Hearing voices...

Intellectual biryani

2009-12-04T23:34:00.007Z

This blog is now becoming more of a highly erratic personal diary than anything else. And it certainly doesn't help that most of the people who were blogging when I used to blog regularly have given up long ago (hello!)

The chief benefits of TL going off to Hyderabad (okay, she didn't up and go like that, I gave her a big shove) have been the following:

1) I have regained a lot of my survival skills. Hanging out with a super-organized, emotionally intelligent woman who is cleverer than you has certain adverse effects on those tools in your mental toolbox. They rust. Sending her off to India has sharpened them to a degree nearer to pre-living together levels;

2) I have learnt how to cook. Properly. This is different from putting something together from a cookbook or dowsing a dead bird in some olive oil or yoghurt mixed with a marinade before sticking it in the oven. Cooking properly entails thinking a dish through before you embark on an adventure atop the hob. Like when you decide on the spur of the moment, inside Waitrose, that you want to eat some biryani. Today. Since you haven't made the stuff before, you pause to think how you could make it. You think about biryanis past. You think about biryanis present, future and imagined. You think about what the chauffeurs and security guards in Banjara Hills told you about the biryani in Hotel Medina in the Old City next to the Charminar.

You stop in the aisle. You think about the last Hyderabadi dum pukht biryani you ate; how it smelt and tasted. Then you try to figure out what must have gone into it. You have never done this before. Your pulse quickens. Your mouth waters. The aromas, the flavours, they all come back in a rush, screaming, flooding your senses. Star anise, saffron, cloves, bay leaves, cumin, onions, cinnamon... the grand pillars of Mughalai cooking, evocative, sensual, sublime. Suddenly, you know. Fry the basmati rice before you pressure-cook it, says a snatch of conversation, a secret shared gladly, a voice from long ago.

You walk into the kitchen. You know what you're doing, for the first time in that space, because there's no cookbook, there are no instructions. For once, it's all inside your head.

You start. You smell. You taste. You check.

Fate, ever conspiratorial, plays a final hand. It reveals a half-empty packet of MTR pulao masala in a cupboard. This is the culinary equivalent of a nudge and wink. I know I can use this.

An unexpected childhood memory. An unlikely source. Deep fry finely chopped onions and sprinkle them on top. A conservative Iyengar matriarch who loved biryani but couldn't eat meat, mistress of the kitchens of a sprawling Ayurveda vaidyasala, babysitter, nurturer, surrogate mother, has unexpectedly intervened.

I listen. I do.

It all works. And how!

I can cook.

Remembering grace

2009-09-27T07:00:00.010Z

Someone who combined dazzling intellect and scholarship with humility, humour and a genuine curiosity about the lives of everybody she encountered, be it a housemaid or an XYZ chair of Weighty Studies at some Ivy League University or a troubled kid, is that rarest of rare human beings: a truly wonderful one.

Here are two obituaries that perhaps capture Meenakshi Mukherjee best of all- Farewell, guide: to Ma'am, with love and A woman for all seasons

And a comment that captures her erudition perfectly: "She never assumed the privilege of the pioneer..."

If only all pioneers were such.. and if only we'd just dropped in with that bottle of wine. And if only we could have met again after the last book; RC Dutt would have made such fun conversation. If only... Have fun, Meenakshi, wherever you are.

Knock me down with a feather

2009-07-21T21:39:00.003Z

This bit of verse just slays me. It's a Molimo song of the pygmies of the Congo (I don't know what that is, but it's stuck in my head all these years), and I've long dropped out of touch with the chap who pointed me to it many years ago. Here it is..

"If you must be candid, be so beautifully,
For there is a man in the neighbourhood who is dying"

The Uniform Project

2009-07-04T23:18:00.002Z

This impromptu resurfacing is solely aimed at plugging an old friend's fundraising project.

Read all about Sheena and the Uniform Project on HuffPo, the Guardian, Change.org and a zillion other websites.

All of this fuss over S has triggered just one pointless, existential doubt within myself: if she's classified as a "Brooklyn native", I certainly hope I am not classified as a "Bloomsbury native". Resident, not native.... we are 110% indigenous to South India (w)only. Besides, I am quitting my neighbourhood in 2 months for warmer climes in a warmer hemisphere.

V day

2009-05-08T23:47:00.003Z

Watched an in-house production of the Vagina Monologues in March. I'd already seen Eve Ensler's HBO production, one snowed-in January night in Birmingham in 2003, chancing upon it quite by accident whilst channel surfing. It was riveting stuff.

The College does a Vagina Monologues production once every few years; the last one was in 2005 and I missed it. So when the V-Day posters sprung up this year, I knew that I wanted to see it. However, I am not all there these days and I tend to... well, forget, blank out etc. I've even got four white hairs, see. Or is it five?

I remembered 3 days before the show. Tickets, I was told, were sold out. I wrote to the director. She was all charm; I found mine just in time. I went in first day, first show. The company was great; I bumped into S, a Glaswegian journalist married to a Cuban who he'd met whilst living in Havana for 8 years. He's friends with TL, but we'd never really had a conversation. So we grabbed some beer, and hunkered down on some prime sofas to chat. He told me about Havana, since I am hoping to visit next year. I told him about Cuban diagnostic systems. We swapped notes about Santeria and Son. The girls came on, we settled back. It was great, in every way. A whole bunch of intelligent women, thoroughly enjoying themselves, which showed. Unlike TV, real people doing it had all the rawness and immediacy of passionate am-dram. I loved the Bosnian bit, because the woman doing it was actually Bosnian.

I wanted TYL to watch, but she couldn't get tickets. I've since been contemplating telling her that her company could think of an Indian production using Bharatnatyam, but felt that it would perhaps be a bit too explicit for Indian audiences.

I was wrong.

I saw this today. I am impressed. Truly. Madly. Deeply.

This doesn't mean that I am a feminist, as one person who reads this blog seems to think. I am no ist of any kind. At all.

Close encounters of the cool kind

2009-04-29T22:53:00.008Z

Two things happened today. My supervisor came back after 8 months, chemo-radio finished tumour blasted, looking as chilled out and ice-blonde as ever, padding around in customary ghostly fashion in the usual kurti-drawstrings-socks-sandals ensemble. Suddenly things are looking up. I just wish the bloody woman had kept everybody in the loop, instead of vanishing without a trace with no return address or number. Gah and double gah. I mean, for fuck's sake, I thought she was fricking dead.

High on this and engrossed in Paul Theroux's The Happy Isles of Oceania, I was leaning against a post outside King's Cross Station waiting for either the No. 45 or 46, when a Black Cab stopped right in front of me and a man hopped out. I looked up absently and behold! a certain Nobel Prize winning economist stood hardly 3 feet from me.

Needless to say, I stared. I caught his eye (not that he had a choice, my mouth was probably open and I was plonked right between him and the station).

I am happy to say, my dear readers, that my courtesy did not desert me. I dipped my head gravely, smiled and said "Hello".

So did he:-D!!

Amartya Sen was last spotted wearing a black mac and carrying a (was it brown?) leather suitcase, hurrying into King's Cross Overground Station at around 1830 GMT.

Unity in diversity

2009-04-26T13:37:00.007Z

I have lived in Bloomsbury for many years, which is near the St. Pancras' church of the nursery rhyme in Orwell's 1984. As I was planning today's running route from Regent's Park back to Bloomsbury, I stumbled upon the Church website.

It said something striking:

INCLUSIVE CHURCH.net, A Declaration of Belief

We affirm that the Church's mission, in obedience to Holy Scripture, is to proclaim the Gospel of Jesus Christ.... We acknowledge that this is good news for people regardless of their gender, race or sexual orientation. We believe that, in order to strengthen the Gospels proclamation of justice to the world, and for the greater glory of God, the Church's own common life must be justly ordered. To that end, we call on our Church to......... to celebrate the diverse gifts of all members......... and in the ordering of our common life to open the ministries of deacon, priest and bishop to those so called to serve by God, regardless of their gender, race or sexual orientation.

If you ignore the obviously religious bits, this is a rather remarkable and heartwarming assertion. It is a Church of England church, which is probably one of the most egalitarian and liberal religious establishments I have ever seen. I mean, they have women priests (hope that is the correct word), gay bishops etc. As far as I know, they welcome just about anyone inside their church, regardless of religion, unlike the Catholic and Orthodox Christian Churches. Rather like Buddhist temples, though I think Buddhists are the most tolerant of the whole lot.

I wish the Catholic Church, the Hindu religious establishment and the Muslim religious establishment had the basic human decency to say something similar. And as an Indian, I wish all those temples, mosques and churches in India had something like this posted at their gates or doors or whatever.

Now that would be a first step to solving a lot of problems.

Small pleasures

2009-04-20T23:29:00.003Z

I have got through a lot of my days in the past 6 months by "muddling through somehow". Not efficient, but still effective.

My therapist (I have accquired one recently, hurrah! Now I can move to California) thinks I am mildly depressed or dysthymic. Dysthymic is a medical euphemism for miserable, btw. It means nothing and everything, depending on your state of mind on that particular day and how you look at the whole business of 'labelling' the human condition. There are many reasons for the misery, from my supervisor falling ill (leaving me effectively to sort out a project/programme grant: impossible) to my not being able to get along with a deeply unpleasant clinical boss. My psychotherapist thinks I set impossibly high standards for myself. And I can't figure out how to fix that one.

And so I muddled through today. But feeling miserable for no particular reason is not nice when it's time to go to bed.

So I tried the chanting machine in the bedroom, which is an Indian metal box with a chip inside that plays 16 different mantras. This usually helps me unwind.

Then I remembered that someone had asked me for a reference. So I settled down in the living room to write it before I went to sleep. Since I couldn't hear the mantra machine from here, I reached over and turned up the music system, which had been playing softly for a while . Almost without thinking.

The music that came through seemed vaguely familiar.

And as I listened, my whole mood lifted. It felt as if a happy smile had materialized from somewhere and settled on my mind.... soul?

It was Ravel's Bolero.

I hadn't heard it for years. And it is absolutely my favourite piece of classical music.

Dying to dance

2008-11-15T23:57:00.005Z

My flat's on top of the so-called Large Common Room. A belated Diwali celebration has been going on there all evening, with much food, music, drinking and dancing. A, she of the Nordic husband, had wanted to know earlier today whether I'd turn up. I hemmed and hawed, knowing I had to study. But as the evening went on and I got tired of studying stats, the music blasting from downstairs became too much to bear. I texted A; she didn't reply. I assumed she must be dancing. I hurriedly cooked something for the weekend (Paneer mutter, a bit too spicy, but nice; I like my cooking, which makes me truly self sufficient, since I can already laugh at my own jokes), shaved and headed down.

The place was full of people, many were new South Asian arrivals at the community, none of whom I recognized. Some stared at me curiously, it was evident that I was as unfamiliar to them as they were to me. Two young Indian women openly sized me up; one wearing a yellow chiffon sari and a yellow bindi. Ghastly. Khuda Jaane from Bachna Ae Haseeno blared from the speakers. In vague desperation, I searched for A; neither she nor her husband were around. I spotted D, a Trindadian girl who was friends with both TL and TYL; we chatted briefly. Once she moved on, it became obvious to me that I was in the midst of a social-mating-networking axis operating at full throttle. A few posh middle-aged Indian types sauntered in, couples who looked like they'd just stepped out of expensive cars. Possible parents and "local guardians", perhaps. Our tiny bar was mobbed; there was no way I could get a drink without queuing for at least 15 minutes.

Suddenly, I felt old. Three years ago, I'd had my first exhibition in London in this very room. A concealed art gallery had been built into it, entirely by the community, among them soon-to-be curators, art historians, architects and artists. It had been a privilege to be invited to be part of the inaugural exhibition, all wine, cheese, berets and black turtlenecks. I painted a Tamil bullfight, which everyone though impossibly exotic. TL took photos. Some very old friends from Iran turned up unexpectedly. We bitched about politics and drank too much Pinot. Heady stuff. A month later, TL, our friend M (a writer) and I started the Guerilla Poetry Project (affectionately christened Poetryloo), which became an overnight hit. M won a major literary prize. We became fast friends. M and I are now typical thirty-something tennis partners who don't play nearly as much as we would like to. Years passed quickly; both TL and I acquired new degrees. Struggle, fellowships and the beginnings of professional success followed. Never the networking types, we made a few solid friends; but threw some memorably wild parties. This past difficult year, I haven't even bothered to say hi to the new faces I see all around. There's an Indian girl living opposite and it's evident she's becoming an item with the Indian chap who has spiky hair (don't they all, these days?) and lives across the quadrangle. They are both nice and evidently curious about this gruff man who goes running at night and lives alone in the flat opposite. I always smile and say hi, but can't be bothered to go beyond that. I can recognize a College romance when I see one. I idly wonder whether it will 'work out'.

Now, here I was, in the middle of a rip-roaring Diwali party, feeling a bit lost. Time is such a funny thing. And let's face it, Diwali parties are no fun when you have no one to dance with. Unlike last year, when TL, TYL, A, the Nordic fiance, R and I danced till we dropped at the Asha for India party in a bar on Paternoster Square called The Saint. It was really cold that night, but we were sweating so much after all the dancing that we trekked home minus coats. And we were steaming for much of that walk.

I had two options; stay, make an effort, be gracious, introduce myself to all these new people, welcome them to the community etc. I am pretty good at this when I want to be. But did I want to do this tonight?

No.

I went home. I am getting on a bit, let's face it. Boring and homely.

But the music went on till midnight. And it bloody killed me to listen to it.

Neat little boxes

2008-10-20T04:28:00.010Z

I bought a bedspread last week. Not quite the one I wanted to, but something decent enough nonetheless. The advert by the lift said: “Bedspreads: 1 gorgeous black with intricate needlework and 1 purple and blue handwoven cotton”. The couple who were advertising were moving out and selling them cheap.

By the time I got to their flat, the black one had gone. The handwoven one seemed good enough and keen to get back to cooking and cleaning before The Lady’s visit, I grabbed it and stuck out my 10 quid. However, the little Indian chap who was selling wasn’t about to let me go so easily. We’d bumped into each other on occasion this past 12 months, and I’d never been in a mood to talk. He’d always struck me as being an on-the-go sort though, one of those invariably cheerful men who’re always bouncing around and appear to walk (and talk) twice as fast as everybody else.

Feeling a bit guilty about my reserve, I forced myself to talk this time and sure enough, he was likeable. I stopped grunting and soon found myself smiling. As we talked, he struggled to figure out what I did for a living, as I tried my best to explain. He finally decided that I was “studying”. I considered this, and figured that this least significant aspect of my professional life was the one that held at least some familiarity for him. Especially so since we lived in a place where everybody had to be a student of some description (aren’t we all?). He then made the mistake of asking me what The Lady did. Curious to see what he’d make of it, I gave this a patient shot. By the time I finished, what he’d homed in on seemed to be the fact that we no longer lived together. Shifting uncomfortably and looking a bit bewildered, he smiled politely, “A lot of movement, then and a lot of continents, actually. So when are you guys moving back to India?”

I laughed out loud, “Movement, yes, that’s one way of looking at it, I suppose. And moving back, I dunno, though she’s moved back in a sense, no? And I am going back on sabbatical next year. Neither of us tends to make too many plans, anyway. So, who knows?”

Just then, a door opened somewhere behind me and an intelligent-looking woman appeared, hair tightly pulled back, chic Chanel spectacles perched on a decidedly nice nose, wearing jeans and a hoodie. She smiled in friendly fashion, so I stuck out my hand. This didn’t go down very well, but by the time I noticed that she was uncomfortable with the idea of shaking it, it would have been rude on my part to pull it back (such is life). To make matters worse, her husband then promptly took it upon himself to explain our “complex” living arrangements to her. At this, she visibly shrank and promptly ceased to make further eye contact with me. Since all this seemed a bit too much for them, I quickly left.

Vaguely amusing as the whole incident was, there was nonetheless some déjà vu surrounding it. When TL had informed people about her move, it had elicited a decidedly awkward response from my old friend A and her Nordic fiancé. A became so flustered that not only did she forget to congratulate TL but spent the rest of the evening trying to discreetly establish that I was only pretending to be happy with such an “inconvenient” turn of events. This discomfort has persisted since; now that A is revelling in post-nuptial domesticity, it has led to all sorts of awkward incidents. These seem to be built around the assumption that I “need to be taken care of in TL’s absence”, when in fact, my rajma is decidedly better than hers (oh yes, it bloody is).

But woe betide those who try to walk away so easily from such "issues". An old colleague of my mother's, a retired Professor of Comparative Literature no less, waylaid me in a corridor at my mother's old Indian University last week, determined to get to the bottom of the mystery of this "odd" couple.

"Where's TL?" she demanded.

I told her.

"But what's she doing at XYZ? She's not an economist. Isn't she a ...?"

I explained, patiently. Evidently unnerved, she retreated to more familiar ground, "Any issues yet?"

This threw me for a moment. Then realization dawned. "Issues", I remembered, sprung from one's loins rather than one's mind on the subcontinent. "I have loads of issues, Auntie. Which ones would you like to talk about?"

She laughed at this, but the edge had gone out of her manner. Needless to say, no more questions were asked.

I’ve got similar responses over the past few years whenever people ask what line of work TL is in, a phenomenon that has become more generalized as she drifts further and further away from her original profession. I now try to explain this using a term I heard Anthony Giddens use to describe Richard Layard; I say that TL’s an “inter-sectoral professional”. Curiously, this neat little box that serves to categorize the uncategorizable seems to satisfy a lot of people.

All of this brings me to my question, my five nice readers. I understand that we have a need to categorize and classify everything, including people. This is even useful to me in my work, be it diagnosis or statistical analysis, and I appreciate its practical value. I am even willing to see the funny side when people write pseudo-scientific, stigmatizing gibberish about “blogger personality disorders”. However, from another perspective, many patients are uncategorizable and doctors respect their difficulties no less because they are so. And as someone to whom this has never mattered in an everyday social sense, I wonder why perfectly sane people turn so awkward (and even hostile) when they encounter someone who can’t be parked in a neat little box.

A world of convenience

2008-09-13T20:03:00.008Z

I was at an unusual family 'reunion' of sorts a few weeks ago. A cousin of the Lady's was in town, having flown in from across the pond to conduct workshops for the few City types still left standing. We had never met until the woman in question materialized from the blue, cluttering my mailbox with gushing e-mails about how she was "so looking forward to finally meeting you". I had been warned over many years that she was rather egocentric, unworldly and self-centred, even by the rigorous standards of 'bright' second generation Indian Americans brought up by doting, academically and financially successful parents. Think National Spellig (sorry, spelling) Bee. The Lady (who wasn't around) called me to say that I was under no pressure to meet her, stating clearly that she wouldn't be "remotely bothered if you didn't". I was quite busy and was in two minds whether to go, but ultimately my curiosity got the better of me.

It helped that ' young cleancut frighteningly successful soon-to-be partner in old English lawfirm-Aussie Indian cousin with GSOH who married the same woman 3 times in 3 different continents, in a magically different and thoroughly romantic way' was also in the e-mail loop. Being as nice (he is actually a nice chap, as is his thrice-wedded wife), he responded to my deliberate e-mail silence by setting up an evening out at a Central London restaurant located strategically close to my flat. Which meant that I had to go. The Young Lady, who cordially hates Miss Boston and had informed me that she wouldn't, also turned up, responding to my quizzically raised eyebrow with a "The bitch is family, after all". Fair enough, I thought, though in a throroughly Indian sort of way.

As expected, Miss Massachussetts turned up 45 minutes late, during which time the lawyer cousin, TYL and I shot some nice breeze outside Lillywhites. Of course, being Indian or partly thereabouts as we were, we occupied ourselves by bitching about our imminent relative. When she eventually arrived, she was accompanied by a Vietnamese-American friend who was working for Lehman Brothers at the time (Not), and who quickly established herself as a top contender in the shallow stakes.

A few pints of Asahi and some pricey masala dosas down the line, this charming duo commenced to drop several pearls in succession. The most priceless of which I must share with you, my dear non-existent readers.

1) Miss Boston: " They want to send me to Holland and Nigeria, besides London. I've told them I am not going to Nigeria. Who in their right minds will go to Nigeria? Or anywhere in Africa for that matter. Though (giggle) I might consider doing the safaris".

2) Miss Lehman: "When my brother and I used to go to Vietnam as kids, our cousins used to come and touch us and say you look sooooo tall and fair, y'know, because we are half-American, my brother and me, so we look different. These people were soooo creepy, but we couldn't do anything, because they were relatives, y'know? Ughh".

3) Miss Lehman: "People say that it would have been much better for the world to stay divided between the haves and have-nots y'know, though it seems such a cruel thing to say. The world just doesn't have enough resources for all those people in Asia to become middle-class y'know? Though that means that they'd have to stay poor, but they are used to it, unlike us, if you look at it objectively. Things will just collapse if they all want to consume and drive cars and build houses unless our living standards then go down to compensate, which would be terrible".

The last was a bit too much for me, and I mildly pointed out that 10 fewer brands of bread in Tesco or Waitrose wouldn't leave anyone exactly hungry in the West, a hint she refused to take. TYL, listening in livid disbelief, looked like she might start throwing plates any minute. Which meant that I had to get a bit more explicit and use the word 'obscene' with reference to the sheer range of stuff available in Western supermarkets and their actual, terrifyingly profligate, energy-wasting sizes, when Miss Lehmann got the hint.

I hope she had all her share options invested with her nice employer.

