are about as adventurous as I can get. Some of my colleagues who are above 30, have heard some of their songs. Have not yet rigged up a music system at home so all the music that I have downloaded lies dormant in my D drive.

Got myself a DVD player. A Phillips model dubbed - the king of playability, with the promise of playing anything - even pirated Chinese ones. A few days ago, a Chinese man whose English vocabulary was restricted to DVD landed up at our doorstep selling the latest English movies for just 10 AED per DVD. I bought 10. Basic Instinct 2 was disappointing; Transamerica, unusual; The Constant Gardener, brilliant; Memoirs of a Geisha - so-so; the rest I have forgotten and a few I have still not seen.

Have given up on a few books. Among them , The World is Flat - American propoganda; Autobiography of a Yogi - could only take 200 odd pages of disappearing saints etc; Lawrance of Arabia - just too damn complex to comprehend (though have resolved not to give up on it).

Am a bit bored.

Blood on the Tracks

I first heard the album in Shankar's room at FTII. He it as the greatest album ever written. To this day I agree with that opinion.

'Idiot Wind' was the first song that he played. Both of us laughed at Dylan's diction as he spits out the words, 'yeeediiot wind' which make the very vicious lyrics even more spiteful.

He made me a copy of the album and I heard it till I had memorised all the lyrics. The song that I made my own was 'Lily, Rosemary and the Jack of Hearts', a song-story about a bank robbery, murder, love and the principal architect i.e. the Jack of Hearts.

I was particularly taken in by the term, 'Jack of Hearts'. What makes a person the Jack of Hearts? Dylan could have chosen to call him the King of hearts or the Ace of Hearts but the Jack has a completely different character. A lesser status and a hint of deviousness.

Were at Shomi's place yesterday and Parul wanted to hear, Idiot Wind as one Chinese Horoscope test that she once made me take had matched the song to her.

I heard the entire album once more after a very long time. Shomi strummed completely out of tune and declared every now and then that he used to be a damn good rhythm guitarist but can now only play when he is drunk. He has his eye on a 12 string, which Tulika will let him buy only when he practices on his current 6 string and gets back in form again.

I hope he does.

Food Court

The food court at most malls offer a varied choice - Chinese; Lebanese; Iranian; Italian; the Americans on account of their global promise of providing choice to the consumer boast of a Burger King, a KFC and a Mc Donald’s - all serving an assortment of meats with buns of bread, French Fries (wonder why it is called so) and of course Coke or Pepsi depending on their tie up; and last but not the least Indian food - at times a separate franchise for North Indian food and a separate one for South Indian food - a true tribute to our varied heritage and of course due to the fact that we make up a huge percentage of the population which is in fact perhaps the majority (An honest confession again - Please note that as I am not aware of the exact percentage of Indians in the region I have made the sentence inordinately long and even used the term in fact in conjunction with perhaps, two terms which are in fact mutually exclusive).

Parul and I after an exhausting session of furniture scouting went to the food court to grab a bite to eat. Parul was clear that she wanted to eat Chole Bhature at the Light of India. The backlit picture of what looked like a Rajput princess was reassuring but the Phillipina at the counter was not and I also hold the belief that Indian food cannot be franchised as it calls for a degree of expertise and cannot be mass produced the way meat and buns can be.

So I decided to do the rounds scouting for options.

Lebanese I immediately wrote off - grilled meat (one has the choice of chicken, beef and lamb), with bread and chick pea sauce (ground chana with olive oil). Was in no mood for it.

The Chinese reminded me of the slight buzz that I got in my head on account of the MSG.

I have sworn not to eat any of the American fare on account of it being unhealthy and of course bad value for money but I must add in the same bite the fact that all of it does seem to get imprinted in the mind as its so easy to eat and I must confess tasty too in a vague sort of a way.

Italian - the sight of cheesy pasta made my stomach churn.

I was in a real quandary at the south Indian stall. My mind immediately cried Idli's soaked in sambhar and chutney. "Zorry Saar, Zaambaar is zerved zeparitly", the Mallu infourmmmed me.

The Chole Bhature at Light of India were nice and oily.

Still Nothing

I log on to my blog with confidence stemming from arrogance that when I start to write a post, my fingers will automatically start spewing out words that when put together will form coherent profound sentences.

No such luck for the 9th time running. Instead I resort to a play of words that camouflages the absence of any real substance. Guess I should get some points for honesty there.

In continuation with the last post, Mukul does have a giant head and justifiably so. Remember, 'Not all men are equal'.

Blank Posts

I am extremely envious of Mukul and Rohan as they are prolific bloggers. I wonder how is that they manage to come up with something or the other that they find blogworthy. And here I am, having nothing to share with the rest of the world except my notion of envy.

Perhaps more happens to them during the course of their day or maybe they observe more or maybe they just think more. Mukul has always had this unusually large head you see. And here is envy leading to slander.

Furniture shopping

Parul and I have been doing the rounds of furniture street to clutter up our otherwise empty home.

Everywhere we go, furniture talks to us. Invariably all of them say, "I want you" but most speak in a tongue that we cannot understand.

