Roads for Development

The photo-feature I did set me thinking about the roads we have in Milton Keynes. Milton Keynes is served by two major roadways - the M1 and the A5. These two arterial roads handle most of the traffic that comes into (and goes from) the city. In fact, this ease of accessibility allowed us to expand S's job search to places around MK, so that we could move home and I could commute by car.

It is quite common to see a lot of people who stay as far away as Birmingham commute to Milton Keynes on a daily basis. Of course there are traffic qualms, but then some amount of timing will ensure you are done in about an hour (Birmingham). An interesting fact about Milton Keynes was that it was deliberately built where it is now. It was planned so that the city is equidistant from the major hubs like London, Birmingham, Oxford, Cambridge and Leicester. Remarkably, one third of the UK's population is within one hour of Milton Keynes. This is the single biggest factor favouring Milton Keynes as England bids to host the FIFA World Cup in 2018.

It is amazing how a good network of roads can help you pitch for tourism, trade and business.

A Photo Feature on Roads

Roads, sometimes they are clean,

Sometimes, dirty.

Sometimes, lonely.

Sometimes, crowded.

Sometimes, straight.

Sometimes, twisted.

Sometimes, narrow.

Sometimes, wide.

Sometimes, scenic...

... picturesque ...

... and sometimes outright breathtaking.

You can see some roads till the eye can see.

Some roads appear to be a dead-end.

Some are artificial.

And some do not even need to be on land :D

Das Auto

I had not thought much about having a car until I rented one to go visit Goks in Ipswich. That triggered the dormant driver and I rented a few more times that year. And then when AA had to go back to India, he left me his car in our driveway. It was a 1992 1000 cc VW Polo. By today's standards, it was quite rudimentary, but it did the job. For four people who had to walk home in winter, it was a godsend. It heated the interior, played audio cassettes, and we had a car. Yay! So what if it had only three doors and we had to squeeze into the back seat?

I took out insurance on it and used it to commute to the office for as long as AA's parking permit was valid. Then we used it only to go to the movies because the winter was cold and the parking was free. Then one day, in great gusto, I filled a little more fuel than normal and it sprung a leak at the bottom. It beats all notions, but I still believe the leak was because I put in too much gas and some weak point in the tank could not bear the weight. It was still usable until it developed a problem with the horn wiring. The horn would sound every time I turned the car left or right. Miffed, I let the car stand in front of the house as I could not bring myself to scrap it.

About this time, KG was going back to India for good. And because he had to go in a hurry, he left me his car in our driveway. It was a 1997 1400 cc VW Golf. By today's standards, it was a mediocre car to have. It had five doors, looked good and had a sunroof :) So what if it had done about 125000 miles? I transferred my insurance on to it and started using it. It was a great car, we took it on the motorways once to Birmingham and it behaved itself very nicely, although I felt that the the engine was a bit slow to respond both while overtaking and picking up from zero. Within the city, it was great fun. The lack of response from the engine gave a factor of predictability to the car and it handled easy, almost like a toy. I moved home about this time, and took the Golf with me, while the Polo was still parked at my bachelor pad.

I liked the Golf in spite of the big dent on the front bumper (thanks to AD) and even contemplated keeping it but it cost me a bit too much in its annual MOT. Plus there was no service history on it before KG bought it, so I was a bit wary. I eventually sold the car to a guy who wanted a car to practice his driving on. I tried fixing the Polo. I managed to disconnect the horn under the hood so there would be nothing to sound even if the wiring fired but no adhesive or sealant would plug the hole in the tank. Finally, I asked a used-car dealer who took damaged cars to haul it away.

My current car is a 2000 Vauxhall Astra, 1600 cc. By today's standards, it is a decent car to have. It has remote locking, fog lights, and plays CDs. So what if it does not have a sunroof? The insurance I had taken out for the other cars gave me one claim-free year which got me a hefty discount when it was time for renewal. Since I have bought it, I have done more than 4000 miles on it. The car has been to places as near as Birmingham and London to those as far as Blackpool and The Lake District. A few months ago, I had the cambelt changed when the service was due, and now I am having to change the tyres, because they are very close to the legal limit, but them apart, the car has been in fantastic shape and performance for its age and miles.

If you notice, the cars are getting newer and more powerful. An SUV around 2.0 litres would be logical for the next change, would you say? :|

Friends at work

One of the questions on the annual employee satisfaction survey we have (when we have it) is 'Do you have a best friend at work?'. Sure, I have friends at work, but my answer to that question has always been no. It is because if you're 'best friends' with a colleague, it blurs the line that demarcates personal and professional relationships.

Back home in India, it is easy to maintain different networks. You have your friends from school, from college, from the neighbourhood, from work etc. They are all distinct social circles of which you're a part of for a period of time. It is therefore possible to leave your colleagues at office and go to movies with your friends. But when you're in a foreign land, where your only social circle is made up of your colleagues who don the role of friends after hours, it makes it very hard to identify where to draw the line. And because everyone is part of the same circle, you're always bumping into each other everywhere - from the shopping mall to the movie hall to the pub crawl - bringing about an odd sense of familiarity between two people that eventually leads them to understand each other profoundly, or one taking the other for granted.

It is all good when everything is ok, but when people fall out, it fosters an unhealthy atmosphere. Suddenly people are no longer willing to help. Hands are thrown up in the air. Questions met with shrugs. Greetings unacknowledged. Dirty linen washed in public. And other people notice and they talk. They probe. They wonder what may have gone wrong. It lingers on somewhere in the mind, popping up every now and then, killing the urge to work and crushing productivity levels.

