Their eyes met in that crowded local train and each thought rather uncharitable thoughts about the other.
Why is that woman in the general compartment? Don’t I have enough trouble pushing my way through men that I now have to battle women too!
Why is that man staring at me so obnoxiously? Had the train not been pulling out of the platform, I would have been spared this compartment full of lecherous idiots!
He had to get off at Parel and she grudgingly allowed him to make his way through the masses of flesh, he scowled at her momentarily before moving on. After alighting, he was glad to see that his shirt had not suffered much damage; it would do for the day. He wouldn’t have to change into the spare one he kept in his desk-drawer at all times.
Parel station and the world outside it, is quintessential of the diversities that Mumbai is famous for. It is a sea of grocery shops, farsan and sweet houses, pan-beedi ke dukaan, unhygienic restaurants and roadside sellers of combs, stationary, vegetables and cds. And then start those corporate complexes with tall sky-scrapers, housing some of the best known media and advertising agencies in the country.
Amanpreet made his way to one of those complexes, marveling once again at how people in this city had the patience to sit in their cars while traffic crawled along inch-by-bloody-inch. Who were all these people and why had they chosen to be in Bombay? Perhaps, like him, some had come to make a mark in their chosen professions; like him, most were stuck in the never-ending agonies of commute; unlike him, maybe they were satisfied.
Not that his job was the absolute pits. He got to meet top media bosses and executives and the mandate was to treat most of them like shit. Well, that is how the power equations in this industry worked. If your client was powerful enough, channels queued up to accommodate its latest campaigns and advertisements; if not, then you were the one doing all the running from p-to-p. He had sat in on many a meeting where some guy from his firm would start to bargain rates with a channel and it was fun to see how far he could stretch it. That part was cool.
He often got depressed when he thought about his family back in Dehradoon. Dehradoon. Not as ruskin-bond-esque nowadays as one would imagine but close enough. Bougainvillea creepers, blue winding roads, red brick houses, the slight nip in the air.
Screeeeeech. Rudely jolted awake, Amanpreet quickly crossed the road before the driver who had ground to a halt to avoid hitting him could say much. Lyrics of a popular song filled his head as he walked casually on.
..Zara hat ke zara bach ke,
Yeh hai Bambai meri jaan.
Monday, October 13, 2008
AnS - Part II
Friday, October 10, 2008
AnS - Part 1
They met in a crowded first class compartment.
Amanpreet was a 23 year old, working in a media planning firm. After graduating with a degree in Mass Communication, this had been his first job and he was hoping, not his last. What’s the deal with the client being always right anyway? Those servile buggers at his firm would send the earth circling around Jupiter if it brought so much as the shadow of a smile to the powers-that-be. But then again he thought, it was difficult to make that shift he so desired. He noticed how deftly the fellow selling key-chains in the adjoining ladies compartment packed up his jing-bang in a matter of 5 seconds and thought morosely that the guy at least had the satisfaction of knowing that he had mastered his work.
Sayanee was 25 summers down, and as she described herself - an Engineer and a lover of the English language, perhaps not in that order. She was working in the IT industry and quite enjoying herself. Her clients were fun-loving people and there was some chance she would get to go to the States before the year was up. The current financial crisis had made things a little bleak for the industry, even the company she worked for, but her department was well-diversified; with on-site ranging from Dublin to Delhi. Well, as long as she got a good salary and loads of opportunities to travel, was there really another purpose to life? Naah.
Mumbhai. Yes, selling key-chains is somewhat of an art here. Dotting the rather over-crowded landscape in a ladies compartment, these tough kids carry what looks like a cumbersome and precariously balanced jumble of key-chains, earrings, hair-clips and other such fast-moving-ultra-mass-consumer-goods, but come a station, and before you can utter even one expletive at the person standing unhelpfully in front of you, they have the whole thing packed and the notes pocketed.
Mumbhai. While there’s many a slip between the cup and the lip, there isn’t any other damn place in the world that will give you the chance to drink again and again and again.
Tuesday, October 07, 2008
The Waters of Cologne
Our next trip was to Northern Germany and Netherlands. In Germany, we were to go to Köln, Düsseldorf and then onto Berlin. However the building came crashing down even before the foundation stone had been laid. A day before we were set to leave for Köln, somebody luckily took out the tickets and checked, thus illuminating the fact that they were for the wrong date; and even as we were standing there, looking at each other in dismay, the train we did have tickets for was pulling out of Gare Montparnasse.
Anyhow, it turned out okay. We did reach Köln, through a series of change-of-trains and night-long journeys. I do not remember all the details now, but I believe Hamburg was involved in some way. I remember having an early morning breakfast at Hamburg station, waiting for the next connecting train.
A little bit of history about Köln, because not only do I strive to entertain the reader, but also endeavor to educate him. Köln is the German name (Cologne being the French one) of the 4th largest city in Germany, after Berlin, Hamburg and Munich; it is also one of the oldest cities, founded by the Romans in 38 BC. It lies by the River Rhine and interestingly, Eau de Cologne means The Water of Cologne; since a couple of Italians set shop there to sell this preparation made of herbs and what-not which Napolean could not get enough of.
We only had a few hours in Köln. As soon as you step out of the station, there lies its famous Cathedral. This imposing Gothic structure once held the title of the world’s tallest structure, before Eiffel and many others arrived on the scene. Legend goes that in spite of being the object of several aerial bombings in World War II, this Cathedral stood tall and proud in a largely flattened city.
The station area had enough excitement surrounding it. There was an open space, with tourists milling around, the market-place started almost immediately and of course, there was the Wailing Wall. The Wailing Wall is a series of paintings, drawings, poetry, newspaper clippings, gory and inspirational messages - from all over the world, mostly pertaining to the Second World War, but also showcasing a bit of the Israel-Palestine conflict. It tries to promote peace in this crazy crazy world.
We walked into the market, so much exciting stuff was up for grabs, and for a change, it was quite inexpensive too. I bought a beautiful shawl and some kitschy jewellary. We even went into a bar and drank a little and then stood by the riverside taking pictures.
One thing I must put down here, the people of Köln were very happy to see us for some inexplicable reason. Everybody kept smiling, waving and greeting us. It made us also very happy. Incredible how happiness and cheer are so infectious.
The evening kept getting more and more picturesque as it descended into night - The silhouette of the gigantic cathedral against the skyline, with the dark and mysterious river at its feet; a thread of bright yellow street lights lending even more glamour to the scene, their reflections bouncing off the onyx waters.
A Kodak moment, to be frozen in time, in my memory.
Monday, September 29, 2008
Outpouring
And then it gives the classic slip
My mind is a flurry of reasons, a jamboree
Churning out image after image
There I lie, crucified on the cross of reason
That is me behind the clouds, like the sun after - spreading light and wisdom
I dive into the ocean and bring back pearls
Yet I laugh like a hyena lurking in shadowy depths even Satan would not cross
I don’t look back
Whatever else I do
I do look back at times
And resolve it shall never be the same
When the dust has settled
When the battle is over
When the soldiers are dead, or gone home
When the medals have been pinned and the songs have been sung
That is when I pick up my sword and examine it close
I wipe out the blood, remove the tassels
It either shines like the North Star or
Crumbles in my hand like shattered glass
The Eternal Divide
Another whopper is the way people at office are.
