Thursday, January 12, 2012

Overheard - On Day 2 at work in Dubai

Quotes and conversations on 2nd day of work


  1. "It is not very safe to use taxi drivers in XX location, so we have our own fleet. Some of
    the locals don't like the idea of using consultants, so can be hostile, so please use our
    own fleet always".

  2. "The logistics team doesn't do night club reservations"

  3. "All the support teams have blacklists for you guys; believe me, you'll know it when you're
    one"

  4. Bank a/c opening process:

GT: But I don't want a Super Duper Platinum credit card with $300K limit.


Bank rep: Sorry sir, but it is an all inclusive package. You can choose not to use it.And
please sign this...


GT: Sign a blank cheque in favour of "Stinking Rich Bank" LLC?!


Bank rep: That is standard process; not to worry, we won't encash it (chuckle).


GT: Chuckle?! When do I get it back?


Bank rep: When you close accounts and settle matters.


GT: Settle matters?!Bank rep: Not to worry,sir, standard process"


5. Fellow joinee peeks into support team area and says to Lady #1: Hey, you look like that
Egyptian actress!


GT: (thinks) WTF?!?! Will he get slapped? Reprimanded? Shouted at? Stunned silences?


Lady #2 in support team: Which one?


Lady #3: Wait, wait, let me guess....


Lady #1: (Blush) I know who you're reminded of... it is XYZ.


GT: (silently) Ahem, ahem.

Thursday, January 05, 2012

First day in Dubai

Was received at airport by The Fairmont chauffeur in 7 series Beemer with car gliding in as we walked out. Woman and self much impressed.

Hotel is all right if a bit dated. All lights and smoke and mirrors. Got weary of the super duper breakfast spread, the extensive menu and the concierge service in all of 24 hours.

After refreshing ourselves, Woman and I had lunch. A very big lunch. A very salty lunch. (Dubai Restaurant Reminder #1: Ask for less salad dressing, half portion servings and low salt options. #2: Do not feel guilty about leaving behind food when portions are unwieldy).

Visited M and Baby A in their residence. They live in the Greens, a nice ‘family’ area with plenty of trees, a not so bad view and a decent gym. Baby A is a rock-star, gets friendly but doesn’t grant smiles easily. Quite curious about world at large. My beard in particular. M has put in a word with their concierge for apartments coming up in their building.

Went for a walk by small lake (all water bodies/ gardens in Dubai are artificial, so let’s not get all snotty about the provenance of ‘lake’ now), encountered lady in abaya who gave a smile and said ‘Salaam Aleykum’ but as G would have observed did not move out of the way. Apparently you move out of their way and not vice versa. GT’s cultural adventures… sigh. Sat down at a café and had a Love Juice while Woman had something else tastier. Ordered roast aubergine something. Super salty again. Also bitter. Quickly grab her drink to wash away taste. Ali messages, explaining what happens when certain parts of human anatomy are removed. Can always depend on him to stir up things after bad dinners.

Made mistake of peeking at Baby A who promptly started bawling. Despite Indian-doggy tested tummy tickle and Indian-baby tested coochy-coos, refuses to calm down. So take her and start dancing around. Hunky and bulky Mediterranean man with European girlfriend give strange looks. Woman and M start yakking away happily.

After 20 minutes of see-sawy dancing and walking around to different hums and twitches, Baby A falls asleep. So do my biceps. Manage to fob off sleeping bundle to Woman but bundle comes to life and bawls. Thankfully not in my hands now. Woman does some magic and Baby A goes back to sleepyland in 5 minutes flat. But M says to Woman, ‘Keep holding her. If you try to put her in the pram, she’ll wake up’. Woman says ‘She’s a bit heavy’. M insists, ‘Hold her, its only a short distance and you’ll be fine’. Woman laughs awkwardly. M reassures her, ‘You can do it’. Am I glad I managed to dump bundle onto Woman. Phew.

