I'm sorry

If I hurt or upset you, I’m sorry.
If I betrayed your trust or let you down, I’m sorry.
If I didn’t deliver on a promise I made, I’m sorry.
If I crossed a line or fell short of expectation, I’m sorry.
If I cheated, robbed, or distorted the truth, I’m sorry.
If I was selfish, rude or purposefully mean, I’m sorry.
If I am in anyway responsible for anything or anyone in any capacity feeling less happy or less loved this past year or any time before that I am truly, truly sorry.

Ok, 2009, here I come.

The lost decade

Forgive the constant context of the world economy right now, given that it is big news and only bigger in my world, because a business publication employs me.
One of the several buzz words to emerge is the ‘lost decade’, with reference to Japan. Word is, from 1990 to 2000, the economy in Japan basically got screwed and a whole ten years was lost, monetarily.
I look back at this past decade, given there is a year to go, and wonder, if in terms of an achievement-to- potential ratio, 2000-2010 will be the lost decade for me? Monetarily.

Going green

When I first decided not to get my driver’s licence it was circumstantial. Then, it was laziness. Then, it was below my dignity to go through a process that requires dedication and commitment normally reserved for the getting of a degree. All this means I don’t own a car.
Now, this is taking on a green hue. It’s become a pro-environmental decision. Me not having a car is now my contribution to reducing pollution and therefore, saving the planet.
Seriously though, I am increasingly finding my awareness of the health of Mother Earth becoming acute. No plastic is next.

Good pride, bad pride

Pride is like money. It has no meaning if it is not qualified. So, in a rare foray into the philosophical realm of morality, I am going to state today, that there is good pride and bad pride. Much like there is good money and bad money.
Good pride is when it costs you something very tangible, thought not always materialistic, to have pride. When a sacrifice is involved to be proud then, that pride is good.
Bad pride is when being proud costs you nothing and, as my own experience testifies, ends up costing or hurting someone else.

Me and Pakistanis

I live with Pakistanis. They are my neighbours, my colleagues, my grocer and driver.
The Mumbai attack and all the war posturing has strained our perfect world here in the Gulf.
Indians take it for granted that educated Pakistanis accept that there is a section of Pakistan that aids and abets terror, and has its hand in terror attacks on India. If these Pakistanis exist, I have not met them.
The educated Pakistani believes Pakistan is innocent and India is the aggressor – the Mumbai attack being a homegrown conspiracy. So we don’t discuss it... with each other, i.e.

Ooops! and a Merry Christmas

There’s a mistake in the previous post as Rohan has pointed out. It should read Valuev and the Klitschko brothers - Vladimir and Vitali. But it’s Christmas, so be kind and forgiving.
Midnight mass is one of those spritual gatherings that transcends religion. It’s like the kumbh mela for Catholics, only with skirts and suits. The celebration of the birth of Jesus – call him prophet, saviour, or dude who could turn water into wine – marks a moment of hope available to all. If you haven’t been to midnight mass, you must.
As you must visit the Kumbh.

Boxing change

There is a huge hole in world boxing right now. It has been created by the dearth of a true heavyweight champion of the world. The Valuev brothers dominate today, but after Tyson, and then Holyfield briefly… it’s been boring. There’s more action in the lower weight categories with Hatton, De La Hoya, Pacquiao.
My theory is that the socio-economic conditions of the African-Americans – the true feeder to the championship of the world bouts - has improved so much that they don’t take to boxing any more. Better educated and less angry, they want to be Obama not Ali.

Boxing change

There is a huge hole in world boxing right now. It has been created by the dearth of a true heavyweight champion of the world. The Valuev brothers dominate today, but after Tyson, and then Holyfield briefly… it’s been boring. There’s more action in the lower weight categories with Hatton, De La Hoya, Pacquiao.
My theory is that the socio-economic conditions of the African-Americans – the true feeder to the championship of the world bouts - has improved so much that they don’t take to boxing any more. Better educated and less angry, they want to be Obama not Ali.

Waltz in, waltz out

I truly want to be the Rick Rubin of whatever I’m doing. Rubin is the go-to guy, the guru, the mac-daddy, the genius of the music business. All he does though, is listen to your song, tell you what’s right, or wrong, what needs to be done and then you pay him a million dollars or more, and he leaves.
Rick does not do: production schedules, appraisals, productivity charts, year-end reports, year-ahead planners… Rick does not do the nitty gritty of success.
I too want to waltz in, paint the broad strokes, and waltz out.

Rating agencies

In the whole economic Armageddon, rating agencies (eg Moody’s, S&P, etc) seemed to have escaped the radar of pundits assessing the why and wherefore of our misery.
These agencies, who I have to admit, existed only on the fringes of my universe until a year ago, when I began working for a business publication, are meant to be responsible, independent, unbiased. Their ratings are the beacons that guide investors in an extremely crowded and confused market. How then, could they have top rated those toxic fiscal instruments that are at the heart of the global economy’s woes? Any answers?

The biggest evangelist

As a critic I’ve had my share of bombs.
Sting’s Desert Rose album, I panned. And I clearly was not impressed with a first reading of Paul Coelho’s The Alchemist. I was too immersed in the very philosophy that Coelho espouses – a deeply Christian spiritual philosophy, leaning towards the Desert Fathers.
When I returned from the Desert myself, a poor unfinished product, I re-read Coelho and was then as touched as the rest of his billions of fans. If you like Coelho, you are likely in search of union with God. He is Christianity’s biggest modern evangelist.

And so this is Christmas...

And so this is Christmas, and what have we here
For the old and the young ones, a merry, good cheer.

When I was young, Christmas season began with the first carols played on a Sony deck that at the time was a treasured family possession.
As a youth, the season kicked off with a solemn promise to drink everyday till the January 1. We started around Dec15th, but I remember one year beginning on Dec 1.
For my kids, the tree needs to be up for festivities to begin.
Nowadays, I just combine all of the above …

List it!

I’m a ‘list’ junkie (cracked.com, my favourite list site). Come the year-end, everyone and their next door neighbour is putting out lists. I want to list my top ten moments for 2008, but fear it would stun some, embarrass others, but most of all, strip any veneer of anonymity I attempt when writing here (given that most who visit regularly know who is writing).
I’m still working on a way to do it without jeopardizing anybody’s sanity.
Also, it’s Christmas time and if there is anything that melts my heart like a snowflake in spring, it’s the Yuletide season.

My pet peeve - greed

Life is not complicated. Living is. That’s because we have chosen a living system base where money is the key to happiness. So, more money, more happiness. It’s not for me to say if this is right or wrong, but it is for me to observe that since World War 2, people across the world have fine tuned their lives to this basic concept. Now, it’s gone bust. The model has failed. Yet, governments across the world have so far, invested over One $trillion (and counting) to save this system. Not poverty, cancer or the planet. But systemic greed.

Detroit - Pune of the West?

The Times of India branded Pune some years ago – Detroit of the East. It was despicable branding. Why was the West needed as a reference point? Puneites had already been basking in the pseudo-sobriquet ‘Oxford of the East’ for years.
It’ll be interesting to see now if Pune does indeed, go the Detroit way. GM, Ford and Chrysler are fighting for funding to stay alive. How are Telco, Bajaj and Kinetic going to survive the crisis? And what of Pune’s DaimlerChrysler plant?
India has, so far, adroitly handled the crisis. But I sense the worst is yet to come.

Change we will

What I am about to say will be very difficult to comprehend in 99 words. However, if the seed can be sown here, it will satisfy me no end if at some later date it allows me to indulge another I-told-you-so!
If you look at humanity in the larger time-space continuum that we exist in, you will realize that we haven’t been around very long. Socially, we are still at a very nascent stage of evolution. However, at the heart of human existence over the last 50 years has been ‘the need for more’. This will change now.

Not a post

To avoid confusion, if you do want to read Vir's piece, click on the link i've pasted without the - 12. Once the link opens then turn to Page 12. That's what the - 12 is for. If for some reason the link does not open then go to Hindustan's Times' epaper (Delhi edition) and turn to Page 12. It might be a bit of trouble, but Vir's columns are always worth a read... especially when he copies me.

Me first, Vir follows

Did Vir Sanghvi steal my diagnosis? (see my post of Saturday, Nov 29 and then read his Sunday column here http://epaper.hindustantimes.com/mdRedirect.aspx?hsh=un2hBB49251duuSBn2n1T9lCtABU2vmBQDwlkHs3GZZLVAOOALkLkiCWE5Ei+BLf - Page 12).
Since I wrote first, we’ll settle it at great minds think alike ;).
The story to do is who will actually be the first to check in to The Taj when it reopens. Every celeb worth his/her salt has promised not to be daunted by the attacks and be the first to check in. That means room rates will skyrocket, or, will Ratan Tata throw a lavish reopening bash and invite India’s glitterati for free?

Keane-no!

Most news in recent days has left me disappointed. My passion for football is satiated primarily by the English Premier League. It is there that I discovered that commander of generals, the fallen angel who rose to be a legend – Roy Keane.
I was thrilled to bits that he was managing Sunderland. It offered the chance for his leadership skills to have a wider impact. Yesterday, he quit. For Keane that word - quit – never existed. I only hope there is something else that pushed him to leave, other than the poor run the club is having.

Awesome

His voice is silken like an angel’s, but his songs are down and dirty and the combination, is simply just too funky. He sang them all, not missing a beat, note or trick (he wore the famous ‘cop’ uniform as well). He’s a legend and for everyone there, it was the last chance to see him ‘live’. And Georgie played the concert like that – doing Careless Whisper and Faith and Father Figure, along with Freedom and all his other post-out-of-the-closet stuff. The show stealer for me was the acoustic version of Roxanne that he recorded years ago. Awesome.

Wham!

But what truly makes him a diva is that the crowd did not complain once. They waited like children for the ice cream truck on a hot summer day.
Georgie boy still looks good wearing his age as lightly as the slight paunch he packs. He moves with the same style and consummate ease that made him poster-boy of the 80s and sex symbol of the 90s. He hasn’t produced any great music in the recent past, but what he did in his hey-day (no gay-day jokes please) is enough to Wham! a 15,000-strong crowd into a nostalgic frenzy.

