Episode 1
A few days ago, my CEO threw a dinner party for all staff. I decided to take the wife along, and arrange a babysitter for the boys. I called up one of Sydney’s best known babysitting companies, and reserved a sitter for the night. It was expensive (120 bucks), but I had little choice. A few days later, we learnt that someone known to us through a friend would be available to babysit the kids. Apart from this being much cheaper, it was a great comfort to not to have to leave the kids with a complete stranger.
So I called up the babysitting company to cancel my reservation, one week prior to the actual date. They sweetly informed me that they would cancel, but there would be a 50% cancellation fee. I thought this was really steep, and unacceptable because I hadn’t been informed about any such cancellation charges at the time of reservation. Upon my protest, I was told that as an “exception”, they were willing to waive the cancellation charges this once. It was that simple.
Episode 2
I needed to send my mother in law some documents urgently. I used Australia Post’s most expensive service, Express Courier International, and was assured of delivery within 3 business days. Even after 4 business days, the documents were not delivered, and the much vaunted “tracking” facility obviously wasn’t updated very frequently, because the information on it was at least 2-3 days old. Finally,I somehow managed to track down the documents to a post office in Delhi, and my mother in law had to go there to collect them personally. Certainly not the level of premium service that I had paid for.
Episode 3
This is still ongoing. I lodged a claim with my healthcare insurance provider on May 31st, and was told that the normal processing time is 14 working days. It is now 16 working days since then, and the claim hasn’t been paid. When I call up the insurance company, they can’t tell me very much other than that the claim “is in processing”. Amazingly, this is one of the largest health insurers in Australia and its website does not provide an email address that one can send complaints to. There is only a postal address provided, surely a sinister tactic to discourage any sort of feedback/complaints. Who in this day and age will bother to write letters, for God’s sake?
All these experiences, coinciding over the last 3 weeks have convinced me that on the whole, service companies only pay lip service to the mantra “under-promise and over-deliver”. It’s actually the other way round. Sign up for their services, and as long as your requirements stick to the straight and narrow, things will be fine. The day you need something a little bit out of the ordinary, you are screwed.
Friday, June 25, 2010
Thursday, June 17, 2010
Underwater in Fiji
Laid out on a massage table in Fiji, my face poking through a hole looking down at four red hibiscuses in a wicker flower basket, I close my eyes to soak in the gentle kneading of my back, and flash back over this holiday.
Fiji, a country of 300 islands in the Pacific, is a four hour flight from Sydney. The main cities of Nadi (airport) and Suva are on the largest island, Viti Levu. Sigatoka, where we stayed, is also on this island and about 90 minutes drive from Nadi.
Considering our choice of a resort was based on deal shopping over the Internet and checking reviews on tripadvisor.com, the quality of the Rydges Hideaway Resort has been a little better than expected. The main attraction for families with kids is the Kids Club, which runs supervised activities for the kids through the day, allowing ample quiet time for parents. Our boys were thrilled to be rid of us as well, and by the 2nd day, were quite happy to be off on their own to the main dining hall which has table tennis and pool, and the cinema room, which puts on kids movies at 6 pm. Other than that, the resort has a pool, a beachfront where one can wade far into the sea at low tide tiptoeing around brilliant blue starfish and coral, and generally offers enough to make one reluctant to venture outside, and hang around and soak in the laziness, in Fiji time.
Almost half of Fiji's population is of Indian descent - we met 3-4 taxi drivers, all fourth-fifth generation Indians, who seemed to have assimilated very well into the local scene. They all spoke Hindi, but with their own peculiar accent, which made it hard to trace them back to any particular part of India, and they do not seem to have any physical links now to the country of their ancestry, although are still deeply influenced by its culture (temples, radios playing the latest film songs, etc).
This was not one of those holidays where we got up purposefully each morning with a checklist in hand, and measured our success by how many things we had ticked off. On Day 2, I unknowingly found myself in the deep part of the swimming pool and was flailing about underwater for what must have been a good minute or so, before I attracted enough attention for some bystander (bless him) to help pull me out. It was a rather unpleasant experience that left me sick in the stomach for the next couple of days, and I haven't yet fully recovered my appetite.
So, we just decided to take it easy this holiday, sit back and let the kids enjoy themselves at the Kids club.
It's back to Sydney tomorrow, and a ten degree drop in temperature.
Fiji, a country of 300 islands in the Pacific, is a four hour flight from Sydney. The main cities of Nadi (airport) and Suva are on the largest island, Viti Levu. Sigatoka, where we stayed, is also on this island and about 90 minutes drive from Nadi.
Considering our choice of a resort was based on deal shopping over the Internet and checking reviews on tripadvisor.com, the quality of the Rydges Hideaway Resort has been a little better than expected. The main attraction for families with kids is the Kids Club, which runs supervised activities for the kids through the day, allowing ample quiet time for parents. Our boys were thrilled to be rid of us as well, and by the 2nd day, were quite happy to be off on their own to the main dining hall which has table tennis and pool, and the cinema room, which puts on kids movies at 6 pm. Other than that, the resort has a pool, a beachfront where one can wade far into the sea at low tide tiptoeing around brilliant blue starfish and coral, and generally offers enough to make one reluctant to venture outside, and hang around and soak in the laziness, in Fiji time.
Almost half of Fiji's population is of Indian descent - we met 3-4 taxi drivers, all fourth-fifth generation Indians, who seemed to have assimilated very well into the local scene. They all spoke Hindi, but with their own peculiar accent, which made it hard to trace them back to any particular part of India, and they do not seem to have any physical links now to the country of their ancestry, although are still deeply influenced by its culture (temples, radios playing the latest film songs, etc).