Most of it we would not be seen dead with. The Arabs have pretensions of royalty and most of the stuff is ornate and gaudy (mere euphemisms). Will try and post some pics as we go along to prove the point.

Have done rounds of IKEA twice. The first time around, a bed sang to both of us. Parul heard Suzanne Vega and I heard Bob Dylan. Needless to say that bed was a must have. A drawer cabinet and a computer table whispered sweet nothings to Parul and she gave me the "Daddy, I want look", that I am such a sucker for.

Still a long way to go. Wonder what songs and languages we will hear.

URZOOF

Some day soon a new language will emerge. The language of word verification. Of course like all languages it will be completely open to interpretation. Tfgyfld. Gotscat. Comments welcome.

Achtung

The Germans are a couple of 16 year olds who take professional training 4 times week. I feel like a vetaran. When did this happen?

Anyone for tennis

Entered a tennis tournament.

Didnt quite have the nerve to enter the singles so settled for the doubles alongwith Ananth.

Will be playing against a couple of Germans or Swiss or Austrians as their names suggest on the 30th. They are ranked No.2.

Chinese She Said

Cloudy Day

Some simple facts of advertising

1. Advertising works. 16 responses on the last post. I think the maximum ever on my blog. All thanks to Mukul advertising the post on his blog.
2. Referrals work - Mukul being a good endorser.
3. Contests dont necessarily work. No takers yet for Shanty's proposal.
4. A picture speaks a 1000 words.

Am sure Mukul will see the humour in these

In Pakistan Mut comes before Chi and in India Chi comes before Mut.

pointy buildings

The Emirates Towers are the 12th and 24th tallest buildings in the world. They can be seen from pretty much anywhere in Dubai. Once while CK, Ananth, Bindu and I were lost, I was using the buildings for the purpose of getting our bearing right and referred to them as the pointy buildings not being sure of its name. Ananth could not hide his disgust when he asked me how long I had been here. Needless to say, they are now referred to as the pointy buildings and the joke is on me.

still obsessed with cranes

Aisa bhi hota hai

Was stuck in the evening traffic back into Sharjah from Dubai. It was namaz ka time and the taxi driver requested me if he could stop for a few minutes to do his 5 times a day ritual. He parked the cab at a kerb and proceeded to find a spot in the rubble and proceeded to read his Namaz despite all the din create by the traffic. I hope Allah heard him.

main aur mera camera phone

The Eye of the Emirates
Have not been on it. Once remarked that aisa to hamare India mein bhi hota hai. CK smiled and informed me that the boxes are air conditioned. I promptly shut up then. The view from up there is supposed to be quite spectacular but have not been on it yet. It's on my things to do list when Parul gets here.
If you think that's its a rip off of the London eye. You are right. But what I must also add is the fact that the London Eye is in fact owned by A Dubai based company.

Sharjah Corniche

Well its not quite all desert here. The corniche is a man made lagoon with water diverted from the sea. The Sharjah Corniche also boasts of a man made fountain which is essentially a jet of water that bursts out of the waterbody.

3 All

The body does not take too well to the 3 hours of tennis any more. I guess now is the time to press harder. If not now then later its going to get worse.

Though I am still good by relative standards, I am not as good as I used to be. The rhythm is gone.

The backhand slice is still good and so is the forehand cross court, two strokes that my current opponents have also picked up. What I miss is the 3 step execution - a deep serve, followed by a volley from the centre of the court and then the volley at the net to win the point. Rhythm!! Don't have it any more.

I like playing with Ananth, Roger and Prashant. Roger is the demolition man - A big, strong natural athelete. Prashant is a maverick who plays none of the shots in a text book manner but how he plays works for him. Ananth is of course a prince, perhaps the best of all of us technically speaking.

I intend to get better.

Snapshots from Indian Cricket

The following are not ranked in any order of preference.

1) Gordon Greenidge shouldering arms to an in-swinger from Balwinder Singh Sandhu only to see his off-stump cartwheeling in the 1983 World Cup finals.

2) Micheal Holding seems to stumble and is trapped LBW by Mohinder Amarnath again in the same match.

3) Kris Srikkanth hooks Marshall for a six over square leg, square cuts the next past point for four and has his body almost ripped in two before the vicious in-cutter sends his middle and leg stump cartwheeling. (Sharjah - don't recall when)

4) Madan Lal sprinting in faster than the pace of his deliveries. (Throughout his career)

5) Roger Binny's ample bottom shaking as he runs up to bowl.

6) Mohinder Amarnath's jhoom barabar- jhoom sharabi run up.

7) Ravi Shastri's deadly straight, straight drives.

8) Ravi Shastri's stoic forward defences ball after ball, over after over, session after session, day after day.

9) Leaving home with Shastri on 93, coming back after 2 hours to find him on 95. (India Vs Australia, Bombay, don't remember the year)

10) Shivaramakrishnan beating Imran Khan in the flight to have him stumped by Sadanand Vishwanath.

11) Raju Kulkarni falls as he runs up to bowl his first delivery in Test cricket. (India Vs England, Bombay, Don't remember the year)

12) Kapil Dev's natraj shot.