A little bit of background first - I am working with the global team for Rin - Radiant to be precise, as it is called the world over. The first few days entailed going over material to understand the laundry habits of consumers in India and Thailand. I am now in a position to state, to the second decimal, ki junta apne kapdon ki dhulai hafte mein kitnein baar karti hai.
Moreover, my office is in Andheri and I live in Andheri. I must be the first human in the history of this great city to take less than 1.05 hours to reach work everyday.
So cut to the present. People at office - they are the complete anti-thesis of your threat-toting-invective-spitting Sales guy. They are chilled-out. They need to be. It’s a thinker’s game. Not much time to think in Sales. You can’t be creating great propositions when your team has to do 15 crores in 7 days, with a couple of bandhs coming up, a Big Bazaar Maha-bachat sale happening, topped with some random Mela - selling jaali Sunsilk and Fair n Lovely, that too - Ek lo toh Ek free. To add to that - the product that contributes 20 percent to your turnover has escalated steeply in price and the brand that literally pays your salary, by virtue of having the highest gross margins has lost its earlier consumer-acceptance. Aag lagi rehti hai bhai Sales mein.
I know I am getting abstruse.
So anyway - these Brand guys - they are the ones responsible for developing the brand. They sit and have serious discussions about whether the next communication should have a sasur-bahu angle or a bachha-and-his-dog angle and the psychological impact of each on the average consumer. They talk about fragrances and mixes and consumer blind tests, they talk about launches in Pakistan, Bangladesh and South Africa and telecons with people from five countries joining in; but at the end of the day, they keep their sanity.
Case-in-point -
Sales - He-who-must-not-be-named told me - You must work on weekends. And there is no need for sleep beyond 6 hours for a trainee.
Brands - A guy, of a similar designation as the aforementioned HWMNBN, exclaimed - Work on weekends? No way. Enjoy, party, get sloshed and if you want to know the names of some good places, just give me a ring.
They don’t want to grill us. They don’t want to kill us. It feels strange.
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
Wild Wild West
Yes, I do remember them like that. I also remember them as being trying and taxing; one of the most life-changing phases in my life. But like I had said once - more on my personal life in my autobiography.
So here we were. Back in Brest after our first trip to Austria, Southern Germany and Slovakia. We had made some friends and went out partying with them. At least I did. With these two Indian women - the Ruchis - for what can be described as a ‘girls’ night out’ in Yankee parlance. We went pubbing and I decided to throw caution to the winds. When was I going to get the chance to get absolutely mind-blowingly-deliciously-debauched, in a place where no one recognized me?
A disc in forenland is a place to hook up. I had a ball, dancing like a lunatic on jail-break.
It was crazy, wild. More than alcohol, it was the thought that I could do whatever I wished that intoxicated me. Although I realized during the course of the night that social conditioning is stronger than one assumes it to be. I could not cross the line. I realized I didn’t want to.
Towards the end, I got strangely depressed. None of those people I had danced with, or spoken to would remember me beyond the stupor of their hangovers. I would not remember them either. Where were the people who really mattered?
Lately I have realized that your adolescent notion of invincibility is actually something else. It is part-fear-part-denial. One grows up.
Hey - do you believe in rock ‘n roll,
Tell me, can it save your mortal soul,
..And can you teach me how to dance real slow?
Saturday, August 23, 2008
Grey
It has been long since I blogged. And there are infinite reasons. One could be that I don’t have enough to say. Could be, but isn’t. The real reason is that I have just too much to say.
This train chugs from Amdavad towards Mumbai. Mood - Grey. Skies - Black. On a tangent, have to get used to police dogs on platforms and in the trains. People milling around like normal, but there are these dogs to remind you that the pendulum swings far east.
Just finished reading that book - IIM to Gangjdundwara. Can’t believe it actually happened. The Epilogue is one of the most moving ones I have read in recent times. Do we ever really value experiences enough, until it is certain they are never to happen to us again?
I wish to do so much with my life. And yet in the quest for bigger things, we miss out on all the little things we could do to make a far-reaching impact on maybe - one person’s life. On the other side of this talk, lies the cynicism - why should all of us be striving to make a difference? It’s all just beauty-pageant-mumbo-jumbo anyway. Is there really a higher purpose to our existence, or are we here, as one of my dearest friends used to say - just to procreate?
That dearest friend is no more. In body, he is - somewhere. In spirit, he left me long ago. Or maybe I left him.
I want to freeze every memory in my head. I want to be able to summon them at will and relive them at leisure. I don’t ever want to go away, to lose touch, to not speak everyday with the people I do speak everyday with at this point in my life. I want every phase of my life to continue forever. Yet, I want several phases happening together. I want to be able to switch at will. Like Alt + Tab.
Is there a little of the tragic hero in all of us? Is there a little bit more in some than in others? Are all men born equal? Are some more equal than others? Is it competence against compassion? Is competence absolute? Is compassion ultimate?
The mood remains grey. The grey of a rainy day.
Wednesday, July 09, 2008
Devnagari dalliances
Take me, for example. I caught myself thinking in Hindi the other day. It has only been over a month and a half that I started spouting Hindi, albeit like a broken fountain at the beginning - eloquence would come in bursts, followed by brief struggles that were attempts to translate complicated stuff into what is, ironically, my mother-tongue. Now - I even count in Hindi.
I am not trying to sound hip here. It’s just that I love the English language. Although I did very well at Hindi in school, English was my passion. I read my first real book when I was eight and never stopped. What I like about the language, I guess, is its universality, its vastness, its reach. I have access to so much more of the world because of it. Also, I imagine Hindi as a prudish old gentleman, a preacher of moral rectitude, his fiction often mired in tragedy - like Premchand. English is PG Wodehouse and Albert Camus; Enid Blyton and Harold Robbins; Ruskin Bond and Alistair McLean; Sidney Sheldon and Shakespeare.
Topic Change. About the Aarushi-hatyakand - the media-fication appalls me. What must those eight-year olds watching these murky proceedings be thinking? For a kid, completely enamored with her equally-doting dad, it must have come as a shock that fathers can be suspected of such evil. (I am not saying I believe he did it, I am just saying that even the suggestion of that must have been a perspective-changing experience for a child whose imagination would never have, otherwise, suggested such a possibility). Kids tend to magnify their unique little troubles. I hope parents are being sensible enough to shield their children from this blitzkrieg. I hope it’s possible to do so.
Wednesday, July 02, 2008
Pseudo-intellectual moi
Today I saw Amitav Ghosh being interviewed on some news channel. Barkha Dutt was conducting it, and the audience mostly comprised literature professors. I have not read too much of him, only ‘Dancing in Cambodia, at large in Burma’, and that too, when I was very young. I do remember that it introduced me to Pol Pot.
He is from St Stephens’ college. So are Shashi Tharoor, Kapil Sibal, Natwar Singh and Mani Shankar Aiyar to name a few. I am not just dropping data, I am mighty impressed.