The diva

George Michael is the ultimate diva. His being gay has nothing to do with this (though it certainly lends to the aura). Consider the facts:
* Alicia Keys opens for him.
* His humongous band – two drummers, six guitarists, et al, is all crammed at the back of the stage on two tiers, leaving a 20ftx30ft space on stage only for him, and sometimes, his six back up singers.
* He takes a break during the show for 20 minutes (a live clock on stage does a countdown), after taking an hour to start in the first place.

Fallin'

Alicia Keys comes across as someone with the potential to be a jazz legend, who went the R&B-soul-pop route because of the wider appeal and money. Her voice with its tonal perfection, pitch dexterity and aching emotiveness, seems to toy with the lesser demands of the almost-jazz compositions from her new album. Of course, I waited desperately for her to sing Falling, and when she did, I thought I died and went to heaven. That Alicia came off a six-city Germany solo tour to open for George Michael here says much about Georgie boy. And her humility, I guess.

Keys to turn me on

So to escape the assault on all my senses that the aftermath of the terror attack in Mumbai is having, I went to see Alicia Keys and George Michael. If you go through the blog chronologically, you will see that recently I have had to break up one train of thought or comment because of my self imposed 99 word limit. So forgive the trend as surely George and Alicia deserve individual attention.
I haven’t ever seen someone so sexy on stage as Ms Keys. And she was fully clothed. Boy, does she have a body.., and plays piano.

Passport Indians

Not all, but most, wanted the Indian cops and NSG to resemble action figures from a Hollywood war movie. I had to contend with comments ‘Did you see our cops running around with their big paunches? And how can the ATS chief get shot first?’
These are ‘passport Indians’. There are plenty of them from Australia to Los Angeles but a particularly irritating strain in the Gulf. They are only Indians by virtue of their passport (because no other country will have them yet). So I abused them and got out of the conversation before I killed them. Literally.

Crap coverage

My favourite whipping boys NDTV did not disappoint. It was pathetic in its coverage, actually angering me even more. If Barkha Dutt wants to emote in front of the camera she needs to take lessons from CNN’s Richard Quest. She reminded me of Shah Rukh Khan in the 90s. I did not watch CNN IBN, but I hope Rajdeep was better. The best anchor-on-the-field team is Sreenivas Jain at ground zero and Prannoy Roy in studio. But there were a bunch of people who managed to piss me off even more than NDTV did. Non resident ‘passport’ Indians.

Me Mumbaikar, not

Forgive me if I am not a Mumbaikar, as the zeitgeist suddenly suggests we are supposed to be. I never was, and unless can afford to stay on top of Leopold’s or opposite The Taj, it’s unlikely I will ever be. I am from Pune, which means it is impossible to like Mumbai for all the very reasons that make Mumbai what it is. But I can share the fear and the rage and the pain without becoming a faux Mumbaikar. Speaking of faux, I know it’s not a time to split hairs, but can’t help it but, well…

2 in a million

Finally, what were the chances of me knowing two of the people killed at The Taj? Conservatively, two in a million. Those 2 are dead.
First, Sabina Saikia Sehgal, Consulting Editor, The Times of India. She impacted my career more than she will ever know, now. I also did a training under her and for some time anchored the Pune edition of the Times food guide (I left before it was published).
Next Kaizad Kamdin, a chef at the Taj. His parents are very close family friends. Knowing people who died throws all socio-psychological-political observations out the window.

Urban legend

Most other attacks in India were either far away (North-East) or affected lower-middle class or poor people (Malegaon). This one impacted the yuppies because it hit targets that are visual icons of what urban success is about. It hit one of the holy sites of India’s consumerist religion – The Taj.
Ironically, even the attackers were urban, unlike the backward, tribal, uneducated image of terrorists we have in our mind when we hear ‘terror attack in India’. By hitting these nerve centres of Urban India, the attackers’ message also hit home – literally, into your living room and mine.

Impotent with rage

Not blogging on my weekend has helped me stay away from a knee-jerk or naively nationalistic reaction to the attack on Mumbai. So I’ve tried to sift through my several thoughts and feelings and observations on the issue and narrow it down to a few that might be worth reading for those who stop by.
‘Impotent rage’ is how I captioned what most urban Indians, at home and abroad, have expressed. And despite my best efforts not to feel too impassioned, I felt the same. Unlike other terror attacks, this one has affected the urban populace. Has moved us.

Be aware

I generalize. If you don’t like Man Utd, you’re a loser. And so with kids.
You cannot love all the same. Not for wanting or trying, but just because the human in you will tend towards one. The preference may keep changing with time. As you age, you will achieve an average median that will ensure, hopefully, your choice does not wreck the life of the lesser loved. But, I think, if you are aware of this, you may in fact work harder to love the one you love less. Makes sense? It’s not supposed to. It’s called parenting.

Kids

Parenthood if for nothing else, exists to showcase the total frailty of the human being and of course, the total pointlessness of reason. You must try it sometime. Not often have I looked at my offspring and wondered: did I procreate merely to prove that I could? And then, couch that very base need in the religious-social-romantic notion of being a dad. I hope not. But while I am not averse to asking such questions I also delight in watching myself interact with my kids. And I have discovered that a parent cannot love all his/her kids equally. Contd…

Not ours

I have been of the opinion that India always sends the wrong film to the Oscars as its representation in the foreign film category. The selection process is Bollywood-skewed and hence, we have never had our moment of glory at the Shrine or the Kodak. Most Indians will claim Gandhi as our own, but it belongs to Kingsley and Attenborough. Now the buzz is about Slumdog Millionaire being a serious Oscar contender. Should it win, again we will claim it as our own. Again, it is not. It belongs to Danny Boyle. Unless Anil Kapoor is nominated and wins.

Bad news

I have never experienced a global economic crisis. Not one like this. Being in the employ of a business daily has only served to heighten the awareness of the destruction of business. I may have mentioned in this space that I do not have a business background. In fact, numbers of any sort scare the bejesus out of me.
But if you are going to be a business journalist I cannot imagine a more exciting time to be on the front lines. The scent of bad news to a journalist is like the taste of blood to a shark.

Power

At work, there is one at the top and then two of us, and then, the rest. Each of us top three have specific tasks. Once in a way though, the other two will not be there and it’s just me. I assume responsibility for the tasks all three are supposed to perform. And I assume the power as well. That morning, I actually hate going to work because the burden of being solely responsible seems too much. But once I’m in, the power kicks in. And that power is addictive. And I don’t want the day to end.

Just not on

The front page of the Times of India has an Israeli gay couple with a baby. They, legally, got an Indian surrogate mother to have the baby and it’s now their’s.
I don’t know what to feel? They look decent, the baby looks amazingly cute with them and yet, some part of me is angry… incensed!
How much of a chance does that baby have of growing up normal? Is homosexuality normal? I am most angry with Indian law though - that has it as a crime to engage in anal sex, but gives a baby to two gay men.

Paul Rodgers

To be fair to Paul Rodgers, he did front Bad Company in the 70s and to be honest, Bad Company was definitely playing more on the sound track to my youth than Queen. So while he may have struggled doing a Freddie (though he really held it together for Bohemian Rhapsody), when they did do a Bad Company song (Bad Company) he absolutely rocked. In fact they gave him a grand piano in the middle of the stage, which he played standing up, a la Jerry Lee, and reminded me why Bad Company had rocked my world so much.

The Anthem band

Radio Ga, Ga and Bohemian Rhapsody and We Are the Champions brought the house down, literally.
As I walked away from the show, my heart pounding and head buzzing the thing that struck me the most, beyond May’s brilliant guitar playing and Taylor’s amazing drumming was that Queen did not write songs. They wrote anthems. Anthems to go with possibly every stage of life for every kind of person. I mean there is scarcely a song of their’s that cannot get a small crowd or a packed stadium clapping and singing in unison. And that is just, just brilliant.

Roger Taylor - II

And you figure ok, they are going to set up his kit on the ramp and he will do a drum solo. They do. Only it’s not a drum solo he does. It’s a song. They bring a microphone on. And the Queen drummer sings It’s a Kind of Magic. On his count of three, the entire stage bursts into light and the band backs him from there. It was amazing to see a drummer sing from upfront like that. And Taylor rocked.
From then on they could do no wrong. Freddie was remembered more than he was missed.

Roger Taylor - I

Together they do another acoustic song and before you know it, the big rock show is forgotten and the whole band (accordion, double bass, rhythm) is upfront doing acoustic. The crowd was simply ecstatic.
Then, they all go away, leaving just Taylor, bass drum and bassist up front. Taylor showboats, playing out Under Pressure on the bass guitar with his sticks. Then, the bassisst disappears and its just Taylor on his bass drum. At the top of the ramp.
Someone then brings a snare. And then a tom. And then a cymbal. And he is playing all the time.

Queen - II

In that setting once the tempo has been set, to drop it is risky.
And yet, the manner in which May turned an arena setting into an intimate one, was magical. I always have VIP tickets and I never stand by the ramp. Because I was alone at this show, I took a spot within touching distance of head ramp. A smart move.
Once May had the crowd in the palm of hand and hanging on to the lilt of his voice, he brought on Paul Taylor, who sat next to him with just the bass drum and hi-hat.

Queen - I

So there I was, among 5,000 fans, as Paul Rodgers warmed us up belting out Fat Bottomed Girls and Tie Your Mother Down. Just as the crowd was getting over the euphoria of hearing these songs played live, and beginning to cotton on to Paul’s lack of intensity and suitability, the stage went dark.
Brian May then came onto the edge of the ramp, sat on a stool and sang an acoustic love song. To appreciate the risk of this (and the confidence of May), you have to keep in mind a huge crowd, a massive stage, et al.