13) Gavaskar fends a Marshall bouncer to see his bat slip out of his hands and fall just short of mid wicket. (India vs West Indies, Kanpur, 1983)

14) Dilip Vengsarkars' animated cover drives.

15) Azharuddin's flicks from outside off stump.

16) Mohinder Amarnath out handled the ball to Greg Matthews (India vs Australia, dont remember the year).

Gotta go now. Please feel free to add to the list. Will add more as I remember.

Scenes from a mall

Most of those who have known me over my 55 years would say that I did not live up to my potential. After all I am a graduate. My father left me a fair inheritance. That I could not quite hold on to, leave aside build upon. Now I sell trinkets and knick knacks at the shopping mall. I do not own a shop, I have a kiosk that is located adjacent to the taxi queue.

I am not going to get into what happened over the years, my follies and misadventures at business and why at the age of 55 I sell trinkets and knick knacks instead I will just tell you about my day.

I quite enjoyed my breakfast. I usually do. My wife is a wonderful cook. She made breakfast and I made the coffee. But we did not eat it together. She had quite a few chores in the morning so she continued with them while I ate my fill. She joins me everyday at the mall in the afternoon to help me with my kiosk.

She ironed my shirt and picked out a tie for me. I usually do not wear a tie to work. I do not own a pair of formal shoes and wearing a tie along with tennis shoes does not seem quite right. However I saw the tie that she had chosen and decided to wear it all the same. As my wife fussed over the knot I stole a kiss. That made her blush. She looks gorgeous when she blushes. No she is gorgeous. She just is. I tried my luck again but this time she moved away and the kiss landed awkwardly on her ear.

I packed some of the merchandise that had recently arrived into my station wagon and made my way towards the mall. It’s quite a long drive. It took me almost an hour and a half today as there was a little more traffic than usual. But it’s was not all that bad. I like the radio and I had my thoughts to keep me company.

I got to the mall just shortly after 9 and could not park in my usual spot. I had to walk a bit longer than I do daily and the boxes of merchandise did not make things easier but I managed. Though I must admit I did sweat a bit. Sweat does not bother me. I quite like it actually. I particularly like the feeling of sweat drying on the body coolly.

The young man and girl from Philippines, who handle the coffee kiosk and the doughnut shop, were already there but as usual not doing any business at that hour. The boy and the girl were having an animated discussion.

He has big ambitions. I like his drive. I think he will become quite successful and rich one day. The young girl seemed to listening intently to what he was saying. But it was quite obvious that the words were just sounds to her for she is quite enamored by the young man. She knows that I know that she likes him. I looked at her and rolled my eyes and she pretended not having seen me make that face.

I opened up my kiosk and arrange the new merchandise – wrist watches, play things for kids, a mini key board that was also a radio and played 150 prerecorded tunes - all fanfare versions of western classical music and folk tunes and of course there were quite a few new trinkets.

The man from Pakistan came and set up his kiosk behind mine. He sells all sorts of electronic goods and cellular phones. Like always he was talking loudly on his cellular phone. The man cannot finish one sentence without uttering some abuse or the other. It’s in his manner of speaking. He is hard working and perpetually trying to fix some deal or the other. He owns two more kiosks in the mall which are manned by his nephews. The poor chaps get an hourly round of abuses from him. These days he is not talking to me because I did not lend him 500 Dihrams.

The young girl from Philippines had customers, 2 young men from Russia or near about. I could hear her say, Hello siirrr in her sing song tone. They could not speak English properly and made fun of her accent. I found that funny, Russians making fun of her accent when they themselves have so much trouble conveying what they want to say. She looked helplessly at the young man hoping for a sympathetic glance or gesture but he was busy adjusting his till. I could not help but shake my head. I thought about doing something to help the young girl improve her chances with the young man.

An Indian woman accompanied by her two young daughters stopped at my kiosk. The mother quite liked a set of Golden metal earrings and the young girls were looking at necklaces and bracelets. The mother checked the price on the box and her brow stiffened. I could tell that she was trying to figure out what price to peg it at. The girls had picked out one necklace with blue stones and another which was light Silver.

The mother said “6 Dihrams, too expensive”.

I shrugged my shoulders.

“How much for these”, the older of the two daughters asked.

“4 and 5.50 each”, I said.

“Too much”, the younger of the two said. Obviously she had taken more after her mother. The Older one still looked keen on buying.

“I will give you 10 Dihrams for the earrings and the two necklaces”, the mother said.

I looked at what they had picked out and checked the prices on the boxes knowing very well what the costs were. “Sorry madam, special items. Fixed price. 15.50 Dihrams total”, I said.

“That other shop there sell for much cheaper than you. This not worth what you are asking”, the mother continued.

“Ok Madam for you 12 Dihrams” I said knowing that she would agree.

She took out a small coin purse from her hand bag and gave me 12 Dihrams. The younger girl already had the blue stone necklace around her neck as they left.

“So you fooled the stupid Indian woman early in the morning to pay you 12 Dihrams for your junk”, I was surprised to hear the Pakistani say. He obviously had gotten over me not lending him money or maybe he needed something else. For some reason he always spoke to me in English despite knowing that he could talk to me in Urdu his own language or in my language, Arabic.

I knew he was not being rude or mean. He was just being himself.