Out of the sand

2008-08-21T23:13:00.003Z

Maintaining this blog was a fraught affair for a long time. And in more ways than one. Which meant that writing it was an ambivalent exercise at best and a guilty pleasure at worst. However, these past months have been an exercise in dramatic, daily change. From Buddhist meditation to the sheer flush-faced endorphin-drunk joy of long runs through London at dusk to 2 new jobs to cooking a meal for family estranged for many years (no longer!) and managing the house alone for the first time ever (mad!), to re-connecting with many old friends and following another's Indo-Nordic wedding with much delight, to rediscovering old relationships and cementing new ones.... I am coping. Just about. But it's fun, hey. And I am as surprised at my own capacity for change as everyone else in my life. Now I just need to figure out a way to sleep for at least 7 hrs a day. The wilful sleep-deprivation all this gung-ho adaptation has entailed is not all that much fun.

But this blog is also an old friend, which in turn, is full of old friends, some of whom I know, the rest of whom I don't. I regret not knowing the ones who have stopped blogging and am suddenly aware that life is short and one connects with people but rarely. And for someone so grimly private for so long, I have begun to realize that there are drawbacks to privacy after all. So here it is, same old stuff, on slightly altered pages, here in black and white and there in white and blue. Here's to happy, carefree, uncluttered, un-ambivalent blogging!

The company of friends

2008-06-16T19:19:00.002Z

“Dr. NM, can I join you?” the question was, as always, courteous and a bit superfluous, considering that he joined me for lunch almost every day. But we lived in a country where people prefaced telephone conversations with ‘Sorry to bother you...”. And one home to the strange phenomenon of people saying “Sorry”, if you ever happened to elbow into them. Or step on their toe. As in “Sorry (for placing my toe in the way of your foot so that you couldn’t help but step on it)”.

M sat down and we resumed the conversational niceties of our host culture. “How are you, Dr. NM?” he queried. Each syllable was deliberately and separately enunciated, as with many born to tongues that follow rules different to English yet keen to make themselves understood.

“Not too bad, and you?” I nodded, venturing a stock British reply that meant little, but kept the courtesy going.

“Very well, thank you. It’s good to know that you are well.” I was aware that M, unlike me, was a devout Buddhist and meant most of what he was saying. Half-Burmese, a quarter Chinese and a quarter Karen, he was also a migrant from one of the most desperate places on the planet. From previous conversations, I was aware that his wife, a lawyer, used to be a political prisoner. Despite my evident curiosity, he has been reluctant to talk about her, not going beyond “She has suffered much... too much”. They met in exile, got married and lived in Romford, where my parents used to live a long time ago. They worked hard, he as a junior doctor, she as a solicitor’s assistant, while they both worked their way through their respective qualifying exams. Their families still lived in Rangoon and had little money. His mother needed her hips replaced, but had no chance of actually getting this done. He had a brother who had been executed by the junta. Another was in prison. M had not seen his family for six years. He had a baby face and rather sad, gentle eyes. He always wore a slightly frayed green jumper. These were all details that made him rather easy to like.

Our boss was away for the fortnight, leaving me in charge of the service. M thought that this must be difficult for me and said so at every opportunity, in a manner that managed to convey sympathy and deference in equal measure. I found this a bit touching, considering that his country had just been hit by the worst natural disaster in its history.

I asked him about the cyclone. He had been in touch with his family. They were safe, at least for the time being. Food was a problem. As was water and electricity. They feared for the son in prison. But they were alive, and this was no small relief. His wife felt that they should attempt a brief return to Burma, to help. He was not sure that this would be wise.

We ate. The cafeteria was doing Indian food. M loved Indian food and told me so. He was obviously enjoying the heavily spiced, greasy pilau rice, which had been given a pink makeover. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that the cooking was actually crap.

It wasn’t long before he brought up the cyclone again. “It is very sad,” he said in a low voice. “My friend in the Irrawaddy Delta… he says that in one town, fifty thousand have died…. fifty thousand” He shook his head meditatively, as if marvelling at the figure.

I considered something sympathetic to say, but we were interrupted by a familiar voice. “Hello sir, is it okay if we join you?” Sandeep was about the only person in Britain who called me ‘sir’. A Maharashtrian from Pune, he had been unable to shake off the deference drilled into him by 6 years at the Armed Forces Medical College. Well spoken and possessed with a self-deprecatory sense of humour, he was a bit different from the run-of-the-mill Indian junior doctor. The ‘we’ referred to his companions, a geeky Rajput from Delhi who went by the assimilation friendly nickname of A.J, and a bespectacled stranger, again obviously South Asian, in a bright and very Indian checked shirt.

They settled themselves around us, acknowledging M as they did so. The stranger was introduced as a new doctor on rotation at the hospital. It was evident that he and M hadn’t met. Sandeep collected our cafeteria trays to lean them on the wall in an attempt to create some room on the table. They began to eat. After a few minutes of silence, A.J turned to M and asked sympathetically, “Everything okay at home? I mean, is everybody in your family safe?”

“Yes, they are. Not fine exactly, but they are alive. But thank you for asking. Thank you very much. ” The words were again carefully chosen, spoken slowly and with great courtesy. I caught the stranger casting a quick glance at M, momentarily interested. He said something to his friends in Hindi with a grin, but it was spoken too quickly for me to understand. Both native Hindi speakers, they caught the joke and laughed. Before long, they were conversing cheerfully in Hindi, their speech interspersed with sniggers, backslaps and hoots of laughter.

M looked slightly discomfited. I considered interrupting firmly in English, a language everyone at the table could understand, to steer the conversation into areas that held some resonance with M. However, unlike Sandeep and his friends, we were about to leave and the effort seemed rather pointless.

But their laughter had piqued my curiosity. I listened. The new doctor was speaking loudly, his voice shaking with laughter: “Ajeet Singh ne kaha main bhi usko gaand mara hain, boss, agar rundi ko chowdna hein to usko shaadi karne ka kya zaroorat hain? Ajeet Singh said I’ve slept with her too, boss, if you want to sleep with a whore, why do you need to marry her?” “Arrey, uske baad hi chutiya Abhishek ne chhoda usko! Fataafat! Hey, that bastard Abhishek dumped her after that, pronto!” “Arrey, yeh sab actress log ek jaisi hain, Indian, Gori, Chinky, Burmee…. See, all these actresses are the same whether Indian, White, Chinese or Burmese…” the last almost an afterthought, with a nod at M and a wink at me.

By now, M had finished, as had I. After we had excused ourselves, we walked out of the cafeteria in silence. In the clear Kentish sunshine outside, he appeared unable to resist himself any longer and enquired politely, “They were talking about… maybe something interesting?” And then, smiling, “I recognize Hindi. We like Indian movies in Burma…. Bollywood, it is very popular. Just like curry.”

I was momentarily at a loss. But he had presented me with a tactful exit. “Actually, they were talking about Bollywood.” I said, grateful for the opportunity to avoid being entirely truthful.

M seemed to consider this for a moment. Finally, he said with a smile: “Bollywood? How nice. In my country, we love it so much that we name our cyclones after your actresses. Nargis…. a beautiful name. Very beautiful.”

Control

2008-05-07T22:42:00.005Z

I have absolutely no pressing need to be in control of anything, except perhaps my career to some extent and health to a greater extent (since both have bad previous). If someone else wants to take control of a situation, I quietly let them do so; sit back, watch, listen, maybe learn (if I'm lucky) and enjoy the ride. However, this laid back attitude does not in any way mean that I'm not assertive. If there's no one else who wants to take charge, I quickly and deliberately do so. If the person in charge seems unsure, I tactfully support, encourage, guide and if absolutely necessary, take over. If the person appears incompetent and dangerous, I dispense with the tact and take over completely. Often without little ceremony.

Being laidback about control does not mean one is un-assertive, weak, a pushover or irresponsible.

Far from it. Though it just might mean that one is loath to make an effort when someone else appears to relish being in charge much more than one does. And curiously, when the shit hits the fan, people like this always seem to be the ones scraping everyone off the pavement and herding them home. And that of course, is a rather mixed-up metaphor.

Good Medicine

2008-03-09T20:18:00.004Z

Just when you think there are only so many years of Medicine you can do before cynicism sets in, something happens that makes you remember why you chose to stick with it in the first place. Cynicism has many tactful medical labels; my personal favourite being, “I’d say the prognosis is guarded” (weasel words delivered with an inward grimace). A friend prefers “cautious optimism”. All of which are polite euphemisms for anything ranging from “You just might get better”, to “I don’t know”. At worst, both expressions implicitly mean, “You’re fucked, mate, but I don’t know how to tell you”.

And then someone walks in, all of 17, bright and vivacious and with laughing eyes and fiercely intelligent and a bit wary because she’s going to tell you that she’s stopped her meds. Before she sits down, you already know. You look at her, shrug inwardly, grin and ask, ‘You stopped ‘em, didn’t you?’ She can’t stop grinning, ‘How did you knooowww?!!!’

‘It’s obvious, you look a lot happier for a start. And they aren’t the best things to make you feel alert and bright, are they? And you are happy.’

Her mother, anxious about the whole situation and worried that I am going to say something dire, says hesitantly, ‘She just wouldn’t listen to me. She stopped it soon after she saw you last, but she tapered it over 3 weeks.’

I am about to throw up my hands and shrug, but then think otherwise. ‘That’s fine, you are the best judge of what’s good for you, and you’re fine without it and that’s all there’s to it, really. But no weed, okay?’

The relief’s obvious on their faces, ‘It wasn’t just weed, there was speed, LSD and MDMA, but I am never going there again’, she shakes her head, suddenly grave.

This is news to me, and a bit worrying. But her intent and determination are unmistakable. “You do LSD, you’re screwed; you know that, don’t you? Not everybody reacts badly to all this, but unfortunately, you do. We’ve already talked about it, yeah?”

She shakes her head several times, “No, never again, I should have learnt that in Ibiza, the first time”.

I believe her. But she has more up her sleeve, this one, “I am starting a job, at the school in ……”.

“Oh, great, fantastic, that’s good news”, I am already looking at the nurse from the specialist team, ready to wind up and hand over. They’ll keep an eye on her in the community for the next two years, just to make sure she’s fine.

“….and I’ve got a place at University, in Cambridge, and I’m starting in September, so the job’s only until then”.

I am startled, then astonished, then admiring, then very proud, “Wooooowwww! Coooool” I gawp at her. I am aware that I don’t sound like a doctor anymore.

She beams at me, shaking her head happily.

I digest the implications, and they are staggering. She’s mixed-race and working class, her mother brought her up alone, and she grew up between the inner-city and the rusting post-industrial end of the commuter belt. Both can be soul-destroying places. She had the worst kind of illness an ambitious and driven teenager could have, twice, for no other fault than experimenting with the usual stuff teenagers do in Ibiza and Brixton. But they had steel, these two, that much was obvious from the start. And that's part of the reason why I've stubbornly refused to label her with a stigmatizing diagnosis.

And now, this. Suddenly, I am happy being a doctor. A regular, jobbing, salary-drawing, non-paper-publishing, non-ambitious, non-academically-wheeling-dealing, not-sought-after, not-changing-the-world, will-shove-my-hand-in-and-unblock-the toilet-if-that's what's going to make the patient better doctor.

Just. A. Fucking. Doctor. It feels good.

Ahem

2008-02-22T00:27:00.004Z

Posting will resume shortly.

Quit post today, with a polite 'up yours' resignation letter.

One job remains, a trip up to Oxford to tell the head of school that he is a twat and can go fuck himself. Officially. Decorum will be maintained while this is conducted.

Life is nice. And it looks like it actually might get better.

For now. Ooo'er!

Touching wood. Lots of it.

Crappiest 7 months of life- RIP.

Okay, more wood. More more more. Wood wood wood.

Hello world:-)

Talk like a man

2007-12-05T01:11:00.000Z

You don’t really have to be male to talk like one, you see (to state the bleeding obvious). One, erm… lives and learns.

“It’s her duty as a wife to live with him and look after him in his old age. What do you mean he was emotionally dismissive?”

Gender of speaker: Male in this case, and family; Context: Very Indian middle class;

Translation: After a lifetime of being treated like an emotional and intellectual doormat i.e. her primary function being to cook, clean, look pretty and nod assent when everybody gushed over her surgeon husband who had actually played cricket for the country (lucky woman!), she decided enough was enough. At the ripe retirement age of 60. And chose to go live with her daughter in the U.S, start a business, make friends of her own and get a life. But this is unacceptable, of course. Ungrateful little shit. What about the poor man? He just can’t cope with the weather in New England. And he just hates the food. He can’t possibly go live with her.

“Her son’s a weakling, he’s never going to do well. She should support him in every way. It’s her duty as a mother. Why does she want to buy jewellery at this age? She’s 70, for God’s sake! It’s not as if anyone’s going to look at her. He needs her help, she's his mother!”

Gender of speakers: Male and female, in this case;

Context: Hamara Bharat mahaan (‘India is great’, for those of you deprived of the joys of Hindi)

Translation: One of her sons is a loser. This suits his very successful siblings and extended family since it provides them with a ready made travel agent, chauffeur, concierge, payer of bills etc. They pay his (and his unfortunate wife’s) rent, in return. Except for one small problem. He now wants to procreate. And wants Mama to help with extra money, and childcare and and and. Mama, widowed young and without supports, has worked very hard for her money, until she retired 5 yrs ago. She’s never bought jewellery for herself. Until she came by an inheritance. Recently. Which she should donate to the loser-procreator-turned-mard (more Hindi). Naturally.

“She’s sexless”

Gender of speaker: Male > female. Context: Cross-cultural

Translation: She’s focused on her work and has no time for gendered office games viz. popping cleavage, flirting, playing the sex card, living up to the 'feminine' stereotype etc. However, if she was a man, acceptable descriptors would include, ‘incredibly focused and determined’, ‘dresses like a typical intellectual’, 'he's so focused he's not bothered about what he wears', 'typical absent-minded Professor-in-the making' etc.

“She’s a frigid cunt”

Gender of speaker: Male

Translation: However much I try, she won’t sleep with me. Because she has

1) Better taste; and/or

2) Other priorities.

“She’s a fuckin’ nympho”

Translation: She’s almost as interested in sex as the average man. Almost. And interested. Not constantly subconsciously preoccupied.

“She’s really vicious/ a ballbreaker/ jor ”

Gender of speaker: Male or female, take your pick; Context: Cross-cultural, but Indian in this particular anecdote. Hence the jor;

Translation: She thinks for herself, is candid about what she thinks, and is unafraid to argue her viewpoint. However, though most admirable in a man, I feel extremely uncomfortable when this happens with a woman; it just doesn’t feel right. When I am a man, it makes me feel like my penis is actually shrinking, then…..well (horrible). When I am a woman, it questions the validity of the status quo I’ve accepted unquestioningly all my life. And what does that make me, huh?

Never mind the validity of her perspective. Okay? Now shut up, please.

“He’s looks like a tough bastard, all right, but he’s a useless henpecked git around that wife of his” “He’s completely under that babe’s thumb, mate, effin’ idiot”

Gender of speaker: Male

Context: Universal. Boys being boys, doing Man stuff viz. getting drunk, watching football/cricket, working on that cute beer belly etc.

Translation: He seems to have fun hanging out with his partner/girlfriend. He even gets wasted with her, for Chrissakes! The idiot goes to frickin’ art galleries! He even cooks for her. Stays at home on Fridays, watching effin’ DVDs. Hilarious. And he doesn’t talk about birds. Forget fit birds. But can’t tell him this, because he can be a bit of a bastard, that one. What a loser. Fuck ‘im, mate. C’mon, let’s have another drink. Pass the fries, will ya?

And finally, my favourite, from a ‘liberated’ Indian man who married for ‘love’.

“Change into Indian clothes when we stopover in Dubai and don’t argue. I don’t usually ask you to do stuff, right?”

Translation: Now that I have satisfied my intellectual need to feel ‘liberal’ by dating, living in with and then marrying a woman ‘not suitable for my parents’ (no, they aren’t the ones marrying her jointly, in case you wondered), I need to maintain a charade of ‘respecting tradition’, ‘keeping them happy’, ‘showing that she will adjust’ by making sure she switches her jeans for a salwar in a toilet in Dubai airport. Just so that she is not improperly clad when we arrive in Bombay.

Change in London? What d'you mean? What if someone saw her? These things count at work, y'know.

Note: This post has been anonymized. Googling the surgeon who played cricket for India will lead nowhere.

To the Economist, with love

2007-11-15T21:28:00.000Z

In which I write a letter on behalf of the Economist, triggered by this post. Joy.

15th November 2007,
London

My Dearest Sandeep,

Hope all is well with you.

For one who seeks to point out ”consistently poor research and (a) lack of awareness of basic facts” and draw attention to bias on the part of the Economist, you have done an excellent job. My congratulations.

My favourite sections of your thoroughly enjoyable post are the following-

1)Where you cite an earlier point-of-view post by yourself (rich in opinion and erm..., a bit sparse in facts) as valid and reliable proof of the Economist’s ”lack of awareness of basic facts”. Two words spring to mind. Pot. Kettle.

2)Where you link to the Economist’s country profile of India, “which contains a wealth of information that sometimes borders on being incorrect”. “Sometimes” and “borders on being incorrect” are, I believe, slightly different from “Mostly” and “factually incorrect”. Another word comes to mind. Spin. But that’s a clever use of English, I must admit. Well done.

3)Where you confidently state that “apart from a select circle, Nehru stands discredited on almost all fronts”. The valid and reliable proof for this is of course, another opinion post by yourself, another blog post that borrows heavily from a piece in that esteemed international newspaper established by a certain Conrad Black, ‘The New York Sun’, and an op-ed piece by the erm…… eminent sociologist and historian, Rajeev Srinivasan. To borrow your own words, apart from a select circle…of three (?), I wonder whether that reads s(usp)ect. Or maybe we’ll just have to accept your word for it. And that word is of course scientifically valid and reliable, unlike that of the Economist.

4)Now onto my favourite bit. To support the claim that “Hindus persistently worry that Indian Muslims are a fifth column”, you state that this is based on reality, since (the) “majority of the recent terror attacks on India were carried out by Indian Muslims indoctrinated in Pakistan and/or Bangladesh”. So far, so good. Point taken.

But then, you just had to go on, didn’t you? To reinforce your point further, you quote ‘Nitin’ who actually said, “It’s surprising how many things The Economist’s correspondent doesn’t know and yet goes on to make rather bold conclusions. Despite the near certainty of local Muslims being involved in the blasts, to extend this and suggest that India’s or even Hyderabad’s Muslims “probably” played a “supporting role” is absurd”.

Duh..uh!? Two last words. Foot. Mouth.

Now, I could work my way down your post systematically, but life is short, you see. However, the next time you undertake a so called ‘factual critique’, I suggest filling the first floor with some furniture. And hope that some bored scientist (of the qualified variety) doesn’t stumble on your post.

And, oh, please do read up about validity and reliability, will you? Thanks.

Yours seriously,

Never mind.

Lovers in strange places

2007-10-16T06:59:00.000Z

The Lady has a take on the Ex-files which goes something like this-

"However far you travel, you will inevitably bump into an ex at some point in your life and this will happen regardless of any attempt to avoid such encounters. The likelihood of said encounters are, of course, directly proportional to the number of exes you possess "(strange way of putting it, I know, 'possessing' an ex. 'I possess my ex, I have possessed my ex, my ex possesses me, my ex has possessed me, my exes possess me, I am possessed by my exes....', okay okay, very sad, I know, I'll stop). Stop.

Some exes are, of course, people you care for a lot and are very much part of your life, and I am not talking about them. Okay?

Right. Now, there is this ex who used to 'possess' yours truly. I will not explain this beyond the fact that the said ex's favourite song was 'Every move you make' by the Police. Even if one were to ignore the decidedly questionable taste in music, not to mention the particular song, the sentiment behind the bloody song itself should be sufficient explanation as to why the Ex is an an Ex. This experience, however, has left me with deep psychological scars, hidden even to myself, until I went to a Police concert. Look, I can explain this.

The Lady has a rich relative. Rich relative has a rich wife. They are our only normal relatives in town (well, at least the only ones who like sex). Both get loads of corporate freebies. Thus, we get free tickets to a Police concert. The Lady has the hots for Sting. I am indifferent to them (the Police, I mean). I like Sting (no, I don't have the hots for him). We go to the concert. Everything goes fine until the end, when they start singing, well..... . I suddenly have this horrible sensation in the pit of my stomach; the Lady casts an eye at me, understands, and says, "Let's go". Bless her, she loves me, y'know. I start hurrying down the stairs, trip on nothing, and falls, then sort of shoot, face forward, down the entire bloody length of Twickenham Stadium, thud, thud, thudthudthud etc etc. I take a petite blonde with me, on the way. Positively embarassing. At the bottom, there's much shouting of 'He's alive, he's moving etc.' The resultant 2 very large knees mean that I have a lot of explaining to do over the next 2 weeks. The Lady gallantly tells everyone, "It was sooooo funny, I wished I'd filmed it". Okay, maybe she doesn't love me all that much.

Back to the Ex. Understandably, I avoid her like the plague. She, erm..., pursued contact with customary persistence when I arrived in London. On the last such occasion, I actually left my office by the backdoor and got into the first available train, when she was in the building attempting such, erm.. contact. I think this sort of subtly drove home the message. By then, Ex had already fallen in love with and married a 'best friend' of mine (his term), who then promptly severed all contact with me, thus rendering himself an 'ex-best friend'. Very adult. And complicated, I know, this unlikely addition to the Ex files. But such is life.

4 happy years later, I go to 'a world famous centre of learning' (a phrase borrowed partly from Nikita) for an interview. Guess who's on one of the panels?

I see her name on the panel list, but like any self-respecting male who copes largely by denial, tell myself with immediate finality, " She can't be here, it's someone else". What I suspect I was actually thinking was, "I don't want to deal with this shit during an interview; I don't want to study here anyway since I'd rather stay in London; I didn't even want to come to this interview; this is a tier 2 Department, they don't share any of my interests; I'd rather stay in London; this is too complicated to deal with right now, she doesn't exist; go away; I'd rather stay in London, why did I come here? It IS somebody else. It's NOT her. That's that."

