People often seem to think there is a link between climate change *cough global warming cough* and pretty much anything modern humans do. I do too. Something is messing about with the planet's weather and I guess it is time to invite Hardy Boys and Scooby Doo to find out exactly what's fooling around with the weather.
I have known this to be true ever since I owned by first bicycle at the tender old age of 6 (of course, I owned a cycle even before that, but I was never responsible for its upkeep, or rather, maintenance in running condition. Admittedly, I admit I might have been responsible for the disintegration of quite a few of my earlier cycles, but again, such an admission would be tantamount to digression from the topic, so I withdraw said admission.)
In the late 1980s and early 1990s, climate change was the product of insane disaster mongers who claimed to think weather patterns were changing. The topic wasn't even fashionable! In such an environment, how did I, at the tender age of 6-7, realise something's wrong with the weather? I may not have termed the phenomenon as climate change or even global warming. I suppose in my fertile mind, it was more of global warning (scratch that, divine warning is a closer fit).
Had someone asked me to define what this divine warning is, I might have said its God's way of saying I should not waste water by unnecessarily washing myself or my bike. Allow me to explain.
I have been jinxed with the rains since that age. It would pour cats and dogs each and every time I wash my vehicle. Without fail. The day I decide to restore the colour of my cycle/car/bike back to the colour its maker had bestowed on it, it would rain. No ordinary wetting of the land, mind you. It would be torrential. I would normally choose a day that is bright and sunny to perform said ritual. No matter how sunny the day begins, the moment I finish washing and drying and decide to take my gleaming ride out to air, clouds would rumble in and it would pour. I learnt then that this is a divine warning. As I grew older, I began to think the rains were merely an acknowledgement of me being active. A divine celebration of sorts. So I thought maybe this is a message from God that I should be lazy and outsourced my washing activities. That didn't help either. The vehicle would be wet and dirty by the time I got back from the garage after a good scrub down.
Around 2000, I learnt that the best form of defence is offense, so I began washing my bike even more frequently, in fact, at one stage, it was a continuous process. I would wash, it would rain and I would wash again and it would rain again...you get the drift. The resultant flooding drowned large parts of Meena Estate, which I refuse to be held responsible for.
At wit's end, I decided to flee the country. Maybe going to a country where it rains for 2 or 3 days in a year would break the jinx. So I went to Dubai. My calculation was correct and the jinx with the rains had been broken. My incessant washing did not turn Dubai into a fertile region. However, there was another problem. Just like the suits at CO2 Inc., discovered it isn't so much as global warming but climate change, I discovered my jinx was never with the rain, it was with nature. In Dubai, there would be sand storms. I would wash my car and the next day it would be covered in dust as if someone had emptied the contents of their vacuum cleaner on my car. The dust bowl that is the Arabian Desert would let out an almighty belch and attempt to convert the city of Dubai back into the desert from which it arose. It was horrible. It would lie waiting for me to part with Dh 25 for a car wash. And then pounce.
I realised then that it there is no point fighting nature and gave up all hope of ever having a clean vehicle. Keeping it clean and admiring it for the few hours it remained clean was all I could do.
Having failed with the rains and dust, I decided I might as well go to a place where it rains more often than it shines and moved to the UK. True to its reputation, it would chuck it down each time I washed, but that's alright, I knew it was coming and more or less got used to a dirty vehicle. Nature had decided to test me and I had failed. I had given up.
Just when I soulfully decided to get used to the notion of a perpetual dirty vehicle, I decided that for one last time, I would pay to have my scooter washed. I paid the money and took possession of a gleaming scooter and looked up and lo and behold! No clouds. In fact, it has been 2 weeks now and it hasn't rained. In all my time in the UK, it hasn't been rain free for 2 weeks in a row. Nature is cruel, I tell you, she's just taunting me with that can of wax to shine my scooter before she chucks it down again, but I'm going to be one step ahead of the game. I am never going to wash or wax my scooter again; maybe it will never rain in the UK again...
Monday 25 October 2010
Monday 11 October 2010
Endhirun
October is usually a monumental month in India each year, day 2 of the month marks the birthday of the Father of Nation - monumental mostly because booze is not available in the 'open' market on that day, day 23 marks the birthday of the Father (mine, of course!) and with Diwali in the vicinity, festivity is in the air.
2010 was different. India was grappling with two other epic events. CWG or Common Wealth Games (not sure what is 'Common' about wealth or what games have to do with Wealth, but what would I know, I'm not a cricketer). And a couple of days before that, the release of Robot a.k.a.for.tax.reasons. Endhiran.
The amount of hype and hoopla surrounding the release of this movie boggled the 'ol noodle. The thing with all Rajnikanth movies is that there is always going to be an atmosphere of festivity in the air, expectation even. Expectation, not of a good movie or *gosh* a story, but of entertainment for the masses. He normally does not disappoint (*cough* 'Baba' *cough*) and the masses' mass hysteria is often appeased. This time though, there was a critical difference. Gone were the trademark introduction songs where he astounds one and all by doing completely varied things like ride a motorcycle, horse, cycle, bus, auto-rickshaw or something equally varied before the ol' song and dance around what his name is and what his beliefs are for that movie. Sterling stuff, all that. None of that in this movie. None at all. Zilch, Nada.
Once cannot accuse the old top of not doing anything different in this movie though. For instance, there was not a single scene of him smoking a beedi. He was also playing the role of a geek and technocrat in this movie, something that must have been hard to pull off for a guy who is in his elements in more labour intensive roles. He has also proved that he is a man of his words. Back in the nineties, he wowed the world by warning all baddies that anything he says needs to be compounded by a factor of 100 in order to comprehend the magnitude and seriousness with which he says anything. Now he's proved he backs that by making one robot which multiplied itself a 100 times to devastate Chennai. Kudos.
For a movie that has been set in 2010, the story is about as watertight as a piece of gauze. Due to reasons of health and safety, I am not going to review the movie. I would say, though, that had the story been set in 2050 or something that establishes it as science fiction, I may have enjoyed it a bit more.
Just like Chitti the Robot is amazing, I find his creator's car, the Mercedes CLK convertible amazing. In the movie, it appears to have powers that even Chitti does not have. For example, when Chitti gets behind the wheel for the first time, he drives the car straight into the median, which, among other things, takes out the front right fender and most of the front bumper, but by the very next scene, when they pull into the good scientist's house, the car is gleaming and spotless - it has the powers of self healing! How cool is that. Then there's the scene where Chitti snatches Aishwarya from her wedding and takes off in the Merc, a whole army of Indian security forces materialises in seconds and dumps an entire years' supply of bullets in the general direction of the car, and yet it still chugs on, old faithful, what! I simply loved the way the car could do wheelies, jump over bridges, drive over trucks, get shot at by everything except nuclear bombs and still outrun all badies. I resolved at the movie that my next car would only be bought if it could do at least 1 of the above, its no point owning an automobile that is going to go kaput the moment you run over a nail or run into something as silly as a wall.
On a side note, I don't know what all the fuss about security at the CWG is all about. In the couple of minutes it took Chitti to reach the main road from the wedding hall, an entire army materialised. If that level of security could be provided to an individual who is just a scientist, i.e., not a movie star or politician, then sportsmen have no need to worry. Its all safe and secure.
In order to see the movie about the robot that can only be destroyed with an axe, the wife and I took our chances against the elements, risking life, limb and dry clothes, only to return disappointed. The Gods were chucking it down with a vengeance in bleary old Blighty on the Saturday night that we decided to venture to Cineworld. Cineworld, I might add, is exactly 6 minutes and 30 seconds away from home on the trusty old Burgman. 6 minutes and 30 seconds is all it took for us to get soaked to the bone, the rain was that heavy. We dripped and sploshed our way into the theatre, stood in queue for a further 5 minutes and only on reaching the counter did we notice that all shows for that day were sold out. So we sploshed and soaked our way back home and all but sat in the washing machine to dry out.
The next day, we decided to combine exercise with strategy and ran the 3 miles to the theatre at 10am, only to discover we were the first souls onsite. Not even theatre staff were around. Not recognising the signals from the Gods, we waited. When staff finally arrived onsite, we virtually lynched them and found a couple of seats on the only show available - 8:45pm on a Sunday evening. Notwithstanding the fact that we would be sleepy and tired the next day, we went for it.
Having fulfilled various social commitments, we ran late for the show and anxious to get a good seat, we skipped dinner and went straight in. Around 3.5 hours later, we staggered out, none-the-wiser. To his credit, God gave all the signals and short of hitting us on the head with a kitchen sink and putting up a large neon sign over our heads asking us not to be so over-enthu in going to the movie, he did everything else. I mean, if torrential rain, closed cinemas, sold out shows and lack of food cannot dampen our spirits, what can.
In common with all Rajni movies, we expected too much and this time, we did not get what we bargained for. So Enthiran, for us, became E(zhn)thu run (get up and run). Perhaps if we hadn't been sucked in by the hype, if we hadn't gone through all that trouble to watch the movie, we might have enjoyed it. Perhaps.
P. S.: Couldn't help but wonder, how many tonnes of Botox would the lead pair (or should I say trio) have consumed?
2010 was different. India was grappling with two other epic events. CWG or Common Wealth Games (not sure what is 'Common' about wealth or what games have to do with Wealth, but what would I know, I'm not a cricketer). And a couple of days before that, the release of Robot a.k.a.for.tax.reasons. Endhiran.
The amount of hype and hoopla surrounding the release of this movie boggled the 'ol noodle. The thing with all Rajnikanth movies is that there is always going to be an atmosphere of festivity in the air, expectation even. Expectation, not of a good movie or *gosh* a story, but of entertainment for the masses. He normally does not disappoint (*cough* 'Baba' *cough*) and the masses' mass hysteria is often appeased. This time though, there was a critical difference. Gone were the trademark introduction songs where he astounds one and all by doing completely varied things like ride a motorcycle, horse, cycle, bus, auto-rickshaw or something equally varied before the ol' song and dance around what his name is and what his beliefs are for that movie. Sterling stuff, all that. None of that in this movie. None at all. Zilch, Nada.
Once cannot accuse the old top of not doing anything different in this movie though. For instance, there was not a single scene of him smoking a beedi. He was also playing the role of a geek and technocrat in this movie, something that must have been hard to pull off for a guy who is in his elements in more labour intensive roles. He has also proved that he is a man of his words. Back in the nineties, he wowed the world by warning all baddies that anything he says needs to be compounded by a factor of 100 in order to comprehend the magnitude and seriousness with which he says anything. Now he's proved he backs that by making one robot which multiplied itself a 100 times to devastate Chennai. Kudos.
