Shaving sessions

One of the great rites of passage for males is the first shave. It marks, more than wet dreams and the first cigarette, as the true public transition from boy to man. Groomed man, that is. Irrespective of the rock-a-billy, hippie or rasta look that may afflict one’s late teens, most boys can’t wait to have their first shave.
I discovered this when my son, after several sessions of gazing at me blade my face, mentioned he had spotted a few strands of hair on his upper lip and was wondering if it was time. Problem is, he’s three.

Until we meet again

Much water has flown under my bridge in these days. I have 99 stories worth 99 words each, but not the time to write. A newspaper relaunch, a brother’s 3-day bachelor bash, a pending holiday and then the said brother’s wedding. Lots of material for blogging, but not enough time to write.
Which is why I have to excuse myself until the new year. And hope that the blessed momentum this indulgence had gained does not suffer too much. And if it does, that there is enough blood and gore left in me to kick in a resurrection.

Mid-east mused out

I didn’t study political science or international relations and my armchair expertise has come from years of news analysis. I can’t sift through the complicated political layers that make for the background of this peace meet in Annapolis.
It does not even interest me if this is a masterstroke by Dubya to ensure the end of his reign is etched in history as the one that created a Palestinian nation and an Israeli one. What interests me is the people. What a different world it would if they lived in peace. People and peace, how difficult can it be?

Mid-east musings, penultimate

I have been not so removed from the years of Mid-east conflict. I went to college with Palestinians. They came to study in my hometown of Pune, which by the 90s had gained the sobriquet, Oxford of the East. I partied with Israelis in Goa. They ran the best raves, brought in the best DJs and if you wanted to trip, as it was in the day, these guys were wicked.
I had family living in Iraq during the war with Iran and some of my best friends are still Iranians, who, to escape the regime, fled to India.

More mid-east musing

In India, conflicts in the Middle East are far detached from the reality of daily life and other than its effect on the price of oil, pretty much impactless on the collective conscious.
Living in Dubai now, the Middle East situation hits home much hard. You are the region and the Palestinian you meet here has a sense of that as well. Even the odd Israeli businessman that may visit the country and might bump into you say, at a tennis tournament, is not so dismissive of borders and settlements. And the body count doesn’t seem statistical any more.

Mid-east musings

Bad news is generally good news in the news room. Bodies, death, blood, mayhem are generally the words that get the adrenaline flowing on the editorial floor. That it results in journalists viewing such incidents in a very dehumanized fashion has often become the clichéd banter that marks water-cooler chats.
However, as a journalist who does a body count before deciding if the story is worth spoiling readers’ early morning cuppa and still retaining enough pathos to cringe at the image of a severed limb or an orphaned child, the Mideast peace conference at Annapolis is for strangely important.

Losing luck

It’s been a known fact for sometime. From the seedy card tables of backroom clubs in Pune, to the casinos of Monaco. Always call this guy’s hand. He’s lucky in love and so, terribly unlucky in cards. I love playing cards. To the extent that I have to stay away from card games for fear of allowing the addict in me free reign.
Having won so little in gambling I have begun to explore the concept of being addicted to losing. I will update this after my next card game, which should be before the end of the year.

Feni stuff

Speaking of gifts, my cousin guaranteed me a few evenings of bliss by presenting me with two bottles of feni.
An ode to the brew is long overdue, however, under its influence, one never fails to hear the waves and a mando.
The amazing thing is that the Gen-X Goans, those who have grown up in Goa, stop short of abhorring the brew as a social drink of choice. Reason? They grew up with it as a medicine and hence, the taste always reminds them of the antidote to a tummy ache. One man’s medicine, another man’s poison.

Present-ation

End November is the beginning of the festive season. Here in the Gulf, Eid holidays and then again, Christmas.
The one aspect that unites different festivals for me is gift giving. Much more than the revelry, the food and the pious gaiety, it is the sheer joy that comes with the giving and receiving of presents that floats my boat down the river of life that without fail, gushes through these festivals year after year.
Some people go to the Himalayas to experience sublime bliss. Me, I just wait for someone to give me a gift. Bring it on.

Crazy Arabs

If you had loads of surplus money, where would you put it? In a passion, hobby, charity or maybe all of these. It would probably say something about you and reflect the socio-cultural milieu you live in. In the UAE, nationals who have the money don’t put it in art or collectibles. Once they are done buying cars and yachts, camels and horses, they put it in number plates. The craze here, believe it or not, is number plates. Auctions are held and the bidding is fierce. Last week the number plate 59 went for 2.4 million dirhams. Crazy!

Jucilicious!

If you’re a juice drinker, the UAE, and most Gulf countries I suspect, is your oasis. Every type of edible fruit, vegetable, root and grain has been bottled and canned into a fresh-for-your-palette juice. Then, obviously running out of juice options, producers began mixing different types of fruits and veggies to come out with even more options to slake the concoction-fuelled consumer thirst.
A rare trip to a hypermarket always finds me just staring in wonderment at the juice section, looking for the more bizarre parings (pear and pomegranate) and the you-simply-have-to-try-this variety (mango and passion fruit). Truly jucilicious!

No head

First draft with your heart, second with your head, thundered Sean Connery, playing a reclusive award-winning author mentoring a young black writer in the film Finding Forrester. Now that line is a script-writer’s dream. You just know it’s going to be a quotable quote as soon as it’s on paper.
And if you’re trying to Find the Forrester within, like me, it sticks in your craw and nags you. Basically, I’m a lazy writer. I only do one draft. Whether it’s 99 words or 1,000, the first time it is out, it's done. No head. All heart. No good.

Male type

They’ve finally named an aircraft after me. It’s called Male, short for Medium altitude, long endurance.
Which kind of typically depicts me. I’ve always stayed away from macho or stud as an adjective in my more indulgent expressions of myself. My ego is quite happy with Male, and the US air force has finally recognized the importance of having these medium altitude, long endurance type of men on the planet. The first Male version of the plane most definitely sits in my persona backyard. Called the Mq-1 Predator, it is used for reconnaissance missions, but can fire hellfire missiles.

Time call

I’ve made it a habit of being involved in launching and/or relaunching newspapers. The last six years of my nine-year career, have been spent doing exactly that. Some of them continue to thrive, some have been not-so-successful experiments, some have closed. The failures have rarely been editorially related, which is been my domain expertise. The one thing about being involved in a (re)launch is that it hogs up your time. The month before, it’s all you do, almost 24/7. My present paper is going to relaunch this month. I doubt I’m going to have time to ninety9 every day.

Macho politics

At the heart of world affairs are heads of state who are all basically studs. Never has machoism been more on display than with these big boys parading their power in a show of male bravado unparalleled since World War 2.
Meet the men: George W Bush, cowboy to the world. Will shoot you down and then go camping. Vladimir Putin, martial arts lover and avid hunter. Often pictured bare-chested with a gun in his hand. Nicholas Sarkozy, French hardball with a passion for beautiful woman. Even Ahmedinejad, has that look of a smiling assassin about him.