Recently two colleagues of mine (who were good friends) fell out of each other's favour. I recalled all the times spent together, and then all the venom spit out now, and wondered if it was all worth the result. I mused if this could have been prevented if they were merely colleagues, and strangely it made sense. They would have probably gone their own ways, like they have now, but without the acrimony. And it would have worked out well for everyone.

The incident came as a loud wake-up call to me. In each of the people we know professionally, there is a colleague who knows us well and a friend who works with us. It is important that we differentiate the two and know whom to work and whom to play with. It reminded me of a line which I often use - 'Good fences make good neighbours'. When the fences are strong, all is well, but when you let the fences break down, you give them the power to hurt you.

And once hurt, the relationship will never be the same again.

An Year of S

This June, S completes a year of stay here. Looking back at it all, she's managed pretty well. Not that I am a hard person to live with, but she has been able to mix the excitement of being in a new place away from family, the hesitancy in making new friends, the boredom of being jobless all together and lap it up without letting it go into her head.

Last June, when we came in, she was all too excited about the house. She could not imagine it well enough when I described it to her (which was a good thing, since she did not have any preconceived notion of how it was) so I made a video of her as she entered the house and explored each room (of the 1BHK, if I may add). Now, it makes me smile as I look at her going around the house, looking wide-eyed at (now) common things like the carpeted floor, the bedside tables, etc and gushing "It's so cute".

The first few weeks were quiet, until she wore off the blues of being in a new place. She took her time to acquaint herself with the house, moving little bits of furniture around, making the place her own. She loved the fact that internet was available 24/7 and became so active on Orkut that she used it as an instant messenger. She bent the stick too much, and it broke. Within weeks, she deleted her Orkut account having got bored of it. Her next project was to go through my hard drive and arrange my music. Then photos, place-wise, date-wise. Then she ran out of things to do and there started the tantrums.

She missed her office, she missed friends of her own, she missed the independent life she once had in Bangalore. Suddenly, she began feeling claustrophobic, with no one to talk to, nowhere to go to, nothing to do. We've had our silliest fights during that phase,and sometimes I'm glad it's happened here. Anyone who saw us fight would have thought there is something seriously wrong in the marriage.

At this time, FRIENDS played a big role in taking things forward. S had this box set of FRIENDS - 'The One With All The Ten Seasons', which she always wanted to see with me. So one weekend we put in the first season and leaned back on the sofa. From then on, we devoured FRIENDS like Joey devours sandwiches. One DVD would never be enough and we would watch complete seasons at a stretch. It caught on to such an extent that S would keep an episode ready and we would watch it over lunch before I went back to office. Then again over tea, and dinner, and later.

FRIENDS gave way to 'Jo Jeeta Wohi Superstar' and we rooted for Vinit to win. Vinit imitating Himesh was an oft-played clip in Youtube. We caught up on all the episodes and actually became 'Live' in the sense that we watched Rahul Vaidya win in real time. The singing competition gave way to dancing competitions and streaming television at which point I lost interest.

Cooking provided S with another channel to expend her energies. She did find it hard the first time when I had invited about 20 people home, but once that was a grand success, she has not looked back. She now follows a cookery blog and conjures up dish after dish of simple, but exotic, delicacies.

The transition from a working woman to a homemaker has not been easy on her. Not landing a job has been her biggest grouse. With the market down, and employers preferring British people over immigrants, jobs have been hard to come by. Women and Work, which she recently joined provides her a chance to go out, meet other people and observe their lifestyle, but still a regular job eludes her.

Yet, she remains hopeful, and goes about her fairly predictable routine cheerfully, making me look at her in awe.

Dave Hitz on Engineering and Management

Just about the time when NetApp ranked first on Fortune's Best Companies to Work For:2009, I came across this video of Dave Hitz. In a short talk at Princeton, Dave talks about his experience from founding the company to being VP of Engineering.

Dave talks about his becoming a manager despite being involved in a technical capacity for more than a decade, and the rationale behind Dan Warmenhoven in choosing him for the job. Giving (sometimes humorous) examples of various clients, he talks about technological simplicity, company values and culture.

What I liked most was a quote about engineers. "The optimist says the glass is half full. The pessimist says it is half empty. The engineer says that glass is twice as large as it needs to be to hold the fluid it contains." 

Full video here. 

The Cricketer Under Cover

The Fake IPL Player has been evoking a lot of interest. I have been seeing the rate at which he attracts comments, and I must admit, I have seen such frenzied hits on one site only during online contests like Klueless.

Part of the reason for his popularity is that he is in uncharted territory. Given the importance attached to this game in the country, and the way lobbies work their way through the system, any little detail leaked to the public will go a long way, polarising many in its wake. The players know this, and therefore what happens in and around the dressing room, is largely kept to themselves, rarely coming out from under the honey-coated, politically correct blanket. 

Take for example any development in the recent past - senior players not wanting to play under Dhoni, Dravid resigning as captain, the coaches who came and went, the Ganguly-Chappell emails - all exhibited signs of dissent and conflict of interests. Rather than being a cohesive unit, the team sought to be content to co-exist in an environment of mutual exclusivity. 

In that respect, Fake IPL Player (if he is a player), is blowing a very loud whistle.

Part of the reason is also that he gives a tiny window into the other life of these demi-Gods. A life which spans five-star hotels, uptown nightclubs and flashy discotheques around the world. A life where an inebriated star making small talk with a local chick suddenly brings him down from his lofty pedestal to something not very different from what you and me see or do. 

In their defence, tours abroad may be the only chance the stars get to let their guard down, especially coming from a land where all it takes is a single photograph for the media to proclaim a cricketer and a movie starlet as a couple. Still, you get the drift.

