Leaving Argentina : Lessons Learned

Do you remember those old days when getting outof India (or getting in, for that matter) involved a series of choreographed steps that looked like complete cacaphony and chaos from outside but had a sort of rhythm once you knew the game?

Things have become a lot simpler that you can hope to accomplish this without aquiring a new vocabulary and a new set of best friends and losing all the pocket change. Thank the universal one-eyes lightness for that.

Getting out of Buenos Aires last week reminded me of that as I left last week.

First of all, plan on getting to the airport at least a year before the departure time to leave ample time to complete the "formalities."

First of all, the damn short ride from the center of the city to the International airport (Ministro Pistarini International Airport) in Ezeiza ought to take twenty minutes but it takes one hour. But I am not worried, because I have two and half hours to catch the flight, so why should I be worried?

I should be worried. I should be very worried.

I reach the airport and as I enter the departure hall, it resembles a cross between the emergency waiting room of a large hospital (without any chairs and bleeding people) and a Sunday market. people are running helter-skelter and everyone is looking worried. I am quite unfazed at this as I walk to the counter because I see that my counter is free. I have a "been there, done that" look on my face.

Not so fast, punk.

There is a woman stationed between me and the counter and she stands behind a lecturn and has stamps and papers with her. This is never good news, especially in the developing world. So I smile and try to be VERY VERY polite. Meanwhile, I glance and see that the line for economy is snaking its way to Colombia.

She begins with innocent questions like, "who packed your luggage?"
I answer very politely. Then the questions get harder and harder. I am kicking myself for not paying attention in my general knowledge questions in high school. Later she wants to know the birth dates of my great grand parents and a brief history of the manufacturer of my suit case.

Finally, she smiles, flips through my passport and hands me a piece of paper duly stamped and notorized for what purpose I do not know. I am relieved.

I get to the counter. Nobody pays any attention to the notorized piece of the paper as the counter-lady processes my ticket and gives me my boarding card. Then she says, "hurry, you don't have much time."

This is truly prophetic and ominous. I look at my watch and think, hmm, I have plenty of time so why would she say this?

Then I realize I have another line to stand on. This is an egalitarian line with everyone heading everywhere has to stand on regardless of destination or class of service. This is to pay $18 exit tax. This line also snakes its way to Columbia. So I get to the back of the line and wait my turn. Another eternity passes by until i get to the end of the line and I pay. She gives me another receipt. Nobody checks the first notorized paper. Now with all these papers, I head to the cambio to get some dollars back for the pesos. There are two counters and two people. But one of them has decided to just stand around and not necessarily help people for some reason. So there goes another 30 minutes.

Then the first line of emmigration. The counter number comes on except at a place where the person in the front of the line cannot quite see. So everyone behind them have to shout, look look, you go to counter number 14 and so on. As soon as they reach the front of the line however, they forget this whole thing and begin to assume the clueless look.

I get though that hurdle OK. Except noone checks for any of my growing lit of official papers. They just want to see the passport, not even the boarding card.

Then there is a customs line and a security line, which seems more for comical reasons than for any real purposes. Shoes and lapt-tops stay on and in... and every one gets a once-over pat-down. From the look of it, Osama could walk that line with a ton of explosives and will pass the line.

Oh, yeah, the path from this point to the gate passes through what looks like the ladies section of Robinsons May or some other mid-style department store. Store-ladies wait for attract the attention of wouldbe customers and you are running through isles of merchantise towards your flight.

At this point I have consumed all my buffer and I am worried. I need to go to the bathroom but I realize I have no time.

There is another security inspection within five feet of the plane. This is a tougher one, I assume specifically designed for US bound passengers.

I get patted down, my dirty clothes get one too.. I am happy to be finally on the OTHER side.

No more queues.

I walk into the plane and I have one minute to spare.

As I sit down and sip some champagne 9which I hate, but I secide I deserve to celebrate the triuph of persistence over beaurocracy) I realize that people are still walking in.

So the departure time is a mere suggestion.

At some point in the night, we must have departed because when I woke up I was no longer in Argentina.

And here I thought Indian procedures were the worst!

Electric Embrace : A dream

Give me an electric embrace and energize me or kill me
All I feel is the static electricity from memories of the past weeks

I am flying with a single wing over an ashen sky
Evicted from my domicile, my letters float in the ether
Without feathers, my wings don’t touch the air as I glide
And when I touch down, I hit the sand and meet a frog

The frog sits in the boiling water and laughs at me
As the temperature rises and his feet turn to meat
I laugh back for I know he will die before I do
Then I look down and see the quick sand beneath my feet

The guests of this summer city do not leave
I try planting signs at the seething lake and under the sky
They laugh back at me, pointing at the rose buds
Inviting them to stay back and relax by the shore

Am I the only one with the vision to see that the lake water
Has turned toxic from all the blood of innocents?
Why can’t you hear the muffled screams of their helplessness
Rising in bubbles from the bottom of the lake bed?

