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 This has been replaced by air conditioned environments (cars, buses and buildings) and again by paper tissues.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

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.

• 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.

Needless to say, I was so taken aback and insulted at being patronized so blatantly that I washed my hand without referring to the diagram. Just as I finished, I looked up to smirk at the picture when I saw the part about 'estimated time taken to complete the procedure - 40-60 seconds'. I'd done it in around 30 seconds. I felt naughty. Perhaps there is a camera hidden behind the mirror that records the time taken by each person and anyone taking less than 60 seconds is reported. I suppose I would have to get used to watching my back for the rest of my life now...

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.

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*

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.

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!

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.