The first 2 panels go like a dream. I am doing so well I've actually forgotten about her. Completely.

I walk into the 3rd room. A youngish Black man sits by a window, smiling. There's a woman in the corner next to the window, sitting on a chair that's been drawn right back into the shadows. I am so pleased with myself that I don't even notice this person. I smile superficially at the shadowy face and look at the youngish chap expectantly. The interview continues to go well. After about 5 mins, I am a bit puzzled; there's not been a peep out of the second interviewer. I am a conversational interviewee i.e. I try to make myself comfortable in interviews and attempt to convert it into a 'conversation', usually cracking a self-deprecating joke to get them to laugh a bit. But an alarm bell has gone off inside my brain. I peer into the shadows and look right at the silent woman............, "Ohh fuck me, it's her! It actually is. This is so fucking weird. The Lady was right, the woman is always right, but here of all the bloody places! Okay, okay, talk to her, get her to talk, she being silent like this is damned awkward..... wait, maybe she's told the Black guy she knows me, that's why he hasn't smiled though I'm laying on the charm; oh fuck". I now shift my gaze firmly to her face while answering his questions.

After about a minute, she starts talking, normally. I notice that she's wearing glasses...., "That's new, but gold rimmed glasses, at her age... Is she deliberately trying to look older? That's pathetic, must tell the Lady and A about this, they'll be thoroughly amused. And she's wearing a pinstriped suit and is heavily made up, what a hoot! She's gone native, hahaha".

I was, of course, wearing a suit myself (with a pink shirt and cufflinks, the horror), so this line of thinking was hardly justified. But let's face it, I was a wee bit uncomfortable being interviewed by her, what with the erm.... , slight power imbalance. So internally rubbishing the Ex you never thought would do anything remotely intellectual and had now apparated on your interview panel (Wow! No shit. I can't fucking believe this!) is possibly an instinctive (male?) response. But then, a pleasant thought strikes me. She must have seen my CV! What fun! Hurrah! A moment of petty, unwholesome, irrational glee possesses me, and confidence restored and (defensive, latently insecure?) grossly unwarranted arrogance surfacing, I cross my legs and carry on. A minute later, I am aware that I have jettisoned the charm altogether and am dangerously veering into 'patronize the interviewer' territory. I have become defensive. Not good. Guaranteed to lose me the job. But I don't want the bloody job. Really? Well, not unless I am left with absolutely no other option. So I might need the job, then. Uncross legs, now, you twit. Smile. Bring chin down. Be nice to them. They've seen your CV and have probably labelled you as a 'typical (insert name of frighteningly arrogant institution) person' anyway. And you look faintly thuggish. Make them like you. Now.

I smile sweetly at her. Then, him. See, you can do a fake smile once every ten years or so. Okay, now do it again. I sort of grimace. Not good. Obviously, I have to wait for another ten years, now. I give up; calmly answer their (actually his, because she's clammed up again) queries. I say something, she goes, "Oh, verry good!" I don't like this. Don't 'verry good' me woman, okay? But then I was patronizing them hardly 2 minutes ago. You don't have a copyright on this, y'know. Oh, shut the fuck up, nevermind.

Actually, the interview went great. I came out, called the Lady, "Hey, do you know who was on the ......?"

She hooted with laughter.

There's no sympathy in this world, I tell you.

New post, nice music

2007-07-30T14:36:00.000Z

Okay, since I have nothing to say (because I have too much to say) here's some nice music.

Dam: Palestinian rap; angry, explosive and rather profound.

In the heart of the moon- Ali Farka Toure and Toumani Diabate: unrehearsed, acoustic music so impromptu that you've never heard anything like it before; easily the single best thing I've heard in years; and if you like the guitar, you haven't heard anything until you've heard Ali Farka Toure; sadly, he died two weeks after the recording.

Tinariwen: Raw Taureg desert blues; the reviews say lush, but it's not really, it's still coolly primal, but a bit overrated, if you ask me; still good and worth buying.

Carla Bruni: Stole this from the Lady. Bruni doesn't sing; she whispers, intimately, in French. Buy it even if you don't understand a word of French. And if you like Yeats. And looong legs. Need I say more?

And oh yes, the Yeats album's in English.

And the few nice things that I got to do in this past not-very nice 3 months are-

Wander in here without a clue and hear Roger Waters, the post- 'Pink Floyd' (Gilmour and Mason and Wright playing of all things, Arnold Layne) , not to mention Captain Sensible, Vashti Bunyan, Chrissie Hynde, Martha Wainwright, Damon Albarn et al let loose. Hoped Waters and the rest would play together, like at Live Aid, but they didn't. But it was all very nice and psychedelic, with light and sound by the family that used to run the UFO Club.

Shake hands with Ram Jethmalani, then escort him to the loo. He's a nice old man, really, and not at all fierce.

A Non-resident Indian child

2007-05-26T09:00:00.000Z

Running down the stairs, late for work, you glance out of the window and promptly see the last thing you want to see. The unexpected lurks even in leafy squares, I suppose.

A wisp of a girl, no more than perhaps twelve, teetering precariously on her toes. She is trying to push a garbage- bag into one of the massive disposal bins positioned behind the bushes at the near end of the square. She also looks distinctly South Asian. You pause, warning bells ringing, for you’ve seen her somewhere, and her attire, even from a distance, marks her as a not-so-privileged outsider. As you watch, she loses her grip on the binliner which is almost as big as she is; it then falls back on her, struggling as she is to keep her balance. But she’s quick, and jumps out of the way. Warily, she looks around at the faceless windows, seeking out hidden eyes like mine, for the garbage rules explicitly state that the liners have to be left inside the bin. She is, of course, too short to be able to manage that. Tentatively, she pushes the bag closer to the bin. Again, she looks around anxiously, as if sizing up her options; then abruptly turns, and runs into the nearest common doorway. The bag has been left behind to face the ire of the next civic minded middle class resident that comes along.

En route to work, I mull over what I have seen, decide that I am jumping to too many conclusions too soon, and conveniently decide to leave well be. The next week, an Australian couple, newly arrived, mention seeing an obviously underage child pushing a toddler’s pram, then feeding the baby from a bottle, at a communal gathering. The children were accompanying a young Indian couple who appeared to be the toddler’s parents. The young Australian woman, initially curious, then increasingly angry, had been quietly asking questions. The young girl, it turned out, had been brought over from India to work as a maid (or, to use the appropriate Indian English term, a servant). She did not go to school. The couple were from Delhi, and the short, plump, pleasant man is G. G was doing an MBA at London Business School (which costs £ 45,000, btw). His taller, slim, smart and bespectacled wife, A, was a stay at home mother (a Danish friend has since labelled her ‘an international lady of leisure’). We talk, I promise to enquire further, and keep her informed about what I propose to do.

I am in an uncomfortable quandary. If this is child labour, I have a statutory responsibility to notify the appropriate agencies. And indeed, if this had happened at work, the evidence, as it stood, was sufficient for me to pick up the phone and make a referral to Children and Families Social Services. CFSS would then, of course, follow due procedure and investigate.

But this is not work. This is home, and I am part of the same closely knit, uniquely co-operative community to which the employer/?exploiter couple belong. There are a range of delicate issues to be considered, from checking whether the administrators are alert to the situation, and whether they have a policy regarding such issues, to whether a formal investigation would bring tabloidesque attention onto all of us and whether I can manoeuvre this human relations minefield with sufficient tact.

Further discreet investigations reveal that the couple in question and we have mutual friends. These friends, when queried, respond curiously. The man is blunt, and says, “It’s obvious yaar, the girl is underage and is being kept as some sort of maid, she’s not going to school or anything, she is being exploited, but what can you do about it?” The woman, an economist, stiffens defensively, and says, “But the girl is probably having a much better life here than she would in India”.

A careful debate follows, the Lady watchful, me tactful, the woman’s partner supportive of my concerns, and she progressively defensive. This is familiar ground. I know the Chicago Boys-Milton Friedman argument on child labour. I have a number of counter-arguments, beginning from the fact that from a behavioural perspective, short term fixes are guaranteed to perpetuate long-term inequities, to the fact that a lack of education renders a child labourer fit for only menial adult jobs (and a lifetime of teetering on the poverty line) as well. What she calls economics, I call behaviour. Her husband points out the lack of empirical evidence for the Chicago theory. I mention my legal responsibilities. At this, the woman goes quiet, suddenly looking at me as if I am some sort of dangerous animal.

Later, I speak to the Social Services Manager I share my office with. She is Bangladeshi, and informs me that wealthy South Asians and Middle-easterners are ‘notorious for this sort of thing’. She suggests that I call Childline. I do, and they are very helpful. They explain ‘the legal black hole of imported child labour’ to me [This refers to the fact that once a High Commission has issued a visa (on whatever grounds) to a child au pair (who could well be fraudulently presented to the HC as a relative), then that automatically renders the child labourer ‘legit’. Children and Families Social Services, in general catastrophically overstretched, often clutch this straw to sidestep a culturally complicated investigation]. They suggest that I call the NSPCC, who have a statutory responsibility to investigate.

Which I do. The NSPCC guarantees the reporter confidentiality. It has diplomatic ways of investigating, which is reassuring. They do an ‘impact assessment’ (which has it’s origins in enlightened Bangladeshi child labour policy) that focusses on the child’s best interests (and in culturally complex cases, that of the family of origin).

Which brings us to the final (non) denouement. The administrators (who I’ve quietly included in the loop) inform me that the couple has suddenly left. I do know that G’s MBA runs until July, which means they may have been discreetly warned, and are possibly still in the city. Alternatively, he could be doing his end-of-course project elsewhere.

So, if you see a short, plump, chocolate-faced, smiling Indian MBA from LBS (whose name begins with G) and/or his taller, slim, smart, bespectacled wife (A) with a toddler and an underage maid/au pair in tow, please call NSPCC or your local National Child Welfare agency, once you’ve figured out their address (of the couple, that is). And if I spot them anywhere in town, that is precisely how I intend to proceed.

Further reading here , here , here and here. For the feudal Indian perspective on child labour, note the artistic modification (courtesy your friendly neighbourhood Indian wiki vandal) of the first reference at the bottom of this Wikipedia page on Child Labour.

Dr. Imran Yousaf- doctor to doctors

2007-04-30T11:13:00.000Z

Obituaries are one of the most popular sections of the British Medical Journal. One presumes that this is because they are one of the few places in a journal, the raison d’etre of which is furthering the advancement of scientific medicine, where one can find a doctor with a face, a life of flesh and blood, and occasionally, courage.

P.W.J. Bartrip, in his Mirror of Medicine- the History of the BMJ (BMJ, London and Clarendon Press, Oxford, 1990) describes the journal as the social face of the medical profession, focussing on its long history of engaging with reform and politics. Much of this is true, because that is precisely what sets the fairness and social sensitivity of the British pioneers- the Lancet and the BMJ, apart from the often contrived political correctness of the American journals.

And that is why it is surprising that an obituary to Dr. Yousaf has not been forthcoming in the journal. And there’s only so much one can wait.

Dr. Yousaf came to wider attention at the height of the Highly Skilled Migrant and International Medical Graduate (IMG) crisis in 2006. He was the face of a legal challenge launched by the British Association of Physicians of Indian Origin (BAPIO) against the Blair government’s decision to abolish the (Work) Permit free Training visas for overseas doctors in post-graduate training. Under the new rules, IMGs had to seek a work permit under a labour market test that legally prioritized U.K/ E.U graduates over them. Those already in the system were offered an attractive option- entry into the points based Highly Skilled Migrant Programme (HSMP), a fast-tracked route to citizenship, provided they made the cut at 60 points. This would allow the doctors already in the system to complete their training within the National Health Service (NHS) on equal terms.

But what of Post-PLAB unemployed doctors like Dr. Yousaf, who had come to the U.K earlier, at a time when the Department of Health (DoH), and the General Medical Council (GMC), aided by the British Council, were facilitating the assessment/recruitment of overseas doctors in their countries of origin at a frenetic pace? This recruitment had been conducted under the publicized framework of an Equal Opportunities Recruitment Policy. Despite investing much time and money (under a staggering exchange rate) in the U.K, many of these doctors were still unemployed i.e. they had not yet been able to enter post-graduate training.

They would have to return, said the DoH and the Home Office. And many of their overseas colleagues eligible for the HSMP scheme, by now secure in the belief that their bases were covered, concurred, albeit reluctantly. Never mind that the PPUDs faced personal and financial ruin.

However, BAPIO had other ideas; and were publicly (though always not privately) supported by many of the Medical Royal Colleges representing traditional ‘shortage specialties’. Demonstrations, television interviews and negotiations ensued, culminating in the legal challenge before the High Court. But they needed an applicant for the challenge, a doctor who was willing to stick his neck out and more, someone who was willing to deal with the potentially catastrophic fallout confrontation with the established order could bring onto his professional prospects.

And in Imran Yousaf they found their man. And as Dr. Ramesh Mehta, President of BAPIO said, “Being unemployed and still looking for work, going up against the Government was a very brave thing to do."

I didn’t know Imran personally, and that obviously limits this obituary. He must have arrived in the U.K in the winter of 2004-5, shortly after saying farewell to his family in their village outside Lahore. He must have been overjoyed when he passed the clinical Part 2 of the PLAB Test. Post-graduate training and a career in his chosen specialty, beckoned. He must have applied for posts all over the country. He might have been short listed for some posts and attended interviews. And somewhere along the way, he acquired a label; he became a Post-PLAB Unemployed Doctor (PPUD). And though this may have brought with it a peculiar indignity, it might also have brought with it a certain resilient strength, the camaraderie of a professional underclass.

As time passed, money would have grown short. He’d have borrowed, first from family (The Independent mentions that he’d used up his family’s entire savings), then friends, then acquaintances, then anybody. However, this did nothing to deter his determination, and he managed to pass Part 1 of the Membership of the Royal College of Physicians (MRCP), a difficult exam even under ordinary circumstances.

And then the Government pulled two jokers out of the visa pack. Despite the NHS website clearly guaranteeing Equal Opportunities employment to HSMP holders (30 % of consultants in the NHS are overseas doctors), the DoH postponed, and then declined clarifying the obvious; that this applied to HSMP holders applying for post-graduate training within it. Next, the HSMP scheme was revised in November 2006, with retrospective effect. That is, migrants who had been welcomed into the U.K under the HSMP scheme were informed that when their visas came up for renewal, they would have to meet a new, higher cut-off of 75 points. In addition, most of the original points categories viz. past experience, partner’s qualifications, exceptional academic achievement etc. would be deleted wholesale. Entire families transplanted to the U.K faced imminent evacuation; professional, financial and personal ruin.

Almost overnight, The Imran-BAPIO appeal at the High Court held pressing relevance for the previously disinclined HSMP doctors and the wider circle of professionals under the HSMP scheme. And this included professional migrants from places as far afield as New Zealand and Russia, and Nigeria and Brazil. This pleasant, fresh faced 28 year old now held international relevance, and in an ironic twist, had also become an unwitting symbol of subcontinental diasporic unity.

It was December 2006. Imran was now, according to peer reports, almost 13,000 £ in debt, relatively little in the U.K, but a fortune in Pakistan. Unable to pay the rent for his Burnley flat share, he was reduced to sleeping out the winter on the floor of a pizza shop. Increasingly depressed and indebted, friends became worried about him. A fellow doctor invited him to stay with him in Bedford. He could sleep in a local GP’s surgery.

On the night of 19th January, he found himself alone in the surgery. He was penniless and cold, possibly hungry. The verdict on his joint appeal with BAPIO had been postponed to February. He’d recently applied for yet another extension to his visitor’s visa. He’d received a reply from the Home Office earlier that day. His application had been rejected. Was this the price of him living the Hippocratic oath in letter and spirit , and sticking his neck out so remarkably far for his colleagues?

He was found hanging the next day. Although he left no note, beside him was the letter from the Home Office saying there would be no further extensions on his visa.

Ladies and gentlemen, take a bow. Before Imran Yousaf, doctor of courage.

Among God's people

2007-03-26T13:45:00.000Z

Things changed almost as soon as I crossed the Kerala border. As I staggered off the ‘A/C Deluxe Volvo bus’ into an unexpectedly sharp early morning chill, I was greeted by a pleasant faced, youngish chap. Turned out he was despatched by family friends, to escort me on the drive south. He stuck his hand out and said, “Clap.”

Puzzled, I looked around. There was no one else around except a stray cow, sleeping comfortably by the side of the road, and what appeared to be a chauffeur/driver in the Tata Indigo that Mister Pleasant face had brought along for my transportation into the Heart of God’s Country. Nothing worth clapping about, basically.

Nonetheless, I clapped. He stared, a look of extreme bewilderment crossing his face.

Oops. Wrong move. I stopped clapping, unsure of what to do next.

And suddenly, the incomprehension on his face was replaced by what appeared to be gradual understanding. “Oh no no no,” he said, “My name is Clap.”

Two hours into the drive, I’d managed to catch some sleep, and Clap and I had become mates. Turned out he was an architect, designing Ayurvedic spas and other such for the tourism industry. He was also, like almost every Malayalee I met on the trip, surprisingly well informed on just about any topic, from cinema to philosophy to the importance of the teashop in Kerala society.

Now, I could talk about what stunningly boffo pieces of work the beautifully maintained Kerala highways are (particularly National Highway 47), but that requires a raving petrol head post all its own.

So let’s talk about something else that got my attention. No, no, no (as the Malayalees would put it), it’s not the Technicolor tropical lushness that sort of swims around your senses from the word go that got me. It was the signs.

As we approached Cochin, we passed a white concrete edifice built in the grand Indian wedding cake hotel tradition, called, hold your breath, Hotel Max Providence. Max Providence had something called a ‘ Family Restaurant’, serving ‘Indian, Chainese (sic) and Mughalai’, which, as I was to discover, is the USP of practically every eating place in Kerala. Families are BIG in this place. Frighteningly well-informed, implacably insular families. They sit at the heart of the Malayalees' unique combination of left-leaning politics and social conservatism.

But I digress. Hotel Gaylord loomed into view a mere two minutes after Max Providence. Now, it can be reasonably assumed that the owner was not thinking of whatever we are thinking about right now when he christened the place, particularly since Gaylord had a large cross planted on top of it. My thoughts, naturally, were now with those decent, God fearing American families that descend on Kerala in the winter.

But my encounter with hotels of the spirit was far from over. A mere five minutes from Gaylord, Good Way Tourist Home beckoned to those recently shaken good Christians, as if to say that, ‘ No no no, come to our family restaurant, there’s no gay-bay business here Saar, we have the best Indian, Chainese and Mughalai food.”

Comforted by this knowledge, I was about to nod off once gain, when a bunch of giant hoardings appeared by the side of the highway, which was now fast approaching Cochin. The first one, with a pretty Malayalee bride laden with a tonne of gold beaming benevolently at the traffic, assured me that no trip to Cochin was complete without a visit to the ‘Gold Fort’. ` Another one emphatically asserted that ‘Sogo vitrified tiles’ are ‘the Ultimate Floor Choice’, though the next one went one better, offering ‘ Johnson, not just tiles, but lifestyles’.

And speaking of lifestyles, the next hoarding told us what we should be wearing. This, apparently, could only be ‘King Richard shirts, the sign of success’. And next to the King Richard advert was the means to this success, a brand new, all –white, mock-classical building called the ‘Little Flower Engineering Institute’. The students of said institute could step out and grab a bite from either ‘Chummery Bakery’ or Honest Bakery’, two gilt and white concrete edifices flanking its gates. Or they could pop into ‘Hotel Khayber, Veg, Non-veg and Chainese’ (!) Choices, choices.

Clap, hugely kicked by my bemusement, now gleefully pointed out a sign that stated that the Institute had been built by ‘Born Builders Private Limited’. He also informed me that there was a notoriously wealthy local fraudster (who peddles ‘cures’ for HIV) living in Cochin, who had christened his home ‘Virus House’.

Tired by all this, I eventually nodded off.

When I awoke, we were well out of Cochin, and I was desperately hungry. Clap, ever the gracious host, immediately got Narayanan, the driver, to stop by the nearest row of teashops. We parked the car by a tiny residential bylane called the 'Residents' Lane', and after a stretch and a yawn, walked towards the shops, my mouth by now watering in anticipation of some authentic Malayalee fare. There were two thatched shacks to choose from, both of which, Clap assured me, did very good tapioca and fish. There was little, it appeared, to set their cooking apart. We could eat in whichever one I fancied. Reflexively, I looked at their signboards.

One was called ‘The Grand’. The other, ‘The Oberoi Five Star’.

Epilogue

And oh, turned out Clap had a sister. Her name was Dance. And their parents, naturally, lived in a house called, erm... ‘Clap and Dance’.

Note: This post has been anonymized.

The remains

2007-03-09T15:29:00.000Z

Well, this is what happened.

I am now triply qualified (jeez). And licensed in large swathes of the world. There are no more exams left. Zilch. Unless I am insane enough to go repeat everything someplace where they recognize only their own, that is.

This is supposed to make me feel happy, light-headed, relieved et al. But no, it leaves me restless (intellectually), strangely inert (physically) and mildy unnerved at this weird wtf state of being. No amount of weird booze works. I mean, not plonk, not Islays, not Speysides, not arak, not the ladys Limonicello and Sambuca, not mead from Glastonbury, nor cheap XXX rum. Not even toddy or my dads brandy. Watching 5 movies back to back, Almodovar box sets, Femi Kuti concerts, listening to Bill Bryson and Alain de Botton on the pod, sleeping, reading, taking a 4 week career break etc. were all deployed. Look, I tried. It did'nt bloody work.