Cool geniuses

Queen was fronted at the show in Dubai by Paul Rodgers, lead singer of 70s rock band Bad Company. Rodgers looked uncomfortable and at times, forced, handling anthems like Another One bites the Dust and I Want It All. It was only when Brian May and Paul Taylor took the vocals that the real Queen shone through – one that even the vocal maverick Freddie would have been proud of. The thing about legends, and May and Taylor make the grade in my book, is they wear their genius lightly on their sleeves. And these two oldies exemplify that.

Are you ready to rock?

I skipped The Wailers, since there was no Bob Marley, last week. This week though, I could not resist Queen, even though The Queen was missing. Between now and December 15, I will also see Arrested Development, Maroon 5, Kylie Minogue, Alicia Keys and George Michael. So unless Obama really messes up, or my kids do something life-changing, music will dominate this space.
What is Queen without The Queen? Aapro Freddie was such a presence on and off stage that it is easy to forget what Brian May and Roger Taylor were about. So I went to find out.

Back on track

I have stoically stayed away from Facebook (and Orkut), as everyone, from uncles to nieces have fallen prey to its online social networking charm. Like an addict who falls off the wagon though, over the last few days I found myself (re)activating my Facebook account and before I knew it, I was clicking away. A foul-mouthed angel shook me out of my stupor and I am now back on track.
I don’t do online networking. If you want to connect with me, call me, or at the very most, drop me an email. I do people. In the flesh.

What if?

What if?, can be a potent weapon of self-introspection and, as I have discovered in my fight against insomnia, the creative man’s way of ‘counting sheep’.
I have cut back my hour of going to sleep from 5 am to 2 am now. Not drinking is a key, but the ‘what if’ question might well steal the thunder from my noble giving up of bacchanalia. I simply imagine a scenario – What if I won $5 million dollars - is my favourite. And then, close my eyes to construct an entire life. I am usually asleep in an hour.

White Cliffs of Dover

The White Cliffs of Dover, hung over me like an ogre,
But only in my dreams, thankfully,
Had I traveled to see:

A scraggly face of rock
Peeking out of wisps of clouds,
Invitingly grim, thrillingly grey;
As far below its gaze the sea thrashed against its bulk

With each sure step, I assiduously climbed,
Crack over rock, rock soaked in brine;
The White Cliffs of Dover I steadily stalked
Until at last, I was atop,
At the breach of the peak,
World far below, sky at my feet,
And then…
I jumped…
But thankfully, only in my dreams.

Bhagat is crap

I must first confess: I have not read Chetan Bhagat’s ‘One Night @ A Call Centre’. I bought his ‘Three Biggest Mistakes of My Life’ simply because the cover screamed: “India’s largest read English author.” That’s a bit like saying ‘Jenna Jameson most searched woman on the net’. So I had to read and see. Again, I must confess I read Bhagat in between Ken Follet and John Grisham.
Bhagat is crap. I can’t understand why people read him. It’s a bit like your grandma telling you a story. Amateur, simple, warm, clichéd, but as writing goes – crap.

Bas jhala, Tendlya

There is an insufferable exhaustion about watching Sachin Tendulkar bat nowadays. There is no thrill, or zip or anticipation. Every world record he now conquers has that painful inevitability that one sees in geriatric wards; on the face of the grim reaper hanging in the shadows.
I hope he is done and retires now, because I’m pretty much done watching him plod along from record to record. Make no mistake, for a long time I only watched a game when he was batting. And that’s only how I’d like to remember him.
Bas jhala, Tendlya. Chala, ghari basa atta.

Welcome Obama

You have not so much created history as initiated it. A historical moment is defined by context. Black America’s past has presented you the moment. What you do from hereon will define it.
Let not race and colour drench your canvas of change, painted now by the exhilarating brush strokes of Black America’s greatest moment of the modern era.
Instead, let thought, word and deed be the trinity that keeps you at the pulpit of success.
You inspire, President Obama. Eloquence (attempted) in this case.
But to go the Straight Talk express route: screw up and I’ll be waiting.

Goodbye Bush

The average urban Indian loves to make fun of George W Bush. When I pointed out to a group of peers that Bush gave India its current nuke status, they seemed stumped for a second, then continued to lambast him. I’m pretty sure the average urban Indian wants Obama in the White House. And it looks like they will get their wish.
What they don’t realize is that he will be disastrous for Indian business, if he sticks to his election policies. Bush may have appeared a fool, but he did more for India than any other US President.

Black times

Black is in. The USA’s first half black President. Though I have wagered at 5-1 odds that McCain will win. If I was a US citizen I would be a card-holding, gun-toting, Republican. Formula 1 has its first black champion. Though Lewis Hamilton looks more chocolate mousse than black.
I watched the race and then watched a hundred reruns of the last corner on the last lap and am convinced that Timo Glock let Hamilton pass. I don’t like Hamilton. More because of last year than anything else. He had everything in F1 handed to him on a platter.

Confederation of Indian states

Some moons ago I had touted the idea of India breaking up into a Confederation of States, with a common army. Raj Thackeray’s actions seem to sort of vindicate that view. What has appalled me is everyone kowtowing to the idea that assimilating into the local culture was actually necessary and therefore, at heart, the MNS demand was right. Only their means of implementation was wrong. That is bullshit. If I am an Indian my constituitional rights guarantee I don’t need to speak a particular language to live anywhere in India. And that’s it. Fuck you and your Marathi.

My perfect city

It’s been a long time. And I’m finding it hard to find a good comeback 99 to kickstart, if not the blog, then at least me, again.
But something that’s been on my mind is: what makes a beautiful city? In my perfect Utopia, there has to be a racecourse. And there has to be no, not a single flyover. Also you can have a railway station, but no Metros or Monorails. Ideally, a river should run through it.
My beloved Pune had the chance to be a perfect city, once it had stopped being a town. If only…

Offspring

I have spent extensive time with my kids over the last two weeks. My 8-year-old daughter’s only current aim is to be the next Miley Cyrus. So apart from getting her ol man to approve some of her hip-busting moves, she pretty much likes to be left alone to dance and sing. My boy on the other hand at four, is showing Socrates-like ability to ask mesmerizing questions. Here’s a sampling:

1) Can Santa push people down with his stomach?
2) Do bats bite Batman?
3) How is Johnny Walker Black Label made?

I could only answer the last.

Mark the word

When ever I go missing for extended periods, it’s a fair guess that I’m in Pune, India. The only place where I feel no compulsion to do anything. When I last blogged the world was dealing with the financial equivalent of the plague. Two weeks later, the cure is as distant as Galaxy UltraB923X4. In the analysis of the scenario only one of the several mags that I read used the word that is key to understanding the current scenario – Greed. It was Time in their last week of October, or thereabouts, issue. Tackle that or perish again.

Thank god u didn't get this in one of those chain mails

Stuff that struck me over the past few days:
* Barrack Obama will have to beat Sarah Palin not McCain to be President.
* Pune may be the safest metro in India right now. Especially if your Christian.
* The human capacity for forgiveness is vast. Only outdone by human capacity for meanness.
* Ray Charles and Willie Nelson singing Seven Spanish Angels can make me cry (not because they are bad, of course).
* If I am truly free, it also means that I am truly dead.
* It’s good to get drunk after a long dry spell.

Moral of the deal

Tony Blair, former Brit PM begins teaching a course on ‘Faith and Globalisation’ at Yale this week. The need for that course came in the wake of 9/11 and the realization that what people believe cannot be separated from the way they will react to even the smallest ripple effect of globalisation.
I wonder why, in the wake of the economic crisis, no one is speaking about Morality and Economics, or Value-based Business Practice? It is clear that greed and an unhealthy focus on bottomline has caused the present financial catastrophe. Now, who is going to bell this cat?

A WTF moment

I just had a WTF moment. A colleague, who I have the greatest respect for in terms of domain knowledge, but who, frankly cannot speak or write English better than me, pointed out a grammatical mistake involving a ‘transient verb.’ Right enough, I went WTF! Mind you, this guy cannot speak better than me, or write, but ‘knows’ the English language more than I will ever care to.
I promptly went to Google and have since added to my repertoire the understanding of the transient verb. Whether I will be able to recognize one now remains to be seen.

Butterfly effect

I’ve always been fascinated by the adage - ‘When a butterfly flaps its wings in Africa there is an earthquake in Japan’. The cosmic unity of all things living is something that resounds deep within my being. However, I now notice the same phenomenon in the financial markets of the world. If Chuck in Texas defaults on his mortgage payment, stock markets in the Gulf lose $39 billion, and 5,000 people in India lose their jobs and so on and so forth. With amazement I have watched the world economy unravel to the butterfly effect of the subprime crisis.

Bumbling and overzealous

The standard of TV journalism in India continues to appall me. Rajdeep is too loud, Barkha too opinionated, but even the second rung sucks. Nidhi Razdan reporting from Vienna on the nuke deal says, on air: ‘Countries (represented there) are frantically communicating with their leaders back home. They are communicating via email and phone… and even fax.”
What kind of journo thinks modes of communication are information. Thank-god homing pigeons are outdated and telepathy is not yet proven. TV journalism and viewers in India are like adoloscents on their first date. Bumbling and overzealous. I hope both grow fast.

What's good for the goose....

I’m still undecided on whether it’s a good or bad thing for Premiership clubs to be sold like cattle to the highest bidders. No, not high-class hookers (or gigolos), that’s the players. Most UK commentators are incensed by the presence of Russians, Icelanders, Americans and now Arabs, as owners of very old traditional English clubs. ‘It’s like watching fantasy football being played with real players and real money’, fumed one Brit hack. Why take your sport to a global audience if you did not want real interest in it? Where is the fine line between nationalism and globalization?

Literary exercise

Indulge me in a little literary exercise. It involves a four-letter word that starts with ‘f’, ends with ‘k’, and is not ‘fork’.
The idea is to insert the word in every three-syllable word you use, for a day. Of course, you can, and will probably have to use the word in its verb or adverbial form. So, for ex-f***ing-ample, you need to be in-f***ing-volved with the language to know enough words with three syl-a-f***ing-bbles for this to work. After about half a day you almost expect Guy Ritchie to come out from somewhere and shout cut!