Well-wishers

While the fabric of our lives is held fast by the threads of love woven by our families and friends, it is equally embellished by the many, for lack of a better word, well-wishers, who make pretty our memories and colour with hope our dreams.
My hometown of Pune specialises in producing this breed of social beings – well-wishers. Not close enough to be a friend, not distant enough to be an acquaintance, well-wishers are peculiar to small cities, especially those that have an old-town heritage. They add a warm glow to one’s life. Big cities don’t have them.

Moment of regret

The thing about being an expat is that no matter how hard you try to make your adopted home your point of reference, life, and often death, refuse to let you forget your roots. One ends up oscillating then, between the joys and demands of the existential now and the constant undertow of that current that ever flows towards one’s hometown.
A fallout is inevitable and one of the many is the passing away of a friend. The distance between you and your hometown is never felt more acutely than when such news breaks. A true moment of regret.

Adieu, Mr Bhathena

To compare Pune’s now defunct Jazz Garden to the Viper Room would be unfair. That would have been the now defunct Ivo’s, given the snakes that were always milling around. I hear Homi Bhathena, the inspiration behind the ‘jazz’ in Jazz Garden has passed away in an accident. Homi gave Pune the chance to truly aspire to a quality live music culture, charging an arm and a leg for the experience. I sparred a lot with Homi. Testing his resolve with stinging criticisms, his patience with substance-fuelled antics and his generosity with star-billed requests. Go in peace Homi.

Child's play

I could walk around butt-naked at a festival and wouldn’t raise any eyebrows. My backside’s disappeared, as my mum and grand-mum keep pointing out. But, at this fest I had a monkey on my back and Cinder-ella on my arm. Everyone stopped and smiled… man, woman and Arab (there’s a difference). I propped my son on the bar and the lady behind gave me a 150 wine bottle for 100. My daughter placed the shwarma order and got two free. Justin Timberlake’s the next concert. My kids are coming for it. Even if I have to smuggle them in.

Revelations at a musical festival

I enjoyed a clutch of musical acts last weekend at the Desert Rhythm Festival. Kanye West and Joss Stone, to name the famous. Black Violin and Mika to name the talented. And Ziggy Marley to name the reason I went. Festival was a revelation. Musically and otherwise. It was a billed as a family event and so I took my kids. Nothing like Marley’s son ‘live’ to get started on an early musical education. Surprisingly, my kids turned out to be a huge asset for me at the concert. Attention-wise and money-wise. Come back and I’ll tell you how.

Whack job

Doing the right thing is just not sexy. The Devil does indeed wear Prada and clothed in a bland robe of coarse character fibre is the “right thing”. Think of doing something wrong and you will fund your pulse racing, pupils dilating and mouth drooling. Sexy stuff. Think of doing something right and your mouth goes dry, your demeanour becomes rigid and your head is inevitably being held in your hand. All the really non-sexy stuff. Eons of psycho-socio-religious conditioning has created a species that is turned on by the wrong (the idea of it). How whack is that?

Thinking investment

When I first came to Dubai, I could get Rs 13 for one dirham. Now, I barely get Rs 10. So, while I’m still making Rs 10 for every dirham I earn, I am also losing Rs 3. I hope that one day the dirham will be de-pegged from the dollar, the real villain of the piece, and rise to its former strength against the rupee. That’s not very patriotic. However, patriotism and money are two peas in a pod, not. So, I’m seriously considering giving in to the Dubai conspiracy: making sure what expats earn here, stays here.

Lift, stop

I live on the 17th floor. It takes me five minutes, on an average, everyday, to make a one way trip in the lift (it’s a fully occupied block and so, stops every other floor). I’ve been trying to calculate how many minutes of my life every week are being wasted, taking the lift and going to, and coming back from work everyday. And 10 minutes a day makes for 70 minutes a week. And it’s infuriating me that so much time is being spent on taking the lift, for god’s sake. I’ve been told to get a life.

Forgive me

This blog is not supposed to be a drone about the punctuations that mark the script of my life, unless there’s a major exclamation, or meaningful question. However, out of respect for those who stop by I feel obliged to explain when I can’t post. My company has decided to put its staff through an intensive training, and still bring out our newspaper. This leaves me with very little time, and despite the seemingly innocuous nature of a task that requires 99 words to be written daily, it does take time. So forgive the inconsistency of posting this week.

Stock taking

I love taking stock. Sitting back and going over the past. So, every now and then, I spend some time going through this blog, looking over some of the stuff I’ve written. Yes, I know, it’s awfully indulgent. But, I like it. Doing it this evening brought up the fact that not everyone who stops by may know what this is about. I was hoping the title and the tag line make it self-explanatory. But just to recap why this exists read two posts - the very first one, in May, and the one on Thursday, June 21, 2007.

Ferris wheel funk

I have a fear of Ferris wheels, or giant wheels as I call them. I have no fear of heights and not of motion, but team them together in a stomach-churning contraption that seems intent on hurling you from the highest possible point on its path, and you have my Achilles’ heel.
I have only been on a giant wheel twice before. The first time, as a kid, I puked for a week after. The second, in a show of bravado, to impress my girlfriend. She was not impressed with someone so afraid to breathe he almost passed out.

Canal by the Qasba

Qanat Al Qasba in Sharjah is a promenade along a pretty canal that opens onto a corniche, flanked by ornate and imposing Islamic architecture and is a must-visit in the UAE.
The attraction marries old-world Arab tradition with the latest amenities in that awkward, but unique way that the UAE specializes in.
So one will pass through an intricately carved dome only to have Nando’s (trendy eatery) greet you on the other side. Kandoura-clad vendors with local coffee brew on offer vie with Dunkin’ Doughnuts for your palate’s attention; only in the UAE, truly. Check it out: http://www.qaq.ae/homepage.aspx

Lessing time

Who is Doris Lessing? In case you do not know, and as I just discovered, she is an author. And of course, now, the 2007 Nobel prize winner for Literature. Problem is, I have not read anything by Lessing, which makes me wonder whether I am not clued in to literature, or, Lessing is not a must-read author. So, is the Nobel Prize all about political correctness, then. Lessing does have an admirable body of work, which means I’m going to have to read something by her soon. I hope I am not disappointed. Anybody out there read Lessing?

Fan in

"Me too," he said. "I'm South African and the only chance we got of winning the World Cup is if the Kiwis go out," he drawled. That's it, I was in. There were no questions about whether I understood the role of a lock or a hooker (on the rugby field types), but the simple acceptance of a sports fan, based on the common hope that a team somewhere, somehow, would take us to glory. Save us. Or die trying. That's sport. That's rugby. And that's why I'm a believer. And I pick Argentina to win the World Cup.