“Us sales guys, we will all go to hell. It is our job only to fool customers”. He continued.

“See boss you did not lend me 500 Dihrams, it hurt my heart. I am no thief, I am an honorable man. If I take money, I return. But I say to myself maybe you having tough time so I forgive you”. He said

“So I think you managed to get it from someone else. See friend, you and I work close together. We are also friends. I think that it’s best not to borrow or lend money, especially from friends. That is the best way to make sure that friends remain friends.” I answered hoping to ensure that the question of borrowing money would not crop up again.

“You are a wise old man but you know what good a friend is, if he not help you in need”, the Pakistani sure had a knack for argument. He hurried back to his kiosk to attend to a woman looking at his cell phones.

The young girl at the coffee counter was looking again at the young man. Like always he was busy with work.

I went over to the young man and asked him, “How are you today?”

“Alright”, he replied a bit sullenly.

“You do not sound alright. Is anything bothering you?” I asked.

“No nothing”, he smiled hesitantly.

I looked him in the eye knowing that he would continue.

“I used to work for 18 hours a day at home. I did not finish college because my family needed money. I came here to save more money so I could be completely self sufficient and also send money home. Here I am, I work just as much in a day and I am still not able to save much money. I need to find a new job.” He spoke agitatedly.

“Things will work out fine for you. Just keep on working with dedication and sooner or later something good will come along. Look at the bright side, you are young and smart and I think your pretty friend there likes you”, I said with a gesture of my head to point out the young girl.

The young man just smiled but it was a warm smile and I think he was reassured.

“Bloody Russian whore! Wants the latest model of cell phone for 200 Dihrams. It costs 885 and she says she will pay 200”, it was the Pakistani.

He continued, “What does she think? That she can come and flirt with me and I will just give it to her. I will not even screw her if she was the last woman on earth and God came and told me that I was going to die the next day. Sali, kutti, randi, bhain-chudi, She must be making 1000 Dihrams every night just spreading her legs for every horny dog that comes around. Has she ever tried earning an honest living?

“How do you know that she is a whore?” it was the young man from Philippines.

“Hey you Chinki, you sell your coffee. Your kinds are no better. All Chinese and Russians here are bloody prostitutes…bloody living a life of Haram”.

“I am not from China and I am not a crook like you are”, the young man retorted angrily.

The Pakistani took a step toward him threatening but I stopped him. Just then his cell phone rang. It was his nephew from the other section of the mall. Had he picked up a bad time to call! The Pakistani muttered something and walked away to intervene at his nephews kiosk on some sale. He looked at me and gestured if I would look after his kiosk. I nodded my head.

A young Arab boy was going along with his mother. He saw the mini key board and walked over and started to play a cacophonous tune. He was quite happy doing it and I was happy to let him.

“Mummy, I want”, he said.

“No”, came the mothers reply firmly.

The boy stamped his feet and just stood there with his arms folded. The mother tried to pull him away and he started wailing.

“You are bad, you never give me anything that I want”, he said and tried to grab the key board. It fell on the ground and the back cover came off.

“Look what you have done. You broke it”, the mother shouted at him.

“Do not worry madam it’s just the battery cover which has come off. It is not broken”. I consoled.

“Sorry, he is quite a devil” the mother replied

The son thinking that he had broken it was quite docile now and hid behind his mother.

“Say sorry to uncle”, she scolded him.

“Sorry”, he replied tamely and walked away with his mother.

I put the battery cover back on and put the key board on the shelf.

“I do not understand it. You could have made her buy it saying that it was broken”, it was the young man said from over his coffee counter.

“That would not have been right and the fact is that it is not broken. It’s best not to play up on the greed of children to make their parents buy things”, I replied.

“Best of luck! You will definitely need it considering the fact that half the things that you sell are meant for children. You will never get a job with McDonald’s”, the young man replied wittily and I could not help but smile.

“How much for these ties?” it was a big man probably a German. “I have a meeting to go to and I spilled Mustard over mine”, he continued.

“One for 15 Dihrams and 25 for two. This Red and Blue Oxford stripes would go well with your black suit but this is for 20”, I said.

He looked at me as though I was out of my mind and walked away. He stopped in front of the men’s hair salon for a few seconds pondering over something and then walked in.

“Strange man. 15 Dihrams should be pocket change for him”, I heard my wife say.

I immediately felt happy seeing her. It was hot outside and she looked flushed. Her cheeks were the colour of the morning sun. I offered her my stool and took out another folding chair from under the kiosk.

“You want some water”? I asked.

She took out a small bottle from her bag and took a sip. I rubbed her hand and she smiled.

“Hello madam. Good you are here, now your business will pick up. The men will come to look at you and of course you can monitor your husbands charity”, it was the young girl.

She and my wife were friends. My wife kissed her and said something that made the young girl go scarlet. I guessed that my wife had made some joke about the young man.

The young girl looked at the young man and that confirmed my speculation.

From across the corridor I could see the German man who was keen on buying a tie pay 50 Dihrams to the barber. He had had a shave and his tie was wet with water where the Mustard stain used to be.