For a movie that has been set in 2010, the story is about as watertight as a piece of gauze. Due to reasons of health and safety, I am not going to review the movie. I would say, though, that had the story been set in 2050 or something that establishes it as science fiction, I may have enjoyed it a bit more.
Just like Chitti the Robot is amazing, I find his creator's car, the Mercedes CLK convertible amazing. In the movie, it appears to have powers that even Chitti does not have. For example, when Chitti gets behind the wheel for the first time, he drives the car straight into the median, which, among other things, takes out the front right fender and most of the front bumper, but by the very next scene, when they pull into the good scientist's house, the car is gleaming and spotless - it has the powers of self healing! How cool is that. Then there's the scene where Chitti snatches Aishwarya from her wedding and takes off in the Merc, a whole army of Indian security forces materialises in seconds and dumps an entire years' supply of bullets in the general direction of the car, and yet it still chugs on, old faithful, what! I simply loved the way the car could do wheelies, jump over bridges, drive over trucks, get shot at by everything except nuclear bombs and still outrun all badies. I resolved at the movie that my next car would only be bought if it could do at least 1 of the above, its no point owning an automobile that is going to go kaput the moment you run over a nail or run into something as silly as a wall.
On a side note, I don't know what all the fuss about security at the CWG is all about. In the couple of minutes it took Chitti to reach the main road from the wedding hall, an entire army materialised. If that level of security could be provided to an individual who is just a scientist, i.e., not a movie star or politician, then sportsmen have no need to worry. Its all safe and secure.
In order to see the movie about the robot that can only be destroyed with an axe, the wife and I took our chances against the elements, risking life, limb and dry clothes, only to return disappointed. The Gods were chucking it down with a vengeance in bleary old Blighty on the Saturday night that we decided to venture to Cineworld. Cineworld, I might add, is exactly 6 minutes and 30 seconds away from home on the trusty old Burgman. 6 minutes and 30 seconds is all it took for us to get soaked to the bone, the rain was that heavy. We dripped and sploshed our way into the theatre, stood in queue for a further 5 minutes and only on reaching the counter did we notice that all shows for that day were sold out. So we sploshed and soaked our way back home and all but sat in the washing machine to dry out.
The next day, we decided to combine exercise with strategy and ran the 3 miles to the theatre at 10am, only to discover we were the first souls onsite. Not even theatre staff were around. Not recognising the signals from the Gods, we waited. When staff finally arrived onsite, we virtually lynched them and found a couple of seats on the only show available - 8:45pm on a Sunday evening. Notwithstanding the fact that we would be sleepy and tired the next day, we went for it.
Having fulfilled various social commitments, we ran late for the show and anxious to get a good seat, we skipped dinner and went straight in. Around 3.5 hours later, we staggered out, none-the-wiser. To his credit, God gave all the signals and short of hitting us on the head with a kitchen sink and putting up a large neon sign over our heads asking us not to be so over-enthu in going to the movie, he did everything else. I mean, if torrential rain, closed cinemas, sold out shows and lack of food cannot dampen our spirits, what can.
In common with all Rajni movies, we expected too much and this time, we did not get what we bargained for. So Enthiran, for us, became E(zhn)thu run (get up and run). Perhaps if we hadn't been sucked in by the hype, if we hadn't gone through all that trouble to watch the movie, we might have enjoyed it. Perhaps.
P. S.: Couldn't help but wonder, how many tonnes of Botox would the lead pair (or should I say trio) have consumed?
Sunday 19 September 2010
PDAs and a desperate plea for help!
I suppose I would do well to clarify right upfront that this post has nothing to do with those new-fangled devices called PDAs, the ones that become obsolete the minute you chuck a truck load of hard earned cash in order to acquire them. What this post is about is public displays of affection. Don't get me wrong...I'm no prude. I enjoy the sight of a loved up couple as much as the next guy. In fact, I would even go as far as saying the act turns me on a notch or two.
Having established that, there are still some displays that are too much for me to handle. Having to deal with the couple involved often brings out a long dormant animal in me. More so when said canoodling happens in the morning rush. With all my thoughts focussed on tasks to be accomplished that morning, how many clients are going to be blowing a gasket or two, with me being at the receiving end of the explosion, the last thing I want is to have to deal with a couple who can't stay away from each other, their bodies inter-twined snake like and the air that we breath not even trying to come between them, for there are no gaps.
The most discomforting part is the role I am forced to play in this sordid affair, having to go where air finds it impossible to go! It seems unfair that in order to listen to some music, one has to spend 5-10 minutes separating right ear bud from left.
Mr. Right H Phone and Ms. Left E Phone may be having an affair, but that doesn't give them the right to seek the pleasure of each others' company every spare minute of the day. If a human being were to behave in such a manner at their place of work, they would be searching for a job faster than you can say, "What ho!". Not headphones, they can canoodle with impunity, impervious to people or objects around, children or adults.
I can virtually see my readers nodding in agreement, for they have, I am positive, had to deal with the frisky couple on a daily basis. I ask you, how do you manage to keep them apart? This is a plea from a man who is fighting a losing battle, a call for assistance, a wounded general calling for back-up...help me keep the left and right earphones of my headphones apart, untangled and available for use as soon as I take them out of my pockets. Thank you.
Having established that, there are still some displays that are too much for me to handle. Having to deal with the couple involved often brings out a long dormant animal in me. More so when said canoodling happens in the morning rush. With all my thoughts focussed on tasks to be accomplished that morning, how many clients are going to be blowing a gasket or two, with me being at the receiving end of the explosion, the last thing I want is to have to deal with a couple who can't stay away from each other, their bodies inter-twined snake like and the air that we breath not even trying to come between them, for there are no gaps.
The most discomforting part is the role I am forced to play in this sordid affair, having to go where air finds it impossible to go! It seems unfair that in order to listen to some music, one has to spend 5-10 minutes separating right ear bud from left.
Mr. Right H Phone and Ms. Left E Phone may be having an affair, but that doesn't give them the right to seek the pleasure of each others' company every spare minute of the day. If a human being were to behave in such a manner at their place of work, they would be searching for a job faster than you can say, "What ho!". Not headphones, they can canoodle with impunity, impervious to people or objects around, children or adults.
I can virtually see my readers nodding in agreement, for they have, I am positive, had to deal with the frisky couple on a daily basis. I ask you, how do you manage to keep them apart? This is a plea from a man who is fighting a losing battle, a call for assistance, a wounded general calling for back-up...help me keep the left and right earphones of my headphones apart, untangled and available for use as soon as I take them out of my pockets. Thank you.
Thursday 12 August 2010
Poor Handkerchief
2nd Shelf, Any Cupboard
Every house
Earth
EX7 1NCT
12 August 2010
Dear P. Handkerchief,
It is with regret that I am forced to inform you that owing to more convenient alternatives and changing priorities, your position has been rendered redundant.
As you are aware, your position was the number 1 choice in the following areas:
- Cleaner #1: the ubiquitous paper tissue has replaced you with its simplicity, ease of use and convenience of dumping the used product into the nearest dustbin (or street, depending on which part of the world we are talking about). You will agree with me that this is better than carrying you around in our pockets and handbags, all wet and soggy, until you are washed again. The public do not seem to mind the additional impact on trees being cut down to make these tissues.
- Portable air conditioner #1: until the early part of the naughties, you were used in hot areas as an impromptu fan to cool your owners. A dab here and a dab there would help clear out beads of sweat for more refreshing sweat to come out and cool the skin. This has been replaced by air conditioned environments (cars, buses and buildings) and again by paper tissues. The public seem to prefer wiping sweat with a tissue rather than you, I suppose, due to the fact that with a fresh tissue, one is confident that the only dampness in the tissue is their sweat and not other bodily fluids you might have accumulated in your fabric.
- Romantic #1: gone are the days when the ultimate act of chivalry a man could do was to hand you over to a woman in distress, a woman in tears or to revive a swooning woman. The days of chivalry are gone. Some woman see obtaining services of a man out of chivalry as slightly lower than begging and frown on it. Men are now confused about which women to be chivalrous about and which ones to be just men.
- Simplicity #1: in the years past, a man's pocket would hold a wallet, some loose change, house-cum-car keys and you. A woman would have the odd make-up items, comb, mirror, powder, 3 blue pens, 3 black pens, 2 pencils, a calculator, change of clothes, spare shoes, house-cum-car keys, the kitchen sink and 3 of you. Now, in addition to all these, both sexes have to carry, in addition to all of the above, at least one mobile phone, a tablet computer and sometimes a laptop. With the additional weight and space required, I'm afraid you were seen to be least indispensable.
As I have had to painfully point out above, all of your key market areas have been lost to newer and more convenient rivals. I am, therefore, left with no choice but to let you go.
Your service to mankind will be dearly missed. If, in the future, the trend is reversed, I look forward to hiring you again.
I wish you all the best in your retirement in a dusty corner of the cupboard.
Yours sincerely,
Man and Woman
Partners
Mankind LLP
Wednesday 4 August 2010
Scrub scrub...
I like guidance. It provides one with a much needed sense of direction. Good guidance channels our energy, moving us out of headless chicken mode to a measured, planned and systematic mode.
Timely guidance is even better, it's a light house on a dark and lonely night at sea, the one sign-board 50 meters before an extremely complicated junction that nudges you onto the right path. It's not only humans who guide other humans, animals do it too, I've seen hundreds of hours of programming on Discovery Channel in which a bear or cheetah or lion teaches it's young on the art of hunting, killing and generally on how to not be hungry.
I have always benefited from guidance, both timely and otherwise. My family and friends have all guided me and protected me against many of the pitfalls of adulthood. I've even received guidance on how to identify good and not so good guidance. In fact, among the things I relished the most in my move to the UK was the amount of guidance given to me by my new employers on the different tools and facilities available. There was a good amount of overload, but it helped immensely, especially after my harrowing experience at Dubai where I was given a laptop and asked to come back with the deliverable!
Why am I waxing eloquent on guidance, one may ask. Well, Mr. One, here's why. A recurring theme of this blog has been to point out places where the developed nations' attitude to advice and guidance has been overdone, prime examples being the hot coffee advisory, 'station floors are slippery when wet' announcement on the Tube when it starts drizzling (which is all the time here!), 'ladies and gentlemen, in this hot and inclement weather, it is advisable to carry a bottle of water with you at all times' when its warm enough to touch 15 degrees. You get the drift. Recently, however, I saw some guidance which rendered all this as valid. What I saw rocked my foundations and made me doubt the very faith in my survival as a human being.
It was a normal day, routine to the point of being boring. I was going about my business like I always do. While going about my business, I wanted to do some business, so I paid a visit to the gents. Job done, all smooth so far. I popped around to the wash-basin to wash my hands and admire my dashing good looks and I saw this:
I do not remember anyone telling me HOW to wash my hands since 4th grade and I felt terribly insulted even at that tender age that my father thought I should be taught how to do such a basic thing. Dad, being dad, would simply ignore me and drone on about the importance of cleaning between the nails and scrubbing behind my palms.