Oh God!

If you’re a creationist then you should be running scared. The Large Hadron Collider will be switched on tomorrow and 80 scientists from 40 countries will be looking for the Higgs Bosun particle – or as they call it, the God particle. They are trying to recreate the circumstances that may have caused the Big Bang and therefore, take us a step closer to figuring out how we all got here.
So, is God in danger? Will proof emerge that God does not exist? I have implicit faith in the existence of God... and in the facts of science.

Ass-kissing nuclear power

India’s entry to the nuclear club gives me bragging rights. However, it’s a classic case of how we are still slaves to the Western (US, largely) perspective. When I ask the average person whether s/he is comfortable with Iran’s nuke programme, the answer is no. So why should anyone be comfy with India’s? Because we are more non-violent than the Iranians? Bull shit. It’s because we have been kneaded and brainwashed into being a Western lackey. Our new nuke status should have tremendous civilian benefits. But make no mistake. We kissed ass to get it. The Iranians have not.

Rooney, the playmaker

We all love Wayne Rooney (and we all do, you just don’t know it yet)? Not merely because he plays for Manchester United. No, because he is an ordinary bloke who can play amazing football. The magic thing about an ordinary person who can do special stuff, is it fills us all with hope. And that’s why Rooney bulldozing through defences was considered a sight of beauty and amazing grace. Then, he stopped scoring. He still created chances and set-up goals, but he just didn’t bang them in like we expected him to. Is Wayne Rooney actually a playmaker?

Eating healthy is eating costly

Unhealthy, tasty food is easier to find, and cheaper, than healthy food. Living on my own right now, and not knowing how to cook, is costing me an arm and a leg, apart from proving to be a logistics nightmare, to eat healthy.
Before I embarked on this journey to stay alive, I never spent more than a minute on deciding what to order. But, try getting a West One Chicken Salad delivered. Besides, I can get a biryani, loaded with half a goat, for half the cost of a bed of lettuce with a dead fish on it.

Na-no, Na-now

I have watched with gret pride and interest the development of Ratan Tata’s Nano. I have reserved judgement for sometime, because nationalistic fervour is hard to douse. However, I think it’s time to say that with a global perspective of the single most element that will determine the future of humans in the next 50 years –environment – the Nano is a decade too late. Flooding the Indian market with Nanos, their meeting fuel emission norms notwithstanding, will do no good for the climate. What we need now is the Nano that does not run on gas. Latest by 2010.

Cut the bullshit

I am a functional alcoholic and drug addict. I’ve kept them at bay for some time now. It may seem like I’m bragging, but you need to only speak to those close to me to know the devastation that stuff like this can bring. My point of flashing my dirty laundry in public, is to stress the chasm between tolerance for bullshit and no tolerance, that I feel. When high, my tolerance for crap is very high. When sober, especially over a period of time, I just can’t handle bullshit. However, there is some value to shooting the breeze.

The amazing US presidential race

America’s first black presidential candidate beat a white woman to win the ticket. He will now race-off against a former prisoner of war. The PoW picked a gun-loving mother of five as his running mate. Seems to me Obama’s man for VP who only has - underwent lifesaving surgery to correct two brain aneurysms – on his resume, may be the weakest link in this surreal drama of politics.
No scriptwriter could have come up with this thick a plot. And just when you thought it could’nt get any more human, Palin’s daughter is pregnant, at 17, out of wedlock.

Poly-this, poly-that

One of the base, simplistic, reactions to the last post is often, why polygamy, why not polyandry? I’m for poly-anything as long as it works in a social setting to the betterment of all involved. I don’t actually think polygamy would work in a setting that is based on Pauline (St Paul) Christian values. Or say, a post-modern Western urban setting. The woman has evolved weaker, physically, than the male and therefore, quite simply, will struggle to overthrow a polygamist regime and replace it with a polyandrist one. Guile and charm can always be employed of course, but, unlikely.

Morality

What is morality? Is morality part of human DNA? Or is morality simply humans being conditioned to live in a certain type of societal setting? After three years in an Arab Muslim social setting, polygamy is no more an issue of morality in my mind. I know and have met educated, beautiful, successful, modern Arab women, who out of choosing and even love, are second or third wives. They are not ashamed and there is no stigmata attached. They show no sign of subjugation, exploitation or denigration of the woman, that is attached to the moral stand on polygamy.

Overpunctuated

I have never been one for the technical aspect of language. Etymology fascinates me but that’s it. As a serious writer surely all aspects of language must be given a serious look at. Grammar is my biggest nemesis. Don’t ask me subject, verb or predicate, because I don’t know. Recently, recognizing that if I ever did win the Booker, it would be handy to know some Grammar, I embarked upon a book called Eats Shoots and Leaves. It’s an absolutely brilliant book on punctuation. I love punctuation now. To the point, where, if you notice, I might overpunctuate myself.

Steal my thunder

When I got my tattoos no one in my circle of acquaintances had one. And I know a lot of people. Now, every second person I meet has his/her body inked.
When I did cocaine, it was still a hard drug that you could do hard time for, and therefore, once word got around, you were looked on with awe, fear, a bit of pity and some disgust. Just before the cops in Maharashtra and Goa went ape shit on the drug scene recently, every body was powdering their noses.
Populism of the anti-culture is stealing my thunder. Damn!

The Sexiest Olympian

And just like that, the Beijing Olympics 2008 are over. I thought of doing the usual roundup – Athlete of the Games, Moment of the Games, Loser of the Games. Instead, I decided to do the Sexiest Olympian. Immediately, all male athletes were out of contention. It’s not just about the looks. To be the ultimate Olympian turn-on, you must have a super body, and more importantly, have won a medal. The sexiest athlete for me at this games, given the above criteria – Russian Yelena Isinbayeva.
The title of her autobiography will be, ‘It’s not about the pole’.

Let Kashmir go

India should be broken up into a confederation of states with a common army, but each on their own for money. The old hack stories – Bombay’s municipal taxes footing the entire bill for Parliament; Karnataka’s economic growth when taken alone, rivaling that of China’s – shaped this early view of mine. But nowhere does this argument augment itself more, than in happenings of Kashmir. For the first time the nation’s top political experts and commentators have roundly raised the issue of an Independent Kashmir. And I could not agree more. It is just not worth it any more.

Mum, skip this one. Really.

I took my kids, a girl and boy, to see the annual boob parade, where porn stars cycle down the road topless in a tribute to glory and power and mesmerizing beauty of the mammary glands. I thought it was fitting that they learnt to appreciate that a nice pair of tits is a thing to be admired, devoid of all guilt and sexual pretension. After that we went for a sandwich and coke to the local strip bar, where we discussed morality and the female body. And pole dancing. Then, headed home.
I wonder if this is possible.

Here we go, one last time now

My beloved Manchester United began its Premier League title defence the other day in typical style – with a draw, at home, to Newcastle United. Everything was auspicious about this. I missed the match, as I was stuck at work. I had also missed the opening match last season for the very same reason. Man Utd also drew their opening encounter last season, against Reading. I sense that Man U need to win the double again – league and Champions League – to sign, seal and deliver their status as the best club in the world. Once and for all.

Lezak can Phelp it

I saw all of Michael Phelps’ gold medal wins. Phelps needs to forever worship his teammate Jason Lezak. The crux of his winning eight gold medals was not he, himself, but, Lezak. Phelps’ dream would have ended on the second gold medal quest itself – the 4x100 team relay. On the last leg, freestyle, the US is trailing to Alain Bernard of France (a man who would later destroy the field in the 100 mts freestyle individual), and all hope was lost. Lezak, then swam what is for me the greatest comeback of these games. He won it for Phelps.

Pride and country

In a world of sport that is so commercialized and hype-driven; where globalization has doused the fire of nationalism, the Olympics bring tears of joy and relief. I cried as Tirunesh Dibaba ran a last lap that defied human limitation in the women’s 10,000 metres and as Shawn Johnson lost the gold in the gymnastics all-round to Nastia Liukin. These were superhero performances devoid of monetary gain, lucrative deals or sponsorship plans. They were for pride and country. Now, two of our boxers are one bout away, each, from a guaranteed medal. I’ll be happy to cry again.

Get more out

Life is a writer’s lifeblood. Experience is the very fountain that inks the parchment of prose or poetry. So basically, the idea is to get as much life and experience as possible, so that when you write, you have slightly more perspective than the drunk guy at the next table. This is precisely what life in the Gulf does not allow you. It straightjackets you into a certain fixed lifestyle all depending on your income. So, I find myself increasingly only writing about – Sports, Music, Movies, Books and Myself. I’ve got to get out more, or get more out.

Routine

Instinctively, I abhor routine. Discipline and me are enemies. I have been accused of being a lover of angst, a purportedly restless soul and an emotional cripple. All of which, may be true. To be these things, though, you can’t afford routine. Yet, at specific periods in my past it has been routine that has led me to pastures of peace, where having grazed for a bit, I, with alarming routine, took off again. Now, I find myself with no choice but to adopt routine again. This time though, likely forever. I do hope the peace is worth it.

Literary legends

Some are writers and some, storytellers. Have I said this before? It sounds a bit déjà vu-ic. I probably will harp on this everytime I come across one or the other. You see, very few are both. Those that are, are the true literary legends. Nobel Prize winners for literature should be judged by this yardstick, not by body of work. Rushdie - great writer, awful storyteller. Jeffery Archer - great storyteller, decent writer; as is Khaled Hosseini. I am struggling to think of one who is both – Shakespeare, Joyce, Naipaul? Maybe I haven’t read enough. Any suggestions?

Columnitis

To be a columnist you need to be pompous, opinionated in the extreme, totally self-absorbed, and myopic of view. And then, you should know how to write. I’ve had the chance to be a columnist. I know. At the time, when I met a new person and they asked, ‘So, what do you do?’ I would reply, ‘I decide what 100,000 people will read first thing in the morning, what do you do?’ That’s called suffering from columnitis. Sundays is my favourite newspaper day because most columnists are on display. Most fit the criteria, except, knowing how to write.