Back to M’s home and then after besos all round, back to hotel. Promptly fall asleep on arrival. Wake up groggily after 2 hours to say bye to Woman. Go to airport. Wondering what level of body contact would be appropriate. After a while, decide to screw all considerations. It’s bloody sad and sobby farewell, people. Somehow it’s manageable. No sobs, no cries, no loud ululations or lamentations. We manage a decent, dignified ‘see you soon’ with hugs and kisses and tightly grasped hands. Touchy feely score in region of 75%. Keep waving to Woman as she leaves. She unleashes a flying kiss. I return it. Then wonder if security will arrest me. Look around. Two bulky boys in uniform giving me dirty looks. Shivers, shivers. Decide to stick to exuberant and passionate waves, rather than kisses. Wave to her as she crosses security. Wave to her as she wanders towards Departures. And finally, Wave to her as she boards escalator. Such are the mores of global couples. Bah.

Back to hotel and pop in antibiotics and Paracetomol and allow oneself to be knocked out by chemicals, sadness and general fatigue. Welcome to Dubai.

Tuesday, July 26, 2011

48 hours in Lyon













Notice fresh-looking scar on ankle, ask her what it is, she says 'winged vampire with tiny wings' and makes motions like a sparrow chick flapping around and gives a series of squeals. A very underfed British vampire, perhaps.

In France, after a litre or two of beer, I insist on speaking French and she insists on replying in Sinhalese. The waiter, sensible man that he was, went with zee English language. I call out to a 6 year old goldilocks next to us and say "Elle est 'opeless". Goldilocks sniggers and hides in her dad's tummy.

She wakes up in the middle of the night with mosquito bites. I do praetorian guard duty, successfully extinguishing the lives of two mosquitosassins. She says she hears a third one buzzing around and goes to sleep. I stay wide awake in the darkness, hearing subliminal buzzes well into the dawn. At breakfast, she looks like she wants to say "why the zombie look?" but sticks to "you look tired". Good girl.

The French waitress at the cafe in vieux Lyon throws up her hands in horror and says "Encore?!" when I ask for my third pain-au-chocolat. I wonder what she'll do when I ask her for ice-cream later. Beaucoup-French-eye-popping sounds ensue 5 minutes later when I ask for 'deux scoops' , blatantly insensitive , IMHO, to the the grave needs of Indian vegetarians for every spare vegetarian protein molecule that can be found in Lyon.

Image from www.mochimochiland.com

Wednesday, December 22, 2010

The delight that The Observer is… on some Sundays

The Observer ran a series two weekends back, where writers chose their favourite short stories and explained why... you can find the article here and The Guardian's done a brilliant job of putting up the podcasts on their books page here.

Anne Enright on Fat by Raymond Carver.

‘A story is something told, it is something that really needs to be said. But though we feel its force and resonance, it is often hard to say what a story means. The most we can say, perhaps, is that a short story is about a moment in life; and after this moment, we realize something has changed’

Philip Pullman on The Beauties by Chekhov

'Chekhov's genius lies in the way he manages to convey with such apparent effortlessness a profound sense of the mystery of beauty, and of the sadness of those who observe and think'

Helen Simpson on The Kitchen Child by Angela Carter

‘The narrators mother, a perfectionist Yorkshire cook in the kitchens of a great country house, is impregnated by an unknown admirer as she bends to place a souffle in the oven (she doesn't turn for fear of spoiling the dish)’

Ali Smith on Conversations With My Father by Grace Paley

What happens -funny, sad, infuriating- is that the story won't be corralled any more than life itself will’

Colman Toibin on Music at Annahullion by Eugene McCabe

‘McCabe's genius is to make the piano stand for itself and then to have an extraordinary resonance as it comes to stand for all her hope, and all our hopes’

Jeannette Winterson on The Night Driver by Italo Calvino

The tension in the story depends on the unknowing. Soon Calvino imagines a perpetual time, the time out of time of long car journeys where it becomes unnecessary to arrive. You have a lover. You're racing towards him/her. Your lover is racing towards you. You will never meet but meeting is no longer the purpose of the journey.’