My curriculum-vitae reads funny - an Engineering degree in Telecommunications, a two year stint in IT (which had as little to do with Telecom as the Ram Temple in Ayodhya has to do with Godliness) and then the MBA which led to what I believe is my calling - far truer than any other - Marketing and perhaps, Sales (Sales is like the martinet-general, once schooled by him, you are never the same; but a good soldier, after having received his war-stripes, moves on.) I still have to make my mind up about that.
This post is meandering. What I really intended to do is mull over what I would have been had I not stepped into the glam-n-glitz of engineering (I suffer from intellectual snobbery, being an engineer is like page-three glamour for me :P ).
I have this theory - the life-is-a-canvas theory. I thought it up one day and was strangely proud of it. I tried to tell a few people, but they only laughed. One of my greatest achievements in life has been overcoming the fear of being ridiculed. So here it is - my life-is-a-canvas theory - for public consumption.
Internal Vs External. Self Vs Fate. Ability Vs Circumstances. Imagine a canvas - many-textured, loha at some places, satin at others; many hued - black and white and the entire range in between; glittering glimmering like a star and then again, dull as grey - imagine such a canvas. And then imagine yourself as an artiste. You daub at times, paint in broad strokes at others and bloody throw the damned pot of paint at the infuriating canvas on occasion. You change colors, you change themes, and you even change brushes. Some paint well, some don’t. Sometimes you paint well, but not always. The painting that you finally see emerging is your labor of love, no doubt, but not entirely as you had imagined it inside your head. Sometimes, it is better.
There it is - my theory! Hah! Although, it’s no E=MC^2, I bet Einstein would not have laughed.
Sunday, June 08, 2008
The Silver Lining
So anyway, it being 7 am on a Sunday morning, I switched-off for some more shut-eye. But my brain being the sort of villain it is - started shooting me red-alerts only an hour past. It knows. It knows that sleeping late on a Sunday is not the sort of luxury I can enjoy right now. As I was discussing with a friend the other day - Education ruined us.
I don’t really mean that. I would not like being vella. I like to work, to apply myself with a ferocity that scares even me at times. It’s just that - there are moments when I realize the viciousness of the cycle that I have got myself into. The pressure is intense, the will to excel is too; but the bar keeps getting raised. I know I will never ever fall short, but what happens to those dreams of long vacations, movie-marathons, quality family-time, gymming and dance classes, adda-ing with friends - lost&found&past&present, book-clubs and copious reading, love?
It is a tight-rope walk alright. Somedays I find it exhilarating - actually most days I do. You have to stay-put, up there in the air; neeche gehri khaai hai - bottomless chasm of never-ending responsibilities, assignments and promotions no doubt - but leaving you with slight opportunity to enjoy the fruits of labor.
And I am talking on behalf of most of the well-educated, talented people nowadays who get into crème-de-la-crème jobs early-on in life and then get creamed.
Chuck. On a lighter note, I recently visited the markets with a salesman who happens to be an artiste - the acting-bug has him in its girraft - and he boasts of a repertoire comprising some 200-odd shayaris. He started belting them out on the ride back. Now, I remember Banjo talking about a similar experience on his travels. But I am one-up on him. Peruse this -
Dibbi pe dibbi, dibbe mein choona
Dibbi pe dibbi, dibbe mein choona
Jab Shreya madam jaaegi Puna
Prime Distributors ho jaaega soona!
Heh. The perks of this job are many. Some are obvious and some - a little unconventional. These latter ones do ‘perk-you-up’, nonetheless.
Monday, June 02, 2008
Amdavad!
Truly speaking, it has been the best week at work so far. Life does the hula-hoops around targets, invoices, inventory, margins and discounts. There are market visits – irate shopkeepers who lay bare all the torturous practices (real or imaginary) that Levers has subjected them to, or extremely ingratiated ones who want to transfuse your blood with Wagh Bakri. I fire-fight, and when actions fail, words soothe. Saving the best for the last, the crowning glory of this week has been - being in a position where I am to lead seven grown men – all graduates and experienced at their work – the Salesmen. People, whom I am supposed to motivate, monitor, remonstrate quite frequently and nurture. I try.
The other stud in the stable is the distributor - one of those picture-perfect seths – cash-cribbing, daughter-doting, wily-little-magnate, who probably learnt aatte-daal kaa bhaav before the alphabet.
Sales is something else. It’s dog-eat-dog and dynamic – extremely affected by externalities – be those in the form of a dip in the share market or the new school year. To explain – both of the above result in ‘market mein mandi’ since trade does not have the purchasing power. Then there is the fact that all the stakeholders are constantly trying to take you for a ride. I sleep like a dog – an eye and a ear open, on constant alert.
A shopkeeper recently kept asking me – Madam, kya aap practical ho? I finally asked him to explain to me the meaning of the word and as it turns out, he was worried that being a girl, I wouldn’t be able to get my work done, if need be, through underhanded means – tedhi oongli kaa istamaal. I wonder. Although it has nothing to do with being a girl. That if anything, is an advantage.
You may ponder if you have the time and patience that this that I am describing does not sound all that different from what I was doing in the first two weeks. Let me explain. Then I was a hanger-on, an observer, a side-kick at best. Now I am the one whose head will roll. A couple of cool crores hold me to ransom.
As of now, I am celebrating, one of the many targets has been met and I am taking my boys out to dinner. They worked hard towards it – madam se party jo leni thi. Smart boys – street-wise since they spend so much time on it, making ample use of psychology and subliminal coercion to meet their ends. I like them, but my mind at times screams in militaristic fashion – saavdhaan!
Watte industry. I am sorry to see little red riding hood, or whatever of her was left, take flight. On the other hand, someone had once said, which went on to make television history – Welcome to the real world; it sucks; but you will love it.
Sunday, May 18, 2008
Brest - Part Deux
We didn’t spend a lot of time in Brest, but it’s incredible how much there is to talk about.
Our Institute – ESC Bretagne Brest. It was total paisa-wasool. Firstly, it was wi-fi. And then, we met some interesting people there. All our courses were in English and our classmates were exchange students from other countries as well as locals who wanted to try their tongues at the language. The professors were mostly visiting faculty from another school or industry experts. And they were all top-notch. Well, almost all. They were knowledgeable and well-versed in the art of teaching – taking time, and giving many practical examples to drive a point home.
We were the kings though – we would come back from trips, complete projects overnight and make jaws drop by what everyone thought was exhaustive research and diligent hard-work. And the jaws would remain dropped when we revealed that a mere night-out had resulted in those histrionics. It’s not like the French are dumb. But we Indians have been through a very rigorous system, right from our child-hoods. We definitely have higher standards of output and much more practice at delivering them.
That said, I like the pedagogy there. Relaxed and non-competitive to a large degree. The class strength is small and there is something to be said for that. Individual attention is possible and is conducive to exploration and learning. Professors take much more effort to explain concepts, using visual and literary aids to ratify and emphasize. Sure, the education system we have here makes us hard-working and ambitious, competitive to a fault. But it doesn’t make us curious enough.