Dating me

One of the modern male’s pursuits is to be fashionably up-to date. Yet, everyone actually subconsciously leans towards a particular period. It’s a subconscious choice of self-expression based on strange mix of exposure, conditioning and comfort levels. And it’s a bit karmic.
I’m a child of the 70s, a youth of the 80s, a hell-raiser of the 90s, a Svengali of the 2000s… But I peeked into my subconscious and find it’s the 1970s that date me. Boots and jeans mixed with the Saturday Night Fever angst. I may well be past my best-before date, but I’m all 70s.

China rocks

My holidays are over. And the Olympics have begun. Whatever else China might be, boy, can they put up a show. The standard for an opening Olympic ceremony has been raised so high, that it would take a Sergei Bubka-like effort to clear this bar. I hope London has it to match the most creatively brilliant orchestration of human movement, light, sound and electronic wizardry I have ever seen.
Which is why going back to work always sucks. Especially in the Gulf, where the air quickly becomes rarefied the first few moments you step back after a break. Breathe.

Holiday

I'm on holiday in my beloved hometown of Pune. So forgive the irregularity of posts. Needless to say, holidays provide plenty of blog fodder, but never the impetus to get to a computer and write. So, despite the bohemian indulgence that every Pune holiday turns out to be for me, I am here writing. A nice measure of how this blog has really grown on me. What’s the first thing that I would like to share about this holiday... that a hometown makes a homeboy feel like a rockstar. That, and I have rediscovered the joy of walking. Seriously.

The Truth

Is it worth telling the truth? It is. Only to the one telling. Because, if you have reached the point where you’re asking that question, you’ve hidden some stuff that the receiver of your truth is not going be gung ho about. In fact, your relationship with that person is about to go through its trial of fire. It’s unlikely the person will appreciate the truth, though your telling of it may put you in line for shmuck of the year award. The person who benefits most is you. Not telling the truth is a burden not worth bearing.

Smoking

Smoking kills my day. It slows me down, makes me groggy and not want to do anything, other than sleep, drink and watch TV. I generally avoid having my first cigarette for as long as is possible. That is generally until 5-6 in the evening.
And then there are these people I know for whom smoking is a kick-starter. And I’m always amazed. If I had a ciggie as soon as I woke up, I wouldn’t even make it to the dining table for breakfast… three hours later. Why then is smoking so hard to even consider giving up?

Anonymous, disclaimer

I read the previous post after a break for a few days and see that it could come across as vain. After all, how many people really know me to give a flying frig about who I am and what I write. Nevertheless, treat this as a disclaimer. But, I must add, a certain amount of pride and ego is necessary to be creative. In fact, true humility is when a person takes pride in who s/he is and what s/he is capable of. So while I may not be as famous as George Clooney, yet, keep me anonymous.

Anonymous, request

The idea of using a pseudonym to write this site was to remain anonymous. Primarily, to give readers the chance to read without the bias of knowing who I was. However, initially, for fear that nobody would even read the site, I told some folks that it was me. Now that I seem to average about 12 posts a month and four readers a day I think it will be good to maintain for all future readers, the anonymity. So if you do recommend the site, and you know who I am, be sure NOT to tell anyone anymore.

Hot, hot, hot

A measure of global warming I first felt in Pune, maybe five years ago. The summers became unbearably hot. The Pune summer was hot, but never touching 40 Deg C. This year it regularly crossed 40 Deg C. That puts it in the range of the Gulf countries. And that’s global warming for you. Pune as hot as the Gulf. When it’s the monsoon in Pune it’s the summer in the Gulf. The heat here is like being slapped with a coal iron, trussed in a blanket, baked in an oven and thrown in a sauna. All at once.

Graceful losing

I believe it was Clive Lloyd the West Indian cricket captain who said, “Show me a good loser and I’ll show you a loser.” His point being that losing should have no goodness about it. I agree. But it can have grace and meaning. That aspect of losing was on display yesterday after Rafa Nadal had brow-beaten Roger Federer into surrendering his Wmbledon title. I have said this before, Federer is too much of a nice guy and may lack the ruthlessness that is needed to be a champion. Rafa has that. There was grace in Federer’s loss though.

Beach bizarre

It’s prohibitively hot right now in the Gulf. But, that does not stop those who have chosen not to flee the summer from going to the beach. This weekend, I packed all those who bore my last name and some friends and trooped to a sea-side resort. So, essentially you sleep all day and then go down to the beach by say 10.30 pm, when a strong sea breeze kills the humidity. Then till 2 am you do what people do on a beach during the day everywhere else in the world. Bizarre? Yes. Sensible? Very much so.

Random numbers don't exist

The randomness of numbers fascinates me. By and large numbers intimidate me, but, I have long had this subliminal hobby of relating numbers. Phone numbers, PIN numbers, license plate numbers – I look at the them and I begin to draw a relation between them, so as to make memory sense. It is in this strange pursuit that I discovered that there is no such thing as a random number. It’s random only so long as it does not exist in your consciousness for a particular context. Once you’ve picked or noticed a number, it ceases to be random.

The new Brazil

I waited a day before writing my final 99 on the Euro. I tried hard to find fault with the newly crowned champions. The only blemish was perhaps, and this a stretch, that they had to use a Brazilian-raised player, Marcos Senna, in the team. Other than that, Spain is perhaps the new Brazil of world football. Besides Italy and Greece, the tournament was about free flowing, attractive, attacking football. And to that end, Spain, the best proponents of that style, were fitting winners. My player of the tournament is Madrid’s Sergio Ramos. He took out Russia. And Germany.

Spain vs Germany

Croatia clinically destroyed Germany. Germany outplayed and outpaced Portugal. Turkey put both, the Czechs and the Croats out. Holland destroys Italy and France. Then, Russia destroys Holland beating the Dutch at their own ‘total’ game. Germany beat Turkey at their own game, scoring a dramatic, late winner. Which means the only team that has played true to form and delivered every game is Spain. Not once have they faltered. Going by that alone, they should be favourties to win the final on Sunday. They are also, overwhelmingly the neutral favourites. Which is why, if your betting, go with Germany.

Multi-reading

I normally read one book at a time. Immersed, I normally read start to finish. But should it be too long and stretch into another day, it’s the only written word that has my attention. However, in a new-found vein of multi-reading I find myself going at three books right now. Not all at the same time, but, the three have very nicely slotted themselves into my daily routine. Sir Salman Rushdie’s Midnight’s Children is when I’m on the throne. Gunmen and Gangsters, A History of Crime is before I sleep and The Economist (a mag) during the day.

Fighting when cornered

How do you win a fight if you are constantly in the corner? It can be done, but it requires astuteness, resilience and a flurry of power-packed punches. Once you’re backed into a corner by say an Ali-type situation, you ain’t gonna get a chance to get out and regroup. You need a knockout to win. So, be astute as to the punches you should allow yourself to take. Be resilient to take a beating and not lose hope. Then, at the right moment unleash the mighty counter attack. Of course, not getting into the corner is best.

Beautiful game

And so we sit on the threshold of the semifinals of the Euro 2008 with much to look back on. With two underdogs and two old warhorses in the last four, this Euro has been a testimony to football. Finally these teams that have gone through have done so because they chose to play football as against employ tactics. What was Gus Hiddink’s tactic for Russia? Go out and play beautiful free-flowing football. I truly believe Russia have it to win the Euro. Germany should crush Turkey. After all there’s only so much luck one can have. Right?

Radio gag-gag

There’s a radio station here that runs a no-talk triple play. Which, as the phrase suggests, is meant to be three songs without any talk in between. While the RJ stays out of it, the station, frustratingly for a grouch like me, interrupts the triple play, thrice, to tell you you’re in the middle of a no-talk triple play. These are precisely the kind of things that drive people to commit suicide or, for no apparent reason to change lanes without looking when driving at speeds upwards of 120 km/hour, thereby, committing suicide. Thankfully, I don’t drive. Yet.

Football lessons

Two things about Turkey’s 3-2 win over the Czech last night at Euro 2008. Firstly, it was the strongest case for teamwork, national pride and self-belief still having a part to play in modern football. It won last night over big names, better talent and tactics. The second is an example of how playing for a big club can dilute one’s commitment to one’s national side. Petr Czech, the Czech goal-keeper, has shown more passion playing for Chelsea against an FA Cup side then he did last night. When he dropped the ball it was not very surprising.

Barbers

Barbers from the Middle East – Lebanon, Turkey, Syria, Jordan – all have spruced up salons and are reminiscent of the mid-1990s in India, when the urban male found the need for a salon atmosphere to get a haircut. The Filipinos come closest to turning the entire process of male grooming into an art. In fact they have flair, style and speed in the way they go about things. The Indians, largely from the south are terribly functional. Which is why I find the Pakistanis the best. Their attention to detail and pampering of customers combines all of the above.

Pak cut

Going to the barber here in the Gulf is part of the social make-up of weekly life. At least for me, growing up in India, a trip to the barber was hardly an indulgence. And even though you eventually built a bond with the hair-cutter, it wasn’t like you sat down after, drank tea and discussed politics. That’s exactly the way it is here. Barbers here are also representative of the many nationalities that reside here. I, of course, not being racist when it comes to shearing my ever depleting locks have tried all. The Pakistanis are the best.

Grecian farce

I run the risk of overdoing the Euro 2008 in this space, especially given that we are still only in the group stages. But title holders Greece played their first game yesterday and any commentary on Euro would be incomplete without a mention of yesterday’s match, where they played Sweden. How Greece won the Last Euro Cup no one quite remembers. They just did. But their disastrous performance last night only serves to remind us that their winning the title was probably worth forgetting. Do these guys actually know how to play football? From yesterday’s show I doubt it.

Dutch renaissance?