Fan out

So there I was, as France (this was the quarters, France have since lost to England in the semis) were choking the mighty Kiwis, Sebastien Chabal striding onto the field ominously, his beard and hair bristling with determination, when the guy next to me turned and said, "So, who do you want to win"? I thought for a moment and then, despite the pain I was feeling for New Zealand, said France.
He looked at me in the eye, held my gaze for a bit, broke out into a broad grin, clasped my hand and bought me a drink.

The Rug-bee

I follow rugby with more than a passing interest and have grown as a fan, moving on from the enticement of watching men beat each other silly, to appreciating the finer nuances of the game - sublime ball-handling skills, a wily line out and a Wilko drop goal.
With the World Cup now reaching climax, I thought it would be a good time to seek a baptism... by fire... which in Dubai is to go to a rugby game at a beverage-intensive café and watch a match with high priests.
To be continued… I promise to end it tomorrow

Scrum age

The mix of peoples and cultures in Dubai brings with it a heavenly buffet of sport. A smorgasbord of fence and foil, ball and bat, racquet and net, power and boat, and as a connosiuer, I have dipped and tasted.
So, like a blinding Sitiveni Sivivatu run, rugby has blown me away into touch-ing distance of becoming an ardent follower. For those quick to send me to the sin bin for bowing to the scrum of hype and publicity that the Rugby World Cup has us in at the moment here, this is no fly(half)-by-night affair.
To be continued…

Sucky timing

While the Indian rupee rallies like Marcus Gronholm on the fjords of Finland, expats who set out to build empires, or at the very least comfy two-bedroom apartments, on the back of the foreign currency (in my case, dirham) to rupee conversion are wilting under the loss derivative wealth. That’s how you try to say we in the Gulf are screwed, in a fancy way. And Gronholm is the world rally champion, in case you’re wondering.
I look at the amazing growth of the Indian economy and wonder about my timing when it came to leaving India. It sucks.

Thinking = hangover

It’s been one of those weeks where light bulbs have been flashing, red flags going up and my think tank has been overflowing with things that have made me go hmmmm… I go through these phases, where I develop what I call hyper-sensitive pro-creative retroactive insightivitis. It basically means that pretty much everything that catches my conscious attention throws up some thought-provoking question at the end of it. Problem is these thoughts don’t go away. They nag and nag. And I handle nagging with whisky. Scotch, actually. Which led me to discover that thinking gives me a hangover.

Mediaaaaaah!

Over-enthusiastic Indian TV news channels have recently been exposed (that’s irony, news channels being exposed) for setting up people to generate sensational news. Four journos face jail for daring to take on a former chief justice of India.
It’s my thinking that in India, if you don’t get beaten up or jailed, you’ve failed as a journalist. Going by that maxim, in the UAE there will be only failed journos, now that scribes will be spared jail terms, courtesy a Royal Decree. So what would be fitting “retribution” for a courageous (or foolhardy) expose here in the UAE? Deportation?

Brand questions

Given a choice between a product endorsed by Hitler and Gandhi, which one would you buy? I see the two very opposite world leaders as polarizing figures in history and in an ethics class. But the advertising world of today sees, in both, brand icons. Gandhi has been off limits for branding for some time now. But given Gandhi's goody-two shoes legacy, it's understandable. But what about Hitler? What exactly is a brand trying to appeal to in a consumer's sensibilities by using Hitler? Power? Ambition? Ruthlessness? Hatred? A psychopathic killing instinct? What? It makes you think, doesn't it?

Reverse racism

Just when you thought cricket Umpire Darrell Hair had hung up his fingers and was going to allow the game of glorious cock-ups to get back to the playing field, he returned. The amazing thing for me that got me ponderous was that his whole argument, in court now, is based on racism. It's an amazing case study for a reverse racism charge. A game invented by the white man, propagated by him, adopted by the brown man, perfected by him, now ruled by him, causes a white man to allege a race bias. Makes you think, doesn't it?

Worse for the wear

There’s always someone worse off than you, if you’re ever in the position looking for perspective to your life. However, that should be like Christmas and Easter; a twice-a-year indulgence when you’ve really hard a bad day. When you constantly start bringing to mind people worse off than you, just to get through the day, you’re really in trouble. Inherently, it’s quite a saintly way to live life and almost nothing can bring you down. But, we are called to lead lives of example and courage. Can’t do that when you’re reference point is, increasingly, some other miserable sod.

Tackle & high

I’m a big rugby fan. I was converted when cable TV first came to India. Followed Jonah Lomu and Co pretty religiously back in the day. It wasn’t until I came to the Gulf that I actually got to watch a live rugby game. It was the under-21 World Rugby Cup. Never have I been to a sporting spectacle that was so testosterone-filled. It’s so gladiatorial in nature when watched live that you can’t help but succumb to this rush of blood to the head. And the women who turn out to see… now that’s another post altogether.

Woman's World, contd

Research done in the States, published on the New York Times website this week, shows that while men have actually grown happier since the 1960s, women have grown unhappier.
Also, men have found more leisure time than women. The clincher for me was that the researchers said a key factor to this freaky evolution was that since the 1960s, we have more ‘working women’. And we all know work is never any fun. Get back in the kitchen woman, and then see me in the bedroom later! You’ll enjoy it! Just kidding.
For the full article go to
http://www.nytimes.com/2007/09/26/business/26leonhardt.html?em&ex=1191297600&en=031f43e2931176fb&ei=5087%0A

Woman's world

Call me sexist, chauvinist or just plain old-fashioned, but I was never an ardent supporter of the ‘working woman’ concept as emancipation of the female from gender bias. If a woman has a talent or passion and pursued it and made money from it, then it’s lovely. But to just take any job to make a statement about individuality didn’t quite ring true for me. This is with no disrespect to those women who have to take any job because they have to make ends meet. Why am I talking about this? Come back tomorrow and I’ll tell you.

Writer's check

I originally began this site with the noble, missionary zeal of writing for writing’s sake. And I was doing pretty well, until I discovered this cluster map thing you see on the side, which tells you who visited and from where. That was going pretty well too, as I always saw hits. But unless the cluster thing is not working anymore, I checked today and it showed no visits. My missionary, noble, for-art’s-sake plan went pretty much down the drain. It reminded me that it matters when people read, but, never to write only because people are going to.

WTF is it with this spelling shit?!

Everyone at some stage wishes they were black. Especially, if you’re into music and sport. When I abuse I’m black. When I dance to hip-hop, I’m black. When I play basketball, I’m black. When I rap I’m black. When I get rapped I’m black and blue.
I write this as a black man. What is it with spelling out of words in rap lyrics?! Are people writing this shit imbeciles, or do they think we can’t figure out C-to-the-O-to-the-O-to-the-L, if it were just said out: Cool. Nigga, if I wanted to do spelling I would’ve stayed in school.

A new era?

