An Ode to Komala Vilas

It sits inconspicuously at No. 78 on the crowded Serangoon Road, just one in a row of bustling shops and restaurants. The greatest institutions have no need for advertisement, and this one is no different. There are no boys handing out pamphlets luring the passerby in, unlike at some of the newer establishments on the same road,. The signboard simply says "Komala Vilas Vegetarian Restaurant". The lettering "ESTD 1947" below the name is the only flash of self indulgence, affirming that amid a sea of change, quality survives.

The uninitiated sometimes confuse KV with the Komala's chain of vegetarian restaurants. Those in the know would only shake their heads with pity. The latter is modelled on a fast food chain, with waiters in orange t-shirts and red caps, and has "Mock Mutton Biryani" on its menu. I suspect the owners of KV would rather sell out than allow any such item on theirs.

This is not to say that the KV menu is strictly South Indian. Apart from an array of dosas and other South Indian snacks, they also serve Veg Jal Farezi, Veg Biryani and the like. But what sets this place apart from the crowd is the South Indian meal, aka "Rice Plate" aka "Saapaad".

I suspect most of the clientele (a mix of Indian, Chinese, and Caucasian) have not chanced their way into this restaurant. They have been here before, and have come back knowing they cannot get the same elsewhere. As I enter, one of the staff mutters, "Rice Plate Upstairs". I feel a bit disappointed to be guided as a novice, clearly not seen often enough yet to be considered a regular.

I make my way up the narrow staircase, nod at the several black and white wooden framed photographs on the wall (representing, I guess generations of the owner family) and offer to pay for my meal first as per usual procedure. But the lady at the cash counter graciously says I can eat first. I look around and can tell why - today being Tuesday, the restaurant is only about sixty per cent full.

I find myself a small table meant for two, settle down on the familiar rexine cushioned chair, and place my hands on the table to test its wobble (a critical factor when negotiating rasam spread on a banana leaf). In a couple of minutes a banana leaf spreads itself on my table, with an array of curries, chutneys and dal adorning it, encircling a hillock of white rice.

I dig in, and within a couple of morsels, feel assured that the cooking staff here have not lost any of their touch. The dry raw banana preparation is outstanding. The beans poriyal could have been made in my mum's kitchen. The chana dal chutney, my dad's favourite, would have done my grandma proud. The Vatha Kuzhambu adds necessary zing to the palate. The radish sambar is heart-warming. KV's rasam is the only thing that I am not bowled over by, partial as I am to the stronger tomato heavy Bangalore variety (preferably with a hint of jaggery), but let's not split hair here.

The senior waiter on the floor is attending to me today, and makes five approaches to my table during my meal, to check if I need anything. I am almost apologetic about not asking for second helpings, but it is hard enough to get through all of the initial serving. Curd and payasam round off a hearty meal.

In relationships, there comes a point beyond which one loses ones capacity for objectivity, and can hear no criticism on the subject of discussion. I feel that way about a select few - my dearest family and friends, favourite movies, sportsmen, holiday destinations etc. I fear I am close to reaching that stage with KV. What is so special about the food here, one may ask. I can only say it is tasty, fresh and un-restaurantlike.

Inflation has not left KV untouched, and I remember the meal, now priced at $7, costed 50 cents less on my last trip to Singapore. Still, if there is a better way to spend seven bucks in this city, I would like to see it.

Year of the Dragon

It is the first day of the Chinese Lunar New Year. It's the Year of the Dragon, the only mythical creature in the Chinese Zodiac. The last time we had the dragon come around, it was the turn of the century.

The excellent thing about New Years is that they start with a holiday. CNY is a big event in Singapore, and most offices are shut for two days. This time, the first day of the New Year fortuitously falls on Monday, resulting in a four day weekend.

My New Year began with tossing a salad at my cousin's (now a Singapore veteran of 16 months), a traditional ritual to welcome the Chinese New Year. This is called Yu Sheng and while the real thing has strips of raw fish, we made do with a vegetarian substitute.

Seeing a long weekend stretching ahead of me, I found license to make it even lazier than usual, catching two movies back to back at the neighbourhood cinema. The two movies, "Contraband" (action thriller) and "The Descendants" (human relationships drama) were far apart in content, but both thoroughly enjoyable.

The weekend also gave me the time to sit back and re-connect with some friends and family I hadn't chatted with in a while. My social calendar in Singapore has suddenly started looking busier, with entry into a Book Club I was introduced to via my cousin. There's a bit of pressure, given the commitment to read a book every two months, and then talk about it. The latter bit makes me feel like I am on that TV talk show hosted by Whoopi Goldberg, but I believe it's all in a good cause.

While I was just loitering around the shopping area on Orchard Road, a passerby who seemed to guess I had nothing better to do, asked if I could help escort a blind lady to the bus stop a block away. I did this, and felt a lot better about myself than I had in a long while. Doing good feels good - no doubt about that.

I tried looking up what the Year of the Dragon 2012 has in store, but couldn't find anything that clearly made a statement, one way or the other. If the start is anything to go by, I think it's going to be A Good Year.

Gong Xi Fa Cai.