However, the biggest reason contributing to the player's popularity is that he is under cover. He is a mole. A double agent. No one knows who he is. He leaks their secrets. He gives words to the steely stares. The team management is determined to snuff him out. The owner is having sleepless nights (unless of course he has conjured this up, in which case we may have to doff our hats, all this muck and mudslinging notwithstanding). There have been attempts to ban internet, laptops etc in the hotels, but this guy manages to stay a step ahead, blogging via SMS etc.

Like the backbencher kid who cracks jokes while his headmaster berates him, he takes on the mighty cricket establishment and pokes fun at it. He mocks the system that tries to unsuccessfully stifle him. 

It is this in-your-face irreverence that the masses are cheering.

Iranian Deserts

A few days ago, local newspapers reported that the residents of Broughton village here blocked the entry of a Google Street View car and prevented putting their village on air as they thought it intruded upon their privacy.

My views on the Street View feature are rather desultory. Useful? Perhaps. Intrusive? Maybe; but one thing is for sure. I would never have found out where these stunning locales were from, if it were not for Google Maps.

I took these photographs from the plane when we flew back here last June. The flight attendant told us we were somewhere over Iran, giving us something to start with when we came back home.

After unsuccessfully locating various other lakes, I did find out the place. It is the Orumiyeh lake in Iran. See Google Map embedding below. The faint line joining the green to the brown is the unfinished bridge. Zoom in to see more.

View Larger Map
Some googling also revealed that the unfinished bridge has considerable history behind it. Here is a photograph from one side of the bridge.

Take a look at the deserts and the terrain. You can sense the dusty, earthy feel to it, a quality which implores the traveller in you to leave everything behind and experience the weary, rough nomadic life. I hope I get to walk on those sands someday.

Here I go again

Its been a long time coming, but here I am. Marriage didn't kill the blogger in me, after all! And it feels good to be back!

More later, but soon.

Doing It Yourself

My first brush with carpentry was to create a dove-tail joint out of two half-a-foot blocks of wood. In the carpentry shop in the mechanical department, I marked and I sawed, I chafed and I chiselled until I managed to fit the two blocks into a T, where one block held the other against movement in its length axis.

The second was to build a wardrobe out of this. :O















First, I fit the middle plank to the bottom and the main shelf-plank to make the skeleton of the wardrobe.














Then, the top panel (to the bottom of the pic) was joined and the side panels were clamped in.














The rear plys were then nailed in.















And then the whole thing was heaved and put against the wall. Once up, the doors were hinged in.















There, a decent wardrobe, with lots of hanging space, shelves on one side, and drawers and racks on the other.

















I bought this thing from a colleague who was leaving UK for good. Thankfully, he dismantled only the planks, and did not go all the way to the pegs. I'm glad I waited till the long weekend to get this thing up, because the next morning, I woke up with a pain in the lower back (which subsided after a session in the gym). Thankfully, few friends came in after the rear plys were nailed in, and helped me heave the wardrobe against the wall, and fit the doors in.

It was fun, no doubt, but you need to get your basics right. We fit and re-fit a door two times, but it was still not straight. It was finally brought in line by tweaking the position of the hinges. The right side doors are still a bit askew, but then... chalta hai.

About S and Love

Sometime back, I moved home. I moved out of the bachelor pad, and into a single BHK close to the office. The new place is a quiet little cosy place, which is tastefully decorated by the owner. I haven't had to bring much into it. It looks and feels so balanced in its minimalistic furniture that I don't want to bring anything and make the place cluttered. Recently, I bought a huge four door wardrobe from one of my colleagues who was returning to India for good. Him and me dismantled and brought it in our cars. I am yet to re-fit it again. The planks are just lying there, waiting to be fixed, but every other weekend, some thing or the other takes precedence.

Every night, after I return from office and fix myself some dinner, there is a lull before I actually go to sleep. If I turn the music down on the laptop, and keep the tall lamp in the corner glowing, it creates an introspective mood. It gives me time to think about S, about the fact that in less than a month, people will start referring to us as a single entity. It is not long before S joins me here and we start our own life. Sometimes, while the thought wanders aimlessly like this, the low music and the muted lighting creates a magical atmosphere and makes me miss her.

I think about how this will be a good time to start wooing her all over again. We have been together for almost eight years now. In these four years of being together and as many years of maintaining a long-distance relationship, some things have changed. For better, I would like to think. And then there are things that have not changed. She still laughs at my PJs. The good ones, that is. I hope it never changes. I think about how I used to wait my turn at telephone booths, and there used to be so much to talk about. I think about how I can call anytime I want now, and yet sometimes, there is nothing to talk about. But from then to now, the longing to hear my voice is still the same. I hope that never changes. I think about how her eyes sparkled on seeing me arrive at the bus-stand every morning. I recall the same sparkle when I was with her in January. I hope that never changes.

And then there are things which are revelations. I think about how, working in Bangalore, staying in PG's, she has become this independent woman I never knew. I think about how she gushes about her awards, and her shifts and deadlines and team-building and stuff, and I wonder, was this the same girl who did not write aptitude tests in college, because she was scared she would end up with the lowest scores. This in spite of the fact that the whole class copied her notes. I think about how, living in Bangalore, she has developed a 'taste'. I think about how she takes me all over Bangalore. I look with great interest as she darts back and forth through MG Road, holding my hand and leading me as though I were a child. In times like these, it is as if I am outside myself, leaning against a pole and watching her lead me as she weaves our way through traffic. I think about this and I smile. It must be the movies I watch. :D I think about how my excitement on seeing Shahrukh Khan and shaking hands with Amitabh Bachchan amused her. I think about how she chides me, for happily staying here, while she (poor soul!) is in India.