As always, a few things immediately came tumbling into my head.
Timely guidance is even better, it's a light house on a dark and lonely night at sea, the one sign-board 50 meters before an extremely complicated junction that nudges you onto the right path. It's not only humans who guide other humans, animals do it too, I've seen hundreds of hours of programming on Discovery Channel in which a bear or cheetah or lion teaches it's young on the art of hunting, killing and generally on how to not be hungry.
I have always benefited from guidance, both timely and otherwise. My family and friends have all guided me and protected me against many of the pitfalls of adulthood. I've even received guidance on how to identify good and not so good guidance. In fact, among the things I relished the most in my move to the UK was the amount of guidance given to me by my new employers on the different tools and facilities available. There was a good amount of overload, but it helped immensely, especially after my harrowing experience at Dubai where I was given a laptop and asked to come back with the deliverable!
Why am I waxing eloquent on guidance, one may ask. Well, Mr. One, here's why. A recurring theme of this blog has been to point out places where the developed nations' attitude to advice and guidance has been overdone, prime examples being the hot coffee advisory, 'station floors are slippery when wet' announcement on the Tube when it starts drizzling (which is all the time here!), 'ladies and gentlemen, in this hot and inclement weather, it is advisable to carry a bottle of water with you at all times' when its warm enough to touch 15 degrees. You get the drift. Recently, however, I saw some guidance which rendered all this as valid. What I saw rocked my foundations and made me doubt the very faith in my survival as a human being.
It was a normal day, routine to the point of being boring. I was going about my business like I always do. While going about my business, I wanted to do some business, so I paid a visit to the gents. Job done, all smooth so far. I popped around to the wash-basin to wash my hands and admire my dashing good looks and I saw this:
I do not remember anyone telling me HOW to wash my hands since 4th grade and I felt terribly insulted even at that tender age that my father thought I should be taught how to do such a basic thing. Dad, being dad, would simply ignore me and drone on about the importance of cleaning between the nails and scrubbing behind my palms.
As always, a few things immediately came tumbling into my head.
- I was in this large company, which prides itself in the quality of people it hires. There is apparently a rigorous recruitment process involving multiple rounds of vetting and filtering. People walking in through the doors of this company are considered, by any stretch of imagination to be half-wits at the very least. This being the case, does the company really think it's employees don't know how to wash their hands?
- I immediately looked around the stalls looking for similar instructions on how to use the rest of the toilet. Obviously, if the company thinks people don't know how to wash up after, they surely don't think employees are capable of using extremely complicated gadgets like toilet paper and flushes
- Since the spread of disease is a real threat, will the people who fail to wash their hands be reported and investigated? You know, just to ensure that they were just being silly and the failure to wash hands properly is not a malicious threat to the peace and harmony? In other words are they going to be investigated to rule out a dastardly Al Qaeda plan to inflict pain and suffering?
- The diagram itself looked pretty confusing to me. Assuming I am at the lower end of the spectrum in the target audience, how is this going to be implemented? If I need to be told how to wash my hands, I should probably have issues with understanding anything more complicated than the alphabet.
Monday 2 August 2010
Standing still
I've been having quite a commute for the past couple of months. 40 miles. Each way. Good news is that the Sun seems to have been fairly frightened by my threats to take legal action against it and its cronies, the British government and nature, so its been more regular in its daily duties. As an added bonus to appease my fury, its even thrown in a fair deal of warmth as part of the package. So riding has been enjoyable, but for the miserable network of inter-connected potholes that we in London call roads (more on the roads later).
A bulk of said commute is on the motorway/highway. This is where I usually have the most fun. As I buzz along happily at 65-70 mph, I have time to sit back, take in the scenery, observe the sights and sounds of life in the fast lane. From trucks laden with freight to cars laden with kids (I'm not quite decided on which type of cargo is more difficult to handle - goods or kids, but that's not my problem is it?), there is one thing in common. They're all in a tearing hurry, looking highly purposeful and generally giving me the impression they're trying to get to some place. But that's probably just me.
The readers of this blog are all astute folks and would have by now raised a very pertinent question. If I was hurtling along at a not so sedate pace of 70 mph, how is it that I'm able to see all these things? Do I have hidden super powers that I didn't have before? Has the power of a highly sharpened vision been hard coded into my DNA and is that surfacing now? None of the above. My only response to these questions would be to refer said astute readers to a good friend of mine Mr. A. Einstein. He was a popular lad, so I don't think he needs much of an introduction.
When normal folks like me have a theory, its promptly dismissed as rubbish, mallarky, bulls*it or variants thereof. But when A. Einstein proposes a theory, the world listens. In this instance, I am talking about the blokes theory on relativity@@.
It's like this: while I'm buzzing along at 70 mph, the rest of the world seems to be thundering along at 80-85 mph. That leaves me with a feeling of standing still in a fast moving world and that is what leads to profound thoughts such as the ones described above. Make no mistake, this relativity is a rather tricky customer. On more than one occasion, I've felt that I'm literally standing still. Had I been in a car as opposed to a bike, I would be forgiven for taking my seat belt off, opening the door and stepping out to catch a breath of air, only to realise I'm still moving at a rate of knots that is extremely unhealthy to skin, bones and internal organs.
Looking at all these folks race down the motorway makes me think about what the hurry is? Isn't the journey as important as the destination? Since when did getting to a place become such a chore? I've always enjoyed taking the long route home. Slowing down and taking in the scenery rejuvenates me and recharges me. I arrive feeling fresh and ready to take on the day between the time I park and reach the office, after that, all bets are off! There have been several times when I wanted to flag down a car or two and ask them where the fire is and why they're in such a hurry, but have controlled myself for fear of being run over, if not accidentally, on purpose.
In any case, the moment traffic slows to a crawl at one of London's infamous jams, it's me who is the subject of relativity, for I would be scurrying down the road much faster than any other vehicle!
@@ I am a poor student of commerce, so I have readers, God and A Einstein (not necessarily in that order) to kindly forgive me if I have gotten the theory of relativity all wrong.
A bulk of said commute is on the motorway/highway. This is where I usually have the most fun. As I buzz along happily at 65-70 mph, I have time to sit back, take in the scenery, observe the sights and sounds of life in the fast lane. From trucks laden with freight to cars laden with kids (I'm not quite decided on which type of cargo is more difficult to handle - goods or kids, but that's not my problem is it?), there is one thing in common. They're all in a tearing hurry, looking highly purposeful and generally giving me the impression they're trying to get to some place. But that's probably just me.
The readers of this blog are all astute folks and would have by now raised a very pertinent question. If I was hurtling along at a not so sedate pace of 70 mph, how is it that I'm able to see all these things? Do I have hidden super powers that I didn't have before? Has the power of a highly sharpened vision been hard coded into my DNA and is that surfacing now? None of the above. My only response to these questions would be to refer said astute readers to a good friend of mine Mr. A. Einstein. He was a popular lad, so I don't think he needs much of an introduction.
When normal folks like me have a theory, its promptly dismissed as rubbish, mallarky, bulls*it or variants thereof. But when A. Einstein proposes a theory, the world listens. In this instance, I am talking about the blokes theory on relativity@@.
It's like this: while I'm buzzing along at 70 mph, the rest of the world seems to be thundering along at 80-85 mph. That leaves me with a feeling of standing still in a fast moving world and that is what leads to profound thoughts such as the ones described above. Make no mistake, this relativity is a rather tricky customer. On more than one occasion, I've felt that I'm literally standing still. Had I been in a car as opposed to a bike, I would be forgiven for taking my seat belt off, opening the door and stepping out to catch a breath of air, only to realise I'm still moving at a rate of knots that is extremely unhealthy to skin, bones and internal organs.
Looking at all these folks race down the motorway makes me think about what the hurry is? Isn't the journey as important as the destination? Since when did getting to a place become such a chore? I've always enjoyed taking the long route home. Slowing down and taking in the scenery rejuvenates me and recharges me. I arrive feeling fresh and ready to take on the day between the time I park and reach the office, after that, all bets are off! There have been several times when I wanted to flag down a car or two and ask them where the fire is and why they're in such a hurry, but have controlled myself for fear of being run over, if not accidentally, on purpose.
In any case, the moment traffic slows to a crawl at one of London's infamous jams, it's me who is the subject of relativity, for I would be scurrying down the road much faster than any other vehicle!
@@ I am a poor student of commerce, so I have readers, God and A Einstein (not necessarily in that order) to kindly forgive me if I have gotten the theory of relativity all wrong.
I'm back! I suppose I've been conspicuous by my absence these past couple of months**. An explanation is in order.
I'd like to say that I've been at the International Space Station, due to which I was cut off from the internet, but I can't. It's now possible to Tweet from space, so blogging shouldn't be an exception either.
I'd like to say I've been deep underground cleaning up the mess that BP created in Florida, but then chances are I'd have been on every TV channel worth its salt, and I haven't been on any TV channel, worth its salt or not.
I'd like to say I've been upto a lot of different things, but no one would believe me, so I'd like to say I've been lazy, bereft of the will or ideas to blog and halleluiah! its a miracle, everyone believes me.
I am back and I will find that Will To Post (must be French, funny name that) and be more regular.
** P.S. I've gone out on a limb here by saying my absence has been noticed. This may be construed in a sense, as me saying I've been missed. So if anyone reading this is now thinking, "Hmm, that's funny I didn't notice that this guy's not been posting for a few months!" I have only one thing to say: "KA!!!" *with tongue stuck out in your general direction*
I'd like to say that I've been at the International Space Station, due to which I was cut off from the internet, but I can't. It's now possible to Tweet from space, so blogging shouldn't be an exception either.
I'd like to say I've been deep underground cleaning up the mess that BP created in Florida, but then chances are I'd have been on every TV channel worth its salt, and I haven't been on any TV channel, worth its salt or not.
I'd like to say I've been upto a lot of different things, but no one would believe me, so I'd like to say I've been lazy, bereft of the will or ideas to blog and halleluiah! its a miracle, everyone believes me.
I am back and I will find that Will To Post (must be French, funny name that) and be more regular.
** P.S. I've gone out on a limb here by saying my absence has been noticed. This may be construed in a sense, as me saying I've been missed. So if anyone reading this is now thinking, "Hmm, that's funny I didn't notice that this guy's not been posting for a few months!" I have only one thing to say: "KA!!!" *with tongue stuck out in your general direction*
Monday 10 May 2010
Has China invaded Chennai?