In a different section on the same day, Lillian Ross of The New Yorker shared her memories of Salinger... and also, JD Salinger's impression about meeting her month old son, Erik:

" Notes on your son: 1. Is an incomparably fine and lovely person 2. Has beautiful eyes 3. Sleeps in a very good position 4. Has courtly manners 5. Is a very very sweet little boy"

On her writing...

"You're yourself whether you're writing fiction or fact. It's very moving. I mean more than that, but that's my first thought"

Hemingway to a young and unknown JD Salinger commenting on Salinger's unpublished stories: 'First you have a marvellous ear and you write tenderly and lovingly without getting wet... how happy it makes me to read your stories and what a god damned fine writer I think you are'

And Laurie Hutton recalled the origins of Malcolm McLaren's stories:

‘ She (his grandmother Rose) dressed him up as a girl, didn't allow him to go to school until he was 10. He had Shirley Temple sausage curls down to his shoulders held Toby tortoise-shell combs... Ever night he had to sit in the corner if the sitting room on a chamber pot while her sisters read to him from the novels of the Brontes and Dickens... Rose didn't allow him to swim in the sea because fish pee in the sea... He was the best storyteller I ever met, and I've met some in my time. He learned it in that room on the chamber pot’


This is what a good Sunday paper should do, make you read and re-read it through the week, increasing your unreasonable hopes that the weekend is just around the next corner and of course, next Sunday's will be better, with its extracts from Tolstoi and Basho and Homer; will be much better as you slowly read it distracted by the falling snow, milky masala tea, short-bread and crackers... London, my London.

Wednesday, November 17, 2010

Notes to women...

... who travel with men in France.

  • Yes, it is true… especially in France, waiters are snobbish. We have noted this with great respect and countless nods, your detection of this secret... très très diabolique, these Frenchies, eh. Now, could we get over it... please? French waiters really don't get kicks out of serving you slices of warm wholegrain bread, with flavoured olive oil and 8 varieties of artisan cheese like all your friends said they would. The waiters in the cheap, touristy restaurants that we usually visit get kicks out of 'phhhrrooofing' and saying "Je comprends pas" to English speaking women with fake Louis Vuitton bags.

  • In France, the people speak French. If you don't speak French and they don't speak English, they don't have a problem. You have a problem. Recall previous point about getting used to it, over it, under it, whatever.
  • If you are visiting a town next to the Alps with a chateau on a hill, and also plan to visit the village of Èze located 2000 feet above sea level, it might be a good idea to bring along shoes for walking. Not heels. Not as the only pair you're bringing along because you "pack light and that's soooo cool". Not for a place that has for its main attraction, Le Promenade Des Anglais.

  • If you like the charming, rustic marketplace, you should also like the rustic fruits sold by the charming French farmers. And no, even though us men might know ticket-buy-worthy French, we don't ask "Can you wash this fruit for us, please?". Not to French farmers. Nope. Nada. Non. Especially not after you gave us that "eeeek"sy look when we bit into the ripest, juiciest, tastiest unwashed figs of our lives.

  • Caramelized almonds in a supermarket aisle won't be as fresh as the hot ones we bought for you from a roadside stall run by an unusually, happy Italian grandpa on a cold, windy day. Which you happily ate up after turning up your nose at, to start off with. Declaring this discovery of yours, that they aren't as fresh, doesn't exponentially increase our estimate of your reasoning powers.

  • We find it puzzling when after we've explained what options are there to explore in Town A (which, incidentally, happens to be the town we're in), you suddenly look up after breakfast and go "Let's do Town Z, yaaaaaar"... what exactly does this mean? That you don't like Town A? That you want to visit Town Z? Wander around it? Eat in it? Gamble in it? Dance or sing on its roads? Or is there some deeper Freudian thingy that we've missed here? This puzzling feeling does get exacerbated when we ask you "Uhm... Er...ok, so what's in town Z?" And you say "I don't know" as if that explains everything. However, we are willing to ignore/forgive/move on through such events as we consider the eternal human desire to explore the unknown. Us men get cheap thrills out of such uncalled for forgiving stints.