I think about how we will now be a single entity. How, should we attend any function alone, we will be asked why the other did not come. How, if we go out together, it will be acceptable. I will miss the risk and the guilt of making up reasons to go out and meet her. Somehow, the reality of the union is unreal. I want us to go back four years and live them together. I want to call her from office, and arrange to meet her at a multiplex, watch a movie, drop her and then go home. I want us to just hang out, see a sale, shop together. I want to cancel a day out with the boys to be with her. I want her to come over to my place on lazy Sunday afternoons, and to make us some tea, and go out to the terrace and talk about having to iron clothes for office the next day. I want to wait for her at the railway station on Friday evenings, so we could travel to Mysore together. Or by bike sometimes. I want to get up late on a weekend and realise I had to meet her at CCD, and make it double quick. I want my four years back.

And yet, I dream of us sitting together on the window sill on a rainy night, drinking hot tea, listening to the constant pattering of the raindrops on the glass. I dream of us washing the utensils and wiping them dry before going to bed. I dream of us in bed on warm balmy afternoons, too lazy to get up, talking about nothing in general. I dream of us sitting down and working out finances and homestead. I wonder if these will make up for the four years.

I have good colleagues at my job, I have more friends than I deserve, I am given more love in the family than anyone else, but I would still want those four years. You see, when it comes to love, I am greedy. I can never get enough. :P

That Queer Shake

12:10 - I am sleeplessly lazing, stretched out across the width of the bed, my back against the wall, cushioned by a rumpled duvet and a pillow, and my feet on a wheeled chair. I'm aimlessly browsing stuff, here and there, listening to Gaalipata songs on Kannada Audio, and randomly scrapping friends on Orkut.

12:20 - Too many tabs opened on a window, I guess, and Explorer has had enough. Without warning, it comes up with an error saying 'Explorer has encountered a serious problem and will close'. And poof, it closes all the sites at once. Though the loss is nothing so important or interesting to be furious at, I find myself cursing the laptop. There is a saying in Kannada which roughly translates to "going and sitting on an ant-hill, when there's nothing better to do". If only it had occurred to me, when I was showing off at Frankfurt airport having connected to public wi-fi without an anti-virus, my laptop would probably not have been in this state. To cut another story short, I had to take it to a HP authorised dealer to have it back in working condition without loss of any data.

12.25 - I shut my laptop down and place it on the chair (the one with the wheels). I visit the bathroom, remove my lenses and come back with my glasses on. With a cursory glance, I take in the general quadrangle of the room. Wash Clothes. Iron Trousers. Make space on the table for the laptop. Unpack completely. (I came back ONLY three weeks ago you see :P). Towel for tomorrow? Check. Ironed shirt? Check. Set alarm on the phone? Check. Removed from silent mode? Check.

12.35 - I switch off the light and jump into the bed. My eyes adjust to a pale orange light streaming in from the sodium vapour lamp outside. I take off my specs and place them above the laptop on the chair (the one with wheels). I look through the skylight into the darkness. It's an odd test I take sometimes - looking into the darkness with my heavily myopic eyes to see how much dark-distance I perceive. Sometimes it gets really interesting. Especially when you look at a luminous object, and then at something else, you see a superimposition of the luminous object over the real object in your line of vision. It is almost as if you can touch the vision with your hand, only it disappears when you outstretch your hand. It may lack an explanation, or may be it is too trivial to deserve one, but sometimes I do it for kicks. In Mysore, I could climb up the stairs and go to my room in pitch-dark "power cut" darkness, and return with Chelpark Black ink for my pen. Blindfolded. You tell me how.

12.40 - I close my eyes and try to sleep. I'm thinking about a dream which I had last week, and remembered to write about. What the dream was, I don't know now. But what I know is that I had remembered the dream then and wanted to get up and make notes lest I forgot about it. Why I didn't get up, nobody knows.

12.55 - I am shaking. It is not the usual shudder which I involuntarily have when there is a sudden cramp or a bad dream. Few seconds later, I realise it's not only me. The dim reflection of the white of the cupboard behind my bed is shaking too. The chair (the one with the wheels) is moving farther and farther away. A few seconds later, everything is still.
Puzzled, I go downstairs to talk to my flat mates who are usually awake till late. Unusually today, they are asleep, and do not respond when called. I walk back to my room and look around. I remember I shook unnaturally. I stretch my legs to feel any tell-tale pain which may have given a cramp. None. I look around, but there are no clues.

Only the chair (the one with wheels), having rolled to the center of the room, stands witness to my first second experience of an earthquake.

News:
Yesterday just before 0100 GMT, an earthquake measuring 5.2 on the Richter Scale, hit the UK. With its epicentre in Lincolnshire, it was the biggest earthquake in the UK in 25 years.

Asides:
1. I now know how people must have felt in Latur. What I experienced for 10 seconds was muffled by 100 miles of solid rock.
2. That Queer Shake is an anagram of The Earth Quakes.

Flashback in the New Year

As New Year says 'Hello', I am glumly reminded of the fact that it has been an year since I have been out of the country. Standing at the London Eye, watching the fireworks last year, I was not very sure that the year ahead would be without breaks at all. I had a faint hope I could go home sometime in between. Alas, it was not to be. But this New Year brings cheer with it, because, by Makara Sankranti, I will be back home for vacation.