Solo in Singapore

I lived with my parents when I started working after college, and moved out only after marriage, thereby by-passing the bachelor lifestyle that embellishes many a middle-aged memoir. Life, as they say, usually gives you at least a second chance, and my time has come now.

I live on a busy but quiet street, quite centrally located. I was attracted by the exterior – a white two storey building that looked like it had been around for many years, and certainly for much longer than the modern multi-storey condominium across the street. It has a small iron gate that is never locked. When the agent opened the main door and took me up a wooden staircase that creaked under our every step, my instinct was confirmed, and I knew this would be home for the next few months.
The inside of my mini studio seemed just right for one or two, and too small for a family. Wooden flooring, double bed (super king size as the agent claimed – not quite truthfully, I think), cable TV with 3 Indian channels, fridge, cook top, shower , toilet, kitchen with some plates and cutlery. The washing machine has an array of options with an electronic display that would impress a pilot.

I have never made myself very useful around the house, but with a housekeeper (whom I have never seen) coming in once a week, I found myself with little choice but to take on at least some domestic chores. Ranking items in order of increasing drudgery, I have always found it’s a toss-up between doing dishes and ironing for the dubious distinction of “Most Painful”. I don’t know what I was thinking – ironing clearly stands supreme in this regard. Dishwashing, especially when one isn’t doing too much cooking beyond omelettes and tea, is a breeze. Ironing shirts that have been through a three hour washing/drying cycle, to emerge with more wrinkles than on the face of a 100 year Kurdish tribal woman that I think I once saw on the cover of National Geographic, is a different matter altogether.

I very quickly made my search for a neighbourhood laundry the top item on my agenda. Most turned out to be surprisingly picky, choosing to iron shirts only if they had also washed them for you, which seemed to me a bit like a barber saying he would only shave you if you let him cut your hair first. But in the end, I found the “Systematic Laundromat” which was clearly ahead of competition in terms of customized solutions, and also offered “Ironing Only” in its product suite. I was chided by the woman in charge for getting lint over my trousers which I had washed together with my underwear, and also bringing my clothes in slightly damp, but in the end I guess she didn’t hate me enough to refuse the business. Deal done, it was worth the money and the embarrassment.

On the culinary front, I have progressed a little beyond toast and tea. The last couple of times, I managed not to burn the rice, and concocted some edible mixture of vegetables in a broth, spiced up with some curry powder and chillies. It’s the sort of thing that tastes not bad when hot. I think it could be convincingly sold in a tea stall on a mountainous road that they show in some TV ads, as a Tibetan staple food that the locals eat with yak cheese, or something like that.

I work late during the week, and when I come back up my creaky staircase and open my door to the studio in the same state of disarray that I left it in the morning, it feels good to be home, however temporary, it may be. And when the bed is made, and the dishes nice and dry by the sink, I know it’s Tuesday and my invisible weekly help has been here.

Hanging around the Orchard

People make a big deal about Bangalore being called the Garden City, because the gardens are scattered and visible only fleetingly in the city's traffic. Orchard Road in Singapore is also rather inappropriately named. The orchard, if it exists, is well hidden. As per Wikipedia, "Orchard Road got its name from the nutmeg, pepper and fruit orchards or the plantations that the road led to in the mid-1800s." Obviously, re-naming roads in their present context is not a priority.

So this city is my new home. I am not yet sure how I feel about it. Sydney felt like a leisurely extended vacation. Bangalore is my "permanent" home. This city impresses me with its efficient public transport, law and order, sheer number of eateries, multiculturalism, and monuments to consumerism. Some say the city lacks character. How does one define this term? Can a city develop into a major international commercial hub with hardly any resources of its own, and yet be lacking in character, I wonder?

It is nice to be in a world class city that is only a four hour flight away from the mother country. For the short term fix, there is Little India with its amazing concentration of restaurants offering quality South Indian food. Yet, when I browse through the food courts, the pungency of foreign smells assails me, reminding me of how far away I am from home ground.

Home? Not quite. Once my family joins me, maybe then.

Shafted on a raft

In the spirit of “When was the last time you did something for the first time”, we decided to give white water rafting a shot on our recent Dasara family trip to the Bheemeshwari Adventure and Nature Camp located two and a half hours away from Bangalore. Having been assured by our guides that it is a beginner level course, we stepped into our rafts with some trepidation that turned to confidence when the rowing went quite smoothly for the first ten minutes or so.

A kilometre or so downstream, we got our first taste of undulating waters, the boat shuddering over a series of speedbreakers. Still, we are hardly wet and the excitement comes more from the guide yelling “Fast for’ard, fast for’ard” like the captain from an epic seafaring movie, exhorting his crew to row harder, than from any demons in the water. How big was that rapid? someone asks our guide.

The rapids have not started, that was just a wave.

Uh-oh.

A little further, we see a crocodile, a hundred or so metres, away sunning itself atop a rock jutting out of the Cauvery. Er, do they attack humans? (translated as - how safe as we in these plastic rafts?)

They are harmless. The river has enough fish, and it only has to open its mouth for a couple of fish to swim in. These are not man-eaters. We occasionally have a dead human floating in the river, and the crocs don’t touch it.