Is this a new era? Can India raise a true team in this galli form of cricket (nevertheless played on a world stage, with world-class players)? These questions fill me with dread, fear and excitement. Dread, because if this is a flash in the pan, then Australia will demolish us, at home, in the upcoming ODI series.
Fear, because I find myself actually wanting to watch cricket again. I had almost stopped watching because of the commercialisation and corruption.
Excitement, because this bunch under Dhoni are like a breath of fresh air.
Well, I’m holding my breath for now.

No Facebook after Orkut

I’ve had more invitations to join Facebook than an orphaned Afghan would get from Al Qaeda at a terrorists’ convention. I have resisted. Thanks in no small part to my Orkut experience. I’m anti social networking sites. They take relationships into cyberspace, where there is virtually, no real human interaction. Online, there’s an uncomfortable comfort level one gets from interacting with a screen. Also, it’s no fun discovering your ex-girlfriends, forever-loves and playmates have not joined the convent and are all living happily ever after you. I ditched Orkut and as sure as hell, am staying away from Facebook.

Yuvi20

I’m a purist. You have to have supplied me an illegal substance to know how finicky I am when it comes to purity. Which is why cricket’s Twenty20 version was met with a skeptical glance of my sports-loving eye. However, I did predict it would change cricket, even the 50-over and Test game (see July 27 post).
But Yuvraj Singh has singlehandedly, actually with both hands, and bat, made a believer out of me. He showed that to hit sixes, you don’t have to slog. Carnage can have class, style and poise. He has raised the bar for cricketers.

Memories of my family's 'school morning' concert

Whoever said school years were Wonder Years missed school mornings in my house. My siblings and I were not what you would call ‘morning people’ so, every day there would be what my mum aptly called ‘the concert’. Melodramatic contralto, gnashing snarl Rob Zombie-style, occasional hymn in desperation for divine intervention and not rarely, the definitive crack of the stick on someone’s hide; all this packed into an hour between 7 and 8am, aimed at getting four sleepyheads to school on time. There was no reality TV back then, but my family concert would’ve been quite a watch.

Iftar-esque life

I have to make it a point to write before the iftar. Once I’ve feasted... brain, fingers and keyboard seem to be continents apart.
So, when I said the iftar comes to you, I meant it. We have a buffet laid out in our office for those who do not mix work with pleasure, but still have to eat.
The menu changes every week. This week, it’s a biryani, with a meat stew, pasta, hommos, some kind of Arabic khichdi, one vegetable dish and an array of sweets. Did I not say life in the Gulf has its moments.

Ramadan Kareem

I don’t mean to perpetually bitch about my life in the Middle East (though there is a good case for that). Life here does have its moments, though, like Hershey’s Kisses they melt away all too fast in the desert sun.
Ramadan here is an altogether different experience, basically because it’s a Muslim country (someone slap me for stating the obvious).
One advantage is that you can get free food almost anywhere in Dubai during Ramzan. In India you have to know where to go for a free iftar. In Dubai, the iftar comes to you.
To be continued…

In exile

It’s Ramzan in the Muslim world and in the world where there are Muslims. It’s also Ganapati time in my kingdom and that means, it’s homesick time for me. I have close Muslim friends back home, so close that during Ramadan it was a ritual to do at least one serious iftar in Mominpura, the heart of Muslim street cuisine in Pune. I have close Maharashtrian friends, close enough for me to be on the way to joining the Kasba Ganapati procession as a drummer. Ok, I exaggerate, but you get the point. I feel so much in exile.

Calling it

Another Super-Rooper puff up (see Aug 20 post for disclaimer on self-praise). Part of being a crack journo is being able to step back and predict where the news is going to happen next. I made a habit of this in my career: calling the news before it happens. It takes a lot of reading and tracking of what’s happening in the world to be able to cultivate that instinct. Luckily, I enjoy it. However, sometimes it is just coincidence. Go to my Sept 3 post and then read this piece http://www.nytimes.com/2007/09/12/dining/12tong.html
Tongue in cheek, eh, that’s calling it.

Just some crazy shit

Across the road from Forever, in a house called Yesterday, lived a man called Tomorrow. Presently, Tomorrow wasn’t doing much except sitting around waiting for his wife Time to come home so they could sit down to a dinner of seconds. Tomorrow was poor and Time worked double shifts. Most often their neighbours, Hope and Charity shared their leftover food with the couple, sending it over to Yesterday.
Tomorrow hoped to get a job everyday, but Time wasn’t on his side when it came to being patient. For her every minute mattered. Not for Tomorrow though. He had Time.

Tour of duty

The most humiliating experience is to stand in a line, waiting for residence papers to be stamped in a country that is not yours, that you don’t want to reside in, but, because of circumstances, are forced to.
There is some deeper meaning to my Gulf experience, which I can’t see now. There has to be, or I’m going to kill myself, given how much I hate the place.
In the old days men used to go to war, do their tour of duty and then come back and live bitterly ever after. This is my tour of duty.

Airport observations: Tandoori kudi

This was my first trip north of Bombay. In my entire life. So, I was taken aback.
If you like meat on your women, the kudis at the Delhi airport, man, they are filled out. Not fat or overweight, but just really filled out. At Mumbai airport, in contrast, the women are generally thin and often petite, but at Delhi, they are all tandoori chicken man, gavran tandoori, that too.
I’m now really, really keen on visiting Delhi to see if the average Delhi woman is generally filled out like the female airport staff. Killers! Delhi, here I come.

Airport observations, prologue

On a recent trip to India I had to spend four hours at Bombay airport, and then, six at Delhi. A lesson in patience and a reminder, that I must fly as little as possible. For the record, I hate flying. Nevertheless, there’s only so much you can read, eat, drink, smoke and shop at airports. Basically, that's an hour-and-a-half done. So, the rest of the time you stare into blank space and at the face of humanity that fills up the airport. And as airport observations go, tomorrow’s post will be typically male and bordering on chauvinistic.

Hey, woman!

Hey, woman!, don’t be fooled,
As you laugh like a lark
My heart is brooding,
Lost in the dark

Hey, woman!,
You like what you see?
Torment, death and misery;
Of a soul that was once wild and free

Hey, woman!,
Are you sleeping in calm?
Relaxed, relieved that I can
Do you no harm?

Hey, woman!,
Are you over me now?
A cross on the wall,
Skeleton in the closet
Don’t let him in the hall!

Hey, woman!,
Like summer after fall
I thought you would call
At least to see
If you can still dance with me

Mirror, mirror on a page...

Finally read Gregory Roberts’ Shantaram. It’s good when someone holds a mirror to your face. Roberts does it with honesty and, thankfully, devoid of the intellectual comeuppance that most writers (in English) on and from India, bring to an Indian tale.
Much of it for me, the slums, and even the underworld, to an extent, hits close to home, so it’s almost like getting a chance to be part of a story, and a very good one at that.
If you’ve followed this blog then you know how I love original one-liners. Shantaram packs some amazing ones. Read it.