The year that passed was a year of new acquisitions. Late as it was, but I did get my hands on the XDA Orbit. Quite common now, but at the same time last year, it was quite a sensation, and a fine sense of ownership would wash over me each time anyone asked to see it. This continued for a period of about six months, from when it started to become common. There was a similar kind of joy with the bluetooth stereo headsets, the high capacity hard-disks and the electronic gadgetry, though the joy this time was shortlived owing to their plummeting prices.

The year that passed was a year at the movies. I have never seen as many movies in one calendar year ever. If there is anything such as a good bargain, then it is the Cineworld Unlimited card. For 11 pounds per month (now 12), getting any number of movies, any number of times, any time of the day and at any theater in the UK is a superlative deal. Especially if the normal cost of a movie ticket is 7 pounds (now 8) for an adult. From watching Nehle Pe Dehla almost alone to seeing people watch Sivaji standing, I have done it all. I have been able to watch much-hyped big banner movies WEEKS before my friends saw it in India. I have seen them a lot cheaper too, if you think about it. If you wanted to watch Chak De India, Aaja Nachle and Om Shanti Om on the first day (as I did), you would probably pay more than what a non-member would pay here (approx. Rs.2000). The card is the first thing I recommend to any colleague who comes from India. So much so, that now, we are a sizeable number and at one point of time, we used to calculate the monthly cost-per-film and try to reduce the ratio the next month by watching more movies. Yeah, we are like this only.

The year that passed was a year of luck. How else would you define having seen from a distance of ten feet, the two most bankable stars of Bollywood - Amitabh Bachchan and Shahrukh Khan. It has been my fortune to be roomies with an FTII alumnus, who has immense hunger for films and their making. He is a member of the British Film Institute and the National Theatre. It directly results in getting passes/tickets to premieres (Chak De India premiere at London), award functions (IIFA at Yorkshire) and film festivals (London Film Festival).

The year that passed was a year of appreciating good food. When you get up early on a weekend (#1 on my 'Will-not-do' list) and travel 75 miles (#2 on my 'Will-not-do' list), just to get some breakfast, you know you miss India very very much. Over the year, I have travelled to London innumerable times, just to eat Idli/Dosa. Nothing else. I have noticed that the curry you make at home is better than the bland stuff which comes when you order from an "Indian" restaurant. I have learnt that my room-mates cook so well, that if I can rake up some money, I can persuade them to shift from IT to catering. I look back with extreme satisfaction that some of the best food I have eaten over the last 12 months was cooked by my own roomies. Back home, my grandmother, my mother and my three aunts all make coffee the same way, yet there is a distinctive taste of each coffee, and I could make out who made which coffee. Now, I have forgotten how filter coffee tastes. Here coffee is either a black hot espresso or a sugarless, milky latte. Being away makes you realise the value of things taken for granted.

The year that passed was a year of travelling. Brussels, Bruges, Ghent in Belgium. Rotterdam, Amsterdam and the famous Keukenhof in the Netherlands. Cardiff, Barry Islands, Swansea and the beaches of Port Eynon in Wales. Glasgow, Fort William, Fort Augustus, Isle of Skye and the Loch Ness in scenic Scotland. And in England - London, the temples at Birmingham and Neasden, Sheffield, Ipswich, the cathedral of Norwich, the beaches at Great Yarmouth and the Isle of Wight, the Roman Baths at Bath and Bristol. It's an utter pity, a shame in fact that I haven't found time to write about them yet. Each of them was an experience in itself and deserves mention.

The year that passed was a year of fun. Of driving on the motorways at 100 miles per hour - as fast as a Shoaib Akhtar delivery. Of experiencing the first snowfall. Of pelting each other with snowballs and making snowmen in the parking lots. Of seeing black ice on the roads. Of taking steam baths in the gym. Of converting a flatland in the park into a cricket patch (not a pitch). Of seeing only five hours of daylight. And then sixteen hours. Of waking up to dull grey mornings and watching out of the window, with a cup of hot tea in one hand and a phone back home in the other. And of the joy of having taken a seven-year young relationship towards its logical milestone.

2008 promises to be fun. Here I come!

Kaboom

And there goes another message to the political establishment, one more famous name added into the kitty of the perpetrators of terrorism. A 54 year old leader of a troubled state reduced to a mere number in their also-killed list.

I'm not a political guy, heck, I don't even understand the games played in the office, much less a country. Yet, when I see a person of the stature of Nawaz Sharif, emotional and choking on the television, saying it is the darkest day of his country, I know it is not drama. I see Benazir on the television, telling Barkha Dutt that she is not afraid of going back to her country, that she considers that no one can be killed until their time is up. I see Benazir emotional when she is back from exile into her homeland, jubiliant and confidently talking about what she wants to do next. I look at the family, where the father and his three children are tragically done to death and wonder what reason will possibly justify these murders.

Cut out all the fors and the againsts, leave aside all her political aspirations, and charges of corruption and what have you. Till today, here was your woman - living in exile, wanting to do something for her country, having lost her family to a series of unnatural deaths, and probably putting her own life on the anvil everytime four people gathered around her - and still saying it does not worry her as she enters her own country in dangerous times. Such guts!

And now, all that is left of those guts are two words making a cold headline. Benazir Assassinated.

The Spotlight Series

Having been associated with it for some time now, I take pride in bringing Blogbharti's latest offering - the Spotlight Series - where guest writers muse on issues that are relevant today.

Go have a look, will you?

Merry Christmas

Hmm... a long and an eventful break. Since the last post I have -

• enjoyed Diwali,
• been busy with work,
• seen the weather change till it almost snowed, but didn't,
• been down with a bout of cold, sore throat and general feverishness,
• been driving all over South Wales.