One of the weekly rituals that the wife and I indulge in is to give the old cooker a break and head out to eat at London's finest. Well, finest within reason of course. The old pockets are rather dusty, shallow and unlined at this point. Finest with a budget. Budget finese. One gets the drift. One of the places we frequent is a nice little Indian restaurant called Tulsi. Unlike other 'Indian' restaurants in the UK, this one actually serves Indian food. None of its dishes are named Madras. Or Curry. Or Chicken Vindaloo.
So it is that when the mind desires north Indian food, the mind directs the legs in the direction of Tulsi. During one such visit, an item on the menu caught our attention. It was catchily named Idli Manchurian.
While at school, I was famous for one thing, being bad at history and well, pretty much every subject that called itself a science. However, even I know that an idli has never been involved with China. Heck, only in the last 30-40 years has the humble idli had the guts to go beyond the borders of South India. In much the same way that it is well documented that is not possible for idlies to have visited Manchuria and gotten romantically involved with local dishes, it is well documented that Indo-China relations have, at best, been strained. So even if an idli managed to sneak across the borders, this unholy matrimony could have never happened.
I suppose the same argument can be given for almost every other Chinese dish, such as 'Gobi Manchurian' and 'Mushroom Manchurian'. However, one can also argue that 'Gobi' is simply Hindi for a cauliflower and a cauliflower is something that is global, so Gobi Manchurian could very well be a desi name for cauliflower made in Manchuria. The same goes for mushroom manchurian. It's not particularly hard to envision a cook in China picking up a mushroom and plonking it in a wok of manchurian sauce just to see how it tastes. However, an idli is an idli in any language and I am sure ingredients that go into idli batter are not the same ones that go into rice pancakes.
While I have analysed and ruled out the possibility that an idli made it to Manchuria, there is a school of thought that considers the reverse to be possible. After all, China is the de facto supplier to the world. Everything is manufactured in China now. So, is it possible that in this global invasion, China surreptitiously slipped some of Manchuria's finest into South India on a covert mission to covert South Indians to their way of eating? It is a distinct possibility.
It remains unclear how and where this fusion of the Chinese staple and South Indian staple happened. However, one thing is clear; it was created by a genius. The spongy idli perfectly soaks in flavours, juices and manchurian sauce and the resulting taste stays inside the idli until the last bite. Unlike gobi manchurian, which has fried cauliflower with flavour around it, the flavour resides inside the idli. Delicious. I cannot help but wholeheartedly endorse the alliance. Long live the idli manchurian.
So it is that when the mind desires north Indian food, the mind directs the legs in the direction of Tulsi. During one such visit, an item on the menu caught our attention. It was catchily named Idli Manchurian.
While at school, I was famous for one thing, being bad at history and well, pretty much every subject that called itself a science. However, even I know that an idli has never been involved with China. Heck, only in the last 30-40 years has the humble idli had the guts to go beyond the borders of South India. In much the same way that it is well documented that is not possible for idlies to have visited Manchuria and gotten romantically involved with local dishes, it is well documented that Indo-China relations have, at best, been strained. So even if an idli managed to sneak across the borders, this unholy matrimony could have never happened.
I suppose the same argument can be given for almost every other Chinese dish, such as 'Gobi Manchurian' and 'Mushroom Manchurian'. However, one can also argue that 'Gobi' is simply Hindi for a cauliflower and a cauliflower is something that is global, so Gobi Manchurian could very well be a desi name for cauliflower made in Manchuria. The same goes for mushroom manchurian. It's not particularly hard to envision a cook in China picking up a mushroom and plonking it in a wok of manchurian sauce just to see how it tastes. However, an idli is an idli in any language and I am sure ingredients that go into idli batter are not the same ones that go into rice pancakes.
While I have analysed and ruled out the possibility that an idli made it to Manchuria, there is a school of thought that considers the reverse to be possible. After all, China is the de facto supplier to the world. Everything is manufactured in China now. So, is it possible that in this global invasion, China surreptitiously slipped some of Manchuria's finest into South India on a covert mission to covert South Indians to their way of eating? It is a distinct possibility.
It remains unclear how and where this fusion of the Chinese staple and South Indian staple happened. However, one thing is clear; it was created by a genius. The spongy idli perfectly soaks in flavours, juices and manchurian sauce and the resulting taste stays inside the idli until the last bite. Unlike gobi manchurian, which has fried cauliflower with flavour around it, the flavour resides inside the idli. Delicious. I cannot help but wholeheartedly endorse the alliance. Long live the idli manchurian.
Democracy...
Almost everyone outside of the US of A and I'm sure several hundred people within the US (those who are actually aware that the US is not the only country in the world) will be aware of the elections that just went by in the UK. The same people would also know that the next government does not have absolute majority and all that good stuff.
For me, this election was a first in a couple of areas:
- I voted for the first time in my life
- In the 6 years I have been out of India, this is the first election I have been a part of.
In true essay style, I will now elaborate on each of the above.
My first vote...
In donkey's years, I'm more than 2.5. I have been in the voting age group for give or take 9 years. Until yesterday, I had never set foot inside a voting booth. I know that statement probably comes across as an incredibly irresponsible and undemocratic statement and I only ask that you hold off on passing judgement until I set out my defence. I may have reached the wizened age of 18 many moons ago, but I have spent a six of the 9 years since then outside India, 3 of which were in the UAE, where the words election and democracy would hurt the sentiments and beliefs of the people of that country. From there, the story moves to the UK, where for some reason unknown to me, the government lasted until now. Strange then, that my first experience of voting is in a country I am not yet a citizen of, have no cultural ties to and the only common aspect between said country and me is that the forefathers of the citizens of this country ruled over the forefathers of my country! While in India, I wasn't allowed to vote because I didn't have a voter's identity card and for some reason, the people who manned the election booths thought my general appearance was, let's say, suspicious. Therefore, I was promptly turned away from the booth.
So it was that I trooped into the election booth at St Joseph's recreation centre in Wembley, all eager and enthusiastic to cast my vote and decide the fate of the UK for the next 5 years. I cast my vote alright, no 11th hour hesitations or nervousness. I was the picture of confidence all through. I did have a major gripe though: nobody placed a mark of identification on my index finger to prove I had voted. One of the things I had most eagerly looked forward to was to showing off the little dot that is usually placed on the right index finger to prove that one had actually voted. No such thing in the UK I'm afraid. They are a trusting bunch of blokes. I could have confidently walked in there and voted all over again and they wouldn't have batted an eyelid.
Obviously, being the honest bloke that I am, I didn't.
My first election outside India...
Until last month, I thought elections in any democratic country would be the same. A huge exercise involving thousands of people to rally the masses, huge campaigns, riots, posters, advertisements, riots, heavy security, leaders travelling the length and breath of the country seeking votes, riots, mudslinging and did I mention riots?
Much like the British attitude to driving, there was none of that here. There were 2 pages dedicated to election coverage (which focussed only on the three main Prime Ministerial candidates plus little titbits of information on other goons in the race) and 24X7 coverage of election campaigns on the news channels, which one cannot watch for more than 30 minutes. Not because they are uninteresting, no no no no no, it's because after 30 minutes, the remaining 23 hours and 30 minutes of programming is one endless loop of the first 30 minutes.
There were a few banners, but none of them in places where you wouldn't find any other advertisements. So, while driving along, you would see an awful advertisement asking you to the 'cool' thing and buy a can of Coke and the next one would be one asking you if you wanted the crooks of Labour party to loot you again. I missed not seeing every available wall in the country painted with party graffiti. I missed seeing posters upon posted lined up on every wall that did not have graffiti on it. There were no election rallies, hundreds of thousands of drunk people did not congregate to listen to one leader bad mouth another (gives me the impression that the only time hundreds of thousands of drunk people congregate here is to watch football, but I could be wrong). Instead, leaders here went to visit old age homes and schools. Hardly the target market, if you ask me. None of the annoying features of an Indian election were present here and I missed that, only because, I think an election should be as feverish and celebrated as a world cup, since it only comes every 5 years!
The came Election Day. Can't say it dawned bright and sunny for it rarely dawns that way in this country. It dawned alright. Life went on. No indication of an election under way. Police were conspicuous in their absence. There were no queues anywhere and even when I went around to cast my vote at 8:30 PM, there were around 20 people in the booth (including the booth officials I might add). Voting itself was a simple affair, no identity card needed. Walk up, give your address and if your name is there on a list, you can vote. So I could have voted as James Pandurangan and no one would have batted an eyelid, as long as there is a James Pandurangan in the neighbourhood.
On the whole, I went into election season expecting fireworks, loud fireworks and I all I got was a soggy pop, from a soda can. Don't care though, I got to vote - lack of an identification mark notwithstanding!
For me, this election was a first in a couple of areas:
- I voted for the first time in my life
- In the 6 years I have been out of India, this is the first election I have been a part of.
In true essay style, I will now elaborate on each of the above.
My first vote...
In donkey's years, I'm more than 2.5. I have been in the voting age group for give or take 9 years. Until yesterday, I had never set foot inside a voting booth. I know that statement probably comes across as an incredibly irresponsible and undemocratic statement and I only ask that you hold off on passing judgement until I set out my defence. I may have reached the wizened age of 18 many moons ago, but I have spent a six of the 9 years since then outside India, 3 of which were in the UAE, where the words election and democracy would hurt the sentiments and beliefs of the people of that country. From there, the story moves to the UK, where for some reason unknown to me, the government lasted until now. Strange then, that my first experience of voting is in a country I am not yet a citizen of, have no cultural ties to and the only common aspect between said country and me is that the forefathers of the citizens of this country ruled over the forefathers of my country! While in India, I wasn't allowed to vote because I didn't have a voter's identity card and for some reason, the people who manned the election booths thought my general appearance was, let's say, suspicious. Therefore, I was promptly turned away from the booth.
So it was that I trooped into the election booth at St Joseph's recreation centre in Wembley, all eager and enthusiastic to cast my vote and decide the fate of the UK for the next 5 years. I cast my vote alright, no 11th hour hesitations or nervousness. I was the picture of confidence all through. I did have a major gripe though: nobody placed a mark of identification on my index finger to prove I had voted. One of the things I had most eagerly looked forward to was to showing off the little dot that is usually placed on the right index finger to prove that one had actually voted. No such thing in the UK I'm afraid. They are a trusting bunch of blokes. I could have confidently walked in there and voted all over again and they wouldn't have batted an eyelid.
Obviously, being the honest bloke that I am, I didn't.
My first election outside India...
Until last month, I thought elections in any democratic country would be the same. A huge exercise involving thousands of people to rally the masses, huge campaigns, riots, posters, advertisements, riots, heavy security, leaders travelling the length and breath of the country seeking votes, riots, mudslinging and did I mention riots?