The frog closes his eyes and goes back to meditating
From under his webbed feet a banyan tree rises
I tie a noose on the tree and my neck to escape the quicksand
Now the frog, the tree and I are dissolving in your electric embrace

Globbish Poem

A new form of stripped-down English is emerging around the world that is suppossed to be effective but not rich. This is the global English that is used by five hundred million speakers around the world who use it as a medium of communication around the world only in the context of business and rudimentary social communication.

Herald Tribune postulates that this will get even simpler and evolve into a different language from the preent-day English. English that is used in the US and the UK will become mere dialects of this global form of English. So, here is an attempt to write a poem in Globbish as I would write it in 2040. The poem is real, the sentiments are real and apparently the language is also real.

left faint smell perfume
unwashed shirt
Left bottom
old suitcase

nipple attached bottle vodka
Feeds child life blood
I kiss what left river
After sold soft drink bottlers?

old memory ranting unconsciously
emergency ward hospital
Lets bury dreams hope
They die asphyxiation

Collapse heap
Rise hope
Wait opening
Expect heartbreak

Shadow boxing
this dark alley
All myslf
Against world

Now let me be.
Don’t
--Obey me, listen to me
--Imitate me, pity me
--Shadow-box me

Self Pity Is A Bitch

I was so lost last night. So lost that I wanted to escape my life and run far away and be someone else. I was tired and hungry but I wanted no food or rest. I took a tram to some part of town i didn't know. I got off the tram and started walking. It was night and my heart was heavy with thought. The river was ahead of me and I walked away from the tram lines and found a place on the sidewalk by the river. There was a bench. I sat down and stared at the city lights and the stars over them. There was nothing to do, nowhere I wanted to be.

The phone barely had any signal. I was distraught. I wanted to talk to no one. I didn't want to be polite or happy. I didn't care how any one else felt. There is some pleasure in guiltless wallowing in pain.

I walked many miles, until my feet hurt and my legs were numb. I didn't sleep all night, staying up and staring blankly at the computer. Don't you love days like that?

Kitsch-Americana

Kitsch Pronunciation: 'kich Function: noun Etymology: German1 : something that appeals to popular or lowbrow taste and is often of poor quality2 : a tacky or lowbrow quality or condition - kitsch adjective - kitschy /'ki-chE/ adjective

Sanjaya Malakar

I am not a fan of American Idol and I have never watched the show. yet this has reached me tells you how far-reaching this thing is. I am sure you have heard of this as well.

Synopsis: He is a singer on American Idol. He is a young man/teenager who is half-Indian-American half-Italian-American from Hawaii. He is by all accounts a very weak singer with funny hair-dos. He has outlasted other more talented contests with support from Howard Stern and a website called votefortheworst.com.

Comment: Nobody ever mentions he is half Italian-American. His half Indian status is big in India as they foolishly try to prop up the guy. And it is a big deal in the US where they attribute his "success" to call-center stealth to all sorts of other things.

White Guy Sings Bollywood


Synopsis: He lip-syncs, he dances, he makes Shammi Kapoor-esque expressions and his heroine is a finger puppet. This is hilarious.

Comment: If parody is the best form of recognition, then Hindi cinema has come a long way. It has become a genre in itself, much like opera or ballet is. You judge it within its constraints and standards and not by the general standards with which you judge "cinema" or Hollywood. The singing-dancing-weeping-crying-fighting-loving all-purpose hero swooning over the appropriately affected heroine is something Indian movie watchers have long loved. I don't think it is because they are stupid or unsophisticated that they like the predictability of these overly-affected executions of oversimplified story lines. They like it because it is a genre they are familiar with much like every third Italian sweeper in Rome humming Verdi while going about his job. Take it for what it is and don't get too touchy. It is OK to laugh at ourselves and our quirky nostalgia once in a while.

Byculla to Breach Candy

There are many places to walk in Bombay, but a walk from Byculla Train Station to Breach Candy Hospital is perhaps one with the most contrasts.

It is not an easy of a pleasant walk but if you could suspend judgement and seek what you seek behind the facades and the obvious, you will be surprised by what you will find. Byculla used to be one of the most fashionable suburbs of Bombay. Bombay is really a European city if you look past its modern squalor. When you cross over from the station on the fly-over (walk slowly and avoid the deadly traffic), you will see old buildings that still retain the charm of the old grandeur. After Hornby Vellard was completed in the late 1700s, creating what is known as Breach Candy today (or Bulabhai Desai Road if you prefer), Byculla came to be a fashionable suburb. Mazgaon already had faded as the central point for the ultra-rich and malabar Hill was not yet the in-thing. Later, after a great epidemic, the rich fled further west and built the mansions in Malabar Hill leaving Byculla in its current state.