There's a lot to update, so keep watching. :D

Saawariya

Saawariya is a nice little love story, which looks very artificial at first sight, due to the extravagant sets created, and the picturisation of the story. But underneath the superficiality of the sets and the seeming anachronism, it is indeed a beautiful story of love and loss.

It is quite simple in its story, of a boy meeting a girl, falling in love at first sight, and attempting to woo her, not realising that she has someone else in her heart. And even after the realization, it sticks to reality in the sense that he does things which would be true of any person smitten. Have we not walked our girlfriends home? Have we not held their hand and guided them over puddles when we go enjoy the rain in Lonavala? Do we not harbour dreams of dancing for our sweetheart and proclaiming our love with the entire restaurant looking on? Do we not rejoice when she blushes a deep red when you are kneeling and the all the people in the room are rooting for her to say YES? Is it not natural that in the excitement of all this, a guy falters and falls flat on his face. What then is so artificial about this film that everyone is sinking their daggers in its chest and carving a Christmas turkey out of it? I risk fingers being pointed at me for bringing in comparisons, but at least, it is more believable than running on to the streets of New York and breaking into a dance where everyone else including the Yankees know all the steps.

This film compels you to go into the protagonist’s character to experience the full force of it. Once you are in the character, it matters little that the rocks are artificial, that the river which flows here is essentially the same water which has been channelled in from the fountain at the town square, and even that when the heroine comes sailing at night, there is no one paddling the boat. Yes, I noticed these “lapses of direction” as you would call them, but they were irrelevant in the context of love. Is it not true that when you’re in love, the most insane thing looks absolutely perfect. I am glad that SLB chose to build a set so artificial that love is the only thing that seems to be real. It is everywhere, in Raj, in Sakina, in Gulab, in Lillipop. You can give me a hundred things which were wrong in the movie, but I will give you just three scenes.

Masha Allah – Until the first occurrence of these words, the song does not picturise Sakina’s face in full, and when it emerges out into the moonlight, Raj looks at its beauty, resplendent and glowing in the milky moonlight, and exclaims, “Masha Allah”. His eyes are so wide, that he wants to soak up the ethereal beauty in front of him all at once. If this was a qawwali, this is when you would say “Wah Wah”. All through, the lyrics carry you forward through the thoughts going through his mind, and as you bask in his thoughts, you gasp, “Masha Allah”. Further down, we see them sailing underneath a bridge and she signals to him that the bridge is low, so they bend towards each other. And for the brief amount of time they pass the bridge, they have their heads down to each other, Raj metaphorically surrendering himself to her beauty. Silence, breaths held to an extent you can hear the heartbeats, the unequivocal ambiguity of what to say when one sits up again upright, and then “Masha Allah”. If this isn’t finesse, what is?

The scene where Raj and Sakina are standing on a raised platform on the town square, and he takes her in his arms and swivels her around so that her feet are off the platform and hanging mid-air away from the edge where he is standing. She clings on to him for support, knowing that the ground under her feet is far below, and he balances her wrapping his arms around her, almost saying, “I assure you I will not let go of you, not now, not once in life”. If this isn’t literally sweeping a lady off her feet, what is?

The scene where Sakina folds her hands in a namaste to ask forgiveness, and just as Raj wraps his palms around her hands, she retracts them, and says “Humne tumhe maaf kar diya”, revealing that now, Raj is in a position asking forgiveness. There are a lot of things like this, which make you feel lighter, which will take you back in time to remind you of things which you may have done or thought of doing. The guy, in awe of the girl, thinks she is leading him on, and reciprocates his feelings. The girl, obviously flattered by the interest shown, tries to humour him. If this does not bring out the coy one-upmanship igniting the sparks of a mutual attraction, what does?

What's good in it?
Sets are extravagantly created, in an obvious attempt to re-create St.Petersburg in winter. Music is superlative. One could not ask for more from a debut performance. Directing music for the first time, after having given background score of Black and Devdas, Monty Sharma gives an above-par performance with music with enough pain in it to make you cry. The lyrics complement the feelings of the actors and are like little ferries which take you from one part of the story to another, and by the time you are there, you know what the actors went through. I would, however, have liked a bit more Urdu in the parts where Sakina’s feelings are depicted. Due to their use in bringing the thoughts out, one feels that the songs are a bit over-used, and having a similar base, all the songs (except one) seem similar, as if they are stemming out of the title song Saawariya.

Ranbir and Sonam would still have to prove themselves in commercial films under big banners, because this film does not give them much space to deviate from the adaptation and bring in their full repertoire into use. However, Ranbir's dancing skills and toned body have been exhibited for those film makers who would want to bank on him. Zohra Sehgal impresses in her small role, and Salman Khan and Rani Mukherjee are wasted. Any one would do in their place, and it seems that they have been added to give the star value to the film.

My reco - If by going to a film, your expectation is to while away the monotony of five days in office, then this film is not for you. This is something that has to be watched for the effort that has been put in to bring out love as the only real thing, all else artificial. As a fantasy, it is certainly more believable than Paheli, which has a ghost romancing a girl and impersonating her husband. (I delayed watching Paheli after hearing this very line “ghost romancing a girl”, but when I watched it, I liked it).

A beautifully made film, you will appreciate it as soon as you identify yourself with the character in even one scene, and that identification will happen if only you have ever loved someone to the point where all else seems futile and meaningless.