Comforting. Still, my hands instinctively move up the paddle, distancing themselves from the possible outlier that may be looking for a change in diet.

We then go through the first stretch of rapids, a biggish mean-looking swell that lets us free fall a couple of feet and then staunchly resists our efforts to paddle over it. But somehow, we move forward, and cross one more swell, and then another. The team cries out in a collective yell combining fear- delight-wetness.

Hmm..that was actually good fun.

Deciding that we are now nicely into the spirit of things, our guide decides to show us “surfing”. We row forward, reaching a big rock, where the current splits up across the two faces of the rock, skirts it, and re-joins at the opposite end in a violent collision that gives our raft a nice shake-up. As a result of some weird hydrodynamics, the boat refuses to remain steady, and keeps keeling over to one side and then another, while spinning at the same time. Basically doing everything other than moving straight ahead. At one point, I find my hands and feet still in the boat, fingers clutching the lifeline along its edge, with the rest of me in water. It is hard to imagine there is no machinery involved in generating this unstoppable force. This feels like some sort of aquatic rollercoaster cum merry go round. At some point, the guide realises I am not having as much fun as the others, steadies our ship and hauls me in. Someone yells out that my paddle is in the water and drifting away from us. Our sturdy guides change course, and one jumps into the water to recover the paddle.

We make our way to a calmer zone, where we are invited to jump into the water. I do so gingerly, holding on to the lifeline for dear life. A strong current pushes my legs forward and under the boat’s belly. Not a very comfortable position.

How might my backside appear to a croc down below, I wonder?
The guides decide there has been enough build-up and it is now climax time. This is another stretch of rapids, about twice as powerful as the previous one. The rolls and lurches are pretty violent, but this is better than the surfing we were doing a few minutes ago. We have come eight kilometres downstream, and in a couple of minutes are hauling the raft to the shore at our destination.

The rapids on the Cauvery river at Bheemeshwari are graded 2 to 2+ (basic paddling skill with no danger). There are places, like Rishikesh up North, with rapids graded upwards of 4, where advanced skills are required and there is real risk of injury. I am not going there.

The Defeated

“While we were impressed with your background and experience, the business felt that the experience you come with does not does not resonate with any current positions we have open. We sincerely regret that we cannot take your candidature forward at this point in time.

We would however like to archive your resume & contact you when suitable opportunities do arise that match your experience. We wish you all the best in your career ahead.”

The words differ from one case to another, but the underlying message is similar. I am either too old, over-experienced or just not the right fit. Without my fully realising it, over the years, my CV has acquired a personality of its own. The person in it is headed in a particular direction, which, it seems, does not lead home.

So after nine months of unconsummated flirting with prospective employers (the last five of them here on the ground) and perhaps a dozen polite rejections (mostly from the other side and occasionally from mine, as in the case I was required to work night shifts), I am calling it quits. It is a bitter pill to swallow, after all we’ve been through these last few months, but I’ve expended my stamina to run against the wind.

I shall once again become the person on my CV and head out from home. Just another economic refugee.

Grin-f***ed in Chennai

My boss in my new organisation spent more than twenty years in the United States before returning to India for good. Like most who have spent a length of time overseas, he has found that re-adjusting to an Indian workplace isn’t exactly a breeze. Somewhere near the top of the list of challenges is what he calls our national habit of grin-f***ing people.
“Kartik”, he tells me, “I have been grin-f***ed so badly, it’s not funny. People will nod their heads and grin at you, when you explain what you need from then. Then they go and do the exact opposite of what you have told them.” I think I now know what he means.
This morning I made my first official trip in my new job. Up at four fifteen, out of the house at five and walking down Margosa Road a little after. Ears straining to catch the rumble of an auto that will materialise from somewhere, as autos usually do. Walking on the main road, and keeping away from the footpath to avoid the odd stray dog that may emerge from a side alley. I don’t know if there is any research on this, but I’m pretty certain the strays have got more territorial over the years. The same dogs that lie docile on the footpath inviting you to trample them over during the day transform into snarling hounds at night, in that lip curled display of fangs that can give the stoutest soul the shits.
Anyway, true to form, my saviour auto appeared soon enough, and the train trip to Chennai happened without too much event. Except that I had forgotten how cold Bangalore could get before dawn, and now made a mental note to wear a jacket the next time I made a similar trip.
After two customer meetings in Chennai, an excellent South Indian meal at Ratna Café, and an hour of report writing at the branch office, I left the office with my colleague at four thirty. We apparently had enough time on our hands to make the station by five thirty, being the departure time of my train.
Traffic was pretty heavy, and at five ‘o’ clock, when it seemed that we were still in pretty heavy traffic and the station a fair distance away, I glanced at my colleague and said, “Er…my train is at five thirty…hope I can make it.” He smiled back and said, with supreme confidence, “Don’t worry, Sir, we have plenty of time.” I wondered about his confidence when a minute later, I caught him stealing a quick glance at his watch.
5:03: A tempo brushes against the left side of our taxi, wrecking the side mirror.
5:05: Our driver has pulled the car up by the side of the road, and is engaged in a civil but forceful discussion with the tempo driver, seeking five hundred rupees as damages. The tempo driver does not seem like someone who has seen that much money in his life, let alone carry it around in his pocket.
5:08: Above discussion does not appear any closer to resolution.
5:10: I nervously ask my colleague again about the prospects of making it to the station in time. “We have plenty of time,” he smiles again and says. I wonder if he knows of some secret expressway that I don’t.
5:15: The driver steps inside the car, to my relief, having collected what looks like one hundred rupees and a phone number from the guilty tempo driver. We remind him that we are cutting it fine. Thankfully, by now, my colleague seems somewhat concerned as well. The driver cheerfully says, “We have plenty of time, it’s only four thirty, isn’t it?” We inform him that it is actually five fifteen.
The next fourteen minutes is a vague memory of our taxi straddling the footpath and the road, and making a series of continuous honks to cut its way through the traffic. As we near the station, the driver nonchalantly says, “ I will drop you near the side entrance. It will be easy for you.” The tone seems to suggest he is upgrading me from economy to business class at no extra cost.
“Easy, this is effing easy!!??,” I think.
At exactly 5:29, I am deposited outside Chennai Central, alongside platform 10. Thankfully, having made the journey a couple of times recently, I know my train starts from 2A. I run faster than I have in years, and see that the train on my platform is yet to start. Relief. No…there’s a green flag waving…it’s pulling out! I kickstart again, and somehow propel myself through the crowded platform to catch the rear end of the train. It is the generator van and the railway official at the door shakes his head and points me to the next carriage.
“I am never doing this again”, I think as I run and push open the door of the next carriage, hauling myself in. As I board the train, my progress is blocked by a bearded youth lying on the floor with a glazed look in his eyes. Bloody drunks, why do they allow them on the train?
Another passenger explains, “He came in running to catch the train just before you did.” I nod and the two of us exchange a weak smile amid the huffing and puffing, bonding in our shared experience. I place a hand on my chest, expecting stabbing pains to occur. A few seconds later, I am satisfied that there are none, and make my way to my seat in the next carriage.