It’s strange how a consumers mind works. I thought to myself. The man had a dirty tie, he could have washed his tie in the men’s toilet for free or bought a new one for 15 Dihrams but instead he decided to get a shave and pay 50 Dihrams.

I and my wife had lunch at the food court. She had gotten a packed lunch box with her. My wife is friends with the Indian girl at the Mexican counter in the food court and she heats up the lunch in the microwave when her supervisor is not looking.

How I wish I could sleep for an hour or so after lunch but that’s a luxury I cannot afford. I and my wife headed back to our kiosk.

Business picked up after lunch and there was not a moment when we did not have someone browsing at the stall. A group of Japanese tourists picked up some Dubai souvenirs and T-Shirts. A middle aged Indian gentleman picked up quite a few multi coloured pens. I figured he would have quite a few children at home but was surprised to see him put one in his pocket. I guess he did not discriminate and felt that purpose preceded all else.

The evening progressed and along with it the pain in my knees. I wife offered her chair to me. I insisted that she continue to sit. The young man from the coffee counter saw this and promptly came over with his folding chair. I tried to refuse but he did not agree.

“Shabash chinki, shows you have respect for elder people or do you think that the old man will adopt you”, the Pakistani commented with a smile.

“I would not mind having a son like you”, I cut him short.

“It was only a joke do not mind”, the Pakistani said.

“I did not mind it. After spending everyday with you for 6 months, I know you”, the young man smiled.

The evening passed along and by 10 pm business picked up as the evening shoppers all queued up for a taxi next to the exit. Someone or the other came over and looked at the stuff. Trinkets, toys, scarves, cheap watches, pens…stuff that they do not really need but still want them all the same as it catches their fancy.


By 12 we were winding up. My wife counted the cash. Business had been good. I started packing up the merchandise.

Two Indian men and one woman were standing next to the doughnut counter. One of them wearing a Black coat took out and Orange can and asked the young girl if she would keep it. The other two, presumably husband and wife laughed. The girl declined. The man in the Black coat turned towards my stall, he looked a bit lost.

The young man from the coffee counter teased the girl in their language. I did not need to know their language to guess that the young man was teasing her about the man in the Black coat.

Two young boys walked over from the taxi queue. The elder of the two picked up a set of round magnets and threw them in the air. The magnets stuck to each other in mid air. The young boy caught them as they fell down. The younger one laughed gleefully. He took the magnets from his brother and threw them upwards but he threw them with too much force and one of the magnets went towards the Pakistani’s stall. Fortunately nothing was damaged. The Pakistani shouted all the same, “Oye khote de puttar. O whose children are these, mind them”.

The Indian man in the Black coat seeing all this burst out laughing. This irritated the Pakistani further.

The elder boy was a bit taken aback with the Pakistani’s outrage but the younger one wanted to play more with the magnets. His mother came over and made him keep the magnets back on the shelf. The young boy looked very disappointed and turned back to look at them as his mother dragged him away. I picked up the magnets and walked up to the kid and gave them to him.

“No thank you, we do not want to buy it”, it was the kids mother.

“It’s a gift for the little one, you need not pay me”, said I, having no intention of selling it to them.

“Your husband will make you bankrupt”, the Pakistani turned and said to my wife.

As I turned back, my eyes met the Indian’s. He smiled a perplexed smile.

I walked up to my wife and she smiled and I quickly bent down and kissed her on her cheek.

“Adam, Adam and Eve”, I could hear the Indian mutter. I wonder what he meant. His married companions laughed at him. I definitely think that he was a bit drunk.

We packed up and the young couple from Philippines helped us carry some merchandise to our car.

The drive back home was quick and pleasant. I drove with the windows rolled down, sang some old songs that were being played on the radio with my wife and held her hand throughout the journey except when I needed to change gears.

I had a good day. I think I have had a happy life. What do you think?

Friends to keep me company

On the cable network that I subscribe to, I can watch reruns of Friends on 3 different channels. The channels are all quite similar, perhaps all 3 of them also show reruns of Everybody Loves Raymond, Frasier and American Idol as well.

I am not sure if there is any insight in this fact. What's reality is that I just watched the episode in which Ross comes back with his Chinese girlfriend and Rachel comes to know that he carries a huge torch for her, for the 15th time since I first saw it. Might seem absolutely mindless and inane but I think I enjoyed it just as much as I did the previous 15 times.

I am absolutely horrified. So much for enrichment and every moment being completely new.

The Dubai Skyline

The pace of construction in Dubai is mind boggling. It seems as though the city plans to be big enough to accommodate the entire world population. While that statement is obviously an exaggeration, what is not an exaggeration is the fact that 16% of the world's large construction cranes are currently looming over the Dubai skyline like alien battle ships from a sci fi movie.

Thursday Afternoons

The past 2 Thursday afternoons have been pretty lazy. Ananth, CK and I have been parking ourselves at Pedro's for an afternoon of Haram thrills i.e. Pork Sausage Chilly Fry and Beer.

Prince Ananth, born to be lord and master, needless to say owns the place. The Bengali chef steps out and greets us and prepares the Pork Chilly to a well defined brief. If it does not meet the brief we just send it back with expert comments. The chef is sweet and takes it upon himself to get it right.