Of Cabbies and Celebration

Calling a cab comes easily to people who don’t have a car here. Bringing down groceries every week from Sainsbury’s, going home from office at unearthly hours, or just if you are not in the mood to walk to office – the simplest thing to do is to call a cab. I think, if you go counting, in all of my eleven months here, “Can I have a cab from … ” would come third after “Sorry” and “Thanks” in the list of most-used phrases. In fact, the phone numbers of the cab companies were one of the first ones to go into my phonebook. Most of the cabbies are from the sub-continent – Indians, Pakistanis, Bangladeshis. Srilankans are conspicuous by their absence – In all these days, I have run into only one Srilankan cabbie named Kobalakrishnan. There are also a large number of African youth, and a small cross-section of local people among the cab-driving crowd.

We usually have a small chat in the seven-odd minutes it takes to drop me home. They usually start with the very British “You alright?”. I think it will slowly overcome the quintessential London cabbie opening gambit, “Where to, guv?”. Although there are 3-4 cab companies operating around here, we desi crowd usually call only one. Legend has it that the owner of this company is a man of the sub-continent who started out as a cabbie and set up shop when
Milton Keynes was in its toddler years. Considering that MK is a very young city (only 40 years old) and very different from other English cities, the cabbie grew with the city and became prosperous. The more practical and buyable reason is that in our experience of calling cabs in our Indian accented English, this company dispatches cars faster than other companies. Given the number of times we call the cabs, we get some really chatty guys who break the ice as soon as we sit down.

Some of them play with us at the local cricket club. Some of them say they have houses for rent. Some of them advertise their shop, offering discounts if we pick up beer by the crate and such like. Some of them pour out their woes on us. Apparently, software is eating away into their jobs as well.

Aapke yahan naya masheen laga hai kya? Maine phone kiya tha to automated response aaya.
Haan? Kya aaya?
Humse poocha yahan se pickup karna hai to 1 dabao, ya operator se baat karne ke liye 2 dabao. Humne 1 dabaya to poocha abhi chahiye to 1 dabao. Humne phir 1 dabaya to aapka cab bhej diya.
Achcha.
Achcha system hai, cab book karne mein pehle jitna time nahi lagta hai abhi.
Bhai, unhone 35000 hazaar ka woh masheen lagaya hai, aur who kam se kam chaar aadmiyon ka kaam karega.
35000?
Kam hai. Humare 10-12 operator baithe hain wahan. Har operator ko per week 250-300 dena padta hai. Agar ye chaar aadmi ka bhi kaam karta hai, to ye paisa to unko (250 x 4 operators x 4 weeks) 9 months mein aa jayega. Uske baad ka sab to munafa hai.

What is this new machine which you have installed? I called and got an automated response.
Yeah? What was the response?
It asked me to press 1 if you want to be picked up from (my address). I pressed 1 and it asked me to press 1 if I needed the cab immediately. I pressed 1 and you came along.
I see.
It is a good system, booking a cab is faster than before now.
Brother, they have installed a machine for 35000 pounds, it will do the job of atleast 4 people.
35000?
It is less. We have 10-12 operators, every operator is paid 250-300 (£). Even if the machine does the work of four people, this money is recovered in 9 months (250£ x 4 operators x 4 weeks). After that, it is profit.

And then, during the Twenty-20 World Cup, in the days before the final, cab-rides would generally be silent. That was because India was all set to face Pakistan, and a sizeable number of our drivers have Pakistani roots. It becomes very uncomfortable to remain neutral when speaking about obvious strengths and weaknesses of each team. More so, when they threw statistics – in the last three games of their dream run into the finals, India successively
batted first and defended its total, while Pakistan always bowled first and chased down the total. It was like an invisible wall.

Then on the day of the final, we encountered a motley crowd from the bank across – a big mix of first and second generation settlers and visiting workers like us. We were sitting in Wetherspoons, a popular watering hole, which offers food and drinks all day, and beams live telecast of major sporting events on four screens. Every boundary or wicket was cheered enthusiastically by respective crowds. The bartenders raised an eyebrow at the hooting and the
loud thumping of tables when Joginder was hit for a six in the last over. One ball later, they could not do anything about the dancing on the chairs, the shrill whistles screeching across the already high decibel level of the howling public and the wide-eyed locals watching the Indian crowd do a street-dance in their office wear. For one whole week, the hollow silence of the cab-rides echoed the ruckus of those thirty minutes. Again, the invisible wall, the curt replies and the general discomfort. Then everyone grew out of it for the better.

Last week, I took a cab home as it was chilly, and I was too bored to walk home in the cold, moist outdoors. My cabbie was a middle-aged guy from the subcontinent, white-haired, and spoke with an acquired but broken British accent. I was half expecting him to start a conversation on the current India-Pak series when he opened up asking “Haanji, kahan choD doon aapko?” (“Yes, where can I drop you off?”)

I told him, and he quickly changed back to English.
“Whereabouts are you from?”
“India.”
“Where in India?”
“Mysore.”
“Oh. Mysore”, he repeated, then, “Where from in Mysore?”
People who ask me where I’m from usually stop when I say Mysore. They say it’s a beautiful place or they associate it as the Poona of Bangalore, but few ask where I am from within Mysore. Had this guy been there?

“I’m from Mysore proper. Do you want to know which part of Mysore I come from?”
We stop at a traffic light. He looks at me and says, “Mysore is like a state in India, right?” Lights turn green. As he drives ahead, I explain, “No, the princely state of Mysore became Karnataka long ago, and Mysore is a city now.” He keeps looking across the road into a parking lot as we drive. He glances at me and says, “I’m just looking for my wife – she works here – see if you can spot a yellow Mini”.

We search for a yellow Mini, but there is none. Another traffic light. He looks at me and says, “So, which part of Mysore are you from? Karnataka?”. “No”, I reply, “I’m from Mysore, and Mysore is a part of Karnataka.”

“Yeah, yeah. And what do you speak there?”
“Kannada.”
“Canada”, he says, and smiles.