  • If you like something in a shop window, it might be a good idea to check the price before you ask the shop-keeper for it. And not after she has packed it up for you. And no, at this point, we don't translate "I don't want the thing you packed for me, the one I asked for, because I think it's too expensive, now that you've printed the bill"

  • If you don't like art, it's perfectly OK to say "I am not really interested" when we consider the idea of visiting museums in a region that Van Gogh, Matisse and Chagall breathed, painted and lived. Rather than wondering thrice in 5 minutes about how far the museum is, commenting on the inferior quality of hot chocolate at the museum cafe and finally, at the museum admission, turning away from the lady who says "7 euros, please" to tell us "I think I will go for a haircut rather than do this". As Chagall spins desperately in his grave, we too, are tempted to, right there in front of that very lady.
    PS: At this point, it isn't mightily endearing to raise your eyebrows and say "How long are you going to take at 'this' place?"
    PPS: Maybe it would be a better idea not to declare intentions of getting a "classy French haircut" rather than admitting later that the French charge atrocious rates for haircuts and that discovery kept you away from the salon which you headed to when you found the museum too expensive.
    PPPS: DO NOT ask us why we sob when, after all of the above, you declare that you "just want to leave it all and start an art gallery" in a medieval village in France. It's a man thing, we sob, we suffer... all for art.

  • If you insist on having a conversation on media freedom, the role of regulation in the private sector and the drivers of economic growth in developing countries on a warm sunlit evening in a plaza flanked by a 18th century church as we sip a particularly, pleasant cuvée of the Côtes Du Provence... well, what can we say, let's. But it just might be worth your while to consider briefly before we start, the knowledge you possess on these topics, the sources you gained it from and your ability to remember those sources. Depending on "My uncle said so", "I just know it" and "I don't remember" doesn't count as meaningful evidence. Much as we would like to admit to many meaningless things in the cause of chivalry, this time... no, we can't.

  • Despite being regular fountainheads of stunning wisdom, we really do not know...

- Why French beaches don't have sand

- Whether you should get fake-looking lavender soaps or garish souvenirs with "Produce De Provence" stamped on them for your friends

- Why French roads change names at junctions (Refer to previous point about the deliberately diabolique French)

- Why people don't get electrocuted when they step on tram lines

- Why restaurants don't serve artisanal (that infernal word!) cheese the way Jamie Oliver promised that they always did in the South of France

- Why the pianist who works magic on a rented piano at Place Massena as he floats, crawls, creeps his fingers around the keys, hasn't become famous across the world (but you get brownie points for deep thoughts)

- Why vendors insist that you MUST pick something after you spend 25 minutes quizzing them about prices and tasting free samples.

- Why the modern, anarchic artist has splashed his blood on the canvas and packaged his shit in a jar (but we might be able to give it a decent shot if you let us listen to the audio guide rather than asking us to come with you to the museum shop)

  • Reading 33 pages of a 350 page novel may not quite place you in an optimal position to declare with critical airs that "it's a kind of a slow book". Why spoil a nice sunset on the French Riviera? Let’s not.
    PS: But since it looks like we MUST, please consider the fact that a book that involves 3 grieving Jewish men at the sunset of their lives and has a blurb describing itself as a "funny, furious and unflinching look at friendship, loss and growing older" is unlikely to be fast... It will not accelerate like an Aston Martin, probably doesn't have heaving hearts à la Mills & Boon and may not twist & turn like Jeffrey Archer used to in his pre-prison days. Even if the heavens parted and it did any of that, maybe not in the first 33 pages? Ah, but you beg to differ, don't you... Your point being that it should.
    PPS: Doubtless the idea greatly excites you, but suggesting a "cozy, classy restaurant" that you spot along the Côte D’Azur as a possible venue for our next book reading session doesn't help obliviate our memories of the time that you showed up without reading the book. Oh, sorry, make that "without buying the book".