For years and years two of my cousins were diehard Holland supporters, while I stood stoically, and against much attack from them, behind England. For years and years, the Netherlands seemed to have the quality of players to destroy everything and everyone in sight. But, ever since Marco Van Basten (now coach) and Ruud Gullit won the Euro maybe, now a decade ago, the Dutch have choked at every competition. Choked. Yesterday, they destroyed the Italians with a classic show of total football that truly harkens back to the days when orange was gold. Is this the Dutch renaissance?

Churn baby churn

I find myself today in the unenviable state of the writer’s version of cosmic chaos. I have so much to say, but absolutely nothing to write about. Thoughts, ideas, visions, dreams, beliefs, emotions are all churning through me; but can I pick a single strand from that chaos and turn into a coherent train of thought that lasts 99 words? Alas, no, not today I cannot. On these days, like the universe, one must simply be and not attempt to influence anything. Let it all churn within and as they say here in the Gulf, inshallah, meaning will emerge.

Of legends and Nadal

As I write this, Raphael Nadal is tearing Roger Federer a new arsehole at the French Open finals. A pity. Federer will always have the clay of France as the stain that denies him cannonisation as the greatest tennis player ever. It’s 4-0 in the third. I have only interacted with Roger at press conferences. But, Nadal I have had the pleasure of having dinner with. The difference between Roger and Nadal is, Roger is humble till the point it is almost embarrassing. Nadal is like Jesus. If people call him King he doesn’t argue. Until Wimbledon, of course.

Viva la Portugal

Euro 2008 begins today kicking off another 45-day soccer bonanza for lovers of the beautiful game. Sadly though England is missing. Deservedly they did not qualify. However, that leaves a huge vacuum in the hype and hoopla surrounding the tournament, evident where I am from the lack of advertising or marketing blitz that would have normally surrounded the event. Why England has such an effect on neutral nations would be worth a study. So in the absence of the team I normally back I have decided to go with Portugal for this Euro. I pick them to win it.

More Bombay

Much has been said of Bombay’s traffic. Much has been said of Dubai’s traffic. In both places it is just madness. Yet, strangely in Bombay there seems to be a method to the madness. In a drive from Churchgate to Bandra during peak traffic time, I was amazed to see how the traffic operated by some unwritten code of – do thou what thou wilt, but there shall be no accident.
Given the volume of traffic and the lack of traffic rules, it was a miracle that I did not encounter a single mishap along the way. That’s India.

Bombay

I spent the last three days in Bombay. Not the Mumbai of Dadar or Chembur or Sion or Parel, all suburbs I have shacked up at earlier, but the Bombay of Churchgate and Colaba and Bandra. I was there for the IPL climax, but enjoyed much more a blitz of the sights and sounds and tastes of areas of Bombay that few places in the world would compare to.
The eloquent-ness of ‘town’ coupled with the old-world homeliness of Bandra made for me a lovely cocktail to go with the sports snack that 20-20 cricket offered. And yummy company.

Hard, soft

There was a time in my youth when Scorpions and Bon Jovi sounded like real rock bands. I mean you could headbang to their music. Years later, they both still rock, but it sounds a lot softer. Bad Medicine, Rock You Like A Hurricane, et al, could only move me to move my feet a bit and roll my head as memories came flooding back. Maybe your ears get attuned to a harder sound over the years – Metallica, G’n’R, Nirvana, Pearl Jam, Chilli Peppers – that old rock sound softer. Another sign that I am growing old, I guess.

Drum beat

I saw Jon Bon Jovi and Scorpions perform. The thing that struck me most about both was the drummers. Tico Torres for Bon Jovi and James Kottak for Scorpions. Torres’ drums had perhaps the best sound I’ve heard for a major concert. Torres himself played out of his skin, giving the Jovi classics and even their sugar-coated rock anthems the deserving drive they needed. Then there was Kottak. Not the Scorpions original drummer. Not that anyone would notice. For showmanship, drumming capability and sheer head-bangingness, Kottak killed it. It was cool to see rock drummers steal the show.

Let's rock'n'roll

Once you’ve been in a band, even once if you have ever got on stage and held a microphone or even just connected two wires, your view of ‘live’ concerts changes forever after that. You walk in and eye the band, look for the sound console and the positioning of the speakers, and where the bass player is going to stand and what brand are the monitors. All this is irrelevant really. But, hey, you were in a band, not like the other 19,999 people here who are only interested in the music. So here’s what I saw recently…

What can I say, man! U!

I’m a superstitious sports fanatic. Among my more prized possessions is my Manchester United jersey, an original, from Old Trafford mind you. Last year. Man U lost a game I watched with the T-shirt on. I never wore it again while watching them play… until last night. When Ronaldo missed his penalty I felt so much pain coming on that in a fit of madness I took out the colour and wore it. Two kicks later, in perhaps the greatest single moment of my recent life, Man U won the Champions League. I haven’t taken off the T-shirt since.

A Jovi-al moment

At one point in the Bon Jovi concert I attended yesterday, I just lay on the ground and closed my eyes and felt like I was in heaven. Not because of Bon Jovi, but I just felt blessed to be able to that, with Bon Jovi playing live not 20 metres from where I lay. It was like I hired the band to play for me in my backyard. Only, of course, it wasn’t my backyard. It was the Emirates Palace grounds in Abu Dhabi. And I was sharing overall space with 20,000 other people. Still, it felt good.

My So(u)n(d)

Yeah, at the risk of overwriting my male progeny, this boy really does come with his own soundtrack. He cannot speak a sentence without adding a sound effect afterwords. A conversation with him would go like this:
What’s your name boy? I am power rangers, biff, dish, dishkayaon, pffst, spfft blam!
What did you learn at school today boy? Ouffs, thst, shmst, shmast, ABC.
Mind you, they might sound like the guttural utterings of a Neanderthal, but when you listen to him 'live' you will see they are not. They are a soundtrack to whatever he is saying. Ebay?

That's my boy! (Groan)

My son’s present raison de etre in life is to embarrass me. It’s actually been his raison whatever from day one. The latest scheme is to ask total strangers to buy him things. I’ll be at a mall or restaurant, get this, buying him something, and the moment I look away, he will stroll up to a total stranger and ask him/her if they have money and if they will buy him something. He makes it a point to ask if they have money first. I’m thinking of putting him on ebay. He even comes with his own soundtrack.

Allez, allez, Justine

Justine Henin retired today. I had the chance to watch her live twice. Once when she was unbeatable. And this year, when she was at the nadir of her form. Henin is not a great on-court personality. She is one of those players who let her racquet do all they talking and so a great champion but boring player to watch.
Henin was about precision and stamina. Like Ivan Lendl. Not a pretty sight, believe me, especially if you were on court, at the other end. She had a crazy following though. So for their sake, allez, allez Justin!

Mian Rushdie

In the same week that Salman Rushdie’s Midnight’s Children makes the Booker of Booker’s shortlist, I find myself reading the book. No, I hav’n’t read it before. I said to a beloved soul recently, just because one reads a lot does not mean one is well- read; at least not in terms of marquee authors. I did not read Rushdie earlier because I made the mistake of starting with Satanic Verses, an insufferable indulgence. (All authors are allowed one.) Midnight’s Children is in a class of its own. Rushdie is a better author than he is a storyteller, though.

Mum's the words

My mom reads my blog My mom does, you know. Which is why I can’t use abusive language here. Which is quite challenging for a free-wheeling writer like me. I’m very orthodox when it comes to my folks though. Can’t abuse, can’t smoke, can’t get wasted in front of them. Behind their backs, fine, but not in front. As hypocritical as that sounds, it sits fine with my conscience. Not using the F-word in your daily rantings is a small price to pay for having mom log on to read, when the rest of the world passes you buy.

Go ManU!

And so it all comes down to this. Ninety minutes of football. An entire year of heart break, euphoria, discussion, forecast, analysis, calculations and never ending chatter and its down to one match. By 8 pm my time, either Manchester United or Chelsea will be crowned Premier League Champions. I always rate winning the premiership higher than winning the Champions league. It calls for more consistency. After all its 37 games that the team plays, as against the 10-odd for the Champions trophy. And to win both, is truly to be the best club in the world. Go ManU!

I, May

May has always been more than a month for me throughout my life. During school, it was the month for summer holidays and therefore, was easily the most eagerly anticipated 31 days for 12 years of my life. Summer days are longer and the sun would refuse to set, at times till 7 in the evening. That meant more time to play. However, later in life, May came to mean the month that dragged on and on. The month never seemed to end and next month’s salary always seemed very distant. In the Gulf, it drags on even longer.

The F-finger

The joys of parenting are pockmarked by milestone moments of infinite discomfort felt by the parent. Like this for example. My daughter, all of 7 this June, comes home from her coed school and asks me to explain what the F-finger is. I told her such a finger does not exist. She then holds up her middle finger to me with all the panache and attitude that is needed when resorting to the ‘up yours’. A boy in her class showed her the finger and called it the F-finger. I told her I’ll get back to her. Any suggestions?

Pedigree

I’ve said it before. To win in the Champions League, besides a million other factors, you need pedigree. Manchester United yesterday showed their pedigree. How do you get pedigree for a team? Well you get a coach who has the ability to buy and train players to be the best, who then mate on the pitch with the ball to screw other teams, creating the necessary pedigree.
Liverpool have pedigree. Not Chelsea. That is why I expect Liverpool to beat Chelsea. Just because you put on a tux and come to the party does not mean you belong there.

Over rated

Among my more modest ambitions is to win an Oscar, a Grammy, the Booker and the Pullitzer. I would add all in the same year, but as an admirer once pointed out, that’s not technically possible. A song, a film and two books are still all ruminating in my creative juices. Meanwhile, I critically appreciate others’ efforts. My eye for sometime has been on Indian writers in English and, English writers of Indian origin; knowing that I might one day make one or both categories. Both have some wonderful exponents. And, some pathetic. And, some over-rated. Like, Jhumpa Lahiri.