David Sassoon used to live here. You may not know this, but Vidal Sassoon is a descendant of this David. A great Iraqi Jew, David came to Bombay when he was young and made a fortune and he remained a great benefactor to his adopted city to the end.

Under the flyover there is the small but important Christ Church Lane with its distinct buildings. Most of the residents still know each other and there is a sense of small town camaraderie here. If you walk down the lane, watch out for the most recognized funeral directors across the street - Pinto. I think they might still be the only body embalmers in all of Bombay. This is a long and rambling walk, past much ugly scenery. So you have to look carefully to find architectural gems hidden behind make-shift structures, tin hutments and sidewalk encroachments. The church and the hospital buildings both date back to the heyday of the British empire right before the causeway was constructed. This road, as you walk past much muck with go through the brothels of Madanpura. In Madanpura you will see a lot of interesting buildings way past their prime constructed to house laborers and most of them lived in the rental houses. These houses are still landlord-owned even though only nominally. Aside from prostitution, under the think facade of normalcy, Madanpura also hosts drug sellers and addicts as well as Muslim gangsters. Kamathipura is not that far from here. Be sure not to step on the people sleeping on the streets if it is night. This place comes alive during Ramzan nights with all sorts of exotic food stalls. It is second only to Muhammed Ali Road in its Ramzan night stalls.

Continue past the rotary, you go past Bombay Central station and on to Tardeo. Bombay Central station is a great handsome building built to host the Bombay Baroda and Central India (BB&CI) Railway when it was opened in the 1860s. I don't know when the building was constructed, but from its look I would like to postulate a much later date, perhaps early 1900s. The bridge over the railway tracks is also an interesting basalt and iron structure that will take you down to the middle of Tardeo. Tardeo I assume is named after a shiva temple even though I don't remember ever seeing the temple. There is the police station up ahead and Sardar's, the famous pav bhaji place is right after the bus stop. Across the road is a BEST bus depot that has been there 1950s. A small lane of buildings with great wood construction lies behind the BEST depot called Wadia street. At this point all the interesting buildings begin to taper off. There are two more I think, the rest are concrete monstrosities until you reach Heera Panna and the giant bill boards.

Mahalaxmi temple is barely visible from the road anymore, as you walk to Pedder road. Now you are walking on the first stretch of the famous Horny Vellard. mahalaxmi temple was constructed after a statue was recovered during the construction of the vellard. Most of the interesting mansions on this road were demolished in the 50s and 60s and ugly apartment buildings were constructed in their place. As you go up Warden road, the only old building that still stands is the palace of Gaikwads of Baroda which is now the officers' residence for BARC. Breach candy hospital is right after. Breach Candy is named after the great "breach" which was the gap that let water into the inner central Bombay during high tide. The water reached till Pydhonie (Pydhonie is a corruption of the term Pav-donie.. feet wash). If you have the right connections, you may be able to still enjoy the hospitality of the old Parsi mansions that lie hidden from the road by the ocean. But their days are sadly numbered. Unfortunately, there are no mansions open to the general public.

Our journey ends here. Remember to take a cab back.

A Scene

Between two halves of sleeping comes a thought... Looking down from the airplane, I saw two ramose trees perfectly placed in the middle of a cropped square field. The wind must have been gentle if ineed there was wind, touching the spindley edges of the branches. The trunks were grey. There was a wintery solitude about them as they stood flickering between existence and non-existence as clouds danced between us. The green grass was ploughed around them creating a small oval of roughness. A small road went around the field and entered into a brick-making factory. Then the whole scene disappeared.

These are the moments when I remember Richard Bach and Illusions.

Sleep, perchance to dream.

What if?