Then the visa thing explodes. Turns out I am safe, but that is'nt just it. In fact, that makes it worse. A doctor takes his life. This gets me worried. I get involved. More wtf days follow. Some medics at the academic group I run start piling on, big time. I can understand their anxiety, but it starts getting to me. I am beginning to feel permanently pissed off. Not nice.

Since it's all getting a bit too much, I travel. End up in a pretty remote part of India, eventually. That helps, to an extent. I go looking for an old lady, the wife of a poet who was part of my childhood. Turns out she is dementing and blind. No one appears to be too keen to look after her. Even my dad says, 'there's no point going, she can't see you or recognize you'. Well. When the poet died, the State Government erected memorials and politicians made speeches. The literary mags ran commemorative issues and obits. They had'nt had kids. Now she's alone. A retired professor of mathematics at a University, unable to handle everyday money. Not nice at all. Then a nephew is located, who appears concerned. She's despatched to the nephew. Respite. Then went in search of another old lady (there's an old people fetish at work). Turns out she is severely depressed and in pseudodementia. So, I end up making phone calls, negotiating with assorted relatives I'd much rather whack, speaking to old Professors, sorting out care. Eventually, I call time, and go and meet some family and an old friend from med school. The friend has quit medicine, runs an investors club and is trading on the stockmarket. I remember that he'd made his first million rupees at 17. It all now falls into place. One week there is good. Then I hear about another old friend, this time from college; gay, former muse to a famous playwright who writes in English, now dying of AIDS. I published his first story, about a padre who falls in love with another padre. This got both of us into trouble with a lot of other padres. Including the ones who ran the college. He's untraceable. By now I am beginning to miss the Lady.

In the meantime, the visa thing gets fixed. I also get interviews wherever I apply. This, when there are masses of doctors who have'nt even got one interview. Significant feelings of guilt.

By now, I decide that my original career plans vis a vis policy and finance isnt really worth it. But the way medicine is changing, nurses and social workers and therapists and researchers and doctors and academics are rapidly being rendered irrelevant by money and managers. I am told to come up with a 'business plan' for my academic group. Wtf is that? So, now, I go to a 'Top MBA Fair', where I wonder whether an MBA will give me the skills to effect changes in healthcare at the level I am interested in. That is, rather than thru the circuitous, conventional path laid out for me, which is PhD, Lecturership, Chair and so on. I have no desire to do a PhD. Besides, I have never done anything the conventional way. So, will an MBA lead to our own thinktank ? Then the lady can become its face and me the backroom boy. Is this fantasy? But I'd sure love to kick some MBA butt at LBS;-) Just for the heck of it, hey.

With my mind drifting like this, will I blow all my interviews?

I am good, hey. C'mon, gimme my mojo for one last party.

Time to hit the books again.

But what about the Lady? She's quickly and justifiably losing patience with me and the British system, and me being in a wtf mood doesn't help. She suspects that she may have to compromise on her ambitions, but this is unthinkable. Besides, she's cleverer and far more capable than I ever will be. Which makes the option also completely unacceptable. So, now we have to stop thinking you/I, start thinking 'we' in every way, strategically plan our lives this year, the primary goal being that she returns to the fast track by the end of the year. I also need to effectively and efficiently action some support rather than merely spout it. If she walks, I'll have only myself to blame. I love her, you know. Very much. She's a superstar:)

Fingers crossed.

The lost page

2007-02-07T12:07:00.000Z

There will be no more slips of the tongue. The stranger who dropped in to say hi, with a smile that lifted lazily up from the greeting like steam from a cup of tea, the one with strangely shared reading habits, who spoke of shared winters and long drives north, and of instincts trained to empathize, has decided to quit.

It's none of my business, but I worry just a bit. Not because the blog's gone, but because the circumstances were fraught. And oddly, because it's my job to worry. And selfishly, I wonder, who'll talk diagnostic manuals with me every now and again:-)? And will there be someone else with the same shared 'professional' interests?

But you'll still drop in every now and again, right:-)? Dianne? And if you don't, maybe we'll talk again. Somewhere, sometime, just maybe. Good luck until then.

Will you come in?

2007-01-24T09:45:00.000Z

It snowed yesterday,
We fought the day before

I've got the flu today,
And a eustachian tube that's sore

It's a centimetre or two in Bloomsbury,
But a full ten in the South East.

The courtyard's crisp, white and dry
The cherry tree, a frozen, not too pleased ghost;

I make myself tea, and pancakes with maple syrup
And soup, warm focaccia, and a mozarella salad,

Then ask the pigeons, shivering two to a bough,
"To share the tea, I'll be glad

Or some soup, since you look so rough...
Will you come in, and be my guests?"

A bit more than racism

2007-01-19T04:28:00.000Z

What’s happening in Big Brother is not easy to label. Like with those tiny bruises sustained in the everyday cut and thrust of life in a multicultural society, I am not even sure labelling would be helpful. However, an understanding of the factors that have led to the behaviour may well lead to some sort of sensitization.

Let’s get one thing straight. If this had happened in a British schoolyard,Mme. Shetty might have had a concerted campaign of physical assault to contend with. She may well have been beaten, kicked, spat at, or, as has happened in the past, occasionally stabbed. As happens with thousands of school kids across this country, who have the misfortune to wear the wrong clothes, belong to the wrong social class, have a disability or a deformity, have the wrong accent, wear glasses, be confused about their sexuality, be black/white/brown/yellow in the wrong town, listen to the wrong music, be too pretty or clever or hardworking or all three etc. Heck, if there is one common thread to bullying, it’s that the factors that lead to it are pretty egalitarian. And very context specific. What makes you a victim in South London can make you an object of admiration in the Home Counties.

Race can be a factor, but then, it is a factor that can work in either direction. So what did Jade Goody say? She said Shetty is ‘up herself’ because she won’t talk about shagging and doesn’t burp or fart. Nothing racist there, that’s just about class (either the presence or the absence of it, looking at it another way). Jade called Shilpa a ‘Poppadum’. Just like the now deeply dismayed British public called her a ‘Fat Pig’ when she won the non-celebrity version of BB. Actually, they said ‘Kill the Pig’. But that’s okay, since Jade’s White Trash aka Chav, and it’s culturally acceptable to want to kill a fattish Chav. And that's the subtle faultline here, with Middle England pointing fingers at less-than-middle England. It's the chavs' fault, you see.

Now, onto the really racist bit. Danielle, who’s had to forfeit her Miss Great Britain title to a certain Preeti Desai (surprise, surprise) said she didn't want to eat a chicken that Shilpa had grilled, on the grounds that it was undercooked plus she didn't know where Shilpa's fingers had been. Danielle then called Shilpa "a dog". Danielle also said that Shilpa ‘should f*** off home’, the one unambiguously racist remark of the lot. One would imagine, if Preeti’s parents had f***ed off home, that would have been one less problem Danielle had to contend with in her desperate bid for Z-list celebrityhood. Generations of immigrants, from Slough and Brixton to Southall and Leicester, can tell you that this is the one sentence they have grown all too weary with over the years. It is not an easily forgotten one.

Which brings us to perceptions of racism. For the working class Afro-Caribs of the Windrush generation, the Amin-fleeing Gujaratis of Leicester and the asylum seeking Somalis of Woolwich, being told to ‘fuck off home’ is resonant with menace and meaning. Put it on prime time TV and you re-open barely healed wounds from the dark days of Powell and Thatcher. For the current crop of supremely confident, globe-trotting, fresh off the plane, highly skilled Indian migrant, it is something mildly disconcerting, but no more. And for some of these quasi-liberals, even acknowledging that such a remark is racist is akin to threatening their carefully cultivated (and protective) intellectual confidence. Especially since home’s already Bayswater or Sutton Coldfield. Unless they have to contend with something like this.

Channel 4 has clarified that Jade's unemployed and barely literate boyfriend Jack, also a housemate, had referred to Shilpa as a "c***", not a "Paki". The implication was that since the lad’s restricted himself to gynaecological descriptions, that’s all right. Given that two male contestants on the Australian version of Big Brother held a female housemate down while one of them slapped his penis on her face, Channel 4 is saying, ‘he just called her a c***, for f***’s sake, can’t these people take a joke?’ And here also they have a point. After all, BB is supposed to be a mirror to our society. And what do Eton educated stockbrokers in the Square Mile mutter under their breath when confronted by a confident, more successful female peer? They usually call her a c***. That’s allright, then.

The Indians, probably the Shiv Sena or some Tamil outfit with a sideline in self-immolation, are burning effigies. Of what? For what? Maybe they’ve figured out a way of getting some votes out of it. Or maybe it’s because everyone, from Germaine Greer downwards, seems to think Shilpa is a Tamil. Sorry, guys, she’s a Bunt (Yes, I know. It rhymes). So don’t waste your kerosene.

So BB is just doing what it’s supposed to i.e. hold up a mirror to society. It’s doing a good job, no? It’s not just shrill bloggers with traces of intelligence who can fight the dirty fight and stimulate some debate. Traditional media can do it much bigger and much better. So let Shilpa do her thing (and she’s doing it remarkably well, you must admit). Stopping the show is about the daftest thing you could do.

And, everyone who’s tuning in and jamming up the messageboards is saying pretty much the same thing. As for me, am I glad I don’t even have a b****** telly! I meant a f****** telly. With Fat Pigs, WAGs, down-at-heel singers, Bollywood starlet-star in-betweens and Jacks on the dole popping out of it. Enjoy.

Burkhas and bikinis, Hijabi Barbies, kites and masturbation

2007-01-16T00:07:00.000Z

In other words, the Burqini!

Many questions arise, triggered by the memory of young, middle-class Indian 'aunties' flapping around shallow waters in salwars kameez. However, all are banished in appreciation of innovation. Like I've said before, it's the adaptation, innit? And maybe, even the aunties could use it.

Courtesy Vij and the lovely Mme. MC, Professor of Sexual Health, dinner table companion irresistible, ex- life coach extraordinary and fellow Tuesdays with Morrie junkie, an update of this post has become necessary- presenting the Hijabi Barbies.

And this is what MC and Katherine are doing in Gujarat- helping fly thousands of kites during the kite season that say 'Masturbation is healthy and good'. Okay, here's why; for the uninitiated- traditional cultural beliefs in South Asia hold that the core of male health resides in the semen or Dhat. This, in turn, is related to Ayurvedic/Unani traditions that hold that one drop of semen is equal to about forty drops of blood yadayada. Which means that in many parts of the subcontinent, men prefer to have sex with a sex worker than masturbate. Since much of this sex is unprotected and since Sexual Health across the world has come to imply (historically and erroneously) something that is synonymous with Women's Health, many men in South Asia tend to neither jerk off (if you'll excuse me) nor walk in to clinics.

Enter Christine, MC and their kites. Now, a lot more men in Gujarat masturbate, and a lot less get the Clap, HIV etc. Thank you.

It’s Winter

2007-01-04T00:00:00.000Z

From it’s opening frame, when Mokhtar walks out into the snow from an old warehouse that’s being locked up for the day, this is a movie that echoes Thoreau’s creepily prescient take on our states, that ‘the mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation’.

The prematurely middle aged Mokhtar (Ashem Abdi) then arrives at his isolated home near a railway track, where his handsome wife Khatoun (played by an eloquent eyed Mitra Hadjar), his little daughter and his tired mother-in-law weren’t really expecting him. The first spoken sentence in the movie is, 'What are you doing here?' He has lost his job. There aren’t many more in Teheran that he can do, or wants to. He is tired, at the end of his forbearance and he's decided to go abroad to seek a decent living. Mokhtars face, from its beaked nose to its unforgivingly deep sockets, could be carved from a weatherworn tree. The family accepts this in silence. He leaves from a desolate Railway Station, and as Khatoun watches silently from a distance, he kneels amidst the snowdrifts and hugs his daughter briefly. Parting words would be a luxury.

The camera cuts abruptly to the arrival in town of a young man looking for work. He’s handsome, and from his slickly greased hair and his long sideburns, to his casually worn suit jacket, is also aware of this. He seeks lodgings at a dormitory in a local teashop, and strikes up a friendship with a reticent young worker named Ali Reza (Saeed Orkani). His name is Marhab (Ali Nicsolat).

This devilishly charming young drifter, a ‘specialist mechanic’ who can ‘repair anything’, is turned down wherever he seeks employment, and is quickly reduced to washing the windscreens of passing cars and trucks for a pittance. One morning, he spots his friend on a sweeping rut of sandy road, trudging to work, whistles, and as he waits, catches up at a flailing run, all slim limbs and flying coat. The frame might have been a painting.

Ali Reza finds him a job at the automobile workshop that he works in. As winter fades into dry, dusty summer, Marhab spots Khatoun waiting for a bus, and is taken. Six months have passed with neither word nor money from her husband. She now works as a seamstress in a garment factory. But this money is not enough and her mother must sell chairs from their spartan home, so that they may survive.

She still has a zest for the islands of exuberance around her, and wanders into a weekend market, and spots a tiny red sweater. This is the brightest colour in the movie, and as only a flaming red can, it brings together all the players. She can't afford to buy it for her daughter, but Marhab has spotted her. He buys it and takes it to the child, under the pretence that her mother had left it in the market.

The child is entranced. She wants the sweater. But her suspicious grandmother rejects it. Stonewalled, Marhab is forced to return. But he is not about to give up. However, this is also not a man who endures his frustrations as he waits. And this leads to a crossing of paths with a local prostitute. Was this planned? Serendipitous? Both? Either way, the momentary spark that passes between them is inciendary. The woman, who is veiled, wears lipstick. Again, it’s red.

He eventually gathers that the husband is dead, which spurs him to his first argument with an exploitative employer. He wants money, to buy a carpet. Carpet on shoulder, he heads purposefully to Khatouns. Eventually, he proposes. When she finally accepts, after a brief, happy courtship, her words are drowned in the snarl of passing traffic. But she smiles. And we know.

But this is just the beginning of a story with more than fleeting echoes of the Martin Guerre legend. And inevitably, it has to end with winter. But the movie imposes nothing on the viewer; merely inviting her/him to observe these lives untranslated and draw their own conclusions about a society that allows such despair. And like all great cinema, it subtly enlists you until you are a protagonist.

This is also a movie that talks to you through its silences, through things left unsaid. And like Shaji N Karun’s Piravi and the Coens’ Fargo, it also talks to you through its colours and its weather; its snows, its dry suns, its dusts and its heat. But where Karun and the Coens use the monsoons and the snows as both foreground and background, Pitts uses it sparsely, almost like reluctant parentheses, and with an elegantly powerful minimalism. The music, by the legendary Hossein Alizadeh (if you aren’t listening to him, you should be), is plaintive, powerful, timeless.

This is direct, realistic moviemaking in the finest traditions of the Iranian New Wave, of Kiarostami and Makhmalbaf. And fittingly, the cast of It's Winter are non-professionals, directed with sensitivity by Rafi Pitts, who learnt his craft at a Central London film school. It is a spare movie, for it’s spare in all senses, from it’s storytelling to its budget. It would be artless to call it a movie about Iran. Its context is universal. And it epitomizes movie making at its terse best.

It’s Winter (Zemestan); 2006; 82 mins

12A; In Farsi with English subtitles

In theatres since December 15

Director: Rafi Pitts

Based upon the story
Safar by Mahmoud Dowlatabadi

Music: Hossein Alizadeh & Mohammad Reza Shajarian

Christmas with Mrs. Windsor, Novartis and HIV

2006-12-27T15:48:00.000Z

When you hear that you could go live in Windsor for a weekend, sleepover in some suitably ancient Royal bedroom, get wined and dined at Johnny Taxpayer’s expense, well, you figure very quickly that this is a scam that’s just too good to pass up. Throw in a Christmas dinner cooked up by the Windsor chefs and access to the Royal cellars, and it was almost as good as getting a Burberry trench on Boxing Day for a fiver and change. Except that this cost about thirty quid. Still a steal verging on the obscene. Talk about the perks of an extended medical adolescence.

Anyway, off we went, in a little white van full of earnest post-grad/post-doc types from assorted London colleges (The revenge of white van men on bleeding heart liberals; the radio tuner was superglued to Virgin). But before that, a word about the fond farewells. As we gathered at Reception for the mandatory pre-departure mutual sizing up of the sexes, well rounded short Indian male no. 1 (who shall henceforth be known as Teletubby) escorted moderately pregnant wife right up to me and said in an trembling stage whisper, ‘Ple..ease…. look after her, Nevermind. I caa..n’t make it’. Oh shit. The last time I had to pull out a baby, all I did was hang around and sound encouraging. The woman did the rest. Like women generally do under such circumstances (Trade secret- when push comes to shove, you let 'em push). Not too bad. Cutting the cord wasn’t too much fun, though. Blood on new jeans. Oh, well. Why me? Why did you get her pregnant in the first place, tubbo? Why can’t she look after herself? And why can’t you, Mr. Teletubby Father-to-be, make it?

In case you think the buck stopped just there, no, it didn’t. For some bizarre reason, I ended up in front with a particularly stiff Russian economist and a Danish lawyer who’d been elected to drive. He turned out to be half-Goan and none too pleased with playing driver when he’d rather have been jivvying up the ladies behind (this has nothing to with him being half-Goan, of course). He offered me the wheel, and when I politely declined, shoved an A to Z in my face with barely concealed fury, and said, ‘Then you’ll have to navigate’. I’m crap with maps, but the Economistova wedged between us didn’t look like she could bend herself in any direction, let alone peer at a map in fading light, and so I had to oblige.

To cut a long story short, I navigated them to Reading, missed a turn and ended up back in London. At which point, the red blooded young males behind rose up as one from, well, whatever red blooded young males do in the back of white vans with red blooded young females, and roared, ‘ Hey, can’t ya read a map?’ Talk about stating the bleeding obvious.

We got into Windsor Great Park late. But not late enough for dinner at Cumberland Lodge, which was really good. Truly, when encouraged by expert hands, even Brussel sprouts can taste nice. The roast turkey was a dream, soft and succulent and dripping in fat and well, everything a roast turkey is supposed to be, but never is. But enough about the food. We had some really nice people hosting us, all of whom lived on the Park, and appeared to be vaguely Royal in one way or the other. They were also of rather serious vintage, with my neighbour, a spry retired Major General clocking in at a casual hundred. He said he liked ‘Crazy’. ‘Crazy?!’ ‘The single’. ‘The single?’ Me, baffled, ‘You mean Gnarls Barkley?’ ‘Yes, those American chappies’. ‘Oh’. Me, curious, ‘Where did you get to hear it?’ ‘I downloaded it from i-Tunes’. ‘Oh’.

He turned out to be great fun, this nice hundred year old Major General with the i-Pod fixation.

Sated and feeling terribly chuffed (who wouldn’t feel chuffed after a free go at some very good Chianti?), we were then escorted to a discreetly intimate drawing room of the type where you would expect to find Jane Austen in corset and lace playing the harp. Or something like that. You get my drift. But it was not to be. Instead, we had the anarchic Adrian Mitchell, one of the pioneers of sixties underground poetry, entertain us with some brilliantly outrageous performance verse. Check out the Oxford Hysteria of English Poetry, if interested. Very cool. Actually, make that very very.

At which point of time, I heard the voice of Dr. Vasudev Deshpande, B. Sc (Hons) (Gulbarga University); M. Sc (Distinction) (Delhi University); Ph. D Physics (Bangalore University), lately Visiting Fellow at the University of Kent, for the very first time. Freeze the moment.

This will be continued. I’ve been really bad at keeping promises on this blog, but what happened next in Windsor will take up a full post. Especially since the Deshpande, he of the toothbrush 'tache and double breasted blue blazer with gold buttons, and yours truly, shared a Royal bedroom for two nights. So, more about that later. Hope all of you had a Merry Christmas, and here’s happy hunting at the Boxing Day Sales (For non-aficionados of this particularly British bloodsport, welcome to Hell. It’s called Oxford Street on Boxing Day). And have a rainbow New Year.

Novartis and HIV

Novartis was one of the 39 companies that took the South African government to court five years ago, in an effort to overturn the country's medicines act that was designed to bring drug prices down. Now Novartis is up to it again and is targeting India. It is no coincidence that South Africa and India are number one and two respectively on the AIDS affected list, in terms of sheer numbers.

India produces affordable medicines that are vital to many people living in developing countries. Over half the medicines currently used for AIDS treatment in developing countries come from India and such medicines are used to treat over 80% of AIDS patients in Médecins Sans Frontières projects.....

Read about it here and sign the petition organized by Medecins Sans Frontieres here.

On Ritalin

2006-12-10T19:23:00.000Z

Iambic pentameter
Pedantic imitator
It worked well for a while
But took too much guile;
So what had to pass did,
The boy did fly the coop
Some things cannot be co-opted
Restlessness certainly not.

An imitation is an imitation
Pentameter and limerick
Haiku and free verse
Order and chaos.

Androgen and oestrogen brook no challenge to its order or its chaos entropy its religion it demands not to be understood moving moving what will be will be be be be... sex junk grime n' roll words dancing on a rooftop verbs jostling on a dance floor vertical expressions horizontal intentions lives lived spherically Frederico Fellini; move it move it! smell that sound listen to the picture, listen! double scoops of dark, brooding, frothing angst, in all flavours butterscotch, vanilla and bitter almonds, black as the blackest bitter, rush! karma, kama, autos da fe, run run....

Just leave the lad to his poetry.

Epilogue

Unrelated, and yet related.

Picture having to live in a video arcade with the volume and wattage up full, where everyone around you is racing past, speaking Mandarin at the top of their lungs. Your shirt feels like Brillo, your shoes like cement, and the breeze on your skin like the thwack of a soaking towel that's been left to chill in the fridge.

The only thing that's helped, and that just barely, is a mix of powerful drugs.... Forty years ago most kids like mine were raised in institutions. Luke may still wind up in a residential school, coming home to Elaine or me on weekends. For now, we're doing all we can to fend that off, day by day.