The planets - they are a smirkin'

It has been almost 4 weeks since we moved into our new home. In that period, it seems just about anything that could have gone wrong, has done so.

1. Our new microwave when switched on, unfailingly blew a fuse in the mains. On investigation, it turned out an MCB needed replacement, which was duly done.
2. Our fridge of six years, which has travelled from Mumbai to Sydney to Bangalore decided it had enough of our itinerant ways, and began heating up dangerously. It seems the beading needs replacement.
3. In the land of abundant labour, finding domestic help has proved unexpectedly difficult. When we finally found someone, she turned up for two days, and on the third day, announced she had fallen sick and would be absent for a week.
4. I went to a key maker to get a duplicate key made for our door. Having handed over the original, I told the key maker I would be back in ten minutes to collect my keys. On returning to the shop, I found the shutters down! This was followed by an hour of frantic telephone calling, tracking down one of the key maker’s colleagues, pleading with him to open the shop and hand me my keys.
5. After all of the above, the duplicate key did not work. It got stuck in the door, and when yanked loose, broke free with the whole lock in tow! The lock then had to be fitted back into place.
6. We got a new telephone cum broadband connection. We couldn’t make any outgoing calls for the first two weeks, thanks to an Airtel “backend server problem”. The silver lining is that the internet worked fine and as of yesterday we could finally make outgoing calls.
7. My older son, K, missed the assessment week in school, down with “tonsillitis and secondary chest infection”.
8. I had my first root canal treatment done by a dentist a couple of weeks back. After capping my molar, my dentist assured me this would last for about 10 years. The very next day, the crown popped out during my lunch, an off white garnishing glowing amidst a sea of sambar.

With all this, when M pointed out yesterday that the geyser in one of the bathrooms seemed to be dripping, we just nodded knowingly at each other, and muttered, “It’s the planets”.

Getting there

This last eight weeks has been the biggest period of change for my family that I can recall. Re-locating countries, getting kids into school in a new environment, adapting to a new daily routine, living out of suitcases, re-uniting with family members we hadn’t seen for years, attending a beloved cousin’s wedding, hunting for house and job, getting accustomed to being without a car for a while, etc etc. Somewhere in this chaos, there was also a sense of deep personal loss with the passing of a dear friend.

Now, it seems, things are rather slowly, but steadily, getting back on the rails. The older kid seems to like school and the younger doesn't actively complain about it. Mo has found a teaching job in the same school, which is rather convenient. And I, after hearing the standard “Your resume is impressive, but we can’t find the right fit at the moment” responses from a few prospective employers, seem to have finally landed a job (yet to sign on the dotted line).

The shipping company informed me yesterday that our goods shipped from Australia would be in Bangalore any day now, and the boys should be seeing their Lego collection soon. We found an apartment to rent in the same complex where we have been living temporarily for the last few weeks. Hmmm…looks like we are finally getting somewhere.

My mom calls me three times a day, and I have a feeling I will be getting to hear a lot more about auspicious times to do this and that. It’s good to be able to check on the folks once in a while.

Change is never easy, but looking back, in my own past experience, it’s usually been for the better. I don’t know about this one yet – time will tell. But I do feel closer to where I want to be.