Contrary to the normal custom, he did not wait for permission before walking in. He walked in after gently parting the curtains and without much ceremony, sat down across from my father. He was dark and short with his unparted curly hair shining with a generous application of oil. The wetness of his forehead was either excess oil rolling down or perspiration. Either way, it was shining in the government-regulation light in the room. it would indeed be so, to begin a story like this rather affectionately since I was not there. I don't even know if this is how it all happened, but sitting here thirty years later, I might as well imagine it so because it gives comfort to my memory and makes it come alive a little better. He began, then clearing his throat, staring at my father's bewildered face - not in the sort of way a rude man stares - but in a gentler way of the sages, sir, you are perhaps wondering who I am. I am not here for alms or with some scam to separate you from your money, and above all, I seek no favors from your office. I am just a passing astrologer with some predictions for your family that I thought I will pass on to you. I am not looking for any money, not in the least bit, but perhaps a cup of tea would be nice. As he spoke, his eyebrows moved up and down, the way two fish meeting each other accidentally in a fish tank. Two cups of tea were promptly ordered, just as they always are in government offices. A bell was perhaps rung, a man in khaki pants perhaps peered in, my father raised two fingers to make a sign of V and the khaki-pants then departed most obsequiously behind the curtain. Perhaps a cigarette was lit and my father, as he always did in his office, stared unsmilingly at thick files tied together with red ribbons while the visitor sat silently under the whirring fan waiting for his turn to begin. Such visitors were rare to his office to be sure, and when they did arrive, it was often with more notice and ceremony appropriate for favor-seeking. As soon as the tea appeared and the curtains closed behind them, the visitor cleared his throat to continue his conversation. You have a son and daughter, he said, without waiting for confirmation and the son is the oldest. My father agreed while thinking who in the world has told him this. Then the visitor dropped a ton of past-hints that no one else could have known to achieve some hard-earned credibility. Thus having captured his attention, he said abruptly quite like the way things happen in the horror movies when you least expect it, you know something, I want you to be warned of something. Your son and daughter will both die together when he is forty-two in a plane crash. That night, my father came home, and told his son, that is me of course - who was a rather bookish eight then - you see son, there was a man in my office and he claimed to be an astrologer. Then foolishly - because you ought not say such things to eight year-olds - but he did anyway; he was that sort of a fellow, he said that you will die in a plane crash at forty-two. Not a problem, I agreed vigorously, I just don't have to fly that year. This posed no problems to either of us at that moment, because in my household, flying was a very rare occasion, and those days in India, you flew only when you absolutely had to and it was a rare event. So keeping his son from flying for a year was not a problematic solution to the tricky problem for my father.

So here I sit in the lounge again - and I have taken a flight pretty much every other day this week or every day of the week - often more than one each day, and I think this is what I have to look forward to. A fiery death at the age of forty-two. I am not a believer of fate, astrology or God. So it is quite evident to me that the prediction from this random astrologer to father's office, the memory of which has stayed with me forever since, is nothing but pure rubbish and that I am going to live past forty-two and see my fifties with its accompanying midlife crisis and baldness. But then again, one in a while, the thought occasionally props up in my head:

What if he was right?

Silly Poem

a dream of Summer madness dies
under the weight of an untimely spring,
last of this impertinent winter,
a snowflake has gone meditating

Under the clouds stands a crane
waiting for rain drops
the wanton greens of spring
masturbate at the sight of sun

In this fine divide between seasons
I wait with my watch set to autumn

Cliff Notes on Travel

After logging more than twelve thousand miles of flying this week, I am exhausted. I lie awake in bed, but I cannot sleep. Too much to process and too much to digest.

Canada was cold, Argentina was warm, and it is snowing in the US. In Ricoleta, I had walked through the lanes of the national cemetery speaking on hushed tones into the phone. Each mausoleum was built like a house right next to another and everyoneone was interned overground and there they rest under the giant shadows of the city. City of the dead. There, without rents and changes of address they rest, generals, musicians, scientists, dictators and Eva Peron. I didn't feel the need for the sort of sad introspection one feels when one is normally walking through such places. I felt vacant.

Outside, I sat alone under a giant banyan tree. Its branches covered the whole park. There was an orthodox Jewish couple sharing a park bench. Next to me sat an old woman who had the looks of a retired lounge singer. It was hot and sunny. Even though summer was technically coming to an end, it felt like the middle of summer.

Later I walked on Avenia El Salvador looking for paintings. There was a jeans store that looked like a church and a shirt design shop which only has clothes in "Small" size. The waitress in the Asian fusion restaurant was pretty and could have passed off as a Bengali. Her ear was pierced at a wrong spot, almost too close the face. The soup was so hot it made me finish two bottles of water.

Later in another country, the emmigration officer questioned me about why I was hopping around so much. There was snow in the ground and I was cold. Airport was full of bearded Pakistani types in Southwest Frontier costume.

Altogether it is a happy week.

Buddha At The Traffic Light

"There are only three sins - causing pain, causing fear, and causing anguish. The rest is window dressing." - Roger Caras

Crossing the streets in Ricoleta
I ran into Buddha this evening
As vehicles raced through the slit
Between the amber and waiting
I saw him wavering nervously between
Non-violence and indecision

I tried following him
But was cut off by a white limousine
You were driving it with cruel words
And I was falling under your tires
I was dream-walking
And you were dream-speaking

There were no trapdoors as I fell
Just open pits of the dream sequence
(Watching the acrobats perform
On the mean streets of Bario Norte
I wonder if they understand
The true meaning of life

I have given up the ghost
Of the search for true meaning
The meaning is forever lost on me
Even on simple quests
Otherwise I will know to step
Aside from open pits and racing cars)

That is what I think
As I fall through them in Palermo
On my way down I was gifted
A train of thought
Without an engine or a signalman
But with repeating memories of guilt

I boarded the train and waited
For a ride out of the pit of despair
The guard was wearing words in layers
Over the under-garments of meaning
This twilight is the beginning and end
At once of meaning and silence

In La Boca when I ran into Buddha again
He was smiling at my bandaged face
While stuffing his mouth with peanuts
This time I ignored him safely
And followed cruel words and tear ducts
To your painted bedroom window

Buenos Aires, Argentina: First Impressions

I just got here from Washington DC this morning. It was rainy and muggy and I saw the city slowly waking up. Buenos Aires has a European feel. It almost felt like the child of a marriage between Madrid and Kualalampur. It is humid and tropical and summer is barely over.