Returning from the road, he found his wife at her wits' end and his young son 'lost, a different person'. At the beach one day Isaiah was throwing a fit when Izzy had a bold idea. Grabbing his board in one hand and his four-year-old in the other, he jumped in the water and paddled out. Riding his first swell straight into shore, Isaiah grew calm, then exultant. Over days and months of riding point on Izzy's board, a different boy emerged from his cell of symptoms. He began again to talk, his mood improved, and his frustration lessened; clearly there was something tonic about sluicing through water on a shim of fibreglass and foam.

Surfers Healing, born from that eureka moment, has grown into a bona-fide movement.

Though the notion of surfing as therapy for autism is so novel that no one has studied it, a number of eminent neuroscientists I talk with later are willing to venture a guess as to why it might work.

Since the day five years ago when Zuckerman got a call from the mother of a child with autism, he has surfed, free of charge, with dozens of children who run the clinical gamut. Blind kids, deaf kids, quadriplegics - he has put them in the water, with grand results. 'It's the same thing each time,' he says. 'They panic at first, then get totally amped on the wave.'

Soundlessly we turn an arabesque, a father and young son dancing stag. Carrying him off to bed then, a thought occurs, and I lower him in my arms till he's horizontal. 'Lukey's surfing,' I sing as we sluice the room. 'My brave little boy is surfing.'

He puts his arms out to skim the waves and says, 'Whee, whee, whee' all the way in.

For more information, go to: http://www.surf2live.com/; http://www.surfershealing.org/ and http://www.rideawave.org/

2006-12-04T09:17:00.000Z

Mark Charles Dickens & Lucinda Dickens Hawksley
AT HOME
all day at the Charles Dickens Museum
10 am till 4.30 pm
on Saturday 16th December 2006

Come and join Mark, Lucinda and other direct descendants of
Charles Dickens at 48 Doughty Street, London WC 1N 2LX
Tel: 02074052127 Email: info@dickensmuseum.com

Lucinda will be signing copies of her latest book
"Katey: The Life and Loves of Dickens' Artist Daughter"

Dickens used to live in the terrace on Doughty Street that's now the museum. The nearest tubes are Russell Square and Holborn.

More matrimonial traits

2006-11-29T11:55:00.000Z

In which we witness more Indian Matrimonial Traits.

Act 1

Scene 1

A coffee bar in urban India, in which the protagonists, The Young Lady (TYL) is meeting the Geek From Wharton (GFW) for the first time. They initially made contact through Bharat Matrimony (an Indian 'matrimonial portal'), have been chatting online for a while, and are meeting for the first time.

GFW looks like an erstwhile winner of the National Spelling Bee who's been stretched from end to end, all chubby cheeks, the beginnings of a paunch, thick vintage Rayban spectacles, long limbs and carefully combed, shiny black hair. There are three tiny flecks of dandruff running down the left side of his head. His profile says he's 30 years old, is interested in Vedanta, political philosophy, economic theory and Tamil literature. He describes himself as 'modern and liberal, but respectful of ' my cultural heritage and traditions'. He has, however, specified that 'only prospective partners from the same caste will be considered'.

TYL is 27 year old, tall, dusky classical dancer from Kalakshetra, who also has a Master's in Psychology. She is interested in Modern Dance, fusion forms and child psychology. She teaches both Dance and Psychology and does some work with street children.

They've been talking for a while. The parts of this conversation that seem surreally bizarre can be put down to what is rather misleadingly known as 'Indian culture'. The same one TGW is so respectful of.

TGW: Rather abruptly and out of the blue, ' So you don't mind moving over to the States, huh?'

TYL: Caught unawares, since this is their first meeting, ' I will, if I have to, but I'll have to plan my career..... , like explore what options are available and all that. I want to continue dancing, and teaching if I can'.

TGW: ' Hey, that shouldn't be a hassle. Plenty of Bharatnatyam and stuff over there. You could take classes for all the kids from our community, our folks are really careful about preserving the culture n' all that, y'know. After all, it's just dance, not a PhD in Wharton.... now, that's tough, oh yeah. Ask me!' Rolling his eyes slightly and laughing.

TYL: Coldly polite, ' Can you dance?'

TGW: A bit thrown by this unexpected question, ' Huhh, me? No, no. I can do some salsa 'n stuff, really cool, salsa, have you tried it?'

TYL: ' I meant Bharatnatyam'.

TGW: Suddenly aware of a nip in the air, ' Oh nah, no, I mean, no, me? I leave that to the ladies, I mean, the experts....' trailing off, laughing uncomfortably.

TYL sips her masala tea, and thinks, 'Maybe he's just a bit dumb, he seemed nice enough before this.... or maybe he just doesn't have too many social skills. And I can sort that out soon enough, and the dandruff in a week. I can get him a better haircut, that shouldn't be a problem. I'd better be nice to him. Mummy thinks he's a good catch'.

TGW: 'My mother's into Carnatic music and Bharatnatyam and stuff, y'know. She goes to a lot of sabhas. You should meet her, she's great, my mom,' shaking his head fondly, 'Amazing lady, my mom. You should try her dosas, out of this bloody world, man, nothing beats my mom's cooking. She's a real toughie, my mom is, but I 'm the apple of her eye, y'know... ' winking.

TYL: ' Hey, I forgot to ask, what does your mom do?'

TGW: 'Er, what does she do? Well, she's a housewife, but is into a lot of other stuff as well, like......' trailing of , suddenly unsure of what to say. And then, ' Y' know , my dad being so busy with the firm and all that, she had to stay at home and make sure everything went allright, she's very capable, y'know. Like, there's a maid and a gardener and stuff, but someone has to keep an eye on everything. She's very particular about stuff being done efficiently, and... I'll have to run you past her, of course' (shrugging).

TYL: Carefully, 'What'd'you mean, run me past her?'

TGW: 'Well, my mom has the final say on who me n' my bro' marries, I mean, not that I can't decide for myself, it's just that she's very sensitive about horoscopes and things', shifting uncomfortably.

TYL: Irritated and amused at the same time, 'And what about you, do they believe in horoscopes at Wharton?'

TGW: 'Er, nooo, naahh, I mean, it's just my mom, I don't believe in all that shit. Like the caste thing, though there's something to that, I mean it helps if you're from the same background and... It's just to keep her happy.....' A drop of sweat breaks from his forehead and starts to trickle down, slowly.

TYL: 'And what if our horoscopes don't match?'

TGW: 'Er, well, I don't know.... She's very particular....' There's sweat on his upper lip by now. ' It's kinda warm in India isn't it? I mean, it's always warm in India, but today is kinda hot, I mean it's not like Pennsylvania...' trailing off. Then, 'I think I need something cold, I mean, to drink, I'll go get something, how 'bout you?' pushing his chair back and heaving himself up hurriedly.

TYL: 'No, I'm fine, thank you.'

TGW returns with an iced Granita, smiles at TYL, sits down and thinks, 'I'd better divert the topic quickly, this is going nowhere. The babe's hot, man, I should get a coupla dates out of her even if the bloody horoscopes don't match'.

TYL: Smiling sweetly, 'That should cool you down. Now, tell me, what if the horoscopes do match and your mother doesn't like me?'

TGW: ' Well, I, er, let's not think about that, let's be positive about us. What're you doing tomorrow evening?'

TYL: 'I have plans. But coming back to your mother, what if we eventually like each other, the horoscopes match, and then she doesn't like me?'

TGW: 'Well, we haven't quite come to that, have we? Ha ha! I mean, let's get to know each other first. How about next weekend?'

TYL: ' Let's just say that I don't want to waste my time with a no-hoper horoscoped mama's boy from wherever. Which is why I'm asking you all these questions. So?'

TGW: Sweating profusely by now, 'Er, so what?'

TYL: 'So, nothing. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got a show to go to. '

To read Part 1 of this story, click here.

Link glossary of terms: Vedanta, Caste, Kalakshetra, Bharatnatyam, Carnatic music, Sabha

The question of identity

2006-11-19T22:49:00.000Z

I've spent the past few weeks being examined by assorted medical greybeards and then, more interestingly, getting involved in this conference (Thanks to Sunny Hundal for the pdf).

Panellists involved the polymaths Paul Gilroy and Tariq Ramadan, the incisive Dinesh Bhugra, Yasmin Alibhai-Brown (who left without debating her rather provocative ideas), Charles Husband and a galaxy of luminaries (refer pdf, if interested).

Paul Gilroy spoke of the inevitability of multiculturalism as a means of economic survival and how the experience of being a Black man in Hoxton has progressively changed for the better.Tariq Ramadan, a sparely elegant theorist, and a profoundly modern Islamic thinker, was the clear public favourite, coming in on both days and leading a breakout session on the second day- titled 'Multiple Identities- perceptions of the self'. Tariq spoke of Western politicians struggling to retain relevance in policy vacuums by creating a culture of fear (the world is full of terrorists, you aren't safe, let us protect you by taking away some more of your liberties, let's point fingers at any available aspect of non-Western life that appeal to the your basest fears e.g. the veil and hence, create some more resentment and some more terrorists so that we can remain relevant). Charles Husband spoke of the 'liberal' media's discomfiture with the sudden realization that minorities that used to be disempowered and therefore, could be benevolently patronized (you poor disempowered sod, come, let me hold your hand and lead you to a better place) are now on level terms in many areas of human activity. And actually competing, winning and buying up chunks of the economy, creating a profound internal tension that dare not speak it's name openly, but takes form in organized, subtle demonizations of the Other. He also, interestingly, pointed out how secularism can be as implacably dogmatic as any religion. Sunny and Tariq spoke of the impact of Globalization on social justice and the progressive marginalization of the White working class. Sunny also spoke of the poisonously reactionary culture of self-appointed, unrepresentative 'leadership' that bedevils ethnic minorities in Britain.Yasmin Alibhai-Brown spoke of the common threads between oppressions e. g. of religion and feminism. Dinesh Bhugra spoke of the profound impact of migration and social alienation on rates of mental illness in general and schizophrenia in particular, in people of all ethnicities across the board.

A common thread in my conversations throughout the conference, with people as disparate as English Professors of citizenship, Norwegian economists and South African journalists was the Idea of India as the classic multicultural template. Come to think of it, despite the constant sense of a society waiting to explode under the weight of its contradictions, we actually haven't, for well nigh 59 years, despite the best attempts of the retreating Empire, extreme Hindu nationalism, fanatic regionalism and opportunistic parochialism. Though, as the Lady, a veteran of conflicts, disasters and conferences of this sort, keeps telling me, we can't afford to be complacent at all. Absolutely. But still, there is something there to be proud about.

And finally, Tariq Ramadan asked us this profoundly searching question- in a globalized world, is the Question of Identity ever as simple as 'I am Western and you are not?' Or even 'I am a Muslim/Christian/Hindu/Buddhist/Rastafarian and you are not?'

No.

Not for me, nor for probably anyone at the Conference, for this was the idea that drew the most approval from this multicultural, international gathering of some of the most influential voices of these and coming times.

And so, let me try and list my identities as they come into my head-

1. I am a Londoner;

2. I am an Indian;

3. I am a health professional;

4. I am a doctor;

5. I am an academic;

6. I am an artist;

7. I am an athlete;

8. I am a tri-religionist; one by birth, another by upbringing, and a third by inclination;

9. I am a partner and a lover;

10. I am a man;

11. I am a socialist capitalist and democrat, in the sense that I believe that capitalism can be harnessed to ensure social justice;

12. I am an economist by aspiration;

13. I am a liberal and a libertarian; and finally (since I need to get some sleep)

14. I am also what each one of you see me as.

So, before I sign off, what are you?

P.S. We are trying to get a podcast of the Conference organized and I will link if this works out. If. Update: Until that happens, here is the New Generation Network's Manifesto on Race and Faith.

Eat it, baby!

2006-11-09T16:00:00.000Z

Tim Hames is eating some crow 'n lovin' it. Pass the man some more Tabasco, will ya?

On a totally unrelated note, I confess to being a bit mad about Courtney Love, and specifically, her voice. Goes to show that occasional forays into Murdoch territory can turn up interesting stuff, like Courtney wanting to sleep with Yeats. Bring Hole Back. Again, thanks to Mr. Hames for inviting me to watch him eat, a vision rendered all the more pleasant by Courtney's presence in the neighbourhood.

Final solutions

2006-11-02T15:01:00.000Z

The so-called "Final Solution of the Jewish Question" ("Endlösung der Judenfrage") refers to the strategic plan to undertake systematic genocide against the European Jews during the second World War. The term was coined by Adolf Eichmann, the Nazi war criminal who was later caught, tried and executed by Israeli authorities. The expression reflected the Nazi belief that the Jewish European population (along with the Roma, the disabled, the infirm, people of alternate sexuality and assorted others who didn't fit into their plans to establish a 'pure' Aryan state) itself posed a' question' and a 'problem'.

"Our priorities in government would be to establish a proper process of decision-making" and push through "a strategic vision for the final solution of how Israel will look in 20 or 25 years' time ... It's not only an issue of territory and borders but of the character of the state - will it be a Zionist state, a Jewish state, or a state like others? I want it to be a Jewish state."says Avigdor Lieberman, the deeply racist, Russian speaking ultra-rightwing new deputy-prime minister elect of Israel, speaking to the Guardian.

Funny choice of words, that.

The Bangalore-London pub crawl- Part 1

2006-10-19T19:01:00.000Z

The first question in this back to the future pub crawl is; why Bangalore and London? It is important to ask this question before everyone actually ends up on all fours, which is why I bring it up now. So while I indulge myself, do grab a pint and stay with me.

It’s simple really; they are probably the most outward looking cities in their respective parts of the world. Both Bangloreans and Londoners have cottoned onto a vital secret- that flexibility breeds success at a stupendous scale (It’s the adaptation, stupid). They are also probably the most tolerant towns in their parts of the world, despite periodic hiccups courtesy BNP voting Dagenham types and English hating Kannada activists. And whether one likes it or not, the Essex working class and Kannadiga son/daughter of the soil have a lot to be pissed off about. These are places that epitomise 21st century multiculturalism, Sufi cities that sniff, taste, blend, imbibe and absorb. They thrive on their contradictions. When Evelyn Glennie plays at the violin-shaped Chowdiah Memorial in Bangalore, she gets standing ovations. As does Trilok Gurtu at the Royal Festival Hall.

A whopping 62 % of the Bangalore population comprises migrants from other parts of India and the world. And a staggering 300 languages are spoken in London. They are also at the vanguard of their countries' economic success. Which means there's probably something to be said for all this flexibility. So, they unarguably have a lot in common (that is, except for the time of day when their boozers close their doors and the, er, small matter of traffic).

The second question is, what is a bar and what is a pub? A pub in Bangalore is a bar in London. And a pub in London, a mere bar in Bangalore.

Let me explain.

The general understanding about a pub in Bangalore is that it is a place that serves, above all, draught beer. That is, beer that comes out of a tap. That’s simple, then. Optional extras include cocktails, ear-splitting rock, stock and techno-trance, fancy names that look West with undisguised longing (e.g. Black Cadillac), geeky yuppie types, a resident arty set, great-looking women, and on the rare horrific occasion, brats playing dodgem. Contenders for the title of the first pub in Bangalore according to Yahoo Answers and past company include the Scottish Pub on St. Mark’s Road, the defunct Ramada just off MG Road, Pecos on Rest House Road, the Brigade Pub (latterly Hi-Spirits) on Brigade’s, the Pub (latterly NASA) on Church Street, and the defunct Four Aces in the even more defunct Blue Moon Complex. This brings us to the second question. Which was the first ever Bangalore pub? And which was the first ever London boozer? Suggestions for this one, which I’ll do in a later post, are welcome.

The Bangalore bar, on the other hand, serves stale UB Export and rotgut spiked Charger out of bottles, and rather delicious Indian Chinese food. Think Tomato Fry, Chilli Quail, and Pork Fried Rice. It teems with unexpectedly friendly people and genuinely interesting characters (like a private eye who offered to keep an eye on my girlfriend while I was away, gratis, on the strength of 3 shared Kingfishers). The waiters are addressed as 'Guru' or 'Boss', highly appropriate terms considering that they are so completely in charge of one's physical, mental and spiritual wellbeing. The bars can, on request, do mildly loudish film music. However, their clientele is almost entirely local (as in, from the neighbourhood) and almost strictly male. Except on New Year, when Mr. Manjunath brings along the missus and the brood and it becomes a place transformed. They have names like Naga Bar and Restaurant, or Gongura Gardens.

As one lands in Heathrow, all thirsty and nowhere to go, your friendly Sikh cabbie offers to drop you off at Glassy Junction. And that’s where everything goes pear shaped. Glassy Junction, a Victorian local in Southall that the Punjus took over in the 70s, is a pub, and the only one in the UK that accepts Indian rupees. It’s been carefully done up to look like a derelict Indian Railway Station, complete with hanging platform signs and leaking loos. It serves draught (Lal Toofan, Kingfisher… take your pick), but to confuse the heck out of you, is full of desi private eye types. The locals rule. And hardly a woman in sight. They also do mildly loudish film music. But calling the bartender 'Guru', given his likely religious leanings, may not be a great idea.

Such problems do not end here. Even classic English pubs, like the enormously fascinating Queens’s Larder off Queen Square, steeped in the bizarre history of mad Kings named George, is full of Bloomsbury office-slaves having quiet conversations, rather than yelling incomprehensible rubbish at each other over loud white noise. And these pubs do both draught and bottle. Not to mention vile- coloured alcopops. For more on the Queen's Larder, where love, loyalty, food, wine and madness meet in a magical car crash where everyone survives, watch the Madness of King George and click on this link. The recent revamp has rid it of most of it’s character, and so I wouldn't exactly recommend it unequivocally. It's still worth the one visit.

But the bars beckon. Onto Old Street, where the Shoreditch bar revolution began. Cantaloupe, the mother of all Old Street bars, does draught, bottle, cocktails, and ear splitting rock, stock etc. Also youngish yuppie types, a fascinatingly nutty and arty Hoxton set, and great looking women. Just like a Bangalore pub. And rather nice fusion food. Just like Indian Chinese in a Bangalore bar. Aaaarghhhh… I give up.

Then there’s the lager/beer dichotomy. Beer in the isles is beer, as in ale, Guinness etc. Not lager. Lager is lager. Not beer. But beer in Bangalore means lager. Geddit?

And beer gardens in Britain means dodgy trestle tables at the backside of a pub. But beer gardens in Bangalore (as in Gongura Gardens or Gong’s, as certain less-than-couth University students would have it) are real gardens dotted with bright red and white beach umbrellas.

Not that all this matters. Clink.

To wind up on a suitably postmodern note, a recent Guardian survey showed that the most ubiquitous pub name in England is ' The Red Lion'.

The only ' Red Lion' I’ve been to, in the Black Country, turned out to be another Punjabi watering hole, full of portly, be-turbanned, gold-earringed, clean shaven Sikhs ( a British specialty) shooting the breeze. They were watching India play Pakistan on a big screen. So much for a typical English pub.

It’s the adaptation, innit?

The Lancet , Iraq and the American War

2006-10-11T19:58:00.000Z

Hu Tranh, whose daughter used to be one of my patients, is Vietnamese. 3 years ago, in the midst of our second conversation, I made a passing reference to 'the Vietnam War'. Hu, who was a white haired, crinkly eyed, sage and sanguine 63 at the time, smiled, held up his hand gently, and said, "Ah, doctor, but you mean the American War."

Indeed I did. And, unnervingly for the first time, I realized the obvious. That for 84 million Vietnamese, the war that killed 2-4 million of their countrymen as opposed to a mere 58,226 Americans (don't miss the 2, 2 and 6, it took good American sweat, blood and tears to keep that count going), is the American War. As it is for the Afghans, Iraqis, the Grenadans, the Panamanians et al. Not the 'War in Afghanistan' or the 'War in Iraq'. They look at the nationality of those who invade and name the wars that are visited upon them accordingly- the American Wars.

Which is why what this group of doctors have to say in the Lancet is vitally important. The Lancet is the Holy Grail of medical publishing, the most respected medical journal in the world. It is one of the few independent medical journals left in the field, and holds no affiliation to a medical or scientific organisation, which is precisely one of the reasons why it is held in such universal esteem. When Thomas Wakley founded The Lancet in 1823, he announced "A lancet can be an arched window to let in the light or it can be a sharp surgical instrument to cut out the dross and I intend to use it in both senses". That philosophy remains at the heart of the journal today, under the editorship of Richard Horton.

The methodology used in this study is as scientifically robust as it can get- a national, representatively sampled, cross-sectional household survey with an adequately powered sample. Each survey team consisted of two male and two female medical doctors, experienced in surveys and community medicine and who were fluent in Arabic and English. What they found is this; that as a consequence of the coalition invasion of March 18, 2003, about 655, 000 Iraqis have died above the number that would be expected in a non-conflict situation, which is equivalent to about 2·5% of the population in the study area. About 601, 000 of these excess deaths were due to violent causes. The study estimate of the post-invasion crude mortality rate represents a doubling of the baseline mortality rate, which, by the Sphere standards, constitutes a humanitarian emergency.

Richard Horton's editorial comment on the findings of this study, can be found at Guardian Blogs. Newspaper coverage of the article can be found here.

Update: Some unnerving stats- This number is more than double the combined numbers killed in Hiroshima, Nagasaki and Dresden; and 16 times the number of people killed in the Blitz. Another Holocaust, then, this one.

Men, women and pink champagne

2006-10-02T10:00:00.000Z

The Lady says that men are rather limited when it comes to talking about personal stuff. Now, this is obviously stating the obvious; but she elaborates on lines that I think are rather interesting.