Goodbye Australia

Farewells are not easy and the older one gets, the harder they seem to become. Last week we said goodbye to Australia, after living there for four years. The farewells at school, office and with family & friends commenced weeks ago. The outpouring of affection was overwhelming – the depth of friendships formed more than what we may have anticipated at the start of our stay.
We know we are taking back more than mere memories, although just these are quite awesome.
First day in Australia, moving into a serviced apartment and struggling with the keys. Finding the absence of human/personal service rather disconcerting. Watching the kids settle in and thrive at school, form friendships at school, Scouts and elsewhere.
Office Christmas parties, Great Barrier Reef, Indian grocery shopping, trips to Newcastle, New Zealand, Fiji, Canberra, Jenolan Caves, Scout family camps, Dubbo.
Parents of our children’s friends becoming our own. Many evenings spent chatting over tea/food at our second home in Sydney (uncle’s place).
Tennis on weekend mornings, New Year’s Eve under Sydney Harbour Bridge, having friends from India come and stay with us. Kids’ swimming lessons and “How’re you going?” at the shop counter.
Bushwalking, kids playing in the driveway, Macquarie Centre Food Court and our weekend outings there. Carlingford Court and walking the aisles at Woolies, admiring the variety on offer.
The rich flavoursome take-away coffee (blame Sydney for my mid-life caffeine addiction).
Hmm…it’s been a good four years. Thank you Australia, and we shall meet again.

Prick, my friend

I thought about whether I should refer to my friend by his somewhat rude nickname or his actual name, which he shares with me. I settled on the former and I am sure he would not have it any other way.

My first encounter with Prick was at the IIT Madras workshop. We had to fashion some sort of electrical circuitry on a wooden board. He had an innate knack for engineering, and turned `out something rather neat looking. His roll number was MT 91285 and I, MT 91286, was next to him on the workbench. Unfortunately, my effort paled in comparison and ended up as a twisted mish-mash of wires that appeared as though it had been chewed by a dog at some point. To make matters worse, Prick said something like, “Your circuit is really good – how do you do it?”, with all sincerity. “What a patronising ?#$%*!” I thought.

He was a born entertainer and this shone through even when we were all getting ragged as freshers. A standard question from seniors during this phase revolved around techniques of er…stimulation. Prick, obviously, had to stand out from the crowd and let it be known that he personally favoured a Venezuelan technique which, from what I recall, involved cutting holes in mattresses. The reaction of the seniors ranged from complete disbelief to howling laughter.

He never shied from telling any visitors to his hostel room about his digestive problems and had strategically placed some Isabgol containers on the window sill/shelf to advertise the fact. Whereas most hostel rooms featured posters of Madhuri Dixit and the like, his wall hosted a multiple-chinned SP Balasubramaniam, striking a singer’s pose. He worshipped SPB and reportedly fell on his feet and cried when the famous singer performed at the Open Air Theatre at IIT-M.

Prick was an enthusiastic jogger, and together we did many laps of the IIT stadium. On one such evening, after our run, he wanted to do sit-ups. Though hardly fat, he harboured aspirations of developing a rock hard physique and really pushed himself hard. He kept doing sit-ups until he went red in the face. After one sit-up too many we heard a click, and something in his shoulder had slipped out of its socket. We got him to Royapettah Hospital, where the doctors on duty literally twisted his arm and slipped his shoulder back in place. I remember his worried parents rushing through the corridor and heaving a sigh of relief on seeing their son smiling.

He had a real sense of drama, and was a fine speaker, wowing audiences with his rendition of a piece from My Fair Lady. He absolutely loved being on stage, and liked to stretch his performing abilities beyond the comfort zone. Although basically a Hindi/Tamil singer, he had the guts to sing Western before the ruthless IIT audience, and actually did pretty well. It’s no exaggeration to say that he excelled at whatever he did on stage.

His penchant for drama extended to real life as well. When I got into IIM-Calcutta after our engineering, Prick joined Telco. We joked about my good fortune at making it to IIM because with my suspect engineering capabilities I would never have been employed by Telco. Prick assured me that he would join me at IIM the following year. When I completed my first year in MBA, and the next batch came in, I was pleased to see that Mug, the 3rd Kart(h)ik in our trio, had joined. We chatted and made our way to the library, where I was strategically directed to a couch where, to my surprise, sat Prick. He looked up and gave me a Blue Steel look. Dramebaaz!

Prick - singer, SPB mimic, thespian, elocutor par excellence, born engineer and self-styled auto mechanic, friend and soulmate.

I can still see you - white banian, sacred thread, shorts, stubble, wide grin and giggle.

You leave behind a big emptiness. But there are so many who hold cherished memories of their time spent with you, and when I meet them, hopefully we can recreate some of those happy memories. Rest in peace, my friend.

Oh, what a feeling!

I watched the winning moments of India’s World Cup win of 1983 on a black and white TV in a friend’s house in Calcutta. There was great joy on the occasion and on the following day The Telegraph screamed “The World In India’s Pocket”. But the passion for cricket in India had not yet attained the fervour that it has today. There was a sense of refinement about the celebrations, perhaps in keeping with the exalted image of Lords, the spiritual centre of the gentleman’s game, where the trophy was won. Also, hardly anyone expected India to beat the mighty West Indies, so there wasn’t a reserve of expectancy built up waiting to release itself in that final moment of triumph.