Fry that Bhajji

Harbhajan Singh slapped S. Sreesanth. In my opinion, Bhajji should be castrated. I now understand why Matthew Hayden called him an obnoxious weed. Sreesanth of course, is the kind of guy who seems to be begging for a slap most times, but that’s not the point. Conduct on the field is of utmost importance and Bhajji behaved like a typical crass Punjabi, forgive the racial slur. I’ve had the pleasure of meeting Bhajji for an interview. He put on a pretty decent show for the press, but one-to-one, you could sense and smell the air of obnoxiousness around him.

Retiring at 45

Just been through another wedding in the family, and as weddings go, this one was right up there with the overindulgence in all good things – food, wine, love, nostalgia, the scraps and the splurging on clothes.
Another family member committed marriage and now that the dust has settled, I find myself struggling to get back into the routine.
Why can’t life always be one big party, with breaks for church and funerals and a little exercise?
I set myself a target of becoming editor of a newspaper by 35. I was at 33. I aim to retire at 45.

On my conscience

I have increasingly become filled with angst over a dire relationship between my creative output and my conscience. I have long wished the two divorced, but they remain more conjoined than two freak twins.
I would have thought that years of consistent anarchy could reduce one’s conscience to a dull blur on one’s emotional state line. However, every time I have a particularly ‘rough’ night, I find myself unhinged by the events the next day. Nowhere moreso, than when it’s time to write. The dull blur becomes a rising tide that all but blocks creative flow to the brain.

Bedside table

You die, alone at the time, in your bed, and a stranger walks in. All s/he has as a clue to who you are is your stuff on your bedside table. What would that stuff say about you?
Growing up in India, I slept a lot on a mattress on the floor, so a bedside table is as recent an occurrence as a bed. I’ve been looking at stuff on my bedside table regularly: an empty whisky tumbler, an overfull ashtray, an empty packet of cigarettes and a stack of books. What would that say about me, I wonder?

Kid talk

I am increasingly of the opinion that you can have the deepest of conversations with children. In fact, the younger they are, the more depth you are likely to experience. I believe this is because the younger they are, the less conditioned they are by their parents, the world around them and their own experience.
I have two children. That I know off (if there are any little bastards of mine running around the world, then come forward now, or get in touch with Madonna). For views on life stripped free of all informed pretension try talking to kids.

Art of listening - 2

There are several variants of rogue listeners and it would delight me if a passer-by here adds to the list below. However, a real treasure in today’s noisy world is the more evolved listener. There are two. One is the type who listens with all his faculties. His/her whole being is attentive to the narration. However, on the path to listenlightenment, the freshman, in his/her mind or heart will internally be reacting to what is being spoken. The guru on the other hand listens completely, without even reacting within. S/he is wholistically imbibing all that is spoken. That’s listening.

Art of listening

Listening is an art. And like all art forms has its share of annoying pretenders. Top among them is the me-too listener. Continuously punctuating the conversation of how s/he went through or thought off or escaped the very same thing. Then there’s the pretender listener, who either has no choice, or has something to gain from ensuring you believe you are being listened to. Over enthusiasm is a dead give away. Lastly there’s the space cadet. Not there at all and will prove it by beaming back into the conversation every now and then with a totally random thought.

The best player in the world

I have been loathe to like Cristiano Ronaldo, especially after he tormented England out of the last World Cup. It took the best football coach in the world, Sir Alex Fergusson to keep him at Manchester United, and ever since, Ronaldo has gone from strength to strength and, from despised to loved to over-awed. He has been knocking on the door of the best player in the world title for most of this year. After last night’s game against Roma, I have to say it, he probably is. Nobody right now in world football is a more complete player.

Chappati

One of the fallouts of building a gigantic, supposedly sophisticated and successful society in the desert, as is with most Gulf countries, is nothing grows on the sand – apart from dates and really bad attitudes. So, to feed your new-found metropolis you have to import everything and in the food sector that generally means not the best or healthiest of fresh raw ingredients is available to the average Ali here. The tragedy for me, who can do, without farm fresh veggies, and with smelly Kiwi beef, is in the form of the humble chappati. The wheat here sucks.

Cavity emptor

The old’s wives’ tale about the two worst aches in the world being - a ear ache and a tooth ache – will every once in your life come to roost. Those days of torment will remind you of the above cliché, thrown around while having a casual cup of tea at the dining table. And you will become part of the cliché’s legacy. Home remedies will be your short-term saviour, until a trip to the dentist or the ENT specialist becomes necessary for you to continue living. I have a cavity that Osama bin Laden could hide in.

Action!

Everytime I see a great film, I am truly humbled by this art form, which despite all its pretentious pop-schmaltz, has this great power to play out real life, often our own, before our eyes with the brute force of reality.
And then there are action films, mafia movies and the gambling ones. My favourites. I recently saw the most chilling fight scene ever. It was so raw even a blood and gore veteran like me had goose bumps. The movie is Eastern Promises, starring Vigo Mortensen. You will think twice about messing with Russians after watching it.

More greed

To continue on the economy theme – what do you think is being done to cure world business of what is looking like the monetary version of Aids, all stemming from, as we saw in the previous post, greed? Well, more greed is being encouraged.
The Fed is looking to flood the markets with liquidity – cash flow – so that people start buying again, whether they can afford it or not, notwithstanding. All countries pegged to the dollar have no choice but to follow suit. To kill a greed disease with more greed. Now that’s capitalism for you.

Greedy

It’s all a bit apocalyptic at the moment with the world economy right now, with the US Federal Bank playing God, in trying to stem the rot.
I’m not one much for numbers, but if one were to take a non-economic and, I bite my lip as I say this, a moralistic view of the situation, it is quite clearly greed that is the cause of this economic downfall. It all began when people who had risky credit histories were actually encouraged to take loans at high rates of interest. They defaulted. Badly. Greed never did anyone any good.

Growing old

I have written about growing old as far as physical manifestations go. Well, it all seems very magnified at the moment. Like my body is going through great pains to remind me in great detail that I am growing old; fast. When you live life on the egde consistently for a decade, you slip off every now and then. Each slip takes years off you.
The latest of my growing old pangs is: hair on my ear lobes.
You know the kind you see on 70-year olds, huge strands hanging off their ears. Young shoots have sprouted on mine.

School failure

The average Gulf school, which caters to the average Gulf expatriate, is but a caricature of what a House of Education should be. It is all aimed at basically soothing the parents’ pangs of guilt, that their children are not being sacrificed at the altar of the dirham/riyal/dinar to rupee exchange rate. The schools have the subjects without the content, the teachers without the passion, the houses without the heritage, the games without the sports. It’s all the illusion that your child is being educated. Alas, it’s only a shadow of the real thing; pathetic to put up with.

Rock's Muse

In a month I’ve managed to see two of the greatest guitarists of all time, Santana and, now Slash. Slash was playing with his Velvet Revolver and while as a band they do rock, virgin tight and all that, the Slash of G’n’R was gun powdered into ensuring this Revolver was firing loud and clear. His signature riffs were just not there. However, on the same night he and Velvet Revolver were upstaged by a band called Muse. Three guys, the lead guitarist singing and playing piano, were perhaps the wickedest rock act I have ever laid ears on.

Sin bin

If you missed the Vatican’s latest list of seven ‘social’ sins, they are:
1. Bioethical violations such as birth control
2. Morally dubious experiments such as stem cell research
3. Drug abuse
4. Polluting the environment
5. Contributing to widening divide between rich and poor
6. Excessive wealth
7. Creating poverty
I am not guilty of many on this list. However, personally, the last three weigh heavily on my conscience.
It’s one of the beautiful aspects of New Testatment - the way poverty is essential for the soul. To choose poverty is one of the great mysteries of spirituality.

Goan-kar

A D’souza, a Lobo, a café owner, a teen Brit and drugs. Normally you could order that cocktail anywhere on the North strip of Goa and get away with it. Alas, my beautiful Goa’s dirty underwear is now all over the world press.
Those who have walked the Goa wild side, and believe me, Anjuna is more seedy than wild, will know that to get carried away by the infectious Goa vibe is as easy as drowing with the tide in on Candolim… it’s really very easy. Will this change the Goa scene? Not a chance. Life goes on.

Film noir

I’m a bit of a noir chappie. If I taught at Hogwarts, it would probably be Defence against the Dark Arts, that and the Art of creating Magic Mushrooms. I watched three films that were at the Oscars. And they were as dark as they come. In fact, I found them so dark, I had to keep my emotional headlights to get through.
No Country for Old Men, There Will Be Blood and The Assassination of Jesse James by Robert Ford the Coward – don’t watch them if you’re depressed or suicidal. Needless to say though, all great movies.

Psycho babble

There is a type of personality who cannot exist in peace. She or he must always be under stress and handle it with aplomb, therefore, to the world appearing as this super-being who no matter what the circumstances, will triumph.
What the world rarely sees is that the circumstances have been created by the very being, only so that he has his/her reason to exist.
This individual has not learnt to enjoy the fruits of delayed gratification, and sacrifices are made in spurts and bursts, never in long term interests, but often for the greater good of the moment.

Dark writes

I am always in awe of authors who can write about the dark side of life with humor, candour and loads of pithy. So I was delighted to stumble on Hanif Kureshi. For those who need a pop cultural reference, which is become so much the norm these days, Kureshi wrote My Beautiful Laundrette, as a play, and it went on to win an Oscar for best screenplay.
Nevertheless, the two books I read, Love in a Blue Time and The Black Album are set in the London of the 80s, a very delicious time for darkness of life.

Bunch of pussies

The Indian cricket team, for the most part, has never failed to embarrass me. But the latest whining about on-field sledging by the Aussies, is now driving me to new depths of being shamefaced. Are our Indians a bunch of pussies? Needless to say, the game of cricket itself is in danger of being reduced to a farce with no space for sportsmanship on the field. And sportsmanship as I understand it is abusing each other on the field and having a beer afterwards. The key of course is to be on the winning side. Then little else matters.