I walked to Boca Bario which is the colorful quarter where the poor emigrants once lived. From the look of it, the poor continue to live here. The neighborhood is colorful and made of corrugated sheet metal. There were live tango performers on the street and Brazilian acrobats. The famous Boca Juniors football club (Maradona's home team) is named after them.

I was also driven around to the more posh neighborhoods as well. The usual museums and craft fares and antique dealerships followed. The city is clean and impressive. The old port district has been completely transformed into a great chic restaurant and shopping area.

The rain went away in the afternoon. Now I am exhausted. More on Argentina later.

Bullet Bites The Bullet - Part Uno

Bullet Balasubrahmaniam sat up in his seat and exhaled deeply. he had this habit of exhaling deeply whenever a deep thought occurred to him. And the thought that occurred to him was indeed heavy. His maroon safari suit was drenched with sweat and the only reason you could not see this was because Bullet sat in the dark even though it was 8 PM and everyone else had gone home. His entire career flashed before him as he contemplated his next move.

Bullet had sailed through his life mostly on his intelligence, his complete and utter lack of initiative and his unwillingness to confront higher-ups on any issues material to his job. From 1982 onwards, when he joined the IAS, Bullet was known as a "loyal" servant in the academy for his unwavering support for the official line. He could be trusted and counted on to do the worst for the Government if that was needed.

"Do the needful," the high-ups would say. And it would be done.

"For your perusal," the notes would say. And the notes were perused.

And this is the thanks I get, he thought bitterly.

It all had started innocently enough. The prime minister had a strange and hurriedly concocted idea to standardize the scripts of all Indian languages. He got this idea on an official trip to Poland to study the effects of running a country with a twin. PM was seriously considering cloning himself so he could also be President.

Instead he came back with an idea for standardization of scripts. First, everyone secretly laughed at it. Then when it would not go away, they tried to buy it with feasibility studies and judicial commissions. That did not work either.

Then came the deadly weapon. Mandal was commissioned to write a report on minority languages and language reservations. It was deemed that 40% to 60% of all the letters in the alphabet needed to reserved for the exclusive use of minorities. This was a sure fire way to stop such nonsense.

But the prime minister would have none of that. He just added 40% more letters to the alphabet representing clicking sounds and Arabic-sounding gutturals and added them to the reservation quota. And Bullet was tapped on the shoulder to start the implementation. Bullet felt the tap quite sharply, but there was nothing he could do. It was that or the career-dead-end at Sreeramperumpadoor as the assistant special offer of the reconstruction office. He had to consider the schooling needs of his children.

So Bullet consented.

That is how my friends, the beginning of the end of the career of Bullet Balasubrahmaniam began.

Bat Out of Hell

I didn't get back from my last trip until very late last night. So, exhausted, I missed the alarm for this morning and got up at 5:40 AM. I had an international flight at 6:35 to catch with luggage to check.

The solution: skip the morning shave and shower routine and drive like a bat out of hell and hope I make it. Fortunately it is early morning and the traffic is light. So I make it to the airport at 6:05 AM.

Mind you, the flight leaves at 6:35. And they are already boarding when I got to the counter. Long story short, I made it to the flight. (Kids, don't try this at home. Your uncle Blogger practically lives at the airport so they cut him some slack.)

So the last thing I wanted, in this unshaven and unshowed state, was to be seen.

With my luck, the CEO of the company comes in and sits next to me.

There goes my elevator speech.

Fortunately my layover in Frankfurt is long enough for me to go to the lounge and take a shower and shave.

Now shaved and showered, I wait for my onward flight.

Death becomes the postman

The house remained dark for most of the day. The matriarchs lounged in white clothes, some new and crisp and others yellowing past their prime, waiting for death to consume them. Of course, the long interlude between the present and the final state were consumed by unspoken stories and unshared gossip as always, shared meals and rare feasts and most importantly by the arduous wait for the time to pass.

The fact that time refused to pass was a source of great tension between them and the bearer of all time, the postman.