This time around it was different. Over the last few years, India had established itself as among the top cricketing nations – most notably winning the T20 World Cup in 97 and becoming the top ranked test playing nation in 2010. But everyone knows T20 isn’t the real deal, and topping the test rankings, while a great achievement doesn’t deliver the knockout punch that winning a World Cup does. I mean, how many more people would know Carol Wozniacki if she actually won a Grand Slam than if she just remained tennis’ No 1 ranked player?

This time, we knew there was a real chance. We were on home turf and Australia were no longer as dominating as a couple of years back. An opportunity like this did not come along too often and we all wanted it for ourselves as well as for cricket’s most loved personality over the last twenty years, for whom this was likely to be the last appearance at the event . Almost half the nation wasn’t alive when India won her last World Cup, and they needed to feel what it meant to be World Champions in the only sport that matters in the country,

At 31 for 2, a few overs into the Indian innings, most Indian cricket fans must have felt the familiar sinking “it is not to be” feeling. But it was to be. When Dhoni dispatched the white ball into the Mumbai night sky a couple of hours later, it opened the floodgates to the pent-up anxiety (now euphoria) of the last six weeks which overflowed onto the streets, through the bylanes into millions of homes

Twenty eight years ago, Kapil Dev and his team brought great joy to the country by causing a huge upset. A generation later, Dhoni and his men ensured there was no upset and in doing so sparked off the wild celebrations that the country had long awaited.

Waiting Game

John Le Carre wrote, in one of his books, that “Spying is waiting”. The same can be said for job searching.

I am told that a big shot in my bank has expressed surprise that my bank cannot find me a position in Bangalore. It would be nice if the surprise materialized into concrete action.

I had a telephonic interview with a financial research firm the day before yesterday. The interview was scheduled for 7:30 pm. I did not hear anything until 8:30 pm, and then e-mailed the guy asking whether we were going ahead. He immediately replied apologizing for the delay, and said he was just going to call to let me know that his call would be delayed by an hour. I said it was no problem at all.

Their website says that timely delivery to clients is one of their strengths.

The interview was ok. He said nice things about my CV, but said he could not see a direct fit between my background and their business. Anyway, he would discuss internally and revert. I thanked him for his time.

I have three leads on hand. I assess my chances of landing a job in these 3 places as 20%, 25% and 40% respectively. Individually, the picture looks somewhat bleak. I take refuge in probability, and calculate that the mathematical probability of not landing a job in any of these places is only 36%. That looks better.

Job searching is waiting.

Driving South Island

The boys were eating sandwiches at a Subway on Camp Street, Queenstown. I was loitering around on the pavement outside, having just finished some delicious take-way Thai chilli basil stir fry when Mohima came walking briskly down from a few shops away, the colour drained from her face, and asked if I had "felt it". Felt what, I queried. She told me that there had been just been an earthquake - she had just been looking at some things in a shop window when the whole display started quivering, and she thought she was having a giddy spell. But then it went on for a few seconds, and the shop assistant told her it was a quake.

The tremor in Queenstown was mild, and we shrugged it off and continued enjoying our day. It was only as the news came in over the media over the rest of the day, that we realised that Christchurch had been hit by a major earthquake. One of the chilling images was of the damaged cathedral in the town centre, reportedly with tourists trapped inside. Our camera had pictures of us taken in front of that building, from three days before. Another piece of news, of hundreds of passengers stranded on the Tranzalpine railway from Christchurch to Greymouth, a journey we had done a couple of days before, was another reminder of how narrowly we had missed great distress, if not worse.

It has been a fantastic holiday in the backdrop of New Zealand's hour of grief - there's really no other way to describe it. In the last nine days we have driven round the South Island - Christchurch, Greymouth, Franz Jozef Glacier, Queenstown, Te Anau, Milford Sound, Dunedin and now in Timaru. We have been taken in the most breathtakingly beautiful green countryside dotted by white specks that reveal themselves to be sheep at closer quarters. We have landed in a helicopter atop a glacier, boated our way through the darkness of a cave lit up magically by glowworms hanging from the ceiling, seen fur seals lolling on the rocks by the side of the fjord alongside our cruise vessel, strolled around the cafes and sidewalks in beautiful Queenstown, slept in a campervan around holiday parks in NZ, stopped at a wayside playground on a cold damp day and cooked Maggi (masala flavour) for lunch. This holiday will be hard to beat.

In a few hours we will be driving back to Christchurch and from there it's back to Sydney in the morning.

New Year, new beginnings

It’s going to be an interesting year. Before moving on, a quick glance of the rear view mirror for some memories of 2010:

- Mum in law vacated 14/4 Shakti Nagar after 40 years – for me, a place that I loved going back to no longer existed.
- Mum in law moved into a nice apartment that I think I will get used to with time.
- Completed a Learn to Swim course, and thought I could swim
- Almost drowned in a pool in Fiji
- Last office Christmas party in Australia – will miss the familiar crowd, the banter and dancing to songs I’ve never heard.
- Saw test matches live with Kanishk in two countries – India vs Aus in Bangalore and England vs Aus in Sydney. Australia lost both in a disastrous year for Aussie cricket.
- Started laying foundation for R2I – most importantly, found a school we hope the kids will like.