Our classmates were from all over. A trio from Slovakia – blonde and statuesque. The guy among them was extremely sharp - as quick as silver. A pair from China – they were strange. Disparate in age and life-styles, one was the perfect Yin to the other’s Yang. The guys in my gang came to know a couple of local fellows from the school Rugby team which even led to one unforgettable rugby-playing-session for them. There were some others we would talk now and then to, but maximum air-time has to be given to the Ruchis. Ruchi Jain and Ruchi Aggarwal - both management students there. We made friends with them early-on, and hung-out often. I even had a couple of girls’-nights-out with them. Wild times, will elaborate a little later. The thing to be noted here is that even for the short duration of three months - we could not keep controversy at bay and were soon privy to the tangled equations between these two girls. My take-away from it all - it’s tough, living in a foreign country, especially when you’ve never been away from home before. It’s like a crash-course on life. Ruchi Jain would know.
Memories are like the streets in Venice – crissing and crossing unexpectedly, way leading to way. Back to the present for now- it’s 1 o’ clock on a Sunday and I need to get going. I will try the whole sitting-alone-in-coffee-shop-with-book thing today. Can’t get over the romance of it.
Friday, May 16, 2008
Work-Life balance
Talking of distributors, the face of retail in India is going to be immensely different in a few years. While I may have read this before, I have come abreast of live examples only recently. Imagine a Metro Cash n Carry – the wholesaler takes home 15-16 percent margins. He is happy but somewhere the local distributor is tossing and turning in his bed. The same phenomenon – deep pockets, corporate-backing and economies of scale which translates into might, is threatening the kiranas and family grocers - in the guise of Modern Trade. They are concerned. They are caught in the maelstrom of change.
Going by some of my latest posts, one may get the impression that I think of nothing but work. True to a large extent, but not entirely. Sometime back I read that Salman Rushdie’s ‘Midnight’s Children’ is slated to win the ‘Best of the Booker’ award. I love the book and worship his writing. Am reading ‘Shalimar the Clown’ right now and it is rich. More than the content, I like the literary devices he makes use of. I remember being blown away by MC. Indian Mujahideen or whosoever you are – rot in hell.
As an aside – a thought, albeit borrowed - An intellectual is someone whose mind watches itself. Nice. Although, intellectuals may not really be the full-house they are trumped-up to be. Ask the self-taught ‘software-engineer’ who wrote the ERP being used by stockists all over Gujarat; you won’t catch him mouthing N=1 and R=G, but his nose for dhanda can tame the highest-flying Pinocchio.
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
Hoodibaba
Meherbaan Kadardaan - come to Baroda. Come one, come all. At any given point of time, especially when the sun is beating you into pulp, you may encounter a two-wheeler with a helmeted-n-mustachioed Maratha riding proud and a funny little thing sitting pillion.
Now listen close – all ye apples of mine eyes and I shall let you in on a secret – if that funny little thing sitting pillion is not me then there are no rings around Saturn and the Indian Film Industry is chock-full of innocent young girls who go home to their mammas at night. SSSso, me it is, albeit, with a unique contraption on my head which I shall christen as the half-helmet i.e. a helmet without a bottom - one that can easily sit on your head like a cap. Easier than two-minute noodles.
Thou shalt wear a cage around your head - so said the son of God or was it a Safety Officer at HUL? In either case, I agree. So if you come to Baroda tomorrow, you may enjoy the privilege of feasting your eyes upon aforementioned Maratha plus little thing with a full-grown-helmet on. The moral of this story being - do come to Baroda. We will party – there’s enough chhaas around for everyone.
P.S – The helmet is not dangerous in any manner. It does have a strap that I can buckle around my chin, ensuring protection from man and motor. A cute little thing - made to size. That is not to say that I don’t have the intellectual prowess of King-Kong. Or Stuart-Little.
Sunday, May 11, 2008
With love from Baroda
The above was jotted down by me four days ago and today is the second time in five days when I have the time and inclination to write some more. I am still in my hotel room. But the television is off. Have watched more of it in these five days than the whole of last month combined. It’s that and the mobile phone that keep me company when I get back from the grind. Long live technology.
Baroda is a nice city. Spacious and broad, the rickshaw guys here are a gentle breed. They are chivalrous and not as abrasive as their counter-parts in other cities. Have realized how much that contributes to the feeling of well-being one gets. It is a small place and I dare say, you can traverse the length of it (not that I have, yet) in less than Rs 60. Sayaji Gaekwad is to Baroda what Shivaji is to Mumbai. Omnipresent.
My work - is all that I had expected from it and more. Most of my day is spent at the distributor-point. The salesmen come and go. I, sometimes, hang around in the godowns, familiarizing myself with the mind-boggling array of goods that adds so much complexity to the range; but is taken in such a non-chalant manner by the layman - for whom it’s as simple as asking for the ‘naano Lux International’ instead of the ‘moto Lux pink’. Naano – small, moto – big. Dear readers, I have added another language to my less-than-impressive kitty-bag of spoken-tongues. Or, at least, am in the process of doing so. So, work is exhilarating, although a steep-uphill-climb at times. But I don’t believe in easy. Easy is like junk-food.
I went for a market visit yesterday. And saw what good salesmanship is all about. Customer-focus is, in fact, all that it is vaunted to be. The guy in-charge of half of Baroda worth a monthly turn-over of two crores – the man who is currently training me, is also a salesman par excellence. He is quite a colorful character. Jitendra Patil aka Jitu Patil is a proud Maratha, based out of Baroda. Cracking at numbers, smart with people, his post is one that I shall be joining as boss of, once I am done with my training. I have yet to discover why I am better than him. I guess it has more to do with the opportunities I got, and the training which enabled, encouraged and equipped me to look at the larger picture. Sounds like quintessential-mba-jargon. But nothing in mba is jargon when coupled with strong execution.
Enough banter. Today is a Sunday and the malls in the city shall be seeing some of me. Wheel and Knorr are all okay, but the system requires some pampering.
Friday, May 02, 2008
Brest-Part Uno
Let me talk a little bit about our life in
It’s like this – we spent the first week in firangland at Hotel Balladins, as I have mentioned before. After that, we had booked ourselves into an establishment called Apartcity - a hybrid between a guesthouse and a hotel. A woman who called herself Sabine presided over its affairs and ruled with an iron-fist, some would say. We had this roof over our collective heads for a month and after that, were relying rather heavily on serendipity to lead us to our next abode. Apartcity was a great place, having more than all the conveniences of modern living, but we were having to pay a tidy sum for it. It had to go - as the Red Queen would say, although not in so many words.
Elucidating a bit on life at Apartcity – it was an era. One of the boys in my troupe, Rahul Pal turned out to be a master-chef, also possessing the willingness to provide the rest of us with gastronomic delicacies. We would sit down to a hearty meal of chicken and chawal almost every night – much missed. The rest of us did play our bit-parts too. Som would help with the cooking at times. Chandan was the self-appointed chawal-champ, and to watch Bobby cut onions was like being mute witness to a symphony being played. Okay, I exaggerate, but he is a pretty-darn-quick cutter of onions, among other things. Yours truly, would try her best to be useful, taking charge of the ‘Ready-to-eats’; the culinary-challenged would know that this is not a particularly demanding undertaking and the alert reader would be abreast with the fact that these space-age and time-bending eatables were by no means central to our diet and well-being.