Much like the British attitude to driving, there was none of that here. There were 2 pages dedicated to election coverage (which focussed only on the three main Prime Ministerial candidates plus little titbits of information on other goons in the race) and 24X7 coverage of election campaigns on the news channels, which one cannot watch for more than 30 minutes. Not because they are uninteresting, no no no no no, it's because after 30 minutes, the remaining 23 hours and 30 minutes of programming is one endless loop of the first 30 minutes.
There were a few banners, but none of them in places where you wouldn't find any other advertisements. So, while driving along, you would see an awful advertisement asking you to the 'cool' thing and buy a can of Coke and the next one would be one asking you if you wanted the crooks of Labour party to loot you again. I missed not seeing every available wall in the country painted with party graffiti. I missed seeing posters upon posted lined up on every wall that did not have graffiti on it. There were no election rallies, hundreds of thousands of drunk people did not congregate to listen to one leader bad mouth another (gives me the impression that the only time hundreds of thousands of drunk people congregate here is to watch football, but I could be wrong). Instead, leaders here went to visit old age homes and schools. Hardly the target market, if you ask me. None of the annoying features of an Indian election were present here and I missed that, only because, I think an election should be as feverish and celebrated as a world cup, since it only comes every 5 years!
The came Election Day. Can't say it dawned bright and sunny for it rarely dawns that way in this country. It dawned alright. Life went on. No indication of an election under way. Police were conspicuous in their absence. There were no queues anywhere and even when I went around to cast my vote at 8:30 PM, there were around 20 people in the booth (including the booth officials I might add). Voting itself was a simple affair, no identity card needed. Walk up, give your address and if your name is there on a list, you can vote. So I could have voted as James Pandurangan and no one would have batted an eyelid, as long as there is a James Pandurangan in the neighbourhood.
On the whole, I went into election season expecting fireworks, loud fireworks and I all I got was a soggy pop, from a soda can. Don't care though, I got to vote - lack of an identification mark notwithstanding!
Saturday 24 April 2010
Hair raising issues
The birds are chirping, the sun is shining (as much as it is allowed to shine in this blessed land). Life in general appears to be under an illusion of smoothness. Then this trinket of information comes along.
Before I'm judged for being a snob who cannot be kind towards the men and women who beautify and keep the old top trim, I would like to say in my defense that I'm not that person. I don't blame mis-informed people for jumping to that conclusion simply because I said it's not worth paying 20,000 quid for a haircut. I hold Velusamy in the highest of high esteem. I think he did a sterling job of keeping Mount Coconut trim. And he did it at 0.0003% of the cost of the £20,000 bloke. You don't need a barber to be able to sing and dance, you merely need one who can wield a pair of scissors to lop a lock of hair off, while steering clear of one's ears and other peripheral gadgets and attachments. If he can do said lopping with sufficient finesse to give an appearance of uniformity and style, that is a bonus. Like Velusamy.
I think this current crop of 'celebrity hairstylists' are a useless bunch of blokes. Not only do they charge you an arm and a leg, in addition to the Earth and the Sky, they don't actually chop any hair, simply make a floopy mess of it and send you on your way, while leaving you significantly out of pocket.
Consider this. I googled for funny photos of people who have had electric shocks and a typical sample was this:
It is widely known and accepted that one of my virtues is that my research is thorough. So I followed that up with a consultation with Google on photos of stylish haircuts. I came up with this:
I cannot, for the life of me, differentiate one from the other.
When I was growing up, one of the things which traumatised me the most was that my parents would never, ever be happy with the length of my hair unless my scalp was visible and in the event I got into a fight with the friendly neighbor, I would not be weakened by hair that could be yanked by said friendly neighbor. I've tried, as all adolescents do, to rebel against this style unfriendly policy and have my hair cut 2mm longer than specification, only to be marched back to the barber for a top-up. I must say though, that this was never a problem with Velusamy. He had only one style and that was to lop off my locks to the exact length my parents wanted. No more, although less was appreciated. He would do a uniform job, and this was more desirable than the job my sisters would do when I was even younger. Yes, I am reliably informed that on more than one occasion, my sisters have practiced their hair cutting skills on me. I thankfully have no direct recollection of this dastardly act.
Coming to the topic of this post, my interest in hair dressers/barbers/saloon artists/hair stylists (call them what you will) was piqued by an interview on rediff.com of AR Rahman's hair dresser. I am a fan of ARR and all that, but anyone who has seen him will immediately be able to tell 2 things:
- for all the money he has made and success he has seen, AR Rahman is yet to invest in a solid comb. Like all geniuses, his hair is unkempt and untidy. No complaints, just an observation.
- looking at the length of his hair, one would wonder if this hair stylist of his simply seats him on a saloon chair, nips out for a tea, comes back and gets his cheque for whatever obscene amount he charges AR Rahman for the 'haircut'.
If you click into the link, you would also find pictures of other celebrities whose hair this bloke's 'dressed'. Almost all of them have uncut, unkempt hair.
Thanks to the way I've been brought up, a hair cut is a monthly evil that must be dealt with as just that, a monthly evil. Hair once cut, should not bother you at all for 20 days, after which the odd comb may be introduced and 10 days from the day it needs a comb, the hair is put back where it belongs - the floor of a saloon. So, pardon me for not seeing style nor fashion in unkempt hair. The only benefit I see of spiky hair is in self defense, much the same way a porcupine uses its quills.
Sunday 28 March 2010
The bike of my dreams...or not
I've always been a bit of a dreamer. Dreams of both the day and night variety have visited me while I've been awake and while I've been sleeping.
I've always had some recurring theme to my dreams - either I'm falling endlessly or some such thing. I've rarely been surprised by my dreams, until last night.
Last night, I dreamt about riding my scooter. Nothing out of the ordinary here. However, the strange thing was that I noticed that the ride was distinctly bumpy and not comfortable at all. Rough road or a road in India, one might helpfully deduce. No. When I looked at the 'road of my dreams', it was a road that one can only dream about, clean, blackish grey, freshly laid and smooth as a Persian carpet. This led keen ol' me to take a peep under my scooter and I instantly found out the source of the bumpy ride. The wheels were square and I was bouncing along end on end, resulting in aforementioned ride quality.
I've heard that all dreams signify something. I cannot, for the life of me, understand why I would 'reinvent the wheel' and ride on square wheels. If this signifies that I will find a new way of doing something that's been done in a particular way for eons, I am worried. On several fronts. Square wheels are a pretty lousy form of locomotion and if this is indicative of a 'new way of doing something' then I can be sure its not a very suitable way of doing it, unless the objective is to ensure all users of said new method have suicide wishes and a few extra bones hanging about just to rattle and break. It's not at all efficient, I tell you.
I have been trying to make head of tail of this since the time I had it and I am not very happy to report that I am no closer to finding out even remotely why I would have such an 'innovative' dream.
So here's a call to all expert dream interpret my dream and give me ONE good reason why I should dream about square wheels. Thank you very much.
Wednesday 3 March 2010
The master blaster in me...
Reading all the hoo-hah about a certain Sachin Tendulkar scoring a double hundred and this, I thought it might be prudent for me to share with one and all, my own 'Master Blaster' days.
I suppose a 'setting the scene' paragraph is in order. I was brought up in a boarding school. For the avoidance of doubt, I must clarify that the operative word is 'brought' up in a boarding school, as opposed to 'went' to a boarding school. It was home, you see. Like all boarding schools, this one would be closed for almost three and a half months of the year. For a majority of these months, the only souls on the entire 750/900 acre (size varies depending on who you're talking to), there would be a sum total of 5 families on campus. Including ours. That included 6 (b)rats that the pied piper called holidays could not get rid of. At the disposal of these brats were approximately 8 tennis courts, 3 basketball courts, 4 badminton courts, 1 swimming pool, 1 club house with 2 snooker tables, 2 table tennis tables and 3 carom boards, and roughly 10 play grounds. Cricket was the favoured sport of this band of brothers with the occasional peppering of seasonal games such as football, basketball and tennis (depending on which tournament was on TV at that time). This post is about Cricket.
Sidin, being the Genius that he is, has brought up the 'what exactly is a one day cricket match' question. In our case though, these matches were more likely 'day into night' cricket matches. You see, one day cricket matches just say one day, they do not specify 8 hours. Hence we would commence proceedings at the crack of dawn (usually around noon) and go one until one of the following happened:
a) one of the mothers came after us wielding a particularly stout stick
b) one of us lost a tooth and/or an eye
c) we lost all the balls and would need to retire in order to grovel and beg for a few more the next day from Manick or Raju, the sports room in-charges
d) a massive disagreement between teams resulted in a sulky cancellation of proceedings, and most often,
e) it became so dark that even with the aid of the lone streetlight at the end of the ground, it would become impossible to see a yellow tennis ball coming towards the batsman/fielder at speed, resulting in a wicket or boundary, which quickly degenerated into situation under (d) above. On the rare occasions that we would play like real men, with a cricket ball, we would call it quits as soon as (b) above happened. You see, we had only 1 pad per team, no gloves and no helmets, and several budding pace bowlers.
Keen and alert readers that you are, you would have, by now, no doubt, raised an eyebrow in protest saying a cricket match would require atleast 22 people. Not ours. All we needed was an even number of blokes and even when that wasn't possible, we would manage admirably by either having a floating team member or even better, convincing the weakest player that he wants to be an umpire since he is the fairest, most keen eyed and technically knowledgeable bloke in all of Lovedale. Usually worked like a charm.
That said, however, 6 people are not even near the full complement required to field a full ground. That instantly ruled out Top Flats, which was the largest ground in the northern hemisphere at that altitude, or something like that. In order to give the fielding team a fair chance, the most likely choice was the basketball court just below Prep School. It was the perfect size if the batting team also did part time fielding. However, it's size did have some disadvantages, a well placed hook could get a boundary and hence 4 or 6 runs depending on which part of the boundary wall the ball hit (the upper part being a 6), but more importantly, it could also:
- get one in trouble with Ms. Jerry Nash of Girls School if one hit the ball too hard and so much as touched a window of Girls School
- get one out if you hit hard enough for the ball to cross the boundary wall. To any ball wanting to escape the relentless throwing and hitting, crossing the wall was the ticket to freedom, for it is, to this day, virtually impossible to retrieve a ball that went into the dense undergrowth beyond the wall.
If this team comes across as an amateurish team, now would be a time to change opinions, for I am about to introduce some of the most (in)famous bowlers in the history of Cricket.