"How long are you here for?"
"Almost an year now. I might return soon", I reply.
"Given a chance", he says, "would you like to stay here permanently?"
I smile and look around the darkness at half past five. "No, a year or two is fine, but I don't think I'd like to stay back here. I would go home."
"But, why? You know, it's all dirty there, so much pollution, so much corruption. The ministers, the clerks, they all ask money to do small things."
"Yeah, but all said and done, India is home."
"Why? You have work here, you are getting money."
"Yeah, I guess it comes down to personal choice then."

We were near my house, and I told him to pull over. He reverse-parked into my driveway, and pulled out a pamphlet. "See this", he said. It was a Barclays Bank ad offering an account in India. Then he showed me a receipt printed out from a website. It showed a transaction for a sum of around 80000 USD.

"I bought a detached house in Sarjapur Road, Bangalore. Is the price about right?" he asked. I did a classic double-take. Here was a guy, driving taxis around, settled here in the UK, and he had bought a house worth 32 lakhs in Bangalore.

"Family, that's why we all go back, innit?", he continued, "I'm a Punjabi. My brother, he lives in Bangalore in a four storeyed house - he has the first floor, his mother is in the second, and his nephew in the third floor. And someone else on the fourth. I have this house now, and I will be going in January. I will eat masala dosa. Masala dosa, you don't get that here ... "

A voice inside me said, "muh to band karo, uncle", and as I drew my jaw up, he was finishing "... make money, come here; want bhelpuri, go there."

I paid him his three pounds, and as I was getting out, he offered his hand, "What's your name, I'll see you again."
"Vikas", I said, "what's yours?"
"My name means 'Light'", he declared.
"Deep?"
Yeah, yeah, he prodded.
"Deep...er...Deepak?"
"Yes", he grinned indulgently.
"Cheers, Deepak. Happy Diwali."
"Hey, is it Diwali already?"
"Yes, today is Dhan Teras. Two days later its Diwali and then Bhai Dooj."
"Oh", he said, and then, "I will show my ignorance here, but when is Rakhi?"
"Rakhi is already over, my friend."
"Not my fault, I don't have any sister, you see. See you around", he said, and drove away.

I watched him until he turned at the end of the road. Here was an Indian, driving a taxi, and come January, he would be in his own house in Bangalore, munching away on masala dosa. I took a long look at myself, and then scurried inside.

And on that note, have a Happy Diwali.

And one more

You know I'm maha impressed with the Swedes, their innovation and the Slow Down Culture.

Here's one more. My good friend Beryle forwards me this. And she's asked me to thank her. (Thanks, Beryle). Before you ask, this is an ad in a Swedish magazine for some job openings in ABB, the automation giant.

It says, "Is your future in Beijing(Chinese script), Västerås(Swedish) or BengaLuru (KannaDa)?"

While we can all take pride in the fact that 'phoren log' did actually make the effort of putting in the name of the city in the language of the land, I cannot help but wonder - what if the idea was put forth by a kannaDiga, working away in an outsourced office in BengaLuru. :D

Unbelievable

Amazing. Ballistic. Colossal. Dashing. Extraordinary. Fantastic. Gosh! Heavenly. Iconic. I can go on and on and on till I reach Z two times over, but Amitabh Bachchan will still have much more in his repertoire which will go unmentioned.

You might wonder why I am bursting with emotions like a teenager on seeing a rock star!! Well, ten hours after shaking hands with the Big B, I am still to shake the electric feeling off myself. Allow my restless feet to break into a jig once again, allow my fist to pump the air once again, it is but once in a lifetime that a commoner gets to see the Big B, let alone touch him.

YES! YES! YES! *leaping into the air*

Thanks to my friend P, who is a BFI member, (and keeps springing up treats like the Chak De India Premiere and the IIFA Award function in Yorkshire) I was at the Odeon West End, London, today to watch The Last Lear. Odeon West End is one of the venues of the ongoing London Film Festival (for which P has taken two weeks off work and is watching world cinema while volunteering as a BFI member) and The Last Lear and Darjeeling Limited are two of the Indian films being showcased in this extravaganza.

But, coming back to Bachchan again, Wow!! The man has an even more commanding persona in flesh and blood than on camera. I first saw him through the glass of the entrance, giving interviews to TV channels. Later as I settled in my "second-row from the screen" seat, a mike on the stage, right in front of me, gave me a subtle hint. I realised that if AB were to speak at the mike, boss, I would have the best seat in the whole auditorium. Lo and behold, AB appeared from behind and proceeded to walk on stage to the mike.

After the initial few photographs, I just held the digicam aside to record his video, while I just gaped open-mouthed at the legend - just looking at him, wondering if this was for real, if the baritone ringing through the speakers was THE real thing. At 64, AB carries himself quite remarkably. He does not droop from the weight of the films that ride on his shoulders, his voice does not falter for one moment, and his eyes, though dim in their shimmer, have not lost any of the intensity.

And as he wound up his opening speech, I shut my recording, and before he could leave the stage, leaned forward and asked to shake his hand. Call me crazy, or brand me a typical desi - all your suited-booted decorum can go take a walk. This was the closest I got to the man in all my four and score years, and NO WAY was I going to throw away a chance of getting my hands on him. AB was taken by surprise, I guess, but he did oblige me, and boy, does he have a firm grip!!!

I might have sat in the front row, but I watched the movie from Cloud Nine!!!

Update: I have uploaded AB's speech on Youtube, here, in five parts. Watch out for the third part of the video where I pan the camera around. Those who recognise me in my current avatar can attempt to find me in this IBN-Live video.