So anyway, we had to look for another place inspite of all the rollicking fun we were having there. Various agencies were hounded; numerous apartments were visited as a result. But to no avail. We did not have too much time, since another trip - this one to the rest-of-Germany and
To sum -
A few posts it shall take to talk about all of the above in the detail that they deserve. And if Ruchi Jain is reading this – stay tuned, you will figure.
The sun
Setting out
In search of the sun
The journey is new
With many a twist and many a turn
Looking back
It all seems hazy
There is a pattern
Even though it’s mostly crazy
Was somebody else
He was wearing more clothes
And some shiny stuff and bells
Life, also fire
Hope wings aren’t made of wax
And hope arms don’t tire.
Monday, April 28, 2008
Epigone
D was an ambitious twenty-year-old. His mornings were spent at Prakash General Stores – the three longest hours of his day, where he played delivery boy, salesman and shop-owner’s personal punching bag. Mr P, though not an evil man, was a bit of a misanthrope. Like the eye of Sauron, his presence was piercing and pugnacious.
As soon as the clock struck noon, D would rush over to his other job as a part-time hair-stylist’s assistant, at Gazelle Beauty Parlor – an up-market establishment that offered to bring out the inner woman in you, or so it said. It is widely rumored that all women secretly believe that they can look like Angelina Jolie, given half the chance. And they chase after this mirage with unrelenting determination. For a whole battery of professionals, technicians, researchers, retailers and surgeons, this notion proves to be the butter on their baguette.
D’s profile was to cut and trim. But he ached to also crimp, color, perm, straighten and curl – his hands would itch whenever a woman having a bad hair-day walked through the door. His ambition didn’t end there. He envisaged himself as a hair-consultant. Lift a strand here, feel a lock there – and know exactly whether it should be sent for scalp-cleansing or follicle-strengthening. The hair industry beckoned him – it was his calling. But the climb was uphill.
Thus spluttered the lorry of D’s life – a vector without much speed. And then - he saw her. V turned up in his life like a jack-in-the-box and hit him squarely on the jaw. She came into the shop and asked for a note-book. Violins played, bells jangled. D never recovered from the assault.
The days after that passed-by in a blur. He followed her home. He peeked in through her window. He even threw a stone and bolted. His nights were feverish and days pregnant - with wait. He discovered he knew a friend of hers and plotted to somehow get himself introduced. After that, D was sure his natural magnetism, years of observation and careful planning would win home the bacon. He knew to the punctuation how he would persuade her to go out with him. He would take her to one of those Salman flicks at Galaxy, on his neighbor’s rickety Honda; he would buy the popcorn during the interval and regale her with funny stories. To clinch the deal, he would take her to
That little imp that we call - luck - was probably looking the other way. And so, his plans fell into place.
Location –
Saturday, April 26, 2008
City-speak
I was reading something yesterday and it was about different cities having distinct characteristics – like people. That set me thinking, how I would describe all the cities that I have lived in -
Kolkata – My first love
Warm, blustering, forgetful, intellectual. The Argumentative Indian. Would prefer brainstorming about life, the arts, death, the universe and taxes; over struggling towards making just that much more money. With the times - albeit with a lag; he is an enthusiastic, bespectacled, avuncular old man, having seen it all – Michael Jackson to Mango Soufflé; but whose senses still remain infused with the incense of the Durga Puja pandals and the quintessential Mishti Doi.
Mumbai – The Enchantress
She knows what she wants and is willing to pay her pound of flesh. Ambitious, independent and upwardly mobile, she flirts, pouts, and even blows you kisses. But don’t be mistaken, my friend – she could crush you under her stilettos in a minute.
A bank clerk supporting a family of five, a tycoon’s wife marrying business and page three in an evening’s entertainment, a housewife saving for that pagdi on the ridiculously expensive accommodation or a struggling starlet planning her rise to superstardom over the wreckage of countless failures - she has determination in her soul and dark circles under her eyes – coz Mumbai never sleeps.
Pune – For keeps
She is the girl next door. Pretty, sensible and sweet. Always a breath of fresh air; she can make the effort and play the sultry seductress too - just for a lark. Before you know it, you want to marry her.
Difficult to say. Many things to many people. My own experiences have been diverse. Hard taskmaster when I just started to work – a veritable Aunt Agatha. An upbeat, pleasant, affectionate character when I was studying there – a modern-day Aunt Dahlia? Have heard from people about her innocence in the days before she met her danna – Mr Murthy. The grand moll of geekland in her hey-days, was she used and abused? Some say she still holds that power; all said and done, she is the mother of the new
Disclaimer – For the people who disagree with any of the above - kindly pardon the innocent meanderings of an over-active imagination. I simply have nothing to do.
Thursday, April 24, 2008
The Brucke over the Inn
Our next stop was Innsbruck in
The one thing for which I shall forever be thankful to
The town was as pretty as any other European town. The city-center chock-full of tourists. Picture this – quaint cobblestone pavements, populated with artists drawing, sketching and painting everything in sight for a few euros; pedestrian roads full of people milling around – some who are trying to absorb all the history around them, with buildings to look at and guides in their sonorous tones to listen to; and some who have zipped up their digicams for the moment and picked up spoons instead – contributing to the top-lines of those many road-side cafes.
We contributed our bit and then bumped into one of the four boys I had originally come to
After the trip to the mountain and back, we decided to take it easy and spent the evening in a pub. It had a hot-hot-hot bartender, who was also extremely charmant. I feel it necessary to mention these lustful cravings, because they were rare. Another little factoid - at the beginning of the trip, Chandan and I had decided to flick a coaster from each of the pubs we went to, just to have a souvenir – unique and free-of-cost. Due to constraints like - not all pubs having coasters, and us not always being in a condition sober enough to flick one from the ones that did - this plan did not fulfill its true potential. Nevertheless, I do have some coasters lying around.
So that was
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
All that rhymes..
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening – Robert Frost – an all-time favorite because I have, in some way, internalized the last few lines. I used to have them on a poster in my room and am pretty sure all my future rooms will have them too.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
I also like the fact that Jawaharlal Nehru had these lines inscribed on his desk, and they were discovered after he died. I don’t particularly like the man, but I like the fact. These lines have history, they have character.
The Road not Taken – Robert Frost - for the sheer emotion behind it. I read somewhere that it is the story of his life. He chose the road less traveled. Have a look at these lines -
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
The irony and beauty of life – condensed in rhyme.
Mending Wall – Robert Frost - for the message. And because it’s funny, in a dark sort of way. The last line of the poem –
.. He says again, "Good fences make good neighbors."
Platitudes, adherence to meaningless tradition, resistance to change – mainstays of our black-box-white-noise lives.
La Belle Dame sans Merci – John Keats – The woman without any mercy. A story of intense pain, heart-wrenching agony, and all that; but also the story of supposedly-competent men losing their rocker on beholding a beautiful woman. To be fair, most men would look askance at such a woman (with her wild wild eyes and faery’s song), but some never outgrow their adolescence. And serves them right that she ain’t got no mercy!