Have you ever eaten tongue?

Have you ever eaten cow or ox tongue? It’s a delicacy that is often overlooked by meat lovers, who prefer to be drawn in by the hype surrounding lesser-tasting entrails and pseudo-exotic dishes.
Imagine the juiciness of redmeat, the tenderness of chicken and a flavour all of its own… that’s tongue.
I come from a family that specializes in unique cuisine. Tongue was a favourite and over the years my mother and her mother have all perfected the art of making it, from a curry to just plain smoked roll. If you haven’t eaten tongue, you are missing something.

Don Juan de Whacko

The man versus woman debate is as old as old can be, and, having spawned multibillion-dollar business turnovers, from movies to books to divorces to bar sales, sits as jaded and clichéd as a spinster grand-aunt at her niece’s hen’s night.
Which is why, I prefer to observe rather than compare, to collate rather than compete, to endure rather than entreat, but most of all, to sit back and simply be fascinated. So, when I woman-ise, it is not womanising in the worldly sense of the word. It is a very pure pursuit. Does that sound convincing? But it’s true.

And then there was Spicey

The prophetic taunting of the galli boys had stuck in Dicey’s mind and after hearing his father slur over suggestions like Usha and Indumati, during his nightly quart of whisky, he decided, in an almost defiant stance, to say: Saraswati Poornima Ines Espinado.
Dicey’s dad choked on his booze. “By the whiskers on my grandmother’s backside,” he exclaimed, “son that’s the first sign of intelligence you’ve shown since you were born.” And so Saraswati got her her name and before long was nicknamed Spice and before very long, Spicey.
Note to reader: Read previous post to get clued in.

More on Dicey

Remember Dicey? Refer to the post on July 13 and 18 if you don’t. In fact, read them before you read this, or else, you will be as lost as Little Red Riding Hood (and that’s the fairytale character, not the Russian condom).
As fate and his parents’ desire to procreate would have it, Dicey was soon staring at his baby sister in the cradle of the maternity wing of the New Life Hospital. Soon talk was bandying about as regards her name, and Dicey’s dad was going crazy about giving her an Indian name. Dicey made his suggestion…

Back... with death

I have to apologise for what is the longest break I’ve taken since I started 99. However, my father was seriously ill so I had to jet-set to his bedside. Glad I did because… he survived, the fighter that he is, and I’m glad ’cos I got to spend some time with him.
It’s strange how death puts life into perspective, but life never ever does the same. Have you ever heard anyone go, “Jeez, I have such a good life I now need to think about dying.”
I’m gonna try using life to give death some meaning.

Just like you and me

We all want our children like angels to be, but all they are is just like you and me.
Yessir, you can count on this Svengali to come up with some true original quotable quotes. Look up my June 14 post for a reminder of that.
Having indulged in some self-aggrandizement, I must humbly add that when I do puff myself up, it’s only in literary jest and very often meant to underline, in a weird way, the point I’m trying, or sometimes, even more bizarrely, not trying to make. So cut me some slack on that front, wokay?!

Fan-testy

The English Premier League has begun and I’m dizzy with delight. I’m a big Manchester United fan. Only, I’m not from England; my country, India, last qualified for the World Cup in 1950; and even the Indian beach football side struggled in the Beach Football World Cup qualifiers held last week in Dubai.
The question that haunts me every time I see Sir Alex Ferguson chomping away on gum at Old Trafford, returned - am I really a Man U fan, or, just a poser?
Neither, I’ve rationalised. I’m victim, or beneficiary, depending the point of view, of globalisation.

Two kings and a champ

My family will be in Memphis this week, and Tupelo, Mississippi. It’s Elvis’s death anniversary today. We grew up around three heroes… demigods… actually, one of them is God.
There was Jesus Christ, Elvis Presley and Muhammad Ali. Such was the influence of the three that I have been a Christian community leader, sang in a band and well, my brother plays the Ali role. He has been in 30 fights, with 28 knockouts, and two arrests.
Thank-you mum and dad for ensuring the King of Man, the King of Rock’n’Roll and the Champ were part of our lives.

And now, a spectacle

In the words of me bloggo-starman, fakestevejobs, big namaste to those who sought to allay my old age/death fears. However, it was not a bad dream. I get to work and after banging at my laptop for an hour, I look up and everything beyond five feet is a blur. I kid you not. I did notice the past week that the Indian cricket team on the TV in my office, which is over 15 feet away, was looking a bit dodgy. Besides getting old and/or dying, I’m going to have to make a ‘spectacle’ of myself as well!

Death by old age... begins

I woke up today and looked at myself and froze. Surely, I had a fatal disease. My hairline had receded like the arctic coastline under global warming. My beard was littered with white hair, as if some rogue pixie had mistook it for a fairytale garden and spent the night studding the dark growth with white.
My head felt heavy and my body, like it was ready to cash in and return to ash. It had to be more than the Red Label I had chugged last night. Am I dying? Or is this what they call, old age?

Noveau yeesh!

The pace at which Dubai and Abu Dhabi are evolving on the economic, grandeur and lifestyle-on-offer scale are by any consideration, meteoric. One can only gape as the UAE moves from being the modern centre of the Arab the world, to being the Arab centre of the modern world.
Frankly, the ostentatious-ness that gilds pretty much every structure, plan and project in and by the UAE, intimidates me. I’m uncomfortable in overtly opulent surroundings. To the manor born, I was not. My middle-class upbringing may have numbed my sophist senses, forever dooming me to the backbenches of noveau riche-ness.

Flow

I’m big on flow. Compartmentalisation, deconstruction, planning and calculated risks all jar in my lexicon. Everything I do is all part of one big flow of life. Now this may sound grandly bohemian, but in the everyday nitty-gritty of existence, it does pose a few problems. If anything goes wrong anywhere, the whole flow gets interrupted. As against if you had little boxes for different parts of your life, if one got messed up the others would be still intact. A balance is good. But I’m not a balanced person. So, what are you, a flow-er or a box-er?

More irony

Ever been in an ICU in a hospital? If you have, and I’m hoping as a visitor and not as an inmate, you would have noticed the place is sanitised to perfection. No germs, dirt or life-threatening stuff of even the most miniscule nature is allowed in. Did you get the feeling it would be fun to live in such an environment? It should, after all, be enjoyable to exist in an atmosphere knowing the chances of infection are zero.
However, the feeling I get in an ICU is of an alien. It just does not feel normal. Ironic.

Move over, Byron

Well, how long did you reckon I’d go without trying to be upstage Lord Byron…

I don’t dare dream no more
Instead, I only do nightmares
I don’t dare sleep no more
Instead, I do nightshifts
Actually, I just don’t dare anymore…

Well, not entirely true

I do dare cry now though
Got a storehouse of tears to clear
I also dare to scream,
Mostly inside of my head
But it sounds quite loud, and often,
Resounds, over and over again
Like a sound track to the dead

Stop that damn noise!,
Can’t you see I’m trying to live!