The bits of green in the hazy pic needless to say is chilli. The kind that makes one sweat in the scalp and itchy in the arse.

Random Thoughts

Have been really busy at work. Carry tons of work back home with me that I promise I will wake up at 5 in the morning and do. The alarm goes off and the 15 minute snooze routine begins till I have no option but to get out of bed. This morning I anyway got up at 5 without any alarm. I guess my internal clock has gotten accustomed to sounding an alarm at that time. The rest was no different though. I just lied around till the alarm went off and I began the snooze routine.

Bird flu has reached Saudi Arabia so I guess I will have to stay away from eating chicken. KFC will miss me sorely. They have been running a promotion where the smaller gifts for some reason all come with a radio. Till now I have gotten a pen with a radio, a mouse with a radio, a pocket fan with a radio and a walkman.

Liked rang De Basanti a lot. Having grown up idolising Bhagat Singh and Chandra Shekhar Azad and as kid having enacted the Company Bagh mudrer of the later all by myself many a time in the park in front of R- 797 in Rajinder Nagar, I was quite moved. I often wonder what Bhagat Singh would mean to the current generation and the film touches on just that. Some found it a bit extreme. I don't think it could have been any other way.

Have been obsessing over The Blowers Daughter by Damien Rice, Every rose has its thorn by Poison and Easy by Faith No More. Keep on playing them over and over again and singing aloud.

Some age old questions

In absence of inspiration
In the presence of loneliness
With a mind so numb to keep me company
A Ferrari might just bring me some happiness
Wake up. Who do you think you are?
Lowly Indian wage earner, get back to work.

In case you'd forgotten what I look like

shooting blanks

take careful aim
dont let that thought out of your sight
its still the same
the mind just shoots a blank again

Writers Block

Recently discovered that even those who have pretensions of possessing the ability to write namely me, can actually suffers from writers block. Not that I have much to write about. Tried a few posts but did not quite like them. One is work in progress but have not been able to get back to it.

Insha Allah sometime soon as they often say with irritating regularity in this region.

A wonderful multi dimensional phrase.

Q. "Boss, karma challenge?".
A. "Insha Allah"

Q. "AC Nahi Chal Raha. Kab tak thik kara sakata hoon?"
A. "Insha Allah"

"We are approaching Dubai International Airport. Insha Allah we will land in 10 minutes".

Dear Anonymous

Who are you?

An Irishman from Peshawar

KK, Preeta and I were standing at the bar at Irish Village. We didn’t quite notice the old man, about mid-60ish get up and ask KK his name. He complied, I next and finally Preeta. With a great flourish of his hands, the gentleman offered Preeta his bar stool.

“Where I come from that’s what we do. When there is a lady standing we Irish offer her our seat. That’s just what we do. That’s how we are.” He stuttered revealing that he was indeed quite drunk.

Preetha declined clarifying that we were headed to the open air section. KK politely asked him for his introduction.

“I am Francsish”. Like Saint Francsish”.

I tried hard to suppress my smirk at his drunken lisp.

“Saint Francsish of……” he paused searching.

“Of Assisi…” I volunteered help.

“Francsish, that’s my name, like St. Francsish of Assisi”.

“He’s buried in India, at Goa”, I added, to continue the conversation.

Francis, it seemed could only latch on to India from what I said.

“You know, who’s the greatest Saint of them all?” Francis asked looking at me but the question was posed to all of us. “Mahatma Gandhi….he was the greatest of them all. I have spent all my life reading and learning about him. I know everything that there is to know about Mahatma Gandhi”.

He stuck me as a missionary teacher. Or perhaps that was just the template of Irishmen in my mind having done some early schooling at St. Michael’s in Delhi and having gotten by backside whipped by the likes of Father McGinty and Father Tyson.

However, Francis claiming to be an authority and a follower of Mahatma Gandhi, sitting, obviously inebriated in a bar, stuck me as a bit un-gandhian.

“Don’t you think that Mahatma Gandhi was the greatest person ever, the biggest saint ever?” Francis asked. The question was posed to me.

Now Gandhi, that’s a dicey subject for me. I paused, thinking so as to how to soften my tone on a topic of conversation that always angers me. Like many Indians I hold the belief that had it not been for Gandhi, India would have been a very different country for the better. His vision of India as one big happy commune as time has proved was so unrealistic.

“No. Had it not been for Gandhi, India would never have been partitioned.”

Francis was quite enraged. He cut me short before I could continue my argument, which I have had many a time before. It ends with me saying, “Quad, Erad, Demonstatum”.

“Gandhi had nothing to do with that. India was partitioned because that Jinnah just would not have it any other way”.

He was right and I knew it…Gandhi, Jinnah and Nehru the three architects of partition.

My tone agitated, I said, “All Gandhi had to do was to tell Nehru to let Jinnah be Prime Minister and there would have been no Pakistan”.

Tone apart I knew that my statement was merely a weak jab in an argument that requires a series of heavy punches.

“Did you know that Gandhi was bisexual”. KK said.

Wow! That was an uppercut that came out of nowhere. It took me by surprise though as I have never heard it before. It almost knocked out St. Francis.

KK had obviously touched a very raw nerve in St. Francis.