The Walrus and the Carpenter – Lewis Carroll – Delightful! From one of my favorite books – Through the Looking Glass and What Alice Finds There. Dear readers, go read this poem, if you haven’t already. It will tickle you to the bone.
A Visit to the Dentist – Ogden Nash (could not find it online) – As I recollect,
Some pains are physical and some pains are mental
A pain that is both – is definitely the one that is dental..
Wit at its best. And I like people whose names start with an ‘O’. Just.
O Captain! My Captain! – Walt Whitman – I like this poem because it taught me the meaning of the word – Allegory. The poem is actually about Abe Lincoln and the fact that he was assassinated before he could savor the peace that prevailed in his country after the Civil war and other elements. I have always liked Abe Lincoln. There are enough inspirational stories about him and as a young impressionable girl – I would get goosebumps at the mention of them.
Mind without Fear – Rabindranath Tagore
Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high – into that heaven of Freedom, let me always reside.
Sunday, April 20, 2008
Inane
What’s not
For a body-builder
Carbohydrates are rot
For a commercial sex worker
Legality rocks
For a saint or a priest (barring the ones who are pedophiles)
It just plain old shocks
For the doc - euthanasia’s right
To end a coma too long
For the patient’s wife
It’s a life taken wrong
For a business man
IPL is huge money & fame
For a true cricket fan
It’s the end of the game
For lovers intense and young
The world will not matter
But when there’s no bread in the bin
Will not love - shatter?
The believer has his faith
Faith is a strong teacher
For the science man, the atheist
Reason’s above any fictional preacher
And for a king in days of yore
Twas duty to plunder & maraud
So, my friends, who is to really say
What is even, and what is odd?
Friday, April 18, 2008
Eis
Salzburg – the city of Mozart, where cigarette-lighter to chocolate-box – every bit of merchandize has him staring at you, in his white-powdered-wig; Salzburg – the city of the Von Trapp family with Sound of Music tours galore; its claim to fame are many.
The one thing I remember vividly and that deserves mention here is the expedition to the ‘Ice Caves’. These caves are sub-zero voids inside the Tennengebirge Mountains, at a height of around 1600 meters and have ice formations in various interesting shapes – all natural. We took a train ride to this place called Werfen and set-out in search of the bus – the first leg of the journey to the caves. Werfen was one of the prettiest places I saw in Europe. Austrian Alps in all their magnificent glory, the brightly shining sun illuminating the vast expanse of mountain, valley and brook.
After the bus deposited us, we bravely decided to foot the next five-hundred-meters-almost-vertical climb (in lieu of the cable car, may I add).
That climb made me realize how unfit I really was. The air around was pure mountain – the freshest possible; it got rarer as we climbed and my panting got more pronounced in direct proportion. But I am glad to put on record that I was not the laggard in my group – Rajgaria trailed behind me, putting blame to a fear of heights. On the other hand, Somdev was like a mountain goat, he climbed, jumped, and twisted his way around bramble and fern with the nimble-footedness of one. Bobby and Chandan, in that order, occupied the ranks between us.
I went along doggedly, not-all-that-slowly but very surely. After that excruciating climb got done with, we came to a sort of rest area populated with a restaurant and a souvenir shop. Not hanging around, we went ahead to avail of the next mode of transport – the cable car to take us over the unclimbable portion (although I later heard that some of the monkeys in our B-stable did attempt that climb too). Even after that cable car regurgitated us, we had some significant meters of vertical ascension remaining, to be done on foot. By this time, I was fed-up of the whole thing and rueing my decision to come at all. Somehow I made it to the entrance of the caves and we all sat there, gasping, a couple of hours after we had started – enjoying the rest.
But, not for long.
A 75-minute-tour inside the caves was next on the agenda. While we were waiting for it to start, a party of school children, no doubt on one of their field-trips came sauntering by. And I mean that. Around 7 to 8 winters old, it seemed as if no exertion was too much for them. Born in the mountains, with fresh air, wholesome food and hardy exercise, they would have made Sir Edmund proud. Be that as it may, the jaw actually dropped when post-fifty oldies started dotting the landscape! And they did not seem to be having half the trouble I was. Kudos. Going by this, I shudder to think of what I will be at 60. Probably on the catheter.
The tour started and I couldn’t wait for it to get over. It involved moving around in sub-zero temperatures and zero luminosity with only a few lanterns for ocular assistance, on wooden boards, through serpentine passageways, with railings on either side to prevent falling on the slippery ice. The going was slow, as one had to be careful, with so many people, especially kids ahead and behind of you. The domino-effect seemed probable. At one point, the whole file of us climbed a set of stairs that was at an angle of 45 degrees to horizontal propriety, as was informed to us by the guide.
This guide character was one helluva marvelous thing. Skating along on the ice, he was another authentic made-in-Austria product.
So anyway, that disaster of a tour finally came to an end. We felt liberated. The remaining of Salzburg was also quite interesting. We met avid travelers from the other IIMs and I explored the enchanting city of Salzburg on my own as the lazy-bums – R, S, B and C got late – they were probably doing their faces and tying each other’s corsets up. Bah!
It was a good time of the year. Mid October – the air was chilly, but the sun was out in full force. If you ask me, the Alps probably never looked better.
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
Jetsam and Flotsam
I have recently been reading a compilation of short stories by O’ Henry. O’ Henry was an American author, real name being William Sydney Porter. He specialized in twist-endings. I am sure, all of us, at some point or the other, have heard that one where the woman sells her crowning glory - her hair and buys a chain for the man’s prized watch with the money, while the man sells that same coveted watch to get a set of combs for her, or similar versions of it. This can be attributed to none other than big O. So anyway, I came across a delightful little thing from his stable the other day. The name of the story is – While the Auto Waits.
Here is a link – enjoy - http://www.literaturecollection.com/a/o_henry/238/.
On a very different and hugely disturbing note - I stumbled across something yesterday that made me let out a silent scream. It seems that kids in Australia, the UK and other places (thankfully not India yet - atleast the article didn’t say so) are trying out this game – the choking game – where they enjoy the kind of high they get out of semi-asphyxia (or partial suffocation and semi-unconsciousness due to lack of oxygen to the brain) and hence indulge in choking each other or one-self, albeit stopping half-way of murder or suicide. I cannot imagine anything worse.
It is so difficult to bring up kids in the times that we live. I kind of understand why parents so joyfully celebrate birthdays – they are just so relieved that the kid has managed to survive one full year more, given the kind of dangers that lurk – not only in places far away and outside their areas of direct supervision, but perhaps just around the friendly neighborhood shop, or worse - even in their own bedrooms, on the computer screens. It is a failure of our society, of the lifestyles that we live and of the values that we ourselves have, or those that we fail to instill into our children.
At times like these when I am forced to ponder over such heinous trends, I catch myself thinking – all I want for my children is that they grow up into persons who are reasonable in their thinking and capable of discerning right from wrong. And the onus lies on me, as a parent, to ensure that happens.