Al Qaeda-ed out

I am willing to wager a fiver that Duane ‘Dog’ Chapman, thanks to cable TV now the world’s most famous bounty hunter, will be soon on a flight to Pakistan and from there, in local tribal disguise, be horse-backing it, if necessary, to the cave-ridden lawless terrain that makes for the North West Frontier Province border, that Pakistan shares with Afghanistan.
The latest bounty offered for main-man Osama bin Laden’s head by the US Senate is $50 million.
As a newsman and general citizen of the world I’m all Al Qaeda-ed-out. Man, talk about overkill (no pun intended).

Struggling...

The path to authordom is paved with cliches. I am struggling to keep this going in its intended avatar. I have discovered I do not have something to say everyday. That means looking for something to say, which is tough. To make matters verse, I have to write a weekly column for the blokes who employ me. Those 600 words really take the stuffing out of, at least two days of 99ing. Nevertheless, this is to affirm my commitment to persevere, till it flows like the Ganga in spate. And to thank you, who stop by to indulge me.

Crick it

The ICC and BCCI are eyeing the new Indian Cricket League the way openers at this World Cup were giving Sri Lanka’s bowler Lasith Malinga the once-over. They don’t know if it’s is going to swing, sling, fly or bounce.
The biggest winners will be cricket-playing nations aspiring to be taken seriously. If players from the UAE, Canada, Ireland, Holland and Bangladesh, get to play against quality players from cricket’s elite nations in the ICL, they will improve and Australia’s dominance will eventually be challenged. That is the key to keeping cricket alive and spreading it across the world.

Not so funny

My kids just don’t find Charlie Chaplin funny.
Why? Well the film production values of yore – silent, black and white grainy images – are hardly any competition for an audience dunked in lush colour, minutely-scoped out detail and mind-bending special effects of today’s animated or children’s films. More than that, I think the Chaplin era of films demanded work on the part of the viewer. You had to pay attention, get involved, use your brain to connect sequences leading to the climax of the gag. Today, the film does it all for you. You only eat the popcorn.

Happy Birthday to me

Happy birthday to me, Happy birthday to me, happy birthday dear Roopsie,
Happy birthday to me.
May I have many more, may I have many more, Happy Birthday dear Roopsie, Happy Birthday to me.
Yup, it’s my birthday, gonna party, like it's my birthday…
July 24 and I’ll be 34. As against some deep philosophical though process that my birthday usually spurs each year, this time I find myself in a very nonchalant flippant mood.
Also each year I’m in a manic state about a celebration. This year, just not in da mood for even the mandatory cake cutting.

Dicey contd

Dice is an acronym. Dheeraj Inder Carmichael Espindao. I hope the curry at the baptism party is not a hotch-potch like his name, the priest had said during Dice’s christening. Indianisation of the Goan-Portuguese was high on Dice’s parents’ agenda. Hence, two Indian names, and one Western to go with the Goa-Portuguese surname. Once the galli boys had figured the name out, they called him Dice… and then for good measure, Dicey.
If you get a sister, they would taunt him, and you’re parents called her Saraswati Poornima Ines Espinado, you know what that would make her?, they went.

Meet Dicey

Today, you get to meet my friend Dice. The guys around St Stephen’s Street, where he stays also call him Dicey, with no pun intended, but as per the colloquial pet-naming tradition that is as much part of this section of this small town, as cup-cakes and quarter bottles of booze. John is Johny, Tom, Tommy, Sag is Sagy, Doob is Dooby, and so on.
Dice is called so, not because of his ability to handle dice, or because he runs a dice gambling den, or because he is always taking dicey decisions. It’s an abbreviation.
To be contd…

Me want to be Warkari

I’m so in love with Pune, I could be an ad for the city. Among my daily web rituals is the reading of the TOI’s Pune edition. I see it’s Warkari time in the city again as the great pilgrimage crosses the city. It’s one of the great spectacles I have grown up with and on my list of things to do before I die is: walk from Dehu to Pandharpur. Among the others is, to participate in the Hawaiian Ironman triathlon and to attend the Sawai Gandharva festival and listen to Pt Bhimsen Joshi before he cops it.

Fight Club

Somewhere between the story of the film Fight Club and pro wrestling, lies the truth about the manly need to establish one’s machoness through the most primitive of methods – fighting.
I have always been Gandhian and for fear of scarring my beautiful face, have diligently stayed away from brawls. That’s not to say I have not been in fights. But I’m quite happy to snarl, gnarl, abuse, threaten… and then walk off. However, off late, the fact that I do not know what it is to be docked one has been gnawing at my maleness. Somebody hit me!

Passing the buck

I know this is supposed to be about me writing. And I’ve already been around the block with the ode to how difficult it is to write everyday. So while this might seem like passing the buck, it is not. Sometimes you stumbleupon something really cool and you have to make way. This is from http://www.vivaconsulting.com/wellness/24mother.html
Enjoy!

My mother taught me religion:
“You’d better pray that stain will come off.”

My mother taught me logic:
“Because I said so, that’s why.”

My mother taught me about osmosis:
“Shut your mouth and eat your supper!”

Click the link for more.

Irony

I love irony. It’s one of Life’s more gorgeous embellishments. Like a shot of tequila or a dash of hot green chutney, it enlivens existence and allows for humourous, humbling, ponderous double-takes, sometimes all at once.
In modern pop culture, Alanis Morissette’s Ironic captures the sardonic incongruity (I’m just letting myself go) of fate’s evil scheming.
If you choose to live a life less ordinary then I would always say, live a life of irony. Like me right now: I gave up being a rich man in a poor country to be a poor man in a rich country.

As long as an espresso

You know you’re on to something when you have that tingling sensation at the nape of your spine. I had that with 99. While I might have collared a dear friend and my sister into visiting regularly, I don’t know how many others stop by. Nevertheless, 99 seemed unique … until I stumbledupon espressostories.com.
Somebody beat me to the idea of brevity being the hallmark of writing on the net. I thought saying it in 99 words was uber cool for net-writing. These guys say it in 25, about the time it takes to finish an espresso. Check them out.

Anybody seen my spine?

I’m on character deathrow. I grew up with this sickening need to have every person on planet earth like me. Now, when I’m in a position, professionally and personally, where I have to take some stands and make some decisions that are going to make a whole lot of people not like me, I find my spine has gone off to Spain for a holiday. Time is ticking me into a corner and pretty soon push is going to come to kicking some serious butt, or as the cliché goes, shove. Do I have the balls to do it?

Doctor, no

In the UAE, do not visit a doctor. You go in with a cough and come out in a coffin. There are enough stories about malpractice here to make feeling sick the number one item on a prayer list of things not to happen.
Hospitals here are not places where trained individuals perform a service for a fee, but, medical malls, where you could get ripped off (die). As I write this I have a bad cold, fever and a broken finger. And you couldn’t drag me to the doctor here if my life depended on it.

