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.