The job search has begun and as always it is not an enjoyable process. The world economy grows, the Indian economy grows even faster, businesses complain of skill shortages, and yet it is never easy to find a job. There is a feeling of déjà vu as I pore through websites and re-establish personal contacts. This time round, I have made things a bit more difficult for myself by restricting myself to a Tier 2 city rather than a financial hub. Also, there is the added weight of a few more years of “seniority”.

There is the temptation of settling for a job in Mumbai, but I don’t want to yield. What is life worth, after years of education and work experience, if we cannot make a basic choice like where we want to live? Unfortunately, despite all the advances in office communications, conventional businesses are reluctant to let go of the advantage of physical proximity to their employees.

Somewhere in a city of five million people, there must be a decent job for an educated, presentable man willing to put in an honest day’s work. I just need to find it.

Dubbo and Back

Last evening we got back from a three day trip in our car to Dubbo, a town in interior New South Wales, a few hours drive from Sydney. The pictureseque drive winds through the Blue Mountains and across the countryside. With not too much time left in Australia, I try and soak up every remarkable experience. Here, it was the vastness of the countryside – miles and miles of green expanse with no sign of human habitat. Every now and then, we would pass through a settlement – some place with a quaint name and a sign that declared the population of that village/town – usually no more than a few hundred.

Dubbo is best known for the Taronga Western Plains Zoo. We hired cycles (Mohima and Mitaansh on a tandem) and went around the 6 km circuit. The zoo is remarkable not so much for the collection of animals (which you would find in most zoos) but for being well designed and visitor friendly, offering various options for transport – foot, cycle, electric cart and car.

The weather which was cloudy when we arrived, cleared up during the day, giving us an opportunity to witness the starriest nighttime sky at Dubbo. Amid mosquitoes the size of wasps, the local astronomer pointed out constellations, galaxies, Jupiter and its moons, using a neat laser pointer with a sharp focused green beam that pierced through the night sky like a light saber from Star Wars.

On our way back, we visited the Old Dubbo Gaol, where convicts were locked away in the 1800s. It is now a heritage museum with many interesting exhibits, including varieties of a hangman’s noose. The walls have pictures of its inhabitants over the years, locked away for offences ranging from chicken-stealing to murder. The building is very well preserved, and has a solitary confinement cell for visitors to experience the feeling of being alone in a pitch black chamber. We were informed that the prisoners spent the time in those cells tearing the buttons off their shirts, and scattering them around. They would then crawl around the cell looking for the buttons, and resume the game all over again when these were found.

*************************************************************************************It was only recently that I learnt that the word “Gaol” is said the same way as “Jail”. Apparently this is the British form of the word found typically in older books.

Job, satisfaction and the six day work-week

If money wasn’t a consideration, I would spend my days in a mix of leisure with family and friends, playing sport, writing, watching movies and travel. None of the jobs I have had so far provided these in significant measure. Some of them did involve writing and traveling, but not of the sort I would happily choose to do. I can’t recall that any of them actively encouraged the pursuit of leisure, sport or cinema.

When people in the corporate workforce profess a great passion for their jobs or satisfaction derived from it, my eyebrows involuntarily rise in skepticism. I can understand a musician, sportsperson or social activist being able to happily combine making a living with living a fuller life, but struggle to see what paper-pushers or sellers of products that people really don’t need find so exciting in their jobs.

Early in my career, I learnt that very few are blessed with jobs that provide the satisfaction one seeks. A job is of course enormously important in that it finances one’s necessities, but it is also vital that one’s job does not leave one “money rich and time poor”. It is only when one is left over with sufficient time to indulge in personally satisfying pursuits, that the drudgery of the everyday office routine seems worthwhile.

How much personal time does one need? At the start of my career, six days of my week i.e. 86% of my waking hours were pledged to my employer. Thankfully, things have progressively improved, or perhaps, I have sub-consciously sought out employers who are less greedy for time. My second and third employers had a five and a half day workweek, while the fourth had half Saturdays with alternate Saturdays off, which was even better. Eleven years and four job changes into my career, I finally found an organization with a genuine five day work week, and none of that “half day” nonsense. Not having to pledge that extra day or half day to one’s employer is literally like getting a fresh lease of life, something that is immeasurable in monetary terms.

Having two out of seven days to oneself is the norm in the Western world, but unfortunately a luxury to many in India. Having tasted blood in the form of the five day work-week, giving up any more of one’s time to the organization seems unthinkable. A positively backward career move.

R2I: First hurdle cleared

Top of the to-do list on the family’s recent trip to India was finalising a school for the boys for the planned move next summer, an aspect that undoubtedly features among the top 3 worries of prospective “returners”. We had shortlisted a couple of seemingly “low stress” schools over the last year, and at the top of our list was Prakriya Green Wisdom, which we had previously visited and liked. I called Prakriya, and was told that I could bring in Kanishk, the older one, for observation, for three days, but they had no vacancies in Class I, ie. for Mitaansh, unless a vacancy was created by an existing child leaving, in which case they would inform us. Pfffttt…..all the images we nursed over the last several months, of our boys soaking in the earthy environs of Prakriya went up in dust. We were really keen on both of them joining the same school.