Wimbledon, long odds tip

One thing about Dubai, you get to see some serious shit. Especially sports-wise. I’ve watched Roger Federer and Rafael Nadal play, each other, live. And Nadal won. Believe me, it’s a sporting match worth traveling a desert for. Especially if you dig tennis. For those millions reading this blog who don’t, Wimbledon is on, hence the post. Roger is unbeatable on any surface, except of course, on les miserables clay. If Roger meets Nadal on grass he is going to cream him. How about an ‘upset’ tip. Bet five bucks on Marat Safin beating Roger in the third round.

Shame, shame

The concept of shame is deeply rooted in one’s upbringing and socio-religious
milieu. As one grows older, however, shamefulness begins to evolve from
a stabbing sense of guilt to character-denting wounds that, like cancer
cells, begins to kill parts of one’s emotional makeup. Even older, and
shame clothes itself in the malignant coat of self-denial and one dare
not seek the resurrection of feelings and memories shamefully left in
its deadly wake; not even for healing and restoration. Not for
anything, except for shame itself. Needless to say, there is much in my
life I am ashamed of.

Broke, a ditty

When money’s all gone, the soul’s set free
To live, to breathe, to be;
When pockets are empty, all’s that pure emerges,
From the shadows of the dark, dank security of mammon;

When you can’t buy a thing, there’s now space to think,
To ponder and question, to dare to consider,
That ruin after all may be cataclysmic in nature,
Leaving you bereft of all sense of stature

I fancy myself as a poet. Normally, only in the throes of unbridled romance does the bard in me spring to life. However, sometimes, inspiration comes unexpectedly, from an empty wallet.

My must clicks

I have a few websites I visit and would have them linked here, if I only knew how (help! somebody). I wish I could say these were web discoveries that were Columbus-like in terms of online voyaging, but, they are not; they were found by random surfing, and they stuck. And they are worth a look.

nerve.com: coolest sex site ever
gorillamask.org: total time-pass
cracked.com: ultimate for ‘lists’
fakesteve.blogspot.com: Apple vs Microsoft, an inside-out perspective
stumbleupon.com: if you haven’t yet got this tool bar, you don’t know what you’re missing (duh, obviously)!

So, what sites do you visit?

Inducing creativity

The idea behind 99 was sown during a conversation with a friend in Pune years ago. He was following a column I wrote at the time for the Pune Times and suggested writing everyday at a fixed time, as a means of developing the skill and “being able to induce the creative state out of sheer practice”.
Now I have an idea of what he meant and it is difficult. Hence, if you do chance upon this blog and linger long enough to read, be patient when I miss out. I am working towards inducing the creative state. Everyday.

Black Hamilton, the legend

What does Lewis Hamilton have that Narain Karthikeyan did not? Arm-chair experts in my employ assure me it is the car and the team. McLaren is streets ahead of Jordan. It is also coming from a nation with a great history of motor racing – Britain. I’ve covered the kart circuit in India and can tell you the enthusiasm is there, the tradition and technology is not. It’s a miracle Narain got where he did. But, Hamilton has zoomed to the top of one the last bastions of ‘white man sports’ And for that, he is already a legend.

Get your own hero

Sunita Williams has created a record for the longest space walk and I’ll bet my editorial career that the Indian newspapers will have her on the front page, claiming her “Indian heritage” good enough a reason for one billion asli desis to be proud of. With no disrespect to Sunita, we in India have to let go off these ‘borrowed’ achievers and get some of our own. Sunita is about as Indian as a Sioux in Kolhapur. We clearly suffer from an aspirational disease and the media is cause of this cancer. Heal thyself India, get your own heroes.

Comfort fruit

Mango may be king and custard apple is a personal favourite; Chikoo and strawberry may make the best milkshakes and if exotic is your taste, there are the persimmons. The lychee has always held aphrodisiacal magic for me and I know people who salivate at the mention of an ice-apple. When it comes to ‘comfort’ fruit, however, there is nothing to beat the banana. No matter where it comes from, the banana rarely makes it to the exalted front-shelf of a fruit stall. But no fruit comes close to the earthy, at-home, soul-nourishing experience of a ripe banana.

You heard it here first

These are mine (except for ‘experience’. It’s an amalgamation). If you hear these anywhere, remember who said it first.

* Life sucks, and we’re all standing in line for a blowjob.
* I’m alive by the grace of God, the patience of my family and the generosity of my friends.
* To love, life and friendship, more booze and more money (my perennial toast till 24, after which I disowned ‘money’)
* Sometimes you choose love, sometimes, love chooses you.
* Experience is what you get when you don’t get what you want, but you get what you need.

Once a PC, now a Mac

After being PCed my entire career, I now find myself having to reorient my fingers to the Mac. Worse, I now use a laptop, the iBook. While it’s clearly a matter of choice whether to align with Microsoft, or Apple, the publishing industry in the Gulf has for some reason (obviously a good one) decided to go with being Mac daddies.
For me, it’s just an infuriating experience of having to relearn keys and commands that, on the PC, I could perform with my eyes closed in a pitch-dark bunker 200 feet underground. Damn, now where’s that apple key…

Yawn!

Sleep has many uses. Rest apart, I have always thought it the past-time of the Gods and, being of spiritual-bent of soul, have indulged in it with holy passion. To those go-getters who decide to sleep when they’re dead, I say six hours a day of shuteye is an abomination to the being. Nothing less than 10 will do for me. When in a benign state of mind, I can go 14 without batting an eyelid. Of late, however, I have also found sleep to be an avid avenue of escape. Close your eyes, dream and all problems disappear.

Phone-y endings

There are telephone conversations vividly alive in my memory. Melancholic now, at the time they were devastating. All involved losing a relationship. A soul-destroyer, especially when on the phone. Every vowel spoken has the sound of thunder, every consonant the clap of lightning. And the click, when it’s over; the last beat of a heart. Some phone-y endings are more subtle. The harbinger of a tsunami. No anger or frustration, but indifference. I heard it the other day. My son. I haven’t been a father to him for years. Got to do everything to avoid that ‘final’ call now.

Humble pie

Coming from an ethnic stew of backgrounds, as a Christian growing up in a middleclass Goan society in urban India, predisposition was to thinking the West as the Promised Land from which, through some sleight of fate, we were banished; and must do everything to get back, even a stopover in purgatory - the Gulf. I detest the idea and wear my Indianness on my sleeve, protecting it through drunken debates with fellow urban Christian Indians, with a passion any desi would’ve applauded. Life humbles me, putting me on the same path I scoffed at when others ventured forth.