I suppose a 'setting the scene' paragraph is in order. I was brought up in a boarding school. For the avoidance of doubt, I must clarify that the operative word is 'brought' up in a boarding school, as opposed to 'went' to a boarding school. It was home, you see. Like all boarding schools, this one would be closed for almost three and a half months of the year. For a majority of these months, the only souls on the entire 750/900 acre (size varies depending on who you're talking to), there would be a sum total of 5 families on campus. Including ours. That included 6 (b)rats that the pied piper called holidays could not get rid of. At the disposal of these brats were approximately 8 tennis courts, 3 basketball courts, 4 badminton courts, 1 swimming pool, 1 club house with 2 snooker tables, 2 table tennis tables and 3 carom boards, and roughly 10 play grounds. Cricket was the favoured sport of this band of brothers with the occasional peppering of seasonal games such as football, basketball and tennis (depending on which tournament was on TV at that time). This post is about Cricket.
Sidin, being the Genius that he is, has brought up the 'what exactly is a one day cricket match' question. In our case though, these matches were more likely 'day into night' cricket matches. You see, one day cricket matches just say one day, they do not specify 8 hours. Hence we would commence proceedings at the crack of dawn (usually around noon) and go one until one of the following happened:
a) one of the mothers came after us wielding a particularly stout stick
b) one of us lost a tooth and/or an eye
c) we lost all the balls and would need to retire in order to grovel and beg for a few more the next day from Manick or Raju, the sports room in-charges
d) a massive disagreement between teams resulted in a sulky cancellation of proceedings, and most often,
e) it became so dark that even with the aid of the lone streetlight at the end of the ground, it would become impossible to see a yellow tennis ball coming towards the batsman/fielder at speed, resulting in a wicket or boundary, which quickly degenerated into situation under (d) above. On the rare occasions that we would play like real men, with a cricket ball, we would call it quits as soon as (b) above happened. You see, we had only 1 pad per team, no gloves and no helmets, and several budding pace bowlers.
Keen and alert readers that you are, you would have, by now, no doubt, raised an eyebrow in protest saying a cricket match would require atleast 22 people. Not ours. All we needed was an even number of blokes and even when that wasn't possible, we would manage admirably by either having a floating team member or even better, convincing the weakest player that he wants to be an umpire since he is the fairest, most keen eyed and technically knowledgeable bloke in all of Lovedale. Usually worked like a charm.
That said, however, 6 people are not even near the full complement required to field a full ground. That instantly ruled out Top Flats, which was the largest ground in the northern hemisphere at that altitude, or something like that. In order to give the fielding team a fair chance, the most likely choice was the basketball court just below Prep School. It was the perfect size if the batting team also did part time fielding. However, it's size did have some disadvantages, a well placed hook could get a boundary and hence 4 or 6 runs depending on which part of the boundary wall the ball hit (the upper part being a 6), but more importantly, it could also:
- get one in trouble with Ms. Jerry Nash of Girls School if one hit the ball too hard and so much as touched a window of Girls School
- get one out if you hit hard enough for the ball to cross the boundary wall. To any ball wanting to escape the relentless throwing and hitting, crossing the wall was the ticket to freedom, for it is, to this day, virtually impossible to retrieve a ball that went into the dense undergrowth beyond the wall.
If this team comes across as an amateurish team, now would be a time to change opinions, for I am about to introduce some of the most (in)famous bowlers in the history of Cricket.
- Ganesh, seeing this gentle giant thunder down from the boundary wall is a sight to behold. With the arrogant laziness of an elephant and pretty much the height of said elephant, this guy would unleash the ball from a height of 9 feet. A normal ball would come across to the average 4 feet batsman as a life threatening bouncer. Needless to say, the lone pad would be in huge demand every time this bloke came to bowl with a cricket ball. Injuries which can be brushed aside for the next day's match were fine, any further absence due to injury was a risk not worth taking. Ganesh was also the senior most bloke in the squad.
- Renju. Next in seniority, he would try to bowl pace and to be honest, at that age, it did feel like pace! However, he was nowhere near the life threatening pace Ganesh wielded.
- Sudhakar. This guy was a regular part timer and said he was a swing bowler, but it was more like a slowish straight ball.
- Praveen - Yet another part timer. This bloke was (in)famous for chucking allegations a la Muthiah Muralidharan. Many a times he has left the ground in a huff because one of us appealed against his chuck...er, bowling.
- Shibu - Renju's kid brother, until he began to realise he was being played, he would be the preferred umpire and when he realised should be playing, rather than being played, Shibu tried his hand at spin bowling. To his credit, on several occasions, the ball did reach the batsman before being smacked out of the ground. It was this quality of tempting the batsman to smack the ball to smithereens that made Shibu a prolific wicket taker.
- Me. You could replace my name in Shibu's profile and it wouldn't be too inaccurate.
Now that I have introduced the bowlers, I should introduce the batsmen:
- Ganesh. I have already established that this bloke was/is tall. While his height was a definite advantage in bowling and fielding, it was sometimes a liability in batting. You see, in order to ground the bat, Ganesh would have to bend over in half, but then again, it was not possible to bowl him a bouncer, the highest any of us could reach would be his hip, which he swat with disdain. He could also cover the length of the pitch in around 3 footsteps, and was hence adept at taking quick singles.
- Renju. Was a decent middle order batsman, he was like Rahul Dravid, would take root at one end and pretty much stay there until a fight broke out. As I write this, I wonder if he can be called middle order. He would usually come in one down (which means he'd step in after the team lost one wicket). I suppose calling him middle order is correct since coming in at number 2 in a team of 3 does make it middle order!
- Sudhakar. He could hold a bat and swing it, at times connecting the ball in the process. Pinch hitter would accurately describe him.
- Praveen - memories of his batting prowess elude me, primarily because he would get into a fight over his bowling action and leave in a huff before he could bat nine times out of ten.
- Shibu - for as long as I can remember, Shibu was only as tall as a bat, hence he wasn't the most effective tool in the box from a purely logistical perspective, but he had an uncanny ability to connect ball and bat and was capable of dropping the bat and scurrying between wickets like Jerry (not Ms Jerry Nash) running from Tom and was a dependable bet to get runs.
- Me. For the record, I was slightly taller than Shibu. Under poor lighting conditions, I was more than capable of somehow connecting ball and bat, however, enthusiastic cheering from my team mates would often get the better of me and I would often smack the ball into the jungle, which led Ganesh to give me the nickname 'Master Blaster', a name which to this day sticks...
Aah, fun times :)
Monday 1 March 2010
The cold Sun
I was wondering the other day, it's a good thing these scientist types changed their panic attack headlines from 'Global Warming' to 'Climate Change'. Any reference to global warming would attract a well aimed, powerful and solid kick to the referer's bottom. Allow me to explain.
Thanks to my undying efforts, the world now knows what greeted me the day after I bought my scooter. The underlying hope at that point in time was that this too would come to pass and in a fortnight the sun would come out of hibernation, provide heat and light and all that. What a load of BS that turned out to be.
It's now more than a month since said scooter entered the household and the Sun has been as lazy as ever. The bloke can slumber like a bear in hibernation, I tell you. It began getting cold and nippy way back in November. The days are getting longer now, but they sure as hell ain't getting any warmer.
When I first moved the UK, one of the major draws, for me, was the rain. This is a fact I've had to justify to every single person that has ever asked me why I chose to leave a sunny country like Dubai and come to wet and dreary UK. The normal reaction to this statement is to look at me like I have just eaten a live crocodile. Some even look at me like they did when they found out there is no Santa Claus. Once the initial shock of my statement passes by, they eventually recover and in less than 2 days, they return to their normal selves and dismiss me as an eccentric madman. I found their line of reasoning for such a reaction a bit on the cuckoo side, but I understand it better now.
Coming from a country where rain hits the headlines and only does that around 3-4 days in a year, it felt good to have regular rain again. It felt good back in the day, but like they say, too much of a good thing soon turns bad. It's rained around 3-4 days a week for the past 4 months and I've had my fill of rain, thank you very much. The temperature gauge on the dash of my scooter has forgotten what it is to be in double digit temperatures and my digits have forgotten what it would feel like to have two of their namesakes get together in the context of a weather discussion.
Even the hardy British folks seem to have stopped grumbling about the weather, probably in the vain hope that they would somehow appease the weather Gods into blessing the place with more moderate weather. No luck on that front either.
Then we have these blessed statisticians, who keep reeling off numbers that say this has been the coldest winter since records began. Since my records began, each winter has been colder than the next, according to these statistics.
It is now bright and sunny outside, but there is no point in going outside, for the Sun in this part of the world only produces light and does not bother with heating.
The other day, I was watching an advertisement by these infernal litigation lawyers, and I am seriously contemplating if there would be any point in suing the Sun, the Solar System, the UK Government (for the UK being where it is on the planet). The reason for the lawsuit? Discrimination against the people and citizens of this cold and wet country...
Update:
Funny thing happened. As with all other posts of late, this one was taking a healthy snooze in the Drafts folder for the past couple of days. I was mucking about with the weather widget on my phone and out of a whim, I googled the coldest city on Earth and came up with Yakutsuk in Siberian Russia. The current temperature as of the time I posted this is -32 degrees Celcius. Further reading up on this desolate brought up this article. God just dished out some top-of-the-line perspective didn't He?
Thanks to my undying efforts, the world now knows what greeted me the day after I bought my scooter. The underlying hope at that point in time was that this too would come to pass and in a fortnight the sun would come out of hibernation, provide heat and light and all that. What a load of BS that turned out to be.
It's now more than a month since said scooter entered the household and the Sun has been as lazy as ever. The bloke can slumber like a bear in hibernation, I tell you. It began getting cold and nippy way back in November. The days are getting longer now, but they sure as hell ain't getting any warmer.
When I first moved the UK, one of the major draws, for me, was the rain. This is a fact I've had to justify to every single person that has ever asked me why I chose to leave a sunny country like Dubai and come to wet and dreary UK. The normal reaction to this statement is to look at me like I have just eaten a live crocodile. Some even look at me like they did when they found out there is no Santa Claus. Once the initial shock of my statement passes by, they eventually recover and in less than 2 days, they return to their normal selves and dismiss me as an eccentric madman. I found their line of reasoning for such a reaction a bit on the cuckoo side, but I understand it better now.
Coming from a country where rain hits the headlines and only does that around 3-4 days in a year, it felt good to have regular rain again. It felt good back in the day, but like they say, too much of a good thing soon turns bad. It's rained around 3-4 days a week for the past 4 months and I've had my fill of rain, thank you very much. The temperature gauge on the dash of my scooter has forgotten what it is to be in double digit temperatures and my digits have forgotten what it would feel like to have two of their namesakes get together in the context of a weather discussion.
Even the hardy British folks seem to have stopped grumbling about the weather, probably in the vain hope that they would somehow appease the weather Gods into blessing the place with more moderate weather. No luck on that front either.
Then we have these blessed statisticians, who keep reeling off numbers that say this has been the coldest winter since records began. Since my records began, each winter has been colder than the next, according to these statistics.