Speaking of children, and again on a complete antithesis of a note - I saw a delightful movie yesterday – Life is beautiful. Life was, indeed, beautiful in that movie. So charming was the protagonist – Guido (Roberto Beningni) as the father stretching his fertile imagination to the utmost to ensure that his child is spared the mental trauma where he has to deal with things no human being should have to; racial discrimination, torture, separation from loved ones and death - that it made my day. Also, having watched – The Pianist, the day before, the way in which both these movies tackle similar situations – of survival in those infamous concentration camps and ghettos, is vastly different. The Pianist is hard-hitting, based on a true story, whereas LIB is more of a fairy-tale as is so rightly mentioned at the beginning of the movie.
So, with movies, books, stimulating conversations with all – ranging from my mother to old and new friends, and physical exercise – I fill my days. Like I was telling somebody a few days back – I am trying to expand my intellectual horizons and contract my physical ones (LOL). All these activities lead to an avalanche of thoughts, some of which I plug back into those afore-mentioned activities. The spillage, however, I mop up by presenting them in the form of blog entries - for public consumption.
Sunday, April 13, 2008
Cutting Chai
From
The streets were so pretty. Early morning, no crowds, beautifully arranged shop windows and yellow-flower-strewn roads. Perfection. We ambled along, breathing in the fragrance, breathing deeply and stopping every few minutes to peer into a particularly eye-catching display.
I would like to say at this juncture that my long-standing disdain for Aishwarya Rai thawed a bit. I have always maintained that she gets more than is her due - as an actress, because she is ethereally beautiful. Well, all over
So anyway, it was a fruitful morning; we crammed in a few palaces and gardens, encountered a bus-load of tourists from
Now, every Eurotripper worth his backpack has seen the movie – The Eurotrip – where a bunch of kids from the States go to Europe and fall into all sorts of interesting situations. A part of the movie depicts them stumble into
We people decided to follow in their footsteps. Off we went to
Many days later, while having a conversation with a Slovak exchange student from our class and from reading a bit, I gathered that Slovakia, and perhaps, the entire of Eastern Europe is kinda like a hot-bed for development and new business; hence it displays the kind of diversity that we find here in India too – a creak-a-minute public transport system alongside super-fast highways leading you to the Meccas of capitalism – the malls. The country’s political ideology is changing and it is in a state of constant flux.
So, here’s wishing all the emerging economies of the world - all the labor, enterprise and capital that they can dole up – May every Bhelpuri wala in Bambai dream of double-storied plush interiors, head-waiters and Crores that are crisper than cutting-chai.
Friday, April 11, 2008
Life's like this
I am currently taking a break from all the travel related talk. Current events dictate that I spend some time mulling over them. Well, the cloud may be cumulonimbus, but the lining is a big fat chunk of authentic silver!
Jug Suraiya says that all of our food grain problems will be solved if the politicos could turn our national inclination towards fasting into an obsession. I have spoken before about the way we Indians fast, and his article hit home. We fast for any and every reason – religious, political, personal, et al. Hunger strikes have been popular since the time of Mr Gandhi and fasting is often the most favored instrument of bribery as far as all things divine go. On a slightly more serious note, I agree with him that various factions – the RBI, the government etc are trying to curb inflation by flattening demand. What about increasing supply?
I chuckled a bit at the latest Absolut Vodka advertisement and the ruckus it has created in the US of A. Apparently, in an ‘Absolut’ world, half of the southern states of
Dear readers, let me disgust you a little. Apparently, the most expensive coffee in the world is one that is an amalgamation of two kinds of beans – the premium Jamaican Blue Mountain (JBM) and another exotic-sounding one (have forgotten the name). So what, you say. All clear - so far. Well, as Barney-wait for it-Stintson would say, the second bean is not just added to the first, oh no Sir – we may be strange, but mundane we are not! It is, in fact, fed to certain even more exotic-sounding cats (yes, cats), then picked from their excreta, added to the JBM and lo and behold! The most expensive and mouth-watering coffee blend in the world. Say cheers.
We Asians like to differentiate. Whether is it cheap Chinese furniture - delivered to your door-step, or Tourist-guides outside the Taj Mahal with their Toothy smiles, we like to go the extra mile. Like this South Korean astronaut – Ki, who will not only celebrate South Korea’s first mission to space by breaking into a song when that final frontier is crossed, but will also spice it up a couple of notches by taking authentic Korean fare (customized for space travel, of course) along with her. Both these are first-time initiatives; and I will say again – joie - my friends, is the essence of life.
To end this series of the insane and the absurd – here’s the cream that gave the cat a cholesterol problem. A photographer (whose name I forget) specializes in clicking naked people and he wants to shoot 2008 (yes, that’s two thousand and eight) naked people in a stadium in
Thursday, April 10, 2008
Wolf
Many thoughts jostle for mindspace – the situation is worse than the 9 am Churchgate local.
Perhaps, it is so. Perhaps, we squeal ‘Wolf’ too easily.
Wednesday, April 09, 2008
You can chose to be positive, or let yourself go to pieces. It is hard work, you know - trying to achieve that degree of optimism that makes you notice all the good things that are there around you. Because they are there - just a question of coming out of this self-induced state of self-pity and glancing around.
Today, I chose to glance around and was surprised.
Tuesday, April 08, 2008
Oktoberfest - in India?
Our next trip was to Munchen –
Oktoberfest was great – people really get into the mood for it there. And the gear as well. Bavarian men and women dotted the landscape, whichever direction you looked in. As usual, the women had unleashed all creativity on their outfits and there were Bavarian tops with leather pants, denim miniskirts, knee high boots, et al. The fair itself was like one of our ‘Appu ghars’, nothing more, nothing less. As usual, it was the exuberance of the people which made it different. Masses of junta from all over the world, the tents were overflowing, as were the beer mugs. Revelers dancing and swaying to music – mostly German songs, played live by groups of musicians. Different breweries had their own tents and each one had a different atmosphere. We went through all of them (were there six in all?) and chose on one that looked most fun. We managed to get a table for half an hour (strictly) and ordered beer. The beer tasted just as bad, but the excitement was infectious, and even though we didn’t know the songs, or understand the words, we got onto our benches and jigged a little.
Afterwards, we walked a bit through
For the night, we had booked ourselves at a hostel in Regensberg – an outskirt. It took us a couple of hours to get there – and I also recall there being a train strike in
That night was easily one of the more painful ones in
See, things are much better organized in
While our India is represented by the ‘chaotic, everything goes, any and every mistake is pardoned if you have - enough money/are from the same state/are a girl/are apologetic enough’ kinda ethos, firangland begs to differ. For one – atithi is clearly not the apple of everyone’s eye and although I had to suffer for it – I would rather learn from my mistakes and toe the line than live in an
Sunday, April 06, 2008
Paris
Back to my travels and travails. The first weekend – we went to
With the metro – with its never-ending passageways linking one platform to the other, with its seemingly complicated routes and directions, the completely unpronounceable names of some of the stations, and the extremely familiar ones of some of the others, but most of all, with the people – blacks and whites, melting into a mass of smartly dressed Parisians.
With the streets – everything one has ever imagined about
With the
With the art – that permeates every corner of the city. You can walk from the Notre Dame Church to the Louvre Museum, both imposing structures and brilliant architectural marvels, passing various roadside sketch-artists along the way. The way these well-preserved and historical guardians of the culture of yore gel-in with the contemporary is amazing. You will find palaces and policemen in the same breath.