The postman came by only when there were letters. The fact that his visits were rare did not preclude the inhabitants from waiting for him and to calibrate their internal clocks by his arrival. He always passed by the house exactly at half past eleven on all working days when post was delivered. He passed without noise on all days in bicycle when he had no deliveries for them. On other days, he stopped his cycle and rang the bell twice. He was the one thing that made time move in the house.

He was a lanky dark fellow with severe smallpox scars on his face. He was polite without being given to frivolous conversation. The weight of being a central government servant and thus its representative to such gatherings hung upon him like a heavy shroud.

At the same time he was careful to linger around long enough on days when the inhabitants received a money-order from a far-living child for it was customary for them to thank him with a token appreciation from the proceedings that they were fortunate enough to inherit because of him. It never occurred to the matriarchs or the postman that he was just an agent in the middle and his presence in the discharge of this function was a routine and replaceable one.

Unlike the other visitors, the postman was the written record keeper bringing to them actual records of events and memories that could be held and read out without adding or subtracting to them with ambiguities. The matriarchs, not satisfied with this, sometimes read meanings into the pauses or cancelled out words. For fear of this, nobody ever dare to cancel a word out when they wrote letters.

On Sundays, when there was no postal deliveries, time stood still around the house. As time moved slowly outside the universe of the big house, the sun rose and set around them without bothering the upset the pretence of this timelessness. The matriarchs rose when they pleased and ambulated along without precision and languid aimlessness until mere exhaustion and ennui claimed their purpose bidding them to repose.

This arrangement worked well for them. They contemplated the endless death for six days and on the seventh, they stopped time altogether and rested.

Every now and then, they will let out a sigh and remember one amongst them who had already died and say, "lucky cow."

Then they went back into their dark corners and rested again. In the dark corners, they shared their space with apparitions of death and the postman. In their feverish dreams, the postman merged with death creating a three-dimentional form that cajoled them into living. They rejected such nonsense outright and preferred to wallow in their morbid fantasies.

(From the novel I am forever writing)

Problem Solver

Blogger:
Hello, good to see you. I have some new ideas about linguistic evolution. Have you noticed how complex it to communicate with each other in India once we leave the rarified environs of the cities? Of course, you have. First hurdle in reducing this complexity is the existence of all these bloody scripts for all the Indian languages. I wish we could standardize the scripts. In a country where over 50% of the population is functionally illeterate, script standardization is a great idea. Throw away all these 15 different scripts and pick Devnagari or Roman script for all Indian languages. Besides, most of the South Indian scripts are woefully inadequate to handle borrowed words. Look at the way Mallus go around saying nonsense like "I went to the soo to see a sebra" or "the kyoon of England is a kyuck witted lady." It is easier to standardize northern languages since they already use standard Devnagari or a variation of it. Elementally, we have more similarilities than differences among all South-Indian languages. Mostly, the grammatic rules are similar, tense deployment order is the same, 90% of words have descended from Prakrut and Proto-dravidian. So why not also get a single script to go with it?

You, the reader:
Bloggerji, good idea but try getting one billion people to agree on that.

Blogger:
But you don't need one billion to agree. Let's look at the math. First of all, exclude the 60% illeterates. It makes no difference to them. It is all Greek to them, no pun. So, that leaves 400 million out of that 43% already know Devnagari script.. and perhaps 20% or so know Roman. So if you take an imperfect union.. 53% of the 400 million already know the replacement script. The actual number is far higher because excpt for TN all literates in India study Devnagari. That leaves you with some 197 million. Now eliminate very old and very young from this. Very young have no voting rights and can be retrained. Very old have no stake in this matter. So, if you do a simple breakdown of the demographics and using a forward correction (Since percentage literacy improves as population gets younger), we eliminate another 100 million. So we really only have 97 million to content with.

You, the reader:
Ninety-Seven million is a very large number, my friend.

Blogger:
Not so fast. Decisions are made by elected representatives and not by people directly. Approximately, each MP represents about 2.3 million people, so you divide the 97 million with 2.2, and what do you get?

You, the reader (now exhaused):
Now he is asking questions!

Blogger:
You get about 44 MPs. So to change the scripts, we need a swing vote of 44 fucking MPs. Is that so difficult?

You, the reader:
You bet.

Blogger:
Then elect MPs who are more amenable to the change. Change requires political will. This is where my Nationalist Draconian Party of Planetary Love (NDPPL) comes in.

You, the reader (confused):
You have a political party now?

Blogger:
You bet. We run on a platform of many draconian things that are good for you. Our party flag will feature broccoli.

You, the reader:
And a bit of spinach thrown in for design value surely.

Blogger:
Are you with us?

You, the reader:
(silence)

Blogger:
Because either you are with us or against us. Together we can form the coalition of the willing.

You, the reader:
Ouch.

Blogger:
We will invade the hearts of people, we will be greeted as liberators from the tyranny of myriad scripts.

You, the reader:
The axis of terror or some such thing?