It is now bright and sunny outside, but there is no point in going outside, for the Sun in this part of the world only produces light and does not bother with heating.
The other day, I was watching an advertisement by these infernal litigation lawyers, and I am seriously contemplating if there would be any point in suing the Sun, the Solar System, the UK Government (for the UK being where it is on the planet). The reason for the lawsuit? Discrimination against the people and citizens of this cold and wet country...
Update:
Funny thing happened. As with all other posts of late, this one was taking a healthy snooze in the Drafts folder for the past couple of days. I was mucking about with the weather widget on my phone and out of a whim, I googled the coldest city on Earth and came up with Yakutsuk in Siberian Russia. The current temperature as of the time I posted this is -32 degrees Celcius. Further reading up on this desolate brought up this article. God just dished out some top-of-the-line perspective didn't He?
Thursday 18 February 2010
A Christmas story...in spring!
Over Christmas, I'd been taking a much needed break from work and literally chilling out at home for 10 days (the weather was below freezing!).
For all the freedom and independence the media has in the UK, it's surprising that only two major providers of TV entertainment are present in the market - Sky and Virgin. Sky requires a dish antenna and my apartment has banned the use of dish antennas on its premises sighting aesthetic reasons. That left me with the grand choice of 1 when it comes to powering my TV.
While I am tempted to whinge about how much Virgin is ripping me off, I will control myself, for this post is about something else. I am not much of a sports fan, so that eliminates the content of around 120 of the 140 channels that Virgin provides. The only other worthwhile channels are Comedy Central, Dave (only because they have endless re-runs of Top Gear) and Discovery.
Now that we have that out of the way, said break was spent predominantly zoned out in front of the telly and the set-top box stuck firmly stuck on Comedy Central. I was watching an interesting episode of Everybody Loves Raymond and his cuckoo family. For ELR aficionados, this was the one where Frank sends an anecdote to Readers' Digest and gets published. He then walks around with a note pad trying to identify other quips he can send in, now that he is "published"!
Watching it reminded me of myself. In the early days of this blog, I wore the same shoes as Frank B. Frank walked around with a tiny notepad while the notepad in my tiny mobile phone was where I'd jot down amusing things that happened every day in my life. At one point, there were more ideas than the inclination and will to write!
As I 'matured' in the blog trade, I began to make a mental note of things that were blog-worthy. Once again, I noticed that I was flooded with ideas. This made me a very happy man, for ideas are exactly what the doctor ordered for a writer, but I found myself sorely lacking when it came to actually translating those ideas into a post that made more sense than, say, this one.
For all the freedom and independence the media has in the UK, it's surprising that only two major providers of TV entertainment are present in the market - Sky and Virgin. Sky requires a dish antenna and my apartment has banned the use of dish antennas on its premises sighting aesthetic reasons. That left me with the grand choice of 1 when it comes to powering my TV.
While I am tempted to whinge about how much Virgin is ripping me off, I will control myself, for this post is about something else. I am not much of a sports fan, so that eliminates the content of around 120 of the 140 channels that Virgin provides. The only other worthwhile channels are Comedy Central, Dave (only because they have endless re-runs of Top Gear) and Discovery.
Now that we have that out of the way, said break was spent predominantly zoned out in front of the telly and the set-top box stuck firmly stuck on Comedy Central. I was watching an interesting episode of Everybody Loves Raymond and his cuckoo family. For ELR aficionados, this was the one where Frank sends an anecdote to Readers' Digest and gets published. He then walks around with a note pad trying to identify other quips he can send in, now that he is "published"!
Watching it reminded me of myself. In the early days of this blog, I wore the same shoes as Frank B. Frank walked around with a tiny notepad while the notepad in my tiny mobile phone was where I'd jot down amusing things that happened every day in my life. At one point, there were more ideas than the inclination and will to write!
As I 'matured' in the blog trade, I began to make a mental note of things that were blog-worthy. Once again, I noticed that I was flooded with ideas. This made me a very happy man, for ideas are exactly what the doctor ordered for a writer, but I found myself sorely lacking when it came to actually translating those ideas into a post that made more sense than, say, this one.
The end of that episode featured Frank hanging up his boots as a 'published writer'. I wonder if I'm headed to the same fate...am I going to hang up my boots because I can't translate ideas to posts? I don't think so, as long as I can come up posts on how I can't come up with posts :).
Condemned....to learn religion!
Ah, good old Gulf News, never fails to provide a juicy titbit or two.
This one is about a Saudi bloke who decided to marry 6 women and got busted. It gets murkier. This nutter worked for the Vice Police.
Apart from the obvious wise cracks around Vice Police itself not being vice free and the practice what you preach comeback, this is worrying on multiple grounds.
Saudi Arabia, as a self appointed protector of the Faith, has a force known as the Commission for Promotion of Virtue and Prevention of Vice. The charter for this force is simple - make everyone who sets foot on Saudi soil adhere to the strict rules imposed by it as protector of the Faith. This force has absolute powers and is able to arrest anyone, anywhere and for reasons as flimsy as a lady showing 2 centimeters of skin from the soles of her feet when she fell down flat on her face.
The poor sods who get arrested for these 'offences' are humiliated, punished, whipped and in general made miserable.
Back to our bloke. His story is that he's married six women when he's only(!) allowed to take on 4! The story is worrying from several angles because:
This one is about a Saudi bloke who decided to marry 6 women and got busted. It gets murkier. This nutter worked for the Vice Police.
Apart from the obvious wise cracks around Vice Police itself not being vice free and the practice what you preach comeback, this is worrying on multiple grounds.
Saudi Arabia, as a self appointed protector of the Faith, has a force known as the Commission for Promotion of Virtue and Prevention of Vice. The charter for this force is simple - make everyone who sets foot on Saudi soil adhere to the strict rules imposed by it as protector of the Faith. This force has absolute powers and is able to arrest anyone, anywhere and for reasons as flimsy as a lady showing 2 centimeters of skin from the soles of her feet when she fell down flat on her face.
The poor sods who get arrested for these 'offences' are humiliated, punished, whipped and in general made miserable.
Back to our bloke. His story is that he's married six women when he's only(!) allowed to take on 4! The story is worrying from several angles because:
- the bloke works for the Vice Squad and he does this!
- he claims he had no idea that 4 was the maximum - this coming from a person who is in charge of implementing said rule is even more worrying
- then comes the punishment he was given:
- 120 lashes
- travel ban for 5 years
- memorise the last 2 sections of the Qu'uran.
How can a punishment be a punishment if it involves memorising Holy Scriptures? Doesn't it defeat the purpose of if 'Protectors of the Faith' consider it a punishment to learn what their religion says?
Reminds me of my good friend, Mr. 23rd Pulikesi. Among the many gems he doled out as punishment, was one where a court dabari (crier) was punished with repeating Pulikesi's praise for a week. While getting fed with kollu (horse feed). Once a day...
Reminds me of my good friend, Mr. 23rd Pulikesi. Among the many gems he doled out as punishment, was one where a court dabari (crier) was punished with repeating Pulikesi's praise for a week. While getting fed with kollu (horse feed). Once a day...
Tuesday 2 February 2010
Strike 1, 2, 3...you're out...of this aircraft!
Flights don't scare me. I'm no dare devil either. I can be scared quite easily, however, in all of my flying experience (totalling a grand 6 years), I haven't been scared of air planes. Awestruck, yes, petrified, no. From the time I looked up in awe at the huge Boeing 747-400 cargo liner that used to land on my sister's house in Bangalore (her house then used to sit next to the airport compound wall facing the runway), I'd always wanted to fly in the 747 simply because it was then the largest commerical passenger aeroplane in the world.
Until my first flight in 2005, all I had to go on were reports from near and dear on how the interiors of a plane looked. Most of the reports pointed in the direction of a similarity between KPN Travels buses and a flight's interior. Turns out that description was not entirely inaccurate, the only difference being the seats in KPN buses are more comfortable, recline more and have a lot more leg room.
Until my first flight in 2005, all I had to go on were reports from near and dear on how the interiors of a plane looked. Most of the reports pointed in the direction of a similarity between KPN Travels buses and a flight's interior. Turns out that description was not entirely inaccurate, the only difference being the seats in KPN buses are more comfortable, recline more and have a lot more leg room.
To date, I have yet to fly in a 747-400, but lost interest in flying in it after Airbus announced the A380, all desires to fly shifted loyalties to Airbus. I followed all programs on Discovery channel on the making of the Airbus A380 and knew its vital statistics by heart. Again awestruck, not scared of its ability to stay in the air.
All that changed a few days ago. With me extricating bricks from intimate places not once, but thrice in one flight.
On the rare occasion the office sends me on a business trip requiring the use of a commercial airliner, I jumped with joy when my ticket from London to Dubai listed the aircraft as A380-800. Finally. I thought it would be a cruise, what with its superior leg room in cattle class and all. Note the operative word cattle class. Apparently, in my company, one needs to be arthritic and old (read: Senior Manager and above) to fly business class. The recession, I tell you.
I checked in at the airport and there it stood, huge and majestic, although one might argue that from angles, the plane looked like it could lose a few kilos. The area above the cockpit also made the plane look very old - it was completely bald.
The plane had made a hash of first impressions by coming into the airport over 25 minutes late. Airline staff helpfully attributed it to congestion in Heathrow and we all know what a busy airport Heathrow is, so impressions were promptly restored.
Once the interiors were cleaned up from its previous flight, we all shuffled in and I made myself cozy in the seat, not at all spilling out of the seat and also appreciating the decent bump in leg room. The plane eventually made it to taxi stage around 30 minutes behind schedule.
As with all planes, the captain introduced himself on the PA and helpfully told us the flight plan, speed, altitude and flying time. I have multiple issues with this information doled out by chauffeurs of the air.
Once the interiors were cleaned up from its previous flight, we all shuffled in and I made myself cozy in the seat, not at all spilling out of the seat and also appreciating the decent bump in leg room. The plane eventually made it to taxi stage around 30 minutes behind schedule.
As with all planes, the captain introduced himself on the PA and helpfully told us the flight plan, speed, altitude and flying time. I have multiple issues with this information doled out by chauffeurs of the air.
- flight plan: I know where I'm coming from and I am aware of where I am going. How you propose to take me there is entirely upto you, I trust your judgement. When I get into a bus from Coimbatore to Chennai, some drivers/conductors helpfully tell you it will stop at Salem, Dindivanam and Chengulpet bypass. That is helpful; I don't think any driver of a bus in any country will tell you the bus plans to be on NH47 for 200kms before turning onto NH45 for 300kms. If a pilot tells me the flight I'm on is from A to C with a stop at B, I will be mildly interested. What we usually get is that the flight is from A to C and flies past B.