Her take goes like this; women talk (and blog) about their sex lives, men don't; women talk about their boyfriends being wankers, men allude to mating problems in clouds of clumsy existential whimsy; women have real conversations with their best mates, men hum, haw, consider confiding, and then decide it's not bleeding worth it, let's just have a drink and talk football (or cricket). This means that when they are going through an exit event, like a separation, death or divorce, a woman has a well-oiled support system that's just waiting to be turned on. The man, on the other hand, has this best mate who just can't wait to tell him about what Federer did to Roddick last Saturday. Especially since Federer's been doing the same thing to Roddick every Saturday for the past few years. And that's why women live much longer, at least in the so-called developed world.

As you may have guessed, I've been tagged. By the redoubtable Sac aka the Laughing Buddha Biker. Hence, all this clumsy existential whimsy.

I vaguely knew of tags as some kind of blogger memic-compulsive behaviour, which will never happen to you, and if it did, you intend to adroitly sidestep. But sidestepping is well nigh impossible when you have grown to genuinely like the people you have virtual conversations with, so here goes.

I am patient, and I think it sort of defines me, all things considered.

I like my space. I like yours, too. This means that I am hopelessly un-curious about other people's personal lives.

I have been clinically depressed. Since I didn't have the time for therapy, I just took an antidepressant and got on with my life. This turned out to be extremely effective and efficient. I understand it's not that simple for many people who become depressed, but that just makes it an even more urgent topic. Depression will account for the second largest cause of morbidity and global economic burden by 2010. The more all of us talk about it, the better. And the quicker it's dealt with, the quicker you can move on with your life. Besides, 3 out of 10 people will become clinically depressed at some point of time in their lives. So, it's all happening. And it might be happening around you. So do keep an eye out. And cultivate plenty of confiding relationships. This is a bit like having low grade therapy. It's proven to be effective.

I caught an unpleasant infectious disease from a patient a long time ago. I'd love to say that I fought it, but I didn't. I sorta let it wash over me, while I watched television, got fussed over, and puked my guts out. It took the medics 6 months to figure out what was wrong, while feeding me steroids that granted it unlimited access to hitherto virgin parts of my body. By this time, even I'd begun to think I had HIV or cancer or both(everyone else appeared to have been thinking the same thing for some time). This freaked me out and I had a panic attack. Panic attacks aren't much fun, especially when you're hooked on to heart monitors in a CCU. At which point a woman I'd met at a party decided to scan me somewhere I wasn't supposed to be scanned. And promptly found out what was going on. This shows that you should always speak to women at parties. And strip whenever they tell you to. And that when it comes to life and death situations, women always know better. Never mind that the consultant treating me was a woman. Jokes apart, the stigma these sort of things evoke can often come from the unlikeliest quarters. It wasn't pleasant.

I once took a swing at a cop. Inside a Police Station. This, obviously, wasn't a great career move. Fortunately, it didn't connect. The cop was crooked, and had just stolen my motorcycle. That night ended with a bunch of now dignified medics being chased down an Indian street by an armed mob of parking attendants. We were on bikes, so we got away. And no, I wasn't charged because the Circle Inspector was very nice. I was 18, so I guess it was okay.

I paint, after a fashion. I think it's pretty mediocre, but a doctor who paints commands a certain Exotic Quotient, and so some people let me exhibit every year. Suckers. Actually, I am pathetically grateful for this. This year it's next week. And all I've done is base coats.

Which brings us to the pink champagne. I was at the Dorchester the other day, courtesy the gang, filling that glaring gap in my cv which said 'haven't had high tea at the Dorchester'. All the girls were having pink champagne. I hesitated; they rolled their eyes, which left me with no option but to go for it. And hey, it was nice. So there you go, I just looove pink champagne at teatime, dahling! Especially on a hot summer day....... So much for male stereotypes.

I don't have too many people to tag, I'm afraid; N doesn't have a blog, Nikita's busy, Hanni's quit, Vij doesn't like tags, Sreekumar's on a bloggatical. Which leaves Anu and Lg. Do the tag if you have the time and the inclination; otherwise, absolutely no problem. It's definitely a free country.

P.S. Everything I've said here is true. Especially the bits that I made up. Other versions of these stories are known to exist, but mine has the virtue of making me look a lot cooler.

When a dog cries

2006-09-22T13:51:00.000Z

I'm jabbering into my phone, listening, but not seeing.

"Paper One was a disaster," shouts Mash, his voice raised over the din of what's probably Waterloo Station. It was a farce, I agree. I'd like to meet the shit who set it, preferably in a dark alley.

I cut through a square. I am in a small park.

There's a young lad almost in the middle of it, and he's screaming. I keep talking, seeing properly now, but not quite focussing. The people around me seem frozen. I'm just imagining it; they can't all stop walking, and playing, and talking at the same time. This is London. We don't stop for young lads screaming their heads off. Not at six in the evening, when we're all going home. But no, we have. The football game's broken up, they're staring at the lad. A crisp, linen suited brunette breaks away from the frozen bystanders and cuts across the grass, approaching him.

'Listen, I've got to hang up,' I tell Mash, cutting him off abruptly, as I head to the edge of the circle of onlookers.

I circle, not quite sure whether to intervene. I focus; the boy's hugging a huge brown Labrador. And there's a hell of a lot of blood. Everywhere. On the grass, on the dog, on the lad...question is, whose blood is it?

The woman reaches the young man, kneels, pats the dog and is now speaking to him. He's still yelling, the tears streaming down his face. He's screaming at someone. The woman turns, her eyes scanning the crowd behind her. As she finds what she's looking for, so do I.

A casually dressed man stands almost at the edge of the grass, his face set in grim defiance. He's almost at the edge of the circle of onlookers, but they have parted and are moving away from him, for some reason. He's white, older, clean shaven, probably in his mid-fifties, has grey hair cut neatly back to his scalp and is wearing casual, but expensive, clothes. His left arm, which is extended straight outward, has a leash at the end of it. Straining at the leash is a nasty looking Bull Terrier. I don't like Bull Terriers, they remind me of Pit Bulls. His other hand is in his pocket, and there's a dark stain seeping out through his trousers.

I have a feeling that his dog's been up to no good, and I don't want to tangle with a mad Bull Terrier. I pause ambling, mid-stride, and concentrate on what the boy's yelling.

"E wanted to kill it, the bastard, 'e was goin' fer 'is 'ead, 'e was..!!"

And then, as the woman reached out and touched him on the shoulder, '"Wo wud stab a dog..? Wo wud?", in a sudden flood of tears.

Stab a dog? Surely he means bite a dog?

But the lad's shouting again, " Where d' you think you're goin, hey, heyyyyy, yu bastard, wait fer the police!"

The man shouts something back, pulls his dog, looking even more defiant now, and walks away, staring grimly at the people watching him with barely restrained hostility. The crowd behind him melts.

I break from the crowd and cut across the grass towards the small knot of people around the stricken boy. The brunette's been joined by an older, grey haired woman who looks rather academic. As they turn, I announce, " I'm a doctor. Who's bleeding?"

"It's me dog," sobs the lad, "E's stabbed him in the neck. 'E's goin to die. And 'e's ne'er even 'urt a fly, ever...."

I cut him off, "Well, let's have a look. You aren't hurt, are you?"

"No, I'm not, but 'e is.."

The dog, a gentle looking Brown Lab, had a deep stab wound in its neck, which, mercifully, wasn't bleeding all that much anymore. Which was lucky, because whatever had caused it had missed a hell of a lot of major blood vessels. I asked around for cloth or pads or sanitary napkins; anything to put pressure on the wound. Since no one had any, the boy took off his T-shirt and I fashioned a tourniquet. The dog whimpered, and snuggled into my lap as I tied it. And then, I could have sworn the dog cried, burrowing it's head deeper into my lap. In long, slow, whimpering sobs and what I was convinced, at that moment, were tears (It turns out dogs can't have tears, but it sure looked like them to me).

Anyway, it turned out that the dog and the Bull Terrier were playing, then wrestling, on the grass. The lad said it got a bit serious, when the owner of the terrier (the oldish chap) came over and tried to seperate them. When this didn't work, the lad said he'd hold the Lab and maybe, the other guy could prise his terrier away. Not too keen on this idea, the man then calmly proceeded to take out a four inch knife and stick it into the Lab's neck.

It also turned out the boy had been bitten. So, I ended up calling 999, to talk to the cops as well as LAS. Two police cars came in five minutes and an ambulance pulled up soon after. The boy's older brother arrived, threatening violence upon all grey haired men, followed by their mother. The older brother threatened one act of violence too many, which promptly elicited a tight slap from his mum. Which shut him up.

By which time an Asian woman who works at the nearby Waitrose had returned with a basin of antiseptic and pads. And a couple of students had volunteered to give statements.

As I withdrew and walked home, I started to think.

I can understand an older man living alone in Inner London carrying a knife (to a certain extent).

But what kind of a shit would stab a dog?

Indian football in an Indian summer

2006-09-21T15:10:00.000Z

Allright, Indian football is such crap that the term is almost an oxymoron. However, hope glows eternal. We are in elite company too, right between Ghana and Italy. The tricolour dreadlocks are not to be missed.

As for lesser teams like Barcelona and Chelsea, they come waayyy below us.

As for the summer, it's 27 degrees on the 21st of September. We feel the presence of Autumn in our bones, but we push the shadow away behind a door ever so slightly ajar and live for the moment. And drink and chatter away at pub tables that we know will be put away indoors all too soon.

'The tram goes by full of legs:
White legs, black legs, yellow legs.
My God, what are all the legs for, asks my heart.
But my eyes
ask nothing at all.'

- Carlos Drummond de Andrade.

Pass the Pinot.

Autumn?

What's that?

Talk to my doctor!!

2006-09-08T19:57:00.000Z

I've been seeing this kid who's clearly not interested in seeing me. I'd have discharged her off my caseload a long time ago if I'd had any choice in the matter, but she's pregnant and the unborn baby is on the Register.

I started seeing her with Aoife, this really lovely middle-aged rock chick who's a social worker and was my first ally on the job. She, in turn, had picked the kid up from Social Services. When Aoife left, the kid had run up such a record that no one wanted to touch her with a bargepole. Which left me with the baby, it's mother, and the bathwater. Not to mention a frazzled grandmother to be, who was clearly at her wit's end and not coping too well.

Anyway, the kid decided quite early on that she had no use for either me or Aoife. Which meant that whenever she wanted something (like a new flat), she'd call up 999 and say that she was feeling suicidal. LAS would go round and talk to her, she would neglect to mention our existence and off she'd go to hospital. It usually took about two days on some ward and a lot of phone calls before the ward doctors figured out what was going on. And then they'd promptly discharge her. Now we know why the NHS is going bust.

Once outside, she'd get back to form. Which was being as elusive as the Scarlet Pimpernel. She'd see the midwife, but not us. She'd see the health visitor, but not the GP. We'd land up at her mum's at nine o' clock in the morning and find she'd left 15 minutes ago. The mother often didn't have a clue where the young lady had spent the night and clearly, had reached a point where she couldn't care less.

Anyway, she called me yesterday, much to my astonishment.

The conversation went something like this-

NM: " Hi Jen, how're you doing?"
Jen: "Awrii...."
NM: "How's the baby doing?"
Jen: "Awrii...."
NM: " We're supposed to meet next week, aren't we?"
Jen: "Awri..."
She's not very friendly, as you may have noticed. But still, she called. So, I persevere, gamely.
NM: "So, how..."
At which point Jen decides she'd had enough of this pointless exchange, and says "Listen, there's this guy here that wants to talk to you."
Gruff voiced chap: "I'm Officer Roberts, of the .....Police. Are you the doctor in charge of the care of this individual, named Jennifer Frangou, Date of Birth....., aged ....years?"
NM: " Erm.., yes, I suppose I am, in a way. Why?"
OR: " The said individual has been arrested for assault and is at ..... Police Station. She has stated that she is unwell and is receiving care from yourself, Dr. Nevermindatall of ...... Road. Is that correct?"

Turns out she was at some bus station, where she managed to hook up with some guy who was waiting for a bus. They'd got really friendly, when the said individual's girlfriend arrived. Said individual's girlfriend and Jen had words, following which little Jenny bit a piece of said girlfriend's forearm off.

Charming.

I just love teenagers.

Andre Agassi- 20 years

2006-09-03T08:00:00.000Z

Just look at this man. Has any one in the history of sport stood their lives on it's head as much as Andre Agassi? Tiger Woods changed his swing, allright. And then there was the shooter who taught himself to shoot with his left hand after losing the right. And won an Olympic medal. But Agassi lost his hair and went from a decade of wild haired punk-dom and Kournikova-ness to All time Great in a matter of months. At the ripe old sporting age of twenty eight. On the back of a shot marriage. He'd already made his zillions in endorsements. He could have just walked away. But no, he decided to grow up. How difficult is it to do that at 28, when you've been running away all your life? Sure, Ken Rosewall played a Slam final at almost 40, but Ken was virtually injury free. And playing in an era of wooden rackets and genteel serves. Did he have to return to Mark Philippousis serving at 140 mph? No.

Did Frau Graf have something to do with it? Probably.

Was there a more awesome sight in tennis than this bald, superbly conditioned, thirtysomething father of two returning a Pete Sampras serve for a winner down the line? Not for me.

Good ol' Andre and his bad back. What a life!

And what a couple! Watch out for those kids. I hear they eat tennis balls for breakfast.

Six degrees of stigmatization

2006-08-20T17:48:00.000Z

'I'm made to feel like an outsider because of my accent/ because I don't speak the local language'

'I'm made to feel out of place because my food habits are different (e.g. I'm a vegetarian)'

'I'm made to feel uncomfortable and intimidated because I'm a woman'

'I'm made to feel excluded because of my religion'

'I'm made to feel inferior because of the colour of my skin/my ethnicity'

'I'm made to feel inferior because of my caste/tribe'

'I'm made to feel embarassed because of my sexuality'

'I'm made to feel it doesn't matter what I think because I have a mental illness'

'I'm made to feel like I don't count as a person because of my physical disability'

'I'm made to feel like a pariah because I have HIV'

These are some of the responses from a rather large cross-cultural study on stigma. The responses are graded, with the experiences more likely to be reported being on top. Most of us would have experienced at least one of the above emotions at some point in our lives. And most of us would sympathize with the people who gave those responses. Poor people. Terrible. So far, nothing unexpected.

However, if one were to look at the responses as a whole, a glaringly obvious contradiction lurks somewhere between those lines. Suppose you are someone who has experienced say, racism, as members of most diasporic populations have, at some point. Now, that is something which is guaranteed to get the average migrant up in arms, whether you're a wannabe corporate raider or a corner shopkeeper. And that experience is also something which brings with it a shared sense of righteous indignation, empathy and collective belonging.

But does that translate into a similar empathy and respect for another group of stigmatized people? Erm..., not really.

Which means that it's not okay when you're called a nigger or a Paki or white trash or a god-botherer, but it's perfectly okay to go home and knock your wife around. Or go round preaching mass extermination of Muslims as a final solution. Or call your bank manager a faggot or Behan chooth Bhangi ke bachhey (technically translated as sister-fucking scavenger's son, in current Indian parlance).

Which means that many of these people who are whining about stigmatization, discrimination and glass ceilings are actively (and passively) stigmatizing and discriminating against each other. Hypocrisy, anyone?

P.S. The hypocrisy, of course, becomes less likely as you go down the scale, since the more vulnerable you are, the less likely you are to pick on someone else.

This post was triggered by two, slightly unnerving conversations. The first was with an indignant evangelical Christian who perceives herself as socially isolated in secular London society, but thought nothing of advocating criminal prosecution (whew!) of a teen patient who had to terminate her pregnancy. The second was with a vegetarian Indian scientist who feels gastronomically persecuted in England, but rounded on me angrily for being part of a profession that supports 'these loose women and homosexuals who spread HIV' (I remain speechless).

Sab deshvasiyon ko swatantrata divas ke shubhkamnayein

2006-08-15T22:37:00.000Z

After 59 years of building on those fine, cast iron democratic foundations, let's not blow it. This is our century. It awaits, to be won over with warmth, generosity and confidence. And let's show some grace and sensitivity while doing it. To the largest and unlikeliest democracy in the world and it's millions of deprived, as they eagerly await their turn, in hungry expectation.

P.S. Have pulled the Bharatbala vid since it turns out they are a bunch of arseholes who don't pay their cast and crew.

Scarlett Johansson has collapsed!

2006-08-13T09:52:00.000Z

Scarlett Johansson has collapsed!
I was trotting along and suddenly
it started raining and snowing and you said it was hailing
but hailing hits you on the head
hard so it was really snowing and
raining and I was in such a hurry
to meet you but the traffic
was acting exactly like the sky
and suddenly I see a headline
SCARLETT JOHANSSON HAS COLLAPSED!
there is no snow in Lapland
there is no rain in Brazil
I have been to lots of parties
and acted perfectly disgraceful
but I never actually collapsed
oh Scarlett Johansson we love you get up.

With apologies to Frank O' Hara ('Lana Turner has collapsed'. Lunch Poems. 1964)

And that's the end of summer. Or is it?

High School massacres and Khadi clad professors

2006-08-09T00:30:00.000Z

I’ve tallied three medical schools so far (one more and I’ll be certifiable). The first was so insufferably self-absorbed with it’s own sense of importance that every time it drops a bit in the rankings, it is A Matter of Great Joy. I hope they drop out of sight one of these days. The second pioneered the idea that healthcare could be delivered at a pittance to a vast swathe of rural India provided foreign capital could be married (yes, married) with local, collaborative planning and implementation (and yes, I have just written that sentence without batting an eyelid). They did public-private partnerships as a matter of course before anyone in India had even thought of the phrase.

I didn’t exactly like the sound of it, and went there reluctantly. It changed my life. So now I go round there on an annual pilgrimage, as a sort of good luck talisman. This time, I dumped Kevin on my very political professor who trots the globe in all of 4 khadi shirts (and some frighteningly patched up pants).

“Why do these kids kill all these people?” he asked me, rolling a fag with utmost concentration.

“Social deprivation,” I pronounced, with the solemn certainty of the truly ignorant.

Anyway, he was busy and so couldn’t cook lunch as promised. Since I was ticketless, he deposited me at his travel agent’s with a warning that the bus would stop for dinner at a potentially diarrhoeal joint. He suggested that I pack dinner. Having slept on planes and buses for a few nights on the trot, I went to sleep after a nice lunch. By the time I’d gotten up, it was too late to pack dinner. But when he came back to drop me to the bus in the evening, he was carrying a largish, white polythene bag. ‘Food’, he grinned by way of explanation, handing it to me once we’d wound up our Sage Discussion of South American Politics.

I opened it once inside the bus. It contained the following-

A packet of Krackjack biscuits;
A packet of crisps drenched in chilli, labelled ‘Snack’. I’d just told him that morning that I like to eat chilli crisps at loo breaks in the middle of the night.
A large bottle of cold Bisleri;
A packet of a local sweet puff pastry, labelled ‘For your father’;
Two neatly wrapped paneer and vegetable roomali rolls, labelled ‘Dinner’; and
A large bar of Cadbury’s fruit n’ nut chocolate, labelled ‘Dessert’.

He missed the beer. But still, the man is very nice. He also has a hip wife with lethal Hotness Quotient (HQ). Now we know why I keep going back. Guru-chela relationships and all that.

Older women? Well, why not?

2006-08-01T08:49:00.000Z

A classmate and sometime close friend (we've drifted, since then) got married recently. I got to know about this when I was in India. The question is, why am I writing about it?

Well, firstly he married someone I know. Someone 17 years older than him. She's a professor (was our professor); he's a fledgling specialist. Secondly, the possibility that they were having a relationship was something that was suggested to me throughout college. Since I was a close friend, many of these suggestions were actually point-blank queries directed my way. I would earnestly deny this, since I knew they were neighbours, that the families were very close, that he called her 'aunt', and that this was why he picked her up every day. I was on that car on many occasions, as I was at her place, and had noticed nothing to suggest otherwise. I was, of course, probably being kept a little less than well informed, but this fills me with nothing but utter, subversive delight. Bully for them.

Thirdly, both families are Muslim. Muslim society being somewhat more conservative than many others, this May-October romance and it's culmination must have been conducted under tremendous tension.

Finally, I was informed of this by another professor, a very hip, ostensibly liberal ex-Miss Calcutta, who presented it with an air of mild distaste, simultaneously saying that she was happy for them but that she believed ' it's not sensible to have such an age gap, especially if it's the woman who's older'. Her husband, by the way, is about 12 years older than her. Du-uh? And this was the tack most of my old accquaintances appeared to adopt (to varying degrees) in conversations over the ensuing week.

Another Indian friend, well into her thirties, married someone 8 years younger than her. This did raise eyebrows, but didn't appear to provoke all that much discomfort. The fact that both came from liberal, highly educated backgrounds perhaps had something to do with this. Which leads me to wonder, is there some sort of unspoken age-gap cut-off which determines whether such relationships are okay or not?

The reason why all this has come together in my head is because someone in the UK (a child psychiatrist, no less) had a baby a few weeks ago. This, and specifically the fact that she was older than the average norm for maternity, provoked a storm of protest, with everyone from the British Fertility Society to evangelical christians jumping onto a finger-wagging, disapproving bandwagon. And funnily enough, an overwhelming majority of the people calling up the BBC Radio London talk-shows in indignant outrage were women. Why?
It would be easy to dismiss this as simple ageism, but I suspect there are a lot more isms (and non-isms) involved here. The old fertility argument, whatever it's validity, is being, of course, demolished by the remarkable advances in fertility treatment.

So why is it okay, and even worthy of fawning media appreciation, when a Shashi Tharoor or a Rupert Murdoch (and umpteen other men of all races, creeds and political persuasions) marry and/or mate with some young babe when they are well into senile dotage and sire children, but not when my friends in India and Dr. Rashbrook do the same?
And why are so many women so deeply uncomfortable with this?