With the breathtakingly beautiful Eiffel and the heart-stopping view of
We stayed in this hotel, four of us in the same room, the first of the many, many bunk-bed adventures we experienced – it was great fun. We bought wine, apples and cheese from a supermarket and had that for breakfast. We went to the Louvre, tried to make sense of the masses of paintings and sculptures and clicked pictures of the over-hyped (as per me) MonaLisa. We spent the second night at the station waiting for our early-morning train, and slept on wooden benches in the waiting room. Those were the best of times.
I will come back to Paree, was the last thought inside my head, as the train pulled out of Gare Montparnasse.Friday, April 04, 2008
The flying Dutchman
Carrying on with my discourse on Europeans – here are some interesting tid-bits -
The average French is petite, dressed in black, raven-haired and inky-eyed. The typical French man does not look good – reminds one of a well-bred chimp with a silly crew-cut. The woman too is not one of the prettiest across Europe – but the way she carries herself and her clothes, with her delicate build, pale complexion and ebony hair – she looks sassy, sexy and how do you say it in French – yes, chic.
The German is huge and blond – shaggy haired and broad, he walks brisk and speaks guttural, not in the la-di-dah manner of his Gallic neighbor. The woman too - ditto. The German loves his sausage – hundreds of thousands of types, flavors and varieties. Well, too much meat leads to bad breath. Ouch.
The Scandinavians are tall, broad and blond. The average woman on the street tends to be obese and the younger, more look-conscious counterpart will just be described as voluptuous – Swedish blondes - are supposed to be something else. When I was there, they were someplace else – I didn’t encounter any. One more thing about them – they seemed very startled to see us brown people – I suppose one does not get too many tourists from other parts of the world in
If you want to see good looking men, you should go to
The Spaniards are o-so-hawt. Sunburnt and juicy – like their fruit. They dance well, speak with a delightful accent and are total paisa-vasool. Btw, I am talking about the men here, did not pay too much attention to the women – a girl has to have her priorities right.
There were a lot of Turks (is that what people from
Apart from these episodes with the Moroccans, the most popular Indians there turned out to be – the elder Mr Gandhi, Mr Nehru and Mrs. Sonia Gandhi. Apparently, the Indian political circus makes its presence felt in foreign lands too.
Well, nowadays blogs spark off controversies, and worse – lawsuits. Let me mention hence, that these opinions are just that – opinions. Meant to offend none, harm none. And I completely accede to the fact that they may just be half-baked, given the somewhat limited time-frame of ninety days of observation.
Thursday, April 03, 2008
Oo La La!
- Are most inefficient – love to waste time; case in point - they have two-hour lunch breaks everyday
- Are garrulous once they start talking – will talk in that broken faltering English of theirs till you feel like you were born to finish half sentences
- Are a little duh – not a people known for their enterprise
- Are quite steeped in etiquette – love the way they greet - the guys and the girls kiss on the cheeks. I feel human contact always helps especially when one is trying to make new friendships
- People there use the magic words – “Sorry, thank-you, good morning and good night” with alarming frequency – to the drivers, cleaning men and women, shopkeepers, random people on the street and so on…
- They are an extremely helpful people and will spend endless amounts of time trying to, lesse - locate a particular street for you (you - somebody they have never even met before) while business and any other work they may have been doing in the meantime takes the proverbial hike
- Are always dressed up to their eyes – they are a slim and svelte race and wear their threads well. Not for nothing, is French fashion one of the reasons that that country continues to be able to support its people
- Know a lot about the softer things in life – art, music, perfume, movies and wine – yes, it’s true – they are obsessed with wine – we kept getting lessons on how to select good wine from all and sundry around us
- Gesticulate a lot. And some of their impressions and sound effects are really funny
- Are a gallant race. The men are taught to be chivalrous and they are. They know how to make their women, or any woman, feel special.
I am in the process of marshalling some of my other observations on the Europeans into something that can be put on paper. Think about it, we Indians – vary so immensely in culture, habits, language, appearance and nature across the length and breadth of the country. So, is the case with the Europeans – a Norwegian is as different from a Greek as is chalk from cheese and the same is the case with a Spaniard and a Slovak. And like ours, in their case too, political ideologies differ - many of these countries have fought with each other on opposite sides of three of the biggest European wars of the last century – the First, the Second and the Cold.
Although unlike ours, most of these countries seem headed for the economic doldrums. Western Europe is the old world and unless it sits up and reforms, it will keep getting older.
Wednesday, April 02, 2008
Exchange Part III - Western tip of France
We reached
We set out in search of it, various people gave us directions; we had just landed, we wanted to get the feel of the land, and absorb the atmosphere – hence we decided to walk. We walked, and walked and walked; encountered some false alarms along the way, a sighting of the ‘Golden Arch’ here, a glimpse of the neon ‘M’ there – finally stumbled upon our Mecca (did I mention we were ravenous?) close to the witching hour…and it was open, as only a Mac Donalds can be.
Ohh, and did I mention that for the first one week, we were putting up at this hotel – called Balladins. That hotel, was like all other things French (including the people), made to perfection – not an inch of superfluous space! My room was so small, three people would be a crowd and the bathroom - believe me – when I say – a honeymooning couple would NOT be able to play out all their fantasies in that bath – due to the severe lack of space! Well, I was paying forty Euros a night for this and before you convert that inside your heads (faster than one can say Merci Beaucoup I am sure - we Indians are good at math) let me tell you – had I wanted to save money, I would have gone for a trip to Faridabad instead of France.
Thus ended my first day. Things were so different, right from the radio and walkie-talkie enabled cabs to the rolling vistas of space with fewer humans in sight than there are cows here. But you know, someone has very wisely pointed out – the more some things change, the more they remain the same. We shall see.
Tuesday, April 01, 2008
Exchange - Part II - the journey to Brest
Now the purpose of this series is not that the junta eagerly waiting to hear about my exchange escapades is able to satiate its curiosity. I am well aware of the fact that there may not be any of the afore-mentioned junta in existence…
N the junta, if any, is most welcome to amuse itself.
So we set out. The journey to
It turned out that our train to
The train stopped. I tried to haul in my forty kilos, no prizes for guessing – it was near impossible. Ah, but never fear, when the French are near! A nice French boy standing in the doorway got my luggage in; he offered to drop it to my seat. Midway, I realized I didn’t have the bag which had some of my money and my passport! That moment – was undoubtedly the worst moment during all of my stay there. I went back-tracking my route along the train and found the bag.
Heaved a sigh, found my compartment, thanked the French boy, settled in - Loved the scenery, the clouds, the meadows, the cows. So green, so country. Met my gang – they too had had their share of adventures.
I pondered. I have always suffered from the ‘Superwoman complex’. I think I am great, mighty capable, never needing help, my natural resourcefulness at run-time ensuring all inconsequential screw-ups are ironed out. But today, in a foreign country, where people don’t understand the languages I speak, where my passport is my identity, security and safety – I should have ensured that screw-ups never happened in the first place.
Forty kilos – shout all the slogans you want, burn all the bras you can get your hands on – sometimes empowerment is about knowing when you may need help and ensuring it is around.