Rambling on

Sometimes the hardest thing for me is to write 99 words. The world weighs on my shoulders, my intestines seem cramped, my heart feels weary, my head is in the sand, my job seems pointless, my family seems fed-up, my finances seem forlorn, my friends seem distant… enough with the alliteration already; but you get the point.
I’m always wary when I reach the point where going out and getting wasted seems pointless. Then one knows one is in serious trouble.
Alas, this too shall pass and another day shall dawn, time’s eternal clock ticking on my sorry ass.

Santana and his amazing band

If you were there for Smooth, then the Shaman served it up tight and loud, singers Andy Vargas and Tony Lindsay, leaving no one wishing Rob Thomas was needed.
If you were there to relive the soundtrack to your youth, then Oye Como Va and Black Magic Woman were performed, percussions and bass driving these classics into a fresh frenzy. Keyboardist Chester Thompson, along with trombone and saxophone left nothing wanting on the Latin funk front.
If you were there for Santana the guitarist, then no matter what the song, scorching guitar-playing or subtlety of form, you were satiated.

Santana - II

For Dubai, where hype and hoopla are sometimes the main event, Santana’s performance was a lesson in ‘the real thing.’
No gimmicks, no costume changes, no gyrating dancers, and just when you thought it was as good as it got, the drummer Dennis Chambers unleased his amazing prowess on the crowd. Chambers put on the best solo drum exhibitions I have ever seen.
Santana looked old and at times frail on stage. He spoke little and when he did, it was with an aura of mysticism. He truly makes it really hard not to like him or his music.

Santana - I

Carlos Santana is one of those 'legends' who it is politically correct to like. So, everytime the man (who took hard rock, tinged with jazz, sprinkled it with blues and threw it into the Latino pot of beats), took off on one of his scorching licks at a concert last Friday, I turned around to scan faces from among the 10,000-odd fans who had turned up to see the man in the flesh. More often than not I saw political correctness rather than true appreciation of a guitarist who could make anybody's top 10 list of all-time guitar greats.

Card sharp

At a recent card game, of which if you follow me you would know I’m an aficionado, I heard the words I’ve been dying to hear for some time. They were words that, after years of playing finally gave me my own identity as a player. In card circles, it goes like this: your just a dumb ass losing money, until you show a certain method to your madness that deserves a definition of its own. After that, it is all word of mouth. Mine is now: whether he has crap or great cards he plays the same way.

Svengali's first law

I’m coming up with my own list of life laws to match Murphy’s Laws. Mostly they have to do with my life in a metro, like Dubai. In my delightful hometown of Pune, there was no need for laws. Not Murphy’s or any other kind. But now its life in a metro and the first of Svengali’s laws for the Gulf has to do with traffic, the veracity of which I’ve been following for some time now.
And the law is: In a traffic jam, no matter which lane you switch too, that lane will be the slowest moving.

Unforgiveable

How one’s sanity, peace of mind and joy come to rest at the mercy of eleven players on a field has always mystified me. Especially, because the man in question, is me. It’s always been the closest I’ve come to depression, when my team loses. Strangely enough my teams generally manage to depress me. So selectively, I’ve started becoming emotionally detached. Beginning with the Indian cricket team, then the England national football team, and now I fear Manchester United is going to need some separation from my heart. Losing to a team coached by Sven Goran Eriksson is unforgiveable.

No way!

Star World yesterday recapped the 20 best Grammy moments over the last 50 years. It was a mesmerising show for me, because I love music so much. That apart, there were some performances that left me breathless – Aretha Franklin stepping in for Luciano Pavarotti and singing an opera piece; Neil Diamond and Barbara Streisand doing an impromptu duet and of course Michael Jackson. However, talk about an anti-climax, if ever there was one. Obviously this was an online poll, and obviously only in America. No 1 Grammy moment voted was Green Day’s performance of American Idiot. No way!

Zikhar ke jiye, koi masla nahin…

I can speak Marathi well enough to escape an attack from Raj Thackeray’s boys if they ever decided to throw out suave, handsome, witty, intelligent good-for-nothings from Pune; where I believe, for some surreal reason, I still reside. But my Hindi, was often more Bambiya then the pure North Indian version. That’s changing now, because I actually live in the UAE and there are a fair number of Pakistanis, Afghanis and Bangladeshis here, who all speak Urdu.
So by default, my Hindi is purer. Words like zain, zikhar, murtaba, takaluf, masla are all creeping into my vocabulary. Fancy that!

Brand India

One of the quirks of life in the UAE is that everything is branded, and aggressively. One of the stranger aspects of branding here, especially in the healthcare industry, is that it is country based. From small clinics to major hospitals, qualifications, dressed in a nation, scream very loudly. Always Western. So you have the Canadian Hospital, American Hospital, the British Hospital and even the Alabama Dentist Clinic. What you will not find is the Indian Hospital. The Indian hospitals are here, and they are damn good, it’s just that in a racist society India does not brand well.

Scary wind

Somebody needs to tell the wind that the UAE is no more a desert. It’s a conglomerate of high-rises. The wind blows like a true desert gale here. I’ve experienced winds that blow rain in sheets, carpet bombing anyone in its way. I’ve not experienced the winds that turn snow into a sleet attack. But, now I’ve experienced the desert wind. And it’s scary as hell. Primarily because there is no accompaniment – rain or snow, or sand even. Just wind that can blow you into oblivion. The wind has been howling for three days now. And it’s scary.

A Pity

You can’t make a wise crack about Zakir Hussain and leave it at that. The ustad, as he is fittingly titled, has left an indelible impression on the world of music in general and World Music in particular. I’m not sure about the Indian classical tradition, though. I don’t know much about that. However, I’ve stalked Zak over the past five years, and have watched him metamorphose from a performer into a facilitator. Frankly, I haven’t actually seen a show that has been purely about him. Which means I missed the years of Zak the tabla player. A pity.

Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!

If multiple orgasms is your thing, then Zakir Hussain is your pimp. He no more just plays tabla. Instead, he conducts this orgy of sound that leaves the listener exhausted, as musicians from across the world join him on stage for a series of mini-climaxes, before it all comes together for the big one.
Consider the performers at a concert I attended last Friday and you will see why my metaphor is not a tease.
Zakir (tabla), Selva Ganesh (kanjira), Niladhari Kumar (sitar), Taufiq Qureshi (percussions), Vinnie Colaiuta (drummer… for Zappa), Bela Fleck (banjo) and Edgar Meyer (double bass).

Vincenti Dabitur

My old school made the front page of Times of India in Pune recently for winning the local school athletic championship for 60 years in a row, sending me back in time like a javelin thrown by one of the many star athletes the school birthed.
I was never a star athlete, falling woefully short in the high jump trials and running miserably out of breath during the middle distance heats. It didn’t matter though, St Vincent’s High School bred the kind of loyalty and for-the-greater-glory-ness you only see in movies. So I cheered and fed off the glory.

Language of the slaves

And then there’s my other favourite word - vernacular. The reason why I like etymology is because it corrects perspective. The Indian English press loves the word and uses it liberally when referring to the local language press. Local language press, please note, is the right usage. Vernacular comes from the Latin, or Greek (can’t remember) word verna, which means slave. The word, therefore, was used by colonisers, the British in particular, to describe the languages spoken by the people native to the lands they colonised. Vernacular means language of the slaves. Be careful, therefore, when you use it.

With all due respect

‘With all due respect’ - when you hear those words, flee. The phrase is a wolf in sheep’s clothing and the speaker is about to tear into you, generally, with a deep, offensive, and here’s the key, personal remark. Have you ever heard someone say something nice, when they have started their sentence with, ‘With all due respect’? Didn’t think so. It’s anesthesia before the lethal injection. So, I have scant respect for people who use it. If you’re going to kill me, at least, with all due respect, be man or woman to do it in cold blood.

Lingo bingo

As an ardent student of the English language, I am more often than not studying context and innuendo of dialogue, whether overheard at a pub, in a movie, lyrics of a song or at work. Etymology delights me and if I led a more disciplined life I undoubtedly would be sporting a tweed jacket studying, and or teaching, the same in some university. One thesis would be on the use of the word vernacular – generally a racist and derogative noun. The other, which struck me off late, is the use of the phrase – ‘With all due respect’.
(To be contd)

Sub-prime investments

As the world of economy meltsdown in the afterglow of the heat generated by the US subprime crisis, working for a business publication allows me to see money disappear in terms I have never quite noticed before.
At times like this I am grateful my money is not invested in stocks or commodities. My money is invested in people. And the payback is not always monetary, but very tangible. However, I have discovered that most of the people I’ve invested with are the equivalent of what the risk market would call – sub-prime. High returns, but very, very risky.

Rain driven

I don’t drive here. I don’t have a licence. It’s below my dignity to go for two months of learner’s lessons and unlimited tests, just because I’m Indian, to get one. Cabbies are my friends now. They work seven days a week from 6 am to midnight. They have to, or else the payment structure of the cab companies will not allow them to make any money. When it rains though, the taxi companies forbid them from driving for fear of car damage. That’s the only time they get the day off. They pray for rain. Nature sometimes answers.

Oh,4

My boy is 4. After terrible twos and difficult threes, it’s time for the Oh,4s.
It’s the age where your child’s sole purpose in life is to embarrass the life out of you. So everywhere you go, that exclamative phonetic delight, Oh!, is your best friend. Oh! Sorry about that. Oh! Please excuse him. Oh! I wish God would strike me dead. The key to surviving this time is mastering the tone of the Oh!. What follows then is the meek acceptance that the brat you’ve unleashed on the world is indeed yours. And empathy from some victims.

Taking the piss

I should have written four days ago, but a mean cocktail of post-holiday blues and two heads of state, Bush and Sarkozy, visiting, allowed me to procrastinate. But, here I am, after a very indulgent Christmas and New Year, a gut-busting wedding and chillin’ with the boyz back home.
The Gods are taking a piss on the UAE and the shiny Emirates are almost drowned. Makes you wonder how billions of dollars can be invested into an infrastructure that can’t handle what Punekars would call a drizzle. Given, it’s a desert. But it rains even in the desert.