Now, which part of this is confusing?

NB - Obviously, this is an entirely fictional take on an imaginary trip with impossibly indelicate women. We all know how reasonable ladies usually are in real life. So there.

Thursday, November 11, 2010

Finding Stuff.

















Was surprised to find this in an old copy of "The Burden And The Glory" from home.
The devout romantic that a sailor of 6 years was at age 23, in 1970.
A warm find on a cold, rainy London morning.

RIP... Reader, Sailor, Captain, Dad.

Wednesday, November 10, 2010

A.E. Housman on the Central Line

For The War Dead

Here dead lie we because we did not choose
To live and shame the land from which we sprung.
Life, to be sure, is nothing much to lose;
But young men think it is, and we were young.

-A.E.Housman (1859-1936)

Spotted on The Central Line at 0945, 10-Nov-2010; part of the Poems on The Underground series

Thursday, October 28, 2010

Catfish by Henry Joost & Ariel Schulman

Film #8 at The BFI London Film Festival









To try to explain "Catfish" is to give away a surprising story... watch the movie and walk away with the disturbing knowledge of how our virtual worlds can trick but yet hold us in thrall with shards of online humanity.

It was TS Eliot who said about his poetry "against these fragments, I shore my ruins". Catfish reveals how against the fragments of Facebook, a human can shore the regularly rough edges of reality.


Image from BFI site here

Wednesday, October 27, 2010

Life, Above All by Oliver Schmitz

Film #7 at The BFI London Film Festival 2010






Somewhere in Africa, a ‘bug’ gnaws away, pulling mothers away from children, fathers from families and friends from each other. Even as the adults waver between choosing Christianity, black magic or isolation to deal with this menace, the children try their best to pick up the pieces and move on.

One of these children is Chanda in Oliver Schmitz’s ‘Life, Above All’. Adapted from Alan Stratton's "Chanda's Secrets", this is the story of a teenage girl in Africa who deals with the blight of AIDS in her own ineffable way. Growing up in a family where her father has died and her mother has taken up with another man (Jonah), Chanda lives life on her own terms and indeed she needs to… she takes care of her step-siblings, helps arrange the funeral of a baby sister, snatches money from a drunk step-father, does homework and tries her best to be a good friend to Esther (whose parents have died of AIDS, leaving her homeless/hopeless in a shack at the edge of the town).

The casting was mostly amazing… flinty Esther, precocious Chanda, the drama queen neighbours… all of these do complete justice to their complex roles (although just sometimes, it becomes a bit unreal as the milk of human kindness overfloweth– good-hearted shopkeepers and ambulance drivers seem to abound in Africa; in real life, in a developing country, I would imagine that ambulance drivers demand extra moolah for home delivery and shop-keepers being quite ruthless with margins). The music and the melodrama mix well with each other especially in the last scene where just the music/song could define the “desperate-for-salvation” mood that the movie plunged us, watchers into.

All through the movie, the spectre of AIDS is unyielding and omnipresent, casting a dark shadow over the sunny land... with Jonah catching the ‘bug’ and dying and her mother seeming to have contracted it as well, Chanda has to manage a complex maze of relationships and obligations that could easily overwhelm a regular 16 year old. But then again, this is no regular girl… this is Chanda, the girl who stands up against shrews, who brings back an abandoned mother from the edges of hell… this is Chanda who can and does anything.

I enjoyed best the scenes where the girls negotiate the hazy netherworld of adulthood… Esther’s miniskirted attempts to be cool and Chanda’s coy conversation with a boy after a dance are special and very deserving of the attention that the script and the camera pays to them. But fuzzy scenes do not a movie make; the harsh reality of an African generation blighted by AIDS re-emerges very soon and stuns you into silence – when the lights came on, I found a couple, almost looking stranded, in shock with tears in full flow.

But girls like Chanda redeem us all and lead... lead kindly, light, amid th’encircling doom.