P.S. And now I'm thinking of Nafisa Ali, Arundhati Roy, Diane Keaton (who's been spoken for by a certain Mr. Reeves), Catherine Deneuve, Michelle Yeoh, J. K Rowling, Deepti Naval, Jane Fonda, Monica Ali, Tina Turner et al. All so utterly gorgeous, dateable and desirable......but then I digress, however pleasantly.

Matrimonial traits

2006-07-24T15:28:00.000Z

I spent a hilarious evening with a relative in India looking at the bio-data of her prospective suitors. She is, as they say in our parts, in the marriage market. She isn’t too happy about this, but has decided to go along to buy some time and space. Her family, btw, is not searching for a husband. No sir, they are searching for an alliance. What had decided the first shortlist was matching horoscopes.

Some of these heroes had very interesting things to say about themselves in their bio-data.

A few gems-

Colour: White

Complexion: Fair. Good-looking.

Occupation of mother: Married.

Occupation of sister: Married. Settled (sounds like she is on antipsychotics, as in, the patient is calm and settled).

Occupation of sister: Settled in California.

Attitudes (sic): I am open-minded to my wife working. She is welcome to help me in my out-sourcing business so that we can make it more and more successful together. I am having annual turnover of Rs. 37 lakhs currently (sic). If my wife doesn’t want to join me, I am open-minded to support her decesion (sic) to be involved in her seperate (sic) job also. I am an open- minded, go-getting type of person (Wokay?)

Attitude: God fearing.

By the end of this, we were both rolling on the ground.

P.S. If any of you chaps are out there, I’ve got your mugshots on my mobile. Just had to show it to the Lady, sorry. I promise to delete them afterwards.

The bombs of morning

2006-07-07T18:20:00.000Z

It was about 1.20 pm in India when the first bombs went off. In the next few minutes, they seemed to go off everywhere. Including on my morning train. In my station. Among the people I travelled with everday. And still travel with.

I was too preoccupied, optimistically trying to deny the inevitability of another death, a million miles away. Waiting in a waiting room, on the other side for the first time in my life, eagerly awaiting some news, any news, from the medics scurrying in and out of a strange ICU in a strange hospital. An uncle, all of eighty two and showing every bit of it that day, came up to me at about 3.00 pm and said, "Did you hear about the bombs?"

" What bombs?"

And so it unfolded. Frantic calls to London, only to find that none were going through. The phone lines were jammed. A million calls, all at once. The mobile phone network had collapsed. For a few hours, I dealt with the possibility that two of the most important people in my life could be dead right then, as I tried to get a connection. Very calmly. I'll probably do my exams and move back to India quickly, I told myself. We were moving flat, and someone had to stay back and do it, unless we wanted to lose a whole lot of money. Since I had to go, she'd flown in from where she was, and stayed. Finally, at about 7.00 pm, which would have been 2.30 GMT, a call came through from Bangalore. She was safe, though she'd actually heard the bombs.

Over the next few days, as we tried every little trick to cheat that one death in India, we spoke about London. About the deathly quiet, the barricades, our experiences of disasters, the survivors, the flowers, the blood on BMA House...

Somewhere along the way, we figured that this city had become our own.

When I returned, I met them, one by one. The schoolteacher by the window, who had had 4 intestinal sugeries, 2 facial reconstructions, and had lost an eye. She always smiled, somewhat hazily I thought, staring into the middle distance, never making eye contact. The young man who had lost a leg. He wasn't angry, just resigned. The defiant old Guardsman with ghastly soft-tissue injuries who insisted that it had been nothing compared to the Blitz. I'm sure they remembered most of it, each one of them. But they didn't want to talk. So we went around every week for the next few months, until they got discharged, chatting for a few minutes, talking about the future.

I also saw the blood splattered high across BMA house, right in front of the the plinth from where Mahatma Gandhi surveys Tavistock Square.

Among the stories, this was one that stuck with me.

'Nader Mozakka fled Iran as a political activist during the Khomeini regime. Nader, a 50-year-old software manager with two children, is like many of those at the King's Cross United group in this respect - but in no other. Nader is one of the bereaved. He met his wife, Behnaz, while they were at university in Tehran, and together they slipped the net and moved to London, started a new life, raised children and achieved success - she as a charity worker and respected research scientist at the Great Ormond Street Hospital. "Nazy was more than a wife to me," he says, "if you can understand what I mean."

It would be impossible to give a full picture of Nader's grief. Nearly a year on, he remains unable to speak about her without weeping. Where some other survivors have two or three triggers that set them off, Nader has hundreds, from seeing someone who looks like Jermaine Lindsay to tiny domestic details. The only place he can go that doesn't remind him of his wife is an Arsenal game - watching football is the one thing Nader did alone - and even there the crowds make him anxious'.

And somehow, it reminded me of e e cummings-

i carry your heart with me (i carry it in
my heart) i am never without it (anywhere
i go you go, my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing, my darling)

i fear no fate (for you are my fate,my sweet) i want
no world (for beautiful you are my world, my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart (i carry it in my heart)

Summer sublet

2006-07-06T11:27:00.000Z

Notice found in the quad-

Friendly, quiet, yet classically chic Hungarian woman theologian in sacred dream-quest for a summer sublet at ....House.

I'd definitely like to meet her.

Nothing new

2006-07-02T19:38:00.000Z

Some farmers kill themselves. Nothing new, really, except that it's rather informative.

Why Englishmen can't dribble

2006-06-28T09:33:00.000Z

It's the bloody weather. Considering they spend half their waking hours talking about it, not to mention all that dreaming about sunny skies, we'd have been surprised if it had been anything else. So that's allright, then.

But it's the wind that's to blame for all this, you see. Not The Rain. Aha! Gotcha! And you thought the English were predictable. Stereotypes, I tell you. It's killing the game.

Gianluca Vialli and Gabriele Marcotti, writing about the how culture determines the way we play football, in a book rather appropriately named the Italian Job, say exactly this. The wind, it appears, makes it impossible for kids to control the ball, let alone practise dribbling. In Italy, they hate losing and every effort is put into win, at any cost. The end justifies the means. We all saw how the Italians suckered the socceroos. The Italian job, geddit? Basta, Vialli.

Zico Coimbra, the Brazilian legend who coaches the Japs, says that their players are talented but are too scared to miss. This, or so he thinks, has something to do with mistakes being completely unacceptable in Japanese culture. Japanese kids are punished in school if they get something wrong. If he corrects the team during a match because a pass was too long, they automatically start doing only short passes. You cross wrong, you better go home and take out that katana.

In Brazil, their general samba attitude to life apparently translates into carefree football. The Socceroos, rather obviously, didn't seem to have a word for defence in their sporting vocab. The limeys, not ones to miss a chance to moan about the Hand of God, have been pontificating in assorted rags about how this reflected streetsmart deception, which in their invaluable opinion, has more cachet in Argentina than honesty (I'm sure Victoria Regina, patron saint of land grabbers, would have approved). And also something about dribbling having more prestige in Latin countries than passing.

Which begs the question, why are Indians such crap at football? Hmm, let's see. It could be the foreign hand, it could be the Muslims, it could be the Communists, or it could be certain old men in khakhi shorts who spend precious practice time PT drilling. Wait, it could be the pseudo-secularists! It could even be Arundhati Roy! Medha Patkar! JNU grads! How about the 'freeloading working class'? Or the martyred middle-class slaving over their PCs ? Or it could be those funny chaps who insist on wearing white flannels in the noonday sun.

Me, I think it's Arjun Singh. Basta, Arjun.

Bingo!

2006-06-24T15:36:00.000Z

The holy grail of academic publishing. Here, now, today! Such a long, hard journey. Sweetheart, Dr. S, Dr. D, Dr. B, R & R, all the girls, the department kids, mum, dad, thanks. Some weeks are just purrrr-fect (well, almost). Amma, I wish you were around (I'm sure you are. Nothing can stop you). I miss you, especially since you'd have played it down and pissed me off. But you'd still have been proud, and understood it's implications. One foot through. Bad boys make good. Ha!

Bricks, light and Monet

2006-06-22T14:42:00.000Z

What happens when art meets architecture? Where were installations invented? Where did abstract expressionism learn about endlessness? That rare thing- a warm, unpretentious review, of reconstruction, light and a rather long painting.

Of visas and smoky vocals

2006-06-20T17:16:00.000Z

The Home Office, it appears, does a few things apart from eating my money and getting blackmailed by the News of the World. Like giving me a nice, new, safe and flexible visa, which they did today. Needed 65 points, made sure we had bloody 100 (nice round appealing figure). Still, opened the rather intimidating looking package with some trepidation. After we'd dusted off the suspicious looking white powder that issued forth, there was this bland letter telling us.... since you've got more than 65blahblahblah......yipppeeee!

P.S. Ronnie Scott's reopens it's doors today after refurbishment. 47 years of hair-raisingly good jazz, 41 of them on Frith Street. The new menu is described as posh English nosh, not exactly a proposition that gets the tastebuds tingling. Something about gorgeous mash (what's that? sounds like this Zulu chap I know) and crab risotto (that sounds better).

Maybe I'll spring a surprise on the Lady and take her there. But we need to get tested for anthrax before that.

Brixton

2006-06-17T10:54:00.000Z

Brixton is never far
The tired metaphor, the seeking of buzz,
Jostling, jostling
Sweat, onions and smoking kebabs, a glance of suspicion
Pram-faced mothers and council facelifts,
Patterned bedspreads hung out to dry.
An open window, a snatch of laughter
Arcing, then..... gone..
Matriarchs calling in high singsong
A flash of bling, white horses drawing a hearse
The angst of migration, an expectation of gunfire...

Basketballers on the high road,
Playing passing buses
Exhilaration ends paranoia.

Race as metaphor
Scarman as interpretation,
Sex as equality.
Brixton is the city.

Of glassless windows and fifty rupee notes..

2006-06-15T12:28:00.000Z

For Dughall McCormick, charity begins on an Indian bus.

Would you bend the rules?

2006-06-10T20:02:00.000Z

Sarah was Palestinian, Christian, 67 and single again. This was courtesy a process of familial attrition which started when her family fled Haifa for the Lebanon after the Jews moved into the Arab areas of Haifa. The family settled (if you want to call it that) in one of the refugee camps in East Beirut. Her father died soon after the move, though I don't quite remember how. Her husband and eldest son were tortured and killed by Samir Geagea's Phalange when they attacked the camp during the Civil War. She fled with her daughters across the Green Line to Muslim West Beirut, where she found more kindness than she had with her fellow Christians. Towards the end of the civil war, their home (donated by the PLO, if I remember correctly) was hit by a suction bomb from an Israeli warship. One of her daughters died immediately, the other a month later, in hospital. She remained in Beirut until the end of the war, with her son and daughter-in-law. Through a series of moves I didn't have the time to track, what remained of the family found themselves in Jenin (of all places) in the late 90s. They were in Jenin in 2002. To cut her long story short, the son died. Sarah and her daughter-in-law came over to the UK soon afterwards. The daughter-in-law, during the last of a long series of breakdowns, killed herself a year after arrival.

Sarah had been granted asylum ('I'm Christian, so.......', she said sadly, by way of explanation. Whatever. Thank God). The problem was accomodation. She'd been put up in a series of grotty, dangerous hostels where her neighbours included the odd crack addict, pimp and knife-wielding extortionist. Sarah, throughout her years of suffering and exile, had managed to keep herself defiantly middle class. She'd worked as a secretary for a few years after coming to England, and had some money. This was a matter of great pride to her. It also made her a prime target in the hostels. Now she was too old and too sick to work. But since she was not a priority, Housing kept her at the bottom of the list. She didn't have a ghost of a chance of getting a proper flat anytime soon. Rather than live in a hostel, she's been relying on the kindness of a succession of friends, mostly people from her church.

Sarah had arthritis and depression. She'd been depressed for years, and the idea of treating it with a pill or therapy had been given up a long time ago. The idea that this woman's demoralization could be reduced to a diagnosis was as ludicrous as it was useless.

The only thing that could make her life a bit more bearable was a flat.

As the social workers and doctors involved in her care, we could spin her situation in such a way that she'd become a priority for housing. The question is, should we?

After all, she's just an old, unemployed, sponging asylum seeker.

Blogging as conversation

2006-06-07T14:21:00.000Z

When people from different cultural and linguistic backgrounds who are hearing/speech impaired meet, they communicate far more effectively than people who are not. This is because their respective sign languages e.g. International sign language, Chinese sign language, Indian, British, Catalan etc. share a lot more common ground by way of symbols, metaphors, slang etc. than the spoken languages themselves viz. English, Mandarin, Cantonese, Hindi etc.

In effect, they have far richer conversations than those who can actually speak the respective languages.

There's a message somewhere here for bloggers. When one thinks of it, there's a message here for everyone trying to bridge divides of all sorts (and those not too keen on bridging them as well).

On an unrelated note, most television programming in sign language happens late at night, as does most blogging.

Interesting, no?

A question of intervention

2006-06-02T10:00:00.000Z

This chap, returning to college after a visit home, obviously believed in social capital, though he may not have heard of it. He did something about what he saw. Now he’s dead, as a consequence.

Some time ago, I met a teenager who’d been gang-raped. A regular, sober, sorted out kid, getting good grades and headed for University who’d taken a short-cut through a park. Now, you often come face-to-face with this sort of thing in inner-cities. Wide gaps between the privileged and the underprivileged, drugs, alcohol, migration, the clash of cultures and old-fashioned criminality all play their part. Years of encountering it sort of resigns you to some aspects of it, and you just buckle down and help people as best as you can. However, there was something about this kid that was different. Of course, she had bad psychological and not-so-bad physical problems. But what struck all of us was that she seemed so remarkably composed and dignified while coping with all of this. I mean, she had two broken ribs, a broken metacarpal, nightmares, flashbacks, panic, depression et al. But she was smiling on the surface and seemingly more worried about her mum than herself. And this was three months afterwards.

This started me thinking. What would I have done if I was walking alone through that park at the same time, and heard her cries? What would anyone else have done? Call 999 or 100? Sure. But that takes time. What else? I mean, she is getting assaulted while you think.

Change of plan

2006-06-01T18:52:00.000Z

I am hard pressed for time and not quite all there these days. I need to study, wind up some papers which I better send out soon, run more, go out less and get out of this vagueness which appears to have descended upon me, courtesy an unfortunate coming together of a bunch of the usual stressors.

So, I am now going to ask some questions. I would be grateful for answers, because that might help me sort some things out in my mind. The questions will continue until I get at least the papers out of my way.

If all this works well, I hope to try explain why medics leave India (in response to a line in Harsh Mander's letter) and then what happens to them once they arrive overseas.

All in good time:-)

Btw, what on earth happened to the sun ? This is the worst English summer I've seen.

Now I'm a believer..

2006-05-28T11:36:00.000Z

'She'd stopped eating, they said. For 3 weeks. She's drinking a bit. It's what happened last time. She's not talking to anyone at all. No, she's not talking to herself . Besides, she's diabetic. you need to come'.

"When did they call?"
"Late yesterday evening, after you and J had left."

At the end of a day that started around eight in the morning and dragged on until late evening, we'd clocked several achievements to our credit, chief among which was managing to lock someone out of her own house. This was made that much worse because she'd refused us entry earlier, since we were strangers, which we actually were (though we'd flashed IDs).We had hung around outside, trying hard not to look dodgy, in the middle of this sprawling, rather homely council estate, while telephoning her daughter who'd agreed to come down and let us in. The daughter had warned us that what had happened actually would, but we had finished early with our previous patient and decided to jump the gun.

So much for our enthusiasm. To cut a long story short, the woman came out after a while, to (presumably) check whether we'd gone, and much to her chagrin, found that we hadn't. Disgusted, she told us to leave, and turned to walk around the house, which, to me, seemed to imply that she would get in through the backdoor. Taking this as a final dismissal (at least until the daughter arrived), I shut the front door (which was wide open), in the interests of her safety. Or so I thought, congratulating myself smugly for my presence of mind. Until she returned. Apparently, the door round the back, contrary to expectation, was locked.

Much to our relief, when she discovered what had happened, she laughed. Repeatedly, loudly and rather scarily (or so I thought, half expecting her to take out something and shoot me). Turned out she was genuinely amused.

And so we found ourselves, an Australian nurse, an Indian doctor and a tall, striking, barefoot Jamaican woman in a golden turban, clad in an overcoat and little else, standing together in the autumn chill. Needless to say, we got talking.

Not exactly the way we'd planned it, in more ways than one, because she asked most of the questions, enquiring about everything from our families to what we liked to listen to. As the autumn sun dropped rapidly, the shadows deepened. As did our conversation. The nurse, who was watching her terminally ill mother fade, had been a bit shaky all week and the conversation seemed to have a calming effect on her. She smiled. The lines between the treaters and the treated blurred.

Our patient disappeared on two occasions, into the bowels of the great estate, reappearing as abruptly as she'd gone. The second time, she startled me out of my wits, because everything was still, my mind was drifting, and then I gradually became aware of being watched. I turned, warily, and there she was, unexpectedly perched on a high ledge, looking down at me quietly, turban aglow in a stray shaft of the setting sun, her coat flying in the wind.

After a while, she started to hum, gently.

She liked gospel, she'd said.

Earthquake in Indonesia

2006-05-27T16:20:00.000Z

Alertnet reports on the earthquake in Java-

The 6.2 magnitude quake struck just after dawn and was the third major tremor to devastate Indonesia in 18 months, the worst being the quake on Dec. 26, 2004 and its resulting tsunami which left some 170,000 people dead or missing around Aceh.

Indonesia sits on the Asia-Pacific's so-called "Ring of Fire" marked by heavy volcanic and tectonic activity.

Yogyakarta is near Mount Merapi, a volcano on top alert for a major eruption. A vulcanologist said the quake was not caused by the volcano, but its activity increased after the shock.
Yogyakarta city is about 25 km (16 miles) north of the Indian Ocean coast and 440 km (275 miles) east of Jakarta. Yogyakarta province, which includes the city, has a population of 3.2 million. Central Java province also suffered damage.

The BBC has the latest news and video updates.

Central Java has three world heritage sites, including the temple of Borobudur.

Mr. Gandhi does Mr. Patel does Mr. Gandhi

2006-05-25T00:25:00.000Z

Jokes apart, it's the great man himself, speaking of non-violence, no less. He's 34th on the links list (yes, I counted). It's in Quicktime, so it should download eventually, even on a slow line, if you wait long enough. The list is heavy with Americana, but if you are a history junkie, there are some glorious bits of trivia among all these voices from the past, like the sailor at Midway, Shackleton, and Mandela. Incidentally, we heard Mandela at Trafalgar Square last year for Live Aid, and the voice had lost none of it's power. As for Che, the Lady heard his voice and said, "Now, that is a man." Which reminded me of Sue, who, a long time ago, sitting around in the old Nightwatchman, looked at us gravely and said, "When he speaks, I could strip."

P.S. The Nightwatchman link, which is a bit sad, hints at some of what's been lost as old Bangalore makes way for whatever. The old Nightwatchman was new, and hence, too expensive for us, in 1993, when it opened. We still managed to go, occasionally, courtesy the architect, whose progeny was one of our own. I'm sure all of us can now afford to go whenever, but I don't think any one would want to. Give us back our Hotel California and Temple of the King. And our late nights. And our drag races down Hosur road. And Scottish and Peco's and 19th Church Street and Imperial and Empire and Amaravathi and Autumn Muse and Cul-Ah and Fanoos. And Blue Moon and Blue Diamond and Plaza. And Sardarjee's Dhabha on Hosur Road. And Rajkumar in the evenings, walking around Sankey Tank. And the thump of Bullets and Yezdis headed into the hills. And ajji in Jayanagar with her fragrant weed.

Open the clubs. Take the doorframes off the pubs. Stop the clocks until 2.00 am. Bring it all back. Let our city breathe.

Sexuality in conversation

2006-05-15T22:32:00.000Z

References to sexuality cropping up in everyday conversation is not unusual. It can happen whilst chatting about a hundred everyday topics. It happens at work, after work…everywhere. It’s routine and what’s more, it can be an instant icebreaker. Being relaxed about it implies that you’re not a closet fundamentalist who secretly assigns those who have sex outside marriage, procreation, religion, race, caste and inside condoms to eternal damnation, hellfire, slow torture in the afterlife, rebirth as a lab rat, eternally un-dead type of trauma etc. It means you wish fantastic and safe sex upon all your fellows. This instantly transports you into the fun-to-be-with category.

However, when this involves someone who has a sexual orientation or gender identity other than the conventional, the goal posts shift somewhat subtly. Many gender-content heterosexuals haven’t yet mastered the art of conversing about other sexualities/gender identities with the same degree of comfort that they bring to talking about their own. This leads to the following ploys being employed-

1. Ignoring the reference altogether i.e. pretending a momentary lapse of hearing and carrying on in a more comfortable direction;

2. Making a joke of various aspects of the appearance, manners, personal attributes and lifestyles of those with sexualities/gender identities other than their own. This can often involve slang catchphrases. If cornered, these people will insist that they are not homophobic or intolerant of gender dysphoria (often unconvicingly), but just find some things about people who are neither heterosexual nor comfortable with their gender phenotype ‘too funny’;

3. Admitting, calmly, to outright homophobia and prejudice. This can be followed by an uncomfortable silence, random others chipping in with their hitherto masked prejudices, or by the conversation being hurriedly diverted by a sensitive presence;

4. Talking about it briefly, with a shrug of the shoulder, a smile or a quick grimace, which is intended to convey (all at the same time) that ‘I am straight, I have no gender issues, I am broadminded enough to empathise with people who aren’t like me, but I can also understand where all the people who are uncomfortable about these issues are coming from, and so if you want to crack a joke about it, I'll be a good sport and laugh about it.' I used to belong to this category some time ago.