“No he was not”. St. Francis said very agitated.

“Yes he was. There was an article in Outlook which said so. It’s a leading magazine in India” KK stated the credentials of his statement.

St. Francis was enraged. “I do not care where it appeared, I know everything that there is to know about Mahatma Gandhi. I have spent all my life studying about him and that is something that enrages me. Gandhi was completely heterosexual”.

“Even if he was how does it matter? And he practiced abstinence” I said trying to steer the conversation in a different direction.

St. Francis was still livid and he said to KK, “I am a lot older than you are but if I hear you say that Gandhi was bisexual, I will flatten you. You would be lying there”, he said pointing to the floor.

As soon as he said this, I labeled him from a drunk to a drunk fraud in my mind. No intellectual disciple of Gandhi would ever threaten a person with violence.

“We British (he had transitioned from being Irish to British and rightly so), we have done a lot of wrong things. India, South East Asia, Palestine…but don’t blame Mahatma Gandhi for the partition of India”.

I immediately warmed up to that statement and gave him some points for honesty.

“We are responsible for quite a few bad things and some good things too. We did…..”, again Francis searched.

“ built Institutions..” I helped him out.

“We built educational institutions, government….” He paused. “We screwed up quite a bit. But it saddens me that people do not know about their own countries. I go around telling all people about all the good things about their countries…that’s what I do. Take him he’s from Palestine”. He said turning to the person sitting next to him.

We did not know that he was with St. Francis, as a matter of fact I had not noticed him at all. A soft featured man in his mid 20’s, hair gelled back, trimmed mustache, plucked eye brows, effeminate smile.

“Have you been to India?” I asked.

“I was born in India. My father was a Major in the Indian army”.

“Where were you born?” I continued.

St. Francis again searched. It seemed as though he was trying to think of a name. Was he just a conjurer of conversation, I thought to myself. A person who just makes things up as he goes along!

“Peshawar”, he finally said. And I had a mental image of St. Francis driving a taxi, like most men from Peshawar whom I have come across.

More small talk followed, which revealed that the young man with St. Francis was not from Palestine but instead from Pakistan. We finally collected our drinks. KK and I experimented with Guinness. It seemed like the right thing to do being in Irish village.

After a while, I went back inside to go to the bathroom. I couldn’t find it and I heard a cacophonous rabble of British youngsters singing ‘Blowing in the wind’ with St. Francis in his midst. Now Bob Dylan draws me like a magnet and I went over to shout out a few lines. St. Francis greeted me warmly and asked me to join them.

“I was just leaving actually”, I lied.

“Would you like to have one last drink before you do?” Francis pointed me to the bar stool that was last occupied by the effeminate Pakistani. He did not sound drunk and the hint of proposition was clear in his eyes. I declined. He insisted. So I made up the excuse of going round the corner and coming back. Of course I had no intention of going back.

On way from the bathroom I saw the effeminate Pakistani again and it seemed to fall into place. I conjectured that it explained why St. Francis was so enraged at the thought of Gandhi being bisexual. Perhaps he had not yet come terms with his own bisexuality.
Was that also the reason why Mahatma Gandhi practiced abstinence? I was on a roll as far as conjectures go.

After a couple of hours, I saw the rabble of the English youth leaving with St. Francis walking behind everyone.
I felt sorry for him and conjectured yet again that perhaps he was just an old man trying to be interesting. Perhaps an old man just seeking the company of youth.

Mind Movies

The one thing that is certain about time is the fact that it goes by. And it seems to go by too fast.

Realistically speaking I have not been doing much since I have come here. Everyday I make promises to myself that I will jam pack my day with stuff but just does not seem to happen.

Come the end of the day the best that I would have achieved (office hours apart) is an hour of reading (half hearted) and an hour of work that I carry home. The rest of the time goes in simple chores like personal hygiene, eating, washing clothes etc. Stuff that should not take more than 30 minutes of my day.

I do not have television and am not missing it at all. Who needs it when I have a non stop television in my mind! And in that too I just seem to be surfing channels all the time. Mindlessly, flitting from one random thought to another. The mind is restless and flippantly so. This channel surfing takes place even when I am walking the streets, browsing in supermarkets, riding taxi’s.

What an idiot my mind is, it always wants to be elsewhere. The present is just the background. Should it not be the other way around?

The only factor that lend consistency to my random thoughts is the fact that they are mine. Otherwise they do not fit into make anything that is cohesive. If I and my mind are microcosms of the world, then none makes any sense. Not me, nor my mind and neither the world.

Men from Peshawar

Peshawar is in the North West Frontier Province of Pakistan. It borders Afghanistan.

I had known the place on from history books as it was on the pathway of the Central Asian invaders, from Hindi films that extolled the virtue of the Pathans as strong, brave, honest men and also from a certain passage from ‘Freedom at Midnight’ that detailed out Lord Mountbatten’s visit to the region.

The passage stressed that the last viceroy had put himself in danger by obstinately insisting on holding the rally. Pathans from all around had gathered to see the new gora sahib. It was hot and Pathans who are supposed to be short tempered, violent men were getting agitated. The British governor of the region feared for Mountbatten’s life especially since an attempt on his life had been foiled just days ago in Karachi (the would be assassin had supposedly lost his nerve).