Off to a forgettable start, we fixed an appointment for the next school on our list, Greenwood High, the next day. We reached, at 12 noon, spoke to an admissions co-ordinator, looked around, had lunch there, and by 2 pm, our kids had got admission! No tests, interviews, etc – I like it! I re-confirmed with the lady that if we paid the admission fee, we would actually be assured of “seats”. and she confirmed this. I guess being relatively new, they still had vacancies. The fact that I have a friend (Nimish, you have been immortalized on this blog) who has kids who have survived this school for a couple of years provided some comfort. The kids liked the look of the school and I guess the prospect of driving 30 kms from my parents’ house through insane Bangalore traffic for the next 3 days for teachers in Prakriya to put Kanishk through an observation from 8:30 am to 3 pm also contributed to the speed of the decision.

So that was the first major hurdle on our return cleared. Sadly, finding employment will not be as easy!

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Cheese is clearly not part of the staple diet in the far north-western reaches of Delhi. Going around shops in Rohini asking for a pack of Amul cheese slices, I was asked by a shopkeeper if I meant Pepsi’s mango “Slice” soft drink. Clearly, Paneer rules here.

The politics of seat sharing

It isn’t only in politics that seat sharing offers a fascinating study. On most days I board the 7:48 City via Chatswood train at Epping. I make my way to the lower deck in search of a seat. The aisle splits the two rows - 2 seaters on one side and 3 seaters on the other. Usually there are only a few seats available. The choice is between picking an empty seat on a 2 seater or a 3 seater.

As anyone with some experience in seated train travel knows, the worst seat is the middle position in a 3 seater. You are sandwiched between two passengers, shoulders cramped together and no room to manoeuvre. It is very inconvenient to read a newspaper or work on a laptop, as both shoulders are clamped close to the body, but the hands need room to spread out to hold a newspaper or type on a keyboard. The general appearance is of someone frozen midway through a breaststroke, or mimicking a praying mantis.

On the rare occasion when there is a 3 seater occupied by just one person, grabbing this is a no-brainer, because 1.5 seats per person is way better than just 1 seat per person. But so unpopular is the middle seat, that most people, myself included, will stick to the aisle like a leech, and when faced with the prospect of sharing the seat with a third occupant, will either stand and make way or pull back one’s legs to the maximum to allow the newcomer to slide in to the dreaded sandwich position.

Very occasionally, one comes across the do-gooder, who will not stick to his or her aisle seat, but actually slide inwards to the middle seat, and offer the aisle to the newcomer. This is the supreme courtesy in train travel, and I wonder what stuff these altruists are made of. If one followed them around, one may discover extraordinary lives spent on selfless service of humankind.

The one thing I have noticed is that such people are more likely to be female than male, and also more likely to be old than young. Not sure if that says something about decency among humankind in general.

The Randiv episode

Cricket, particularly in the sub-continent, is so dreary these days that is has fallen on controversies to generate some excitement. The game got its injection of controversy this week, when Sri Lankan offie, Suraj Randiv, deliberately overstepped the line in a one-day international to seal India’s comfortable victory, while denying Sehwag, then batting on 99, a century. This understandably stirred up passions in the cricketing world. Most have denounced Randiv’s action as unsporting and against the spirit of the game. The act seems pretty indefensible, and one feels sorry for the likeable Sangakkara, who had to come up with something weak like “Sri Lanka does not have sole proprietorship over such incidents.” The last I read in the newspapers, Randiv and Dilshan (apparently his partner-in-crime) had been handed down some penalties by the ICC referee.

On the scale of unsportsmanlike behaviour, Randiv’s act is hardly the worst that has been seen in cricket. As far as cheating goes, it is certainly not worse than a batsman knowing he has nicked the ball, but hanging on to the crease if the umpire has not given him out. Randiv did not intend for his act to alter the course of the match – if anything, it hastened an already inevitable result. Hardly any team in cricket can claim the moral high ground, because at some point or the other, they have all been guilty of bending the rules.

The remarkable aspect of the Randiv episode is the thinking behind the act. In general, unsportsmanlike behaviour such as cheating, delaying tactics, sledging, etc is aimed at winning matches, or at least at avoiding defeat. To indulge in unsporting behaviour to win or save a match is bad enough, but understandable. To indulge in unsporting behaviour to actually accelerate one’s own defeat is bizarre. For an attacking bowler, each delivery is a potential wicket taker. Randiv apparently does not have this confidence in his own ability. So having abandoned all hope of getting Sehwag out, he chose to become the architect of his own team’s moment of defeat! In that moment, Randiv’s surrender to Sehwag’s superiority was absolute. He effectively said, “Look, I know I don’t have a one in a million chance of getting you out, so I won’t even try. But I will give myself the small pleasure of denying you yet another century.”

If I were Randiv’s coach/captain/mentor, I would be pretty worried about this mentality. It is an old cricketing cliché that “the game isn’t won or lost until the last ball is bowled”. Randiv and his masters clearly think that’s a load of crap.