There is of, course, a growing number of people who deal with this without any discomfort. This post is not about them. The point of this post is a basic, purely democratic question. The references, when they crop up in conversation, is about someone else’s sexuality, someone else’s gender identity, someone else’s gender dysphoria (with it’s associated, often, devastating psychological and physical fallouts which the gender dysphoric person didn’t quite volunteer for, since it's well-established that they don't have a biological choice in the matter) and above all, someone else’s life and personal space. Why are others so uncomfortable about it? When you are more than uncomfortable, what on earth makes you think that you have a right to take a pseudo-moralistic, quasi-judgemental stance about it? When we are talking biological blueprints, what on earth does morality have to do with it?

Perhaps there is something about sexualities and gender identities other than your own that makes you just that teeny li'l bit insecure about your own sexuality and gender identity at some level. In other words, our external discomfort mirrors our sudden, unexpected and threatening (which could be related to socio-cultural backgrounds) internal discomfort with our own orientations. And carrying that a bit further, perhaps the intensity of your reaction mirrors the intensity of this internal tension.

Opinions from all positions are welcome.

P.S. There is something related and interesting being debated here.

this is our plague, and that means all of us

2006-05-13T15:30:00.000Z

N, who probably visits this space as much as I do, had this to add to the previous post.

Jacob Zuma rides again

2006-05-09T19:50:00.000Z

South Africa has one of the highest rates of HIV/AIDS in the world and the highest number of deaths from the disease till date. It also has the egregious distinction of having one of the highest rates of rape in the world, not to mention a growing problem with infant/child rape.

The aetiology of this ongoing crisis is multifactorial and much research has looked at specific aspects of the problem.

Thabo Mbeki spent many years denying that HIV had any connection with AIDS , and continues to undermine the efforts of the country's public health community and civil society at periodic intervals. Thankfully, this has been replaced in recent years with a more positive, though often heavily spun take which stops short of acknowledging the magnitude of the AIDS crisis engulfing South Africa, which has often left campaigners in the field shaking their heads in exasperation.

One of the greatest triumphs of civil society in South Africa has been to get the government to first admit that there actually was a problem, then outsmarting Big Pharma to ensure that antiretrovirals could be made available at an affordable price , cutting deals with generics manufacturers from Brazil and India, and thereby setting a sparkling precedent that has lent courage to governments of poor nations beset by HIV/AIDS across the world.

Into this seething cauldron walks Jacob Zuma, a third-rate sleazeball embodying the worst attributes of the venal political class we are all forced to put up with across the world. The problem was, this particular sleazeball used to be the Vice-President of South Africa and the head of the National AIDS council. What does he do to protect himself against HIV? He takes a shower. And proudly proclaims it to a nation battling one of the worst epidemics in living memory. He also believes that if a woman wears a skirt, she is inviting him to have sex with her.

Now that he's been accquitted, Goldenballs intends to run for the presidency, while the victim, a leading AIDS rights campaigner, has to seek refuge under a witness protection programme abroad. The Zulu nation, his electorate and his daughter should be proud.

names and identities

2006-05-06T15:27:00.000Z

People pronounce your name in myriad ways in a multicultural city, that too, in a ‘foreign’ one. I have never regarded London as ‘foreign’ in any sense, from the moment I decided to move here, until now. But then, that is what this city is all about; making Londoners out of just about every 'foreigner' who happens to stop by. A place with no instinctive fear of the 'other', we are all others, a whole, chaotic city full of others good humouredly coping with the 'foreigner' next door. And pigging on each others' food at the slightest opportunity. A city of contradictions, counterpoints, oddities and incongruities. I am an Indian and a Londoner. No, I'm not vegetarian. Actually, I eat a number of things that move. A spaceship just crashed in Waterloo place. And a small girl came out. The thing is, she was 16 ft tall. And then she went to sleep. When she woke up, an elephant gave her a shower. The Sultan's elephant. And oh, the elephant was a mechanical one. That's allright, then.

On a National Express coach accelerating away from the Ferrari showrooms of Park Lane into the all too enveloping darkness of a motorway ride to Birmingham, my decision to move here came in part, from a brief brush with ‘failure’. Failure, like being foreign, was not something unfamiliar. I'd had to cope with the former differently each time, which ended up working out in often weird and wonderful ways . The latter had been dealt with by a series of departures, of which the previous two, surprisingly, had been from places where I seemed to sort of belong. That was extraordinarily rare, and so, painfully precious. This had resulted in a vague anxiety that, after so many years of struggling to come to terms with a permanent sense of being out of place, I had copped out of the very situations that made closure appear so tantalizingly close.

Then along came London, where failure and otherness seemed to merit no more than a shrug of the shoulder.

Which brings us back to the name business. I have no sense of a ‘nominal identity’ (for want of a better phrase). That is, I don’t give a shit how anyone pronounces my name, as long as they don’t make it sound like something grotesque. In fact, I like some of the names mine get conjured into, when then, I am suddenly transformed into this magical, mysterious stranger with an exotic name I have never known. A twin separated at birth, an identical other, strange and yet the same. Suddenly, I am perhaps Georgian, or Samoan, or Indochinese, or Chilean. I could be from the Antioch of late antiquity or the streets of Bombay. The possibilities are infinite. I sort of like that :-)

However, as I staggered into the gym today out of a sense of duty more than anything else, bone tired and feeling that crossing thirty does perhaps change one’s body in some ways, something happened. I was greeted by the familiar face of the strikingly composed half-Indian girl with the fully Indian name who womans the desk. I said a perfunctory ‘hi’, my mind a million miles away, barely glancing at her. We’d seen each other a hundred times before, but rarely smiled at each other. The tiredness and surliness probably showed on my face. She said ‘hi’, swiped my card, released the turnstile and handed me my towel. Reflexively, I grunted ‘thanks’.

She looked up from the computer screen (where my name had probably showed up), smiled and said, calmly, ‘Thank you, Never-mind’, each syllable of my name perfectly balanced, the intonations in exquisite cadence, like slow jazz on a summer night.

It had rarely sounded better.

Bech is back

2006-04-29T00:53:00.000Z

This blog is indeed back, this time with the Lady returned and comfortably ensconced in the flat. This, of course, being a rather pretentious thing to say, I apologize.

I feel like an absolute loser at the moment, and face the prospect of 2 1/2 years of single-minded hard work getting flushed down the drain, because of a collaborator's utter, callous irresponsibility. So the analogy is probably apt. I should be mad, but I just feel....blank. I have no idea whether this too, will pass (the Lady says it will). Right now, all I can think of is winding up and going back to a village in India and just........treating patients. At least you make them feel good and they make you feel good in return. Maybe I'm not destined to be an academic. Maybe. Maybe...Maybe. Maybe. Shit. I am soooo fucked. Sorry.

At least she's back. Anyway, I'll know by tomorrow whether I'll be believed or crucified. That should be a bit of a steep learning curve.

Anyway, one of the first things she said on walking in was that the living room stinks. I’d noticed; in fact I’d stopped sitting in the armchair by the window because of the vaguely cheesy smell. However, a multinational operation involving sober men from 3 different continents had failed to find the source of the stink. We’d located it’s origins to the corner with the music, but then, music doesn’t stink (exceptions notwithstanding). I’d scrubbed and vacuumed the room from top to bottom, but the stink wouldn’t go away. Turned out it was the water in the jug with the Feng Shui bamboo shoot. I’d forgotten to change it. It was right on the table next to the music.

She then looked out of the window and said, “Look at the quadrangle, all the flowers are out! It’s so pretty!” I hadn’t noticed, really.

Funny thing is, sleep’s not been too great all these weeks. So she came, had breakfast and collapsed into a jet-lagged stupor. I did the same, though this was probably a lady-lagged one. Grown men can be like children sometimes.

The Spring’s finally coming in through the curtains. I should cook something before she gets up.

this blog is on hold

2006-04-21T20:54:00.000Z

this blog's on hold for the moment, due to an unexpected computer error which caught me completely unawares. it's best that i stop blogging for the time being. i deeply appreciate the encouragement of all my readers, especially the five/six regular commenters who were so extraordinarily gracious. it made my month:-). many many thanks. i don't want to lose this blog (this hurts like hell:-/, unexpectedly, and in unexpected places). i hope to sort things out in about 10 days.

2006-04-18T00:37:00.000Z

In Jen the grass is like green silk threads,
in Chin the mulberry bows beneath its leaves.
Now while your thoughts are turning home,
my longing heart is already breaking.
Oh the spring wind is a stranger to me,
how does it dare to enter my gauze bed curtain?

- courtesy Li Po, 754 A.D.

such is life.

Increase the size of your penis! 2 weeks free trial. Satisfaction guaranteed. Or your money back. Conditions apply.

2006-04-18T00:36:00.000Z

I get loads of this in my mailbox, as am sure most people do. This, however, is a cunning ploy to get you to read this, which, I think, is so glaringly obvious, that I wonder why one doesn't see more people writing about it.

Also, anyone who loves this town as much as I do (and anyone who intends to visit) should check out these fabulous photos. The bonus is a dreamy, drifting, Marc Cohn meets Bruce Springsteen take on London.

STOP!

2006-04-14T00:36:00.000Z

Though the idea had been simmering in my mind on sleepless nights, I started this blog on a rare idle afternoon at work on impulse, out of a deep sense of outrage. Now, I am a liberal and often unpleasantly libertarian, but I am hopelessly old fashioned when it comes to certain things. A profound respect for women is somewhere on top of that list. A sense of everyday courtesy is other e.g. holding doors open for people, respecting others’personal spaces, taking virtues like loyalty seriously, being nice to old people etc. Surfing blogs that day, I came across this, this, this, this,and this, and , as outrageous examples of regressive, crude misogyny masquerading as politically self-righteous criticism as any. I am a fierce advocate of freedom of speech, but there’s a difference between the blatant abuse of public spaces (think repressed, ‘harmless’, exhibitionist near a school with something hanging out); the wanton violation of someone else’s private space; persistent, creepy, predatory preying, and exercising one’s right to one’s opinion. The former is the germ of all the evil that is perpetrated on the vulnerable, on the pretext of self-righteousness, ‘traditions’, ‘history’ and the oft quoted ‘she/they asked for/deserved it’. This includes sexual assault and mass murder.

So I did something which I don’t do often. I signed myself into blogger (and so a blog was born!) stopped by and lost my temper. I probably said things I shouldn't have, and my comments reek of the worst kind of tabloidesque, reactionary, provocativeness, but hell, was I mad!! So did others, and that appeared to have stopped this sleazeball for a while. But as with all such specimens, he backed off the more intimidating of his targets and focussed on the slightly gentler one (who also incidentally, had the courtesy to engage with him consistently). Now I try to help victims of violence for a living (among other things), from different parts of the world, and I can recognize a pattern when I see one. As bloggers inhabiting a common space, creating social norms for that space as we go along, I believe we have a responsibility to stop the abuse of that space when we see it. If the blogosphere, which is a child of the twentyfirst century, cannot set an example and break away from exploitative and abusive attitudes, which were products of so called less enlightened times, we can hardly expect this century to be any better than the previous ones.

Or let me put this another way. Today it's some strange person's blogspace that's being violated, tomorrow it may be the blogspace of someone you love, and then it may be the person you love, who becomes subject to the violation. Me, I am not going to sit around and wait until that happens.

This is crude misogyny, under cover of a faux anti-elitism, seeking to abuse and violate. It is often the precursor of more unpleasant acts of violence. It is the germ of attitudes that lead to Jessica Lalls, Meher Bhargavas, Priyadarshini Mattoos and Teena Brandons. Stop it. And stop it now. Tell this stalker what you think of him.

The End.

IT? cheap shit.

2006-04-13T00:34:00.000Z

Observe the new links on my blog. This, my dear discerning readers, means that this funny lingo which they use to make all this shit appear on the screen (HTML, binary, duuhh?) is cheap shit. I figured it out, though on top of some long island iced tea, in like, an eureka moment down at Freud's and I know shite about IT and stuff (IT, Iced Tea, savvy? See, that's all there's to it.) And this is what these geeks get paid bloody murder for. This is the revenge of the nerds, I tell you.

surfer chic(k)!

2006-04-11T00:34:00.000Z

Go lady! Look who's doing the big I.

vicarious satisfaction

2006-04-10T00:33:00.000Z

The 20th London Lesbian and Gay Film Fest is on, at venues across the city and country. I desperately wanted to watch Ligy Pullapally's acclaimed Sanchaaram (the club night of which is at Club Kali, one of the hippest venues in London) and Between the Lines, but tickets were sold out weeks in advance. Sanchaaram , incidentally, gets a gala screening. Besides, the sudden onslaught of unaccustomed responsibilities around the house, esp. cooking to feed my embarassing appetite, precluded trying really hard. If I had wangled some tickets, I would've been watching Sanchaaram right now. Anyway, tough luck. At least I get to blog about it. Maybe I'll go up to Manchester in May and watch it. The place is full of Ligys, Lilies, Liceys and Lousys, being home to the largest expat community of Mal nurses and their hirsute husbands in Europe, so at least that should be fun. Not that any of them are likely to turn up.

Btw, Transamerica rocks.

What is Indian architecture?

2006-04-09T00:32:00.000Z

Chitvan Gill, writing about architecture in independent India, says we have failed to develop a unique, instantly recognizable architectural signature that is at the same time inspiring and beautiful. I agree on several counts , especially with respect to the grotesque kitsch of the temple complexes at Akshardham and Chattarpur, smaller copies of which have sprouted as far afield as Neasden and L.A, and the fact that post-colonialism distorted the worldview of an entire generation of Indian architects. But then, it did in so many other disciplines, as far afield as medicine and local literature.

As for le Corbusier, one may or may not view his obsession with his own sense of destiny with sympathy, let alone the things that he did in the pursuit of that. However, whether one likes the way it looks or not, there's no denying that Chandigarh achieved what it sought to, to clearly state the intentions of a new nation, which was to make a clean break from the past. Fifty odd years after independence, as a nation finally coming out from the angst of adolescence into the infinite possibilities of adulthood, we finally have the luxury and the confidence to say that our ancient architectural past was indeed, something manifestly beautiful. That is a confidence an uncertain, infant nation could hardly have been expected to instantly assume. So, le Corbusier's Chandigarh had a purpose, as had Nehru's flawed centralized, socialist vision, and both served their purposes well. What the army of armchair critics of post-independent, Nehruvian India, who seem to have sprouted overnight, courtesy the web (yours truly included) don't appear to recognize is that we would probably not be in the position we are in today (on the threshold of a sensitive kind of greatness, if we can manage to pull it off) if that generation had not made the brave choices it did. And that included making that break with the past, striving to be 'modern' in every sense of the term, and choosing social justice over the free market.

But enough of that. I believe we do have a unique Indian architectural sensibility, though some of the pioneers of that sensibility have come from other shores. Louis Kahn started the trend with the lovely IIM buildings in Ahmedabad, a tradition that continues in the brick and tile of Lawrie Baker, inspired by traditional Keralan architecture. Gerard da Cunha has picked up where Baker has left off. If those Russians had walked half a kilometre north by northeast, they would have been assailed by the raw power of Charles Correa's imposing chunks of concrete piled on top of each other, off the Post-Office circle. Sure, it's clunky, but so were we, those days.

Chitvan says, "Traditional builders and craftsmen, the mistris and shilpkaris were not trained to grasp the new idiom and their skills were inappropriate for the underlying scientific principles of engineering and building that constituted the new architecture. The disjunct between the architect and his builders has become even more pronounced now." I fail to see why this should be an issue, unless one has a remarkably patronising view of what the mistris and shilpkaris are capable of. Louis Kahn built his masterpiece and swansong, the Jatiyo Sangshad Bhaban, the National Assembly of Bangladesh, with no earthmovers, no forklifts and practically no money, the work being done entirely by local artisans, carpenters and manual labourers, who built it, shovelful by loving shovelful, brick by loving brick.

But these are famous names. What about the hundreds of young architects out there designing structures that are both sustainable and rooted in local traditions? Some of them do so in their spare time, churning out malls and multiplexes in their day jobs, in order to fund their less-profitable professional passions. I know at least three such people, working in different parts of the country. We are a mongrel nation, a melting pot of races, identities and sensibilities. For a nation that celebrates this cultural chaos, developing a unique, monolithic architectural sensibility is as impossible (and absurd) as imposing one language on all its states (or one ethno-religious identity on all its people).

My views, are of course, entirely subjective. And as for competing interests, I have lots.

the women's list

2006-04-08T00:31:00.000Z

thought i should link to last year's findings on women's favourite books and the letters the male top ten attracted. i suspect that there are more women out there who might now be facing a gender identity crisis.

The indifferent male's guide to literature

2006-04-08T00:28:00.000Z

The novel that means the most to us men is about indifference, alienation and lack of emotional responses (We Pricks!) . Those that mean the most to women is about deeply held feelings, a struggle to overcome circumstances and passion, research by the University of London has found. Professor Lisa Jardine and Annie Watkins of Queen Mary College interviewed 500 men, many of whom had some professional connection with literature, about the novels that had changed their lives.

The book named most frequently by men was Albert Camus's The Outsider, followed by JD Salinger's Catcher in the Rye and Kurt Vonnegut's Slaughterhouse Five. Women, by contrast, most frequently cited works by Charlotte and Emily Brontë, Margaret Atwood, George Eliot and Jane Austen. They also named a "much richer and more diverse" set of novels (as evidenced by the above remarkably diverse list) than men, according to Prof Jardine. There was a much broader mix between contemporary and classic works and between male and female authors.

The results showed almost no overlap between men's and women's taste. Awww, now how can that be? On the whole, men (who were all, presumably, white men, given the study sample) preferred books by dead white men (they like average white bands too, ask Chris Martin): only one book by a woman, Harper Lee, appears in the list of the top 20 novels with which men most identify. Lotto moment: spot that live rappin' black dude in the women's list!!

"We found that men do not regard books as a constant companion to their life's journey, as consolers or guides, as women do," said Prof Jardine (Sigh........ those women!). "They read novels a bit like they read photography manuals." Prof. bloody Jardine, is of course, a woman. Kiss my arse. I object, your honour!!! The honourable prosecutor, no, professor ( now that's a Freudian slip), is speculating.

"Women readers used much-loved books to support them through difficult times and emotional turbulence, and tended to employ them as metaphorical guides to behaviour, or as support and inspiration." "The men's list was all angst and Orwell. Sort of puberty reading," Hey lady, when the f....k do women start reading Charlotte and Emily Brontë, George Eliot and Jane Austen? During menopause? Bollocks.

Ideas touching on isolation and "aloneness" were strong among the men's "milestone" books. Now, that's a point. We do lead emotionally deprived lives and we don't know how else to f....ing live it. Believe me, its not for want of trying. Lotto moment: Spot the alpha male confiding his 'emotional turbulence' to his much-loved old school mate, while they do a spot of heavy benchpressing in LA Fitness.

Frankly, men use women 'to support them through difficult times and emotional turbulence, and tend to employ them as metaphorical guides to behaviour, or as support and inspiration.' We don't need books. Everyone knows that .

The researchers also found that women preferred old, well-thumbed paperbacks, whereas men had a slight fixation with the stiff covers of hardback books. Now we're getting really Freudian:-)

Prof Jardine said that the research suggested that the literary world was run by the wrong people. Jokes apart, that is true.

The list in full

The Outsider by Albert Camus
Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad
Crime and Punishment by Fyodor Dostoevsky
The Great Gatsby by F Scott Fitzgerald
Brighton Rock by Graham Greene
Catch 22 by Joseph Heller
High Fidelity by Nick Hornby
Ulysses by James Joyce
Metamorphosis by Franz Kafka
The Book of Laughter and Forgetting by Milan Kundera
To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee
One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez
Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov
1984 by George Orwell
The Catcher in the Rye by JD Salinger
The Grapes of Wrath by John Steinbeck
The Hobbit by JRR Tolkien
The Lord of the Rings by JRR Tolkien
The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn by Mark Twain
Slaughterhouse Five by Kurt Vonnegut

The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn??? Jeez. And the Grapes of Wrath ? Everybody, including Jesus Christ, Mother Mary and all the angels gets shafted in that one, and it's a favourite?? And what is it with guys and Catcher in the Rye ? Unbelievable.

All you who sleep tonight

2006-04-04T00:27:00.000Z

All you who sleep tonight
Far from the ones you love,
No hand to left or right,
And emptiness above-

Know that you aren't alone.
The whole world shares your tears,
Some for two nights or one,
And some for all their years.

Vikram Seth. Copyright Vikram Seth 1990. All you who sleep tonight. Viking. Penguin Books India. 2005.

houston has contact

2006-04-03T00:26:00.000Z

There is a mobile phone mast in the village.

for my love

2006-04-02T00:25:00.000Z

words fail me, my sunshine,
and a very indian embarassment hisses,
but anonymity braces me;
so may poetry gird my prayers.

as you walk, expectant,
into the heart of darkness, and the heart of a continent-
holding your hand out to the birthing,
teaching them to kick-ass, and wield pins at close quarters,
this prayer goes out into the ether-
may there be a mobile phone mast in your village,
a fan in your room,
no bugs in your bed,
warm water in the bath
and good company to be had.
have fun, wine at will, and dream of me;
please take care of yourself,
may the force be with you,
and bring you safely back to me.

hi there!

2006-04-01T00:21:00.000Z

thanks for stopping by.

this is a maybe blog, which means that i may/may not blog depending on my mood, the weather, the availability of time, the Lady's mood, whether my current boss is being nice or a pain in the arse, whether the admin does my typing on time, whether the parent's doing okay, whether colleagues are getting on my nerves, whether i'm getting enough exercise, whether i'm studying enough, whether i'm on top of paper deadlines, whether i'm getting enough sex, whether its raining in spain and then, if it does , whether it's mainly on the plain etc.

yup, that's it.

c ya soon. maybe.