Blogger:
Of course. Represented by all the Sahitya Academy types. There will be a show trial...

You, the reader (sarcastically):
Yeah I see them supporting your cause.

Blogger:
I will proclaim "mission accomplished" from the top of a typewriter.

You, the reader (hopefully):
Good. So then we will finish it and go home, right?

Blogger:
No. Then the war will drag on as the complexity of traslating the million billion existing documents becomes a nighmare.

You, the reader:
*shudder*

Blogger:
If anyone disagrees, I will leak out the identity of their wives' secret life as government stenographers.

You, the reader:
There is no shame in that, so what if they are stenos, they have done our work proudly, holding head high and all that.

Blogger:
Eactly. So there will be an outrage. It will be a scandal. I will have someone with an appropriate nickname of some lightly motorized vehicle in my office standing ready to take the blame for it. May be Moped Mehtaor Rajdoot Singh... How about Autorikshaw Apte?

You, the reader:
Bullet ...

Blogger:
Voila! Bullet Balasubrahmanian. It has a ring to it. Belongs to IAS, 1982 cadre from Tamil Nadu.

You, the reader:
Bullet Bala pyaar se.

Blogger:
He wears thick glasses and has a serious credible face. See, nothing is impossible.

You, the reader:
And a healthy paunch.

Blogger:
Under that light brown safari suit. Matches the official white ambassador car. Now I wish I hadn't given up my Indian passport... Uski hi kamee hai varna. I would be climbing the ladder in my perfectly creased and starched ministerial white.

You, the reader(relieved):
Yup. No chance of being an MP now.

Blogger:
MP bane mera naukar... mujhe to seedhe Pradhan matri ban-na hai.

At which point, you run away and politely suggest that I ask my doctor for an increase in dosage of my psychiatric medication.

Mulund Musical Fountain

In 1985, with much local fanfare, a musical fountain was inaugurated in a neighborhood park in Mulund East in Bombay.

Mulund in those days was the last outpost suburb in Bombay in the Central line. It was a sleepy little place that was busy yet not hip. Mulund East was cut-off from the West by the train track except for one precarious level crossing and one pipe lia narrow subterranean connector. Neither of these were reliable or convenient, so the eastern part of town evolved differently from the western part. I can't remember if there was a connector to the Eastern Expressway or not. There might have been, but it was not much used.

I have been to Mulund a few times in those days. My friend Sree lived there in the East and occasionally, on Saturdays, I would trudge up all the way from the city to Mulund to visit him. The musical fountain, it so happens, opened in his precise neighborhood.

He was quite excited about it. For some reason, this was a remarkable achievement for a neighborhood that was quite sleepy and solidly middle-class. They managed to cut through a million yards of bureaucratic red tape to actually construct a usable public park and plant a cheesy but large water fountain in the middle of it. In the evenings, as all the retirees and young children descended on the park, the fountain would come alive with music and primary color lighting. It elevated the neighborhood from solidly middle-class to solidly-middle-class with water fountain.

But I still remember the visit to the water fountain park. One Saturday, I visited Sree and he excitedly took me to the park and showed me around. At 5:00 the lights and funny music came on. People relaxed around it and older men took their constitutional walks around it. It was quite lively.

This memory has stuck with through all these years. If you ask me about the most important fountain in Bombay, I will still tell you about Flora Fountain. But for the neighborhood pride, this little local fountain still retains its top place in my heart. I have walked past many wonderful water fountains around the world. Some of them were very impressive with wonderful histories and remarkable architecture. But may be it is the fact that I connected with the locality and the story, this is the one fountain I like to remember.

Perhaps there is a lesson in this. It is not the most talented or the beautiful or the most impressive things or people that you care about the most, it is those who we connect with in a more natural level. I admire the magic of the former, but I love the latter more even though I know how the rabit got into the hat in the first place.

I don't know if this fountain and the park still exist in Mulund East. I have been to Mulund West a few times in the last few years, but the place is scarcely recognizable. The industrial compounds of yesteryear have been razed and replaced with a series of malls. The well-paying jobs in those factories were replaced with fickle mall employment. But people seem to be happy and the town looks more upmarket. I don't know anyone in Mulund anymore and there have been no reasons to go back to Mulund East.

Too many lessons. Too little time.

Mañana.... Mañana

It is one of those days.

All through winter, we had no snow here all through winter and now it comes with no bloody apologies. Like it has been here all through winter, sneaking in through the backdoor so the weatherman wouldn't notice. All of Northern Europe is caught in a snowstorm as well. Looks like seasons have shifted. Spring is now winter and summer is spring. What do I care? it is all the same to me. Far-East is balmy, Northern US is still cold and Europe has funny weather.

Al Gore, are you listening?