The empire strikes… out

Working in a multicultural environment when some of the other cultures are openly hostile, offers a complete overhaul of perspective. Shaken out of a pseudo-Gandhian apathy that Indians often espouse as an excuse not to stand up for their rightful place in a global scenario, one becomes aware of subtle conditioning. Like this infuriating complex I have when dealing with whites. I’m always on the backfoot. How many Indians have whites reporting to them? I should be gloating, but I am strangely uncomfortable. They ruled us for years, so now why is the empire hesitant to strike back?

Boo, Russell!

Stand up comedians have balls. To stand up before people who expect you to make them laugh, and deliver, that’s scary. Which is why stand-ups with a script devoid of sex and typecasts have me laughing long after the show is over. Russell Peters used to be that kind of comedian. On his recent Asian tour though, he suddenly decided he was Indian and gave a stunningly unintelligent and clichéd routine. In India they have a language called Telugu, it sounds like a phone company?! A Maharashtrian surname that goes Dikshit! Russell, that’s not funny. And you’re not Indian.

The joke's on US

I’m a Sacha Baron Cohen fan. And was, therefore, disappointed at myself for taking so long to watch the Borat Kazakhstan movie. It was hilarious. Cohen moves effortlessly from underplayed to over-the-top. What about the reaction the movie received? People were upset at the way Kazakhstan was portrayed. Are they serious!? The joke is not on Kazakhstan, it’s on America! To miss the point so grossly , as media and the world did, is to be in complete denial of the state of the United States. A state that Borat uses Kazakhstan to expose, and with some sangfroid.

Macabre, rambling

The pain of separation can only be equated with the torment of death. There is no dearth of tranquilisers to numb such discomfort. But, alas, there’s always a new day. If for every cloud there is a silver lining, then for every silver lining there is a cloud. And such is life, a series of clouds and silver linings. I say don’t look at the sky, then. Look where, then? On the horizon? Only to find a series of sunrises and sunsets. Look nowhere then. Stop looking for metaphors or signs or meanings or reflections. Simply be. And bear.

Not a post

To read the latest post titled Fear Factor, if you can't see it here, go to my blog archive and read it. The damn thing would not load here.

Fear Factor

Seven jobs in ten years. I should be used to a ‘first day’ at work. I’m not. With the career miles I’ve racked up on my CV I should stride into the new office with the consummate ease of a CEO approaching the business class travel desk. I don’t. I’m edgy, nervous and insecure. That deep-rooted fear of failure raises its ugly head, a beast waiting to be uncaged for this very feast. On my first day of work I end up wishing the earth would swallow me. It won’t. It’s Fear Factor tomorrow – a first day at work.

Fear Factor

Seven jobs in ten years. I should be used to a ‘first day’ at work. I’m not. With the career miles I’ve racked up on my CV I should stride into the new office with the consummate ease of a CEO approaching the business class travel desk. I don’t. I’m edgy, nervous and insecure. That deep-rooted fear of failure raises its ugly head, a beast waiting to be uncaged for this very feast. On my first day of work I end up wishing the earth would swallow me. It won’t. It’s Fear Factor tomorrow – a first day at work.

Fear Factor

Seven jobs in ten years. I should be used to a ‘first day’ at work. I’m not. With the career miles I’ve racked up on my CV I should stride into the new office with the consummate ease of a CEO approaching the business class travel desk. I don’t. I’m edgy, nervous and insecure. That deep-rooted fear of failure raises its ugly head, a beast waiting to be uncaged for this very feast. On my first day of work I end up wishing the earth would swallow me. It won’t. It’s Fear Factor tomorrow – a first day at work.

Sodom and Gomorrah

I travel the Dubai-Sharjah hell-way and Sodom and Gomorrah come to mind. The story of the twin cities is open to interpretation, but the essence lies in seeking a material fulfilment that blots out all else, and then paying the (biblically-dramatic) price for it.
I look for an explanation to thousands, stuck bumper to bumper, for 1-3 hours, everyday; frustration frosting their faces like the humidity on the windscreens of their cars; surely, one must come from a worse place to endure this. Pune? Surely, not Pune. Why then trade my soul for this sodomy. That’s another 99 words…

Hangover's over

Eyelids droop, head weighs a ton,
Pockets empty, hangover’s begun;
Senses weary, sensation numb,
Life seems dreary, hangover’s begun;

Throat is parched, reach for the water,
Spirit’s dry, the day seems a scorcher;
Turn on the shower, too weak to lather,
Stumbling bum, hangover’s begun;

Dressed in regret, coffee’s the order,
Strong, black and sweet, a toast to disorder;
Nicotine next, drag to delight,
All parts of the sum, hangover’s begun

No taxi in sight, for the legs no respite,
Temptation sneaks in, what’s another sin?
Boss on the phone, get on over,
Conscience stirs to life, hangover’s over

Dudes look kinda lazy

Aerosmith is Joe Perry. Aerosmith is better heard on your iPod , at full volume.
Aerosmith played in Dubai and the show was only worth it for a tick on the been-there, done-that list.
Ass-kicking, mindblowing, heartnumbing performance by these high priests of rock’n’roll it was not. Instead, Steven Tyler led a dress rehearsal for the band’s tour. The sound was tinny and punchless. For one verse Tyler’s mike was off. If it wasn’t for Perry’s riffy, crunchy, bluesy, balladistic (all at once) leads, I may have thought it a bad dream. Don’t wanna miss a thing… not any more.

Aye, me hearties!

Infernal Flying Dutchman! Like Master Turner it dooms pirates of the box office to another sequel. For land-lubbing aficionados of plot and story-line, it is World’s End; but a rum thing for blood thirsty fanta-sea fans - the Black Pearl, Captain Swann are a-sail.
Jack Sparrow reminds us that even Pirates of the Caribbean were metrosexual. Geoffrey Rush and Bill Nighy show that in the mayhem of sequential disaster, acting need not suffer. The FX crew prove they can still raise a ship from under the sea.
How dead d’ya feel? Nay, not me. Raise the flag yer scoundrels.

Sport

My heart is shaped like a football. It’s no wonder I gravitate towards the ‘sexiest chick’ on the club football scene – Manchester United. Though given my predilection for Latino-looking women (look at my wife (only) for confirmation), Barcelona might have seemed more onside. But I could never Kop a club playing some of the most free-flowing, beautiful soccer in recent Champions League history and losing. Which is why, even if Carlos Tevez does go to Liverpool, the Reds will always have my respect, but never my support. And neither will any of the Milan clubs. Nor will Rino Gattuso.

99, welcome

What can you say in 99 words? What can you say in 1,000? Might as well take a picture. Pre-disposed to amber-coloured spirits of Scottish origin and funny powders delivered from anywhere south of the equator I have found myself often delivering the first sermon on a Sunday morning to a bunch of faithfuls. Allegiance to spirit, powder or moi? It’s hard to tell from the pulpit of intoxication; however I’ve often lost the first line (listeners), by my third line (speech). Say it in 99 or, don’t say it; or be all means say it… but nobody’s listening.