Mountbatten got on top of a mound with Edwina by his side and the crowd erupted into a volley of adulation. Lapeirrre and Collins (the writers) attribute this to the fact that Mountbatten had chosen to wear his military green – the colour of Islam. The Pathans took this as a sign of friendship and were bowled over by the white man in green who they immediately took as a friend.

Now that you are suitably impressed by my grasp of history I must confess that the only person whom I could name from the region is Frontier Gandhi, Khan Abdul Ghafar Khan. That was only till recently.

Out of the force of habit, I have been chatting up with Taxi drivers and a lot of them happen to be from Peshawar. Like the bhaiya taxi drivers in Bombay, they have chosen to leave their homes and families to come here to make a better living. They define 2,500 dhirams as a good monthly wage. Like the bhaiya taxi drivers they miss their homes and complain about how tough life has become here and still how worse it is in their hometowns.

I feel a sense of kinship with them.

The Tower

There is this friend of mine who lives in a 12 story tower. It’s the tallest building in an area that is currently under development.

Now that does not seem to be too tall considering that the sole task of the developers of this region at this point of time is to make buildings and structures that are truly magnificent and designed to leave a mark – modern day Taj Mahals.

What makes the tower remarkable is the fact that apart from my friend it also provides abode to many working ladies from all parts of the globe. If he is to be believed, the 78 of the 120 flats are occupied by ladies of pleasure who come to this part of the world from all parts of the world with the intention of making a quick buck on a tourist visa.

He had a tough time explaining to his mother the nightly buzz caused by cars driving up to the building and driving away, the ring of the lift and of course the sounds from the neighboring flat.

His building is simply a microcosm of the rest of the region. A true melting pot.

Bob Dylan Chronicles Vol.1

“Folk songs are evasive – the truth about life, and life is more or less a lie, but then again that’s exactly the way we want it to be. We wouldn’t be comfortable with it any other way”.

That statement has an immediate ring of truth even though the relevant references to context evade me. The truth about ourselves that we conveniently overlook and the truth about ourselves that we justify to ourselves under the pretext of ‘that’s the way I am’ escape clause.

Can one be honest at all points of time? Should one be honest at all points of time? The questions seem naïve and reek of ignorance.

I guess that’s the task for a Machiavelli or Mahatma Gandhi. The task for you and me, like my father would put it is to seek the truth. Once one sees and acknowledges it then perhaps the naïve and ignorant questions would have crystal clear answers.

Annica. Annica.

Broadcast

Words just do not seem to form
Just like the sleep that eludes despite exhaustion.
Or the dreams that I hope I dream
But are erased the morning after

Pain in my shoulders
The hum of the AC
Billy Joel wailing “It’s my life”
Some signs that I am alive

Can one breathe and still be dead?
Can numbness be permanent?
Seen times of joy, sorrow, anger, desperation, exasperation and more
But now is the time for being numb.

Go Figure

SEC BC (Socio Economic Classification) are considered to be the masses. They drive BMW's, the higher end Toyotas. SEC A means the Sheikhs, needless to say they drive Rolls, Jaguars, Mercs and their own private jets.

A giant parking lot

The place is actually a giant parking lot. Yes that was indeed the dream of those who conceived of this place.

You see all they had was this desert, in which a few decades ago they discovered lots and lots of oil. With the oil came lots and lots of money. Now this money had to be put to some use so they decided to build this magnificent parking lot. And a magnificent parking lot it is indeed.

They had the money to fill this parking lot with lots and lots of cars and for the parking lot to be a thriving lot they brought in cars from car makers from all over the world - the Americans, the Japanese, the Korean, the French, the Italians and the Germans amongst others.

The more the merrier. A truly heterogeneous mix. If cars could mate and produce offspring’s, this place would provide a fantastic gene pool. It is indeed a true melting pot of cars from all over the world.

They wanted to build a true parking lot. By definition a parking lot is a place where cars come to rest after zipping around all day. They could very well have just gotten the car manufacturers to ship them the cars and park it for them in the giant open spaces but then the place would just have been a graveyard for new cars and a car graveyard is not a true parking lot.

So just getting the cars would not do. They needed people to zip around in these cars and road on which to zip them.

The local population was just not enough to provide enough people to zip in the cars. If you look at the nationalities of the car makers that I have written above, you will notice that there are not any Indians, Pakistanis, South East Asians, Australians, the British and Europeans (Brits, please note that I have mentioned the Brits as separate from Europeans).

The above were chosen as prime candidates for zipping around in these cars. After all they had been deprived of this pleasure.

Well this pleasure might not be enough the architects felt so they decided to throw in lots of money.

Money however would bring in another complexity which is the fact that money lying in the bank is just like a car graveyard. For it to be true money (just like a true parking lot), it needs to be spent. So the architects decided that it was necessary to bring in all the things that money can buy.

And those from the third world are just beginning to distinguish between what money can buy and what a lot of money can buy.

But like The Beatles said, “Money can’t buy me love”, and for that they gave us poor third world types the right to bring our wives provided all the paperwork was in place.