- speed and altitude: the airshow monitor constantly displays this information, thank you. I suppose, it's a good thing S Athai doesn't know any pilots. If she did and she flew with them, she would ask them to slow down to 30kmph (chapter 3 last paragraph!) if the pilot discloses the speed as "we'll be cruising at 875kmph."
- flying time: When a ticket is bought, the normal practice is for time departure time and arrival time to be displayed. Please let me know if we're going to be late, I'd appreciate that, thank you.
There are people to say this friendly banter is to develop a rapport between the passengers and the pilot. I refer these people to the relationship between bus driver and passengers.
Anyway, the pilot gave us information on flight plan never-the-less. The flight was to fly over UK, Europe, cross over into Asia over Turkey, Baghdad, some sea and then onto UAE airspace.
Anyway, the pilot gave us information on flight plan never-the-less. The flight was to fly over UK, Europe, cross over into Asia over Turkey, Baghdad, some sea and then onto UAE airspace.
Baghdad? No one mentioned that to me earlier! It might have actually been more helpful if there was an armed escort of the non-hijacker variety on board! I decided to keep a look out for incoming surface to air missiles, just in case. Brick extrication #1.
Around an hour into the flight, at some point over Brussels, helpful pilot uncle came on the PA again and said, "it appears passengers in the upper deck of the aircraft, please accept our apologies over the noisy flight you've been having, it's because one of the seals in a door on the upper deck is a 'bit' faulty. We are in touch with our base in Dubai on actions to take over this. In the meanwhile, please accept our apologies for the noise. Instantly, images of me being sucked into the atmosphere by rapid depressurization of the cabin since the door gave way flooded my mind. I remember being optimistic by thinking that at least, I wouldn't have to look out for missiles if we fell out of the sky before Baghdad came. Please Mr. Pilot, if the danger is not imminent, i.e., we're going to die in 10 seconds, please tell us something else. I strongly recommend a placebo. Something as mundane as, "will the passenger who has eaten one too many beans in the upper deck please step into the toilet, the noise is deafening" would have helped immensely. Brick extrication #2.
Somewhere between Turkey and Iraqi airspace, we ran into turbulence. To an already paranoid mind, this didn't do any wonders. The ride comfort on the flight suffered and both the interior and ride reminded me of KPN Travels more and more. To make matters, eagle eyed as I am, I noticed that the altitude had dropped from 33,000 feet to 27,000 and speed had decreased from 875kmph to 800kmph. Brick extrication #3. This is when pilot uncle truly made himself useful and said we're flying lower and slower in order to smoothen out the ride. Relief flooded back in, only to be replaced by more dread, for we were now over Iraq and flying lower! Brick extrication #3b. Thanks to G Bush and his cronies, it appears Iraq is fresh out of surface to air missiles and we made it to Dubai over 1 hour late and I had to scramble in the 15 minutes left to make my connecting flight, which thankfully, was as boring as any other flight I have taken.
Suddenly, my appetite for flying in the largest aircraft in the business has been satiated. I wonder why...
Around an hour into the flight, at some point over Brussels, helpful pilot uncle came on the PA again and said, "it appears passengers in the upper deck of the aircraft, please accept our apologies over the noisy flight you've been having, it's because one of the seals in a door on the upper deck is a 'bit' faulty. We are in touch with our base in Dubai on actions to take over this. In the meanwhile, please accept our apologies for the noise. Instantly, images of me being sucked into the atmosphere by rapid depressurization of the cabin since the door gave way flooded my mind. I remember being optimistic by thinking that at least, I wouldn't have to look out for missiles if we fell out of the sky before Baghdad came. Please Mr. Pilot, if the danger is not imminent, i.e., we're going to die in 10 seconds, please tell us something else. I strongly recommend a placebo. Something as mundane as, "will the passenger who has eaten one too many beans in the upper deck please step into the toilet, the noise is deafening" would have helped immensely. Brick extrication #2.
Somewhere between Turkey and Iraqi airspace, we ran into turbulence. To an already paranoid mind, this didn't do any wonders. The ride comfort on the flight suffered and both the interior and ride reminded me of KPN Travels more and more. To make matters, eagle eyed as I am, I noticed that the altitude had dropped from 33,000 feet to 27,000 and speed had decreased from 875kmph to 800kmph. Brick extrication #3. This is when pilot uncle truly made himself useful and said we're flying lower and slower in order to smoothen out the ride. Relief flooded back in, only to be replaced by more dread, for we were now over Iraq and flying lower! Brick extrication #3b. Thanks to G Bush and his cronies, it appears Iraq is fresh out of surface to air missiles and we made it to Dubai over 1 hour late and I had to scramble in the 15 minutes left to make my connecting flight, which thankfully, was as boring as any other flight I have taken.
Suddenly, my appetite for flying in the largest aircraft in the business has been satiated. I wonder why...
Thursday 14 January 2010
Falcon to Burger...an Autograph
The stable of vehicles in our household has been reasonably varied.
Falcon (reg number unknown)
This was the first scooter my father bought. I have very few memories of this scoot, for I either did not exist when we owned this or I was too small to remember. Fond recollections by my father indicate this scoot was fast, had a massive premium and he sold it for a price higher than the price he bought it for (possibly the only automobile less than 50 years old that appreciated!). Oh yes and he also had his first accident by being over confident. Apparently he managed to break a cast iron handlebar in 2!
Avanti Kelvinator (TNN 7511)
Fondly called "Street Hawk" by my father's students, this was also a 'robust' scooter, which meant it was made of iron, weighed around 2 and half tons and with its 150cc engine, it was about as nimble as a tortise on steroids. This was also most likely the scooter that instilled in me the love of touring on a two wheeler. We'd go on long (around 80 km in a day and that is long on that scoot!) rides around Nilgiris during the holidays. The mother would have to go to work and once she leaves, the father, the two sisters and I would pile onto the scooter along with a packed lunch and take off. Considering the vehicle is only expected to carry 2 people, it had well, 2 seats! People who are keen observers, eagle eyed and all that will observe that said two seater carried 4 people plus lunch for 4 hungry souls! As you might imagine, comfort was often spartan. The seating arrangement would always have me seated on stuffed cushion between the front and rear seats or standing in the front.
In hindsight, I guess it's not the most comfortable method of travelling, however, back then it was exhilerating and exciting. The only thing one had to keep in mind while sitting between seats was to ensure you stayed well away from the grip on the spring loaded front seat, for any sudden pothole could have castrating effects on one.
Bajaj Chetak (TN 43 4911)
This is the one I learned to ride in and did quite a bit of to-ing and fro-ing between Ooty and Coimbatore. I'd learned to ride in the school campus, a fact which drivers of all school vehicles were aware of and would promptly get off the road when they saw me approaching. This one had a single long seat, but alas, we had grown by then and one 3 of us could fit on the scooter at a time. This was also the one that almost ended my young life in the persuit of a lousy figure of 8.
Hero Puch (TN 37 Q 1736)
This was one puny 65cc moped, but it could scream like a banshee and still manage a respectable 50kmph if you contorted yourself like an escape artist and made yourself invisible to the wind. Even this has taken me on a trip from Coimbatore to Ooty, although it took a painful 3.5 hours and required at times a one human power in addition to the 4 horses that powered it. In my defense, this was a hand-me-down, I would never down grade from a 150cc scooter to a moped off my own free will.
Bajaj Spirit (KA 03 Y something)
Yet another hand me down from the sister (does anyone else notice a trend here?). Performance wise not to dissimilar to the Puch, but looked way better.
Bajaj Legend (TN 33 L 4177)
Ah, my first true "non hand-me-down". I was the second owner having it bought it when it had done only 3,000kms. In the 12 months I used it, it did a further 13,000. Faithfully accompanying me on trips all over the place, from Tiruppur to Siruvani to Mettur to Ooty. It was supremely comfortable and if you threatened it enough, it would get to 80kmph and stay there. Touted as the first 4 stroke scooter in the world, it gave excellent fuel economy. Its still in the family and happily ferries me whenever I go to India.
Bajaj Caliber (TN 38 P 19xx)
Yep, we were a bajaj family through and through. My first motorcycle. All the more special because I saved up and bought it with my own cash. For the one year I had it, this was my pride and joy, faithfully ferrying me on pointless trips upto Ooty, and around Coimbatore district and the jewel in the crown, a trip from Coimbatore to Chennai, a distance of 600kms that took me 14 hours on miserable, potholed roads!
By now folks must be wondering why I'm having this Autograph moment with past two wheelers. Here's the deal, there is a new addition to the brood:
Suzuki Burgman 400 (FH 06 TZP)
The newest acquisition is a 400cc brute and is quite the looker. It has been affectionately called a 'luxo-scoot' by fans.It is supremely comfortable and I am totally in louve with it.
In order to provide the uninitiated a simple to understand perspective of the awesomeness of this bike (yes, sisters of mine, I am referring to you), here are a few quick stats:
| Avanti Kelvinator | Bajaj Chetak | Hero Puch | Bajaj Spirit | Bajaj Legend | Bajaj Caliber | Suzuki Burgman | |
| Displacement | 150cc | 150cc | 65cc | 80cc | 150cc | 110cc | 400cc |
| Power | 5bhp | 7bhp | 4 bhp | 5 bhp | 9 bhp | 9 bhp | 32bhp |
| Top speed | 60 kpmh | 70 kpmh | 50 kmph | 60 kpmh | 80 kpmh | 85 kmph | 150 kmph |
| 0-40 kmph | Long enough | < 1 min | >1 min | >1 min | 6 sec | 6 sec | 3 sec |
| 0-100 kmph | 100? You've got to be kidding me | 100? You've got to be kidding me | 100? You've got to be kidding me | 100? You've got to be kidding me | 100? You've got to be kidding me | 100? You've got to be kidding me | 8 sec |
Motorbiking evokes memories and dreams of sunny skies and warm weather. Imagine how happy I was when the forecasters at BBC said the worst of the horrible weather has now passed and residents of this damp and dreary country can now look forward to temperatures that are going to be positive in the coming weeks and months. It was on that high note that I stepped into the dealership with a spring in my step and took delivery of the Burger. The weather was bitterly cold, but between the heated grips and excellent weather protection, I got home with only slightly numb finger tips. I was eagerly looking forward to a ride to the office the next day, for my office for the day was a good 20 miles from home. Having woken up bright eyed and bushy tailed the next day, imagine my chagrin when what I saw outside was this:
and this
not a pretty sight I tell you, not a pretty sight. I'm now waiting for the big thaw before this baby can stretch its legs.
not a pretty sight I tell you, not a pretty sight. I'm now waiting for the big thaw before this baby can stretch its legs.
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