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.