But I am not here to talk about the weather. I finally have a reprieve from travel for 2 days or so. This is very good news. Hopefully, if the day is not entirely crazy, I will actually call people and ketchup! May be, by then, this strange stress that i am wearing like a tight-fitting vest will fall off and I will be in eternal bliss. Good things may happen.

I have not been that regular with the blog. Or with pretty much anything. That is what happens with all this running around the planet situation. I was recently in a country and the luggage did not arrive when i did. Finally a day after I landed back home, I was able to go to the airport and pick up my suitcase. Airlines are such dahlings, aren't they?

I was scheduled to be in Napa Valley end of this month drinking some wine and visiting my little nephew before heading off to Singapore. Instead I am in Rome and then off to Argentina. What the hell is wrong with this world?

Mañana.... mañana

Europe's Uncle Tony

(Written on a plane to far east. I had nothing better to do.)

Everyone has an uncle Tony that they are not proud of, especially if you live in the East coast. You know him, he lives somewhere in Jersey, wears too much gold and laughs and talks a little too loud. His friends are unsavory types and some of them “go away” for no reason. Most of them have done time or will do so. They have this “either you are with us or you are against us” attitude.

You hate inviting uncle Tony to your parties. He says stupid things and burps loudly. Moreover, in polite company, his jokes are crude and racist. Nobody is supposed to talk about what he does for a living and in his world, things fall off trucks on the Turnpike all the time. He is quite an embarrassment to the family.

On the other hand, you are secretly glad he is around because he is your muscle. He “takes care” of things for you, after all Tony loves his family. Just a phone call and the pesky town inspector learns to look the other way about your illegal fence or the town hall expedites your permit. The neighbor who crossed paths with you one too many times meets with an unfortunate accident involving a baseball bat and a broken knee. All said, you know deep in your heart that you are better off with him around because he looks out for you, You just have to pretend he is just an annoyance and keep you away from your cultured friends and social gatherings. There are plenty of family barbecues in South Jersey where you will run into him anyway.

And secretly, you are glad he says those racist and sexist things you wish you bad the guts to say. He is the spokesperson for your naughty inner child.

So why all this rumination about uncle Tony?

Because I think America I Europe’s uncle Tony. Like uncle Tony, Uncle Sam keeps company with many unsavory figures in the third world who oppress their people and meet most of the characteristics of Tony’s friends. People who disagree with Uncle Sam also meet with unfortunate accidents (or get killed in carpet bombing).

I could go on. But you catch my drift. I knew you will, after all you are very smart (Yes, I am talking to you. Hey where are you going? Come back…)

But what irritates me is the self-righteous pompous attitude of Europe. As if, deep in their heart, they are not thankful for all the horrors of uncle Sam. Remember, these same critters who protest America so much are also member of NATO. They are so opposed to nuclear ambitions of other countries (and say non-nuclear) because America has pledged through NATO to defend them.

In other words, they are glad America is generally doing the dirty work for them. Getting them cheap oil, keeping the poor countries in line, keeping third world countries from UN security council permanent seats, discriminating against blanket populations in the name of “war on terror” and saying all those awful things that they wish I had the guts to say.

Further more, they consume American movies voraciously, listen to American music and when they get a chance sit up all night and play quarter slot machines in Vegas. McDonald's is doing brisk business in France and rest of Europe (everywhere except UK) but they have the American fast food culture.

It would be interesting to see how Europe keeps their act up without NATO and the US doing their dirty work for them. Bloody hypocrites.

Gedanken von einem Flughafen

I write this from an airport somewhere. It has been weeks since my last post. I haven not had much to write. Nothing has changed. I am still nursing my annoying illness while continuing to travel. Sometimes in this process, I manage a little bit of rest, most times I dont. I hear the constant noise of coffee cups behind me and it annoys me. A banker is speaking rapidly with another man; a silly man is hiding his face behind a newspaper. I would much rather stay lost in thought.

There have been frantic visits to cities I have not visited in a while. There have been lost pieces of luggage; there have been silly fights, many frantic trips, transitions, and sometimes, there is hope that one could stay longer.

I shop listlessly for a suit when the luggage is lost so I can make it to my meeting. I am generally happy even though the lost luggage number directs me to an Indian call center where `Sam` is singularly unhelpful. He "authorizes" USD 50 for incidentals which does not even cover the cost of a tie. But I am generally in good spirits. I remember that I have been in this mall before. Many times. This time it is different.

Sometimes when you relocate an experience to another city, things appear very different. In spite of all my jokes, I acknowledge how polite people are here. They laugh a lot easier unlike in America or Europe. They are more friendly.

I get tired very easily these days. I end up taking more naps. I ought to see a doctor but I am in four different countries in the next four days. I know it is a silly excuse, but that is how things are. My body needs rest. I hope in May, if not April, I can take a week off and go some place where I can recuperate fully.

Then, perhaps, I can write again.