This was not one of those holidays where we got up purposefully each morning with a checklist in hand, and measured our success by how many things we had ticked off. On Day 2, I unknowingly found myself in the deep part of the swimming pool and was flailing about underwater for what must have been a good minute or so, before I attracted enough attention for some bystander (bless him) to help pull me out. It was a rather unpleasant experience that left me sick in the stomach for the next couple of days, and I haven't yet fully recovered my appetite.
So, we just decided to take it easy this holiday, sit back and let the kids enjoy themselves at the Kids club.
It's back to Sydney tomorrow, and a ten degree drop in temperature.
Monday, May 31, 2010
Thoughts on terror
The word terrorism was part of one’s consciousness growing up in Delhi in the eighties. It was the height of the pro-Khalistan movement. Every now and then, the terrorists would strike, usually described as a couple of “bearded, turbaned youths on a scooter” who opened gunfire in one of South Delhi’s residential colonies killing innocent citizens. Within a couple of days, life would return to normal. How long could one’s daily routine be dictated by these happenings? It was something one took in one’s stride and moved on.
Khalistan faded away, but terrorism has not. Bomb blasts happen every now and then. Tens, and sometimes, hundreds of people die. Ordinary people grieve for the victims, let the news linger for a day or two and move on. Those who have experienced personal loss live with the grief for the rest of their lives. Some things haven’t changed, but the extent of destruction in these attacks has. Bombs seem to have become deadlier, and the number of victims per attack has increased. The worst of them have extinguished more than a couple of hundred lives.
What motivates those who carry out these one attacks, one wonders? Are they really close to the “causes” that they supposedly are fighting for, or are they just clueless souls with a twisted desire to kill and maim? If they are indeed pursuing a cause, the correlation between the “success” of these acts and the achievement of their goals is far from obvious.
While they do create a concern about public places and crowded modes of transport, economic and social need dwarfs the niggling threat to self-preservation. So people will still go to work and travel because it is in human nature as well as a necessity to do so. It is delusional for anyone to believe otherwise. For the terrorist to imagine that his act will bring the community at large to a standstill, is like a mosquito believing its bite will permanently cripple a human body.
The “terrorist” label is also applied curiously and selectively. Last week, a hundred and fifty people died in India, from alleged sabotage of rail tracks leading to a terrible collision between two trains. The authorities say that a Maoist group is responsible for the act.
If that is the case, isn’t this as deserving as the “terrorist” label as 26/11 and similar incidents? Why term this differently and deny the evil inherent in the act?
Khalistan faded away, but terrorism has not. Bomb blasts happen every now and then. Tens, and sometimes, hundreds of people die. Ordinary people grieve for the victims, let the news linger for a day or two and move on. Those who have experienced personal loss live with the grief for the rest of their lives. Some things haven’t changed, but the extent of destruction in these attacks has. Bombs seem to have become deadlier, and the number of victims per attack has increased. The worst of them have extinguished more than a couple of hundred lives.
What motivates those who carry out these one attacks, one wonders? Are they really close to the “causes” that they supposedly are fighting for, or are they just clueless souls with a twisted desire to kill and maim? If they are indeed pursuing a cause, the correlation between the “success” of these acts and the achievement of their goals is far from obvious.
While they do create a concern about public places and crowded modes of transport, economic and social need dwarfs the niggling threat to self-preservation. So people will still go to work and travel because it is in human nature as well as a necessity to do so. It is delusional for anyone to believe otherwise. For the terrorist to imagine that his act will bring the community at large to a standstill, is like a mosquito believing its bite will permanently cripple a human body.
The “terrorist” label is also applied curiously and selectively. Last week, a hundred and fifty people died in India, from alleged sabotage of rail tracks leading to a terrible collision between two trains. The authorities say that a Maoist group is responsible for the act.
If that is the case, isn’t this as deserving as the “terrorist” label as 26/11 and similar incidents? Why term this differently and deny the evil inherent in the act?
Friday, May 14, 2010
The passing of homes
Homes bring a measure of permanence to our ever-changing lives. Our favourite memories are built around 2 Ps: people and places (often homes). They release their dwellers into the world each day, and draw them back in for rest and repast, in a never ending cycle. Lives are begun, lived and ended in homes. They are our own personal space, providing shelter, privacy and an escape from the chaos outside.
Living in, or even simply being associated with, a house over several years makes it an inseparable part of one’s existence. The years of association with a particular house become a reference point for memories from a period in one’s life. I can think of two or three houses in my time that evoke strong emotions. One of them is at 14/4 Shakti Nagar, Delhi.
My first visit to that house was nineteen years ago. My classmates and I had finished school, and were in the Delhi University area, filling up admission forms for various colleges. I dropped in to my friend’s house, and received some career counselling from her school teacher mother. I recall feeling an easy comfort in that house almost instantly.
There was a constant buzz, with students of my friend’s mom flitting in and out, and a general atmosphere of sharing and community living. Sizewise, the house wasn’t much, with a little doorway flanked by two rooms, opening out into a small open courtyard with a round dining table where the family (and it seemed the constant stream of visitors) had meals and conversation.
On the other side of the courtyard was a wall, which separated my friends’ part of the house from their neighbours’ almost identical portion. The two sides were connected by a doorway that remained open at all times. Another family occupied the first floor of this two storey building – but the general impression was of one large household rather than three independent ones, with banter being traded across walls and floors.
What the house lacked in size, it more than made up for in character. The little courtyard was ringed by the kitchen, bathroom, toilet and washing area, and there was a little ladder that led up to an attic that was too small to stand upright in, where a cat and her new born litter lived. My friend’s family had moved in there in the early 70s, and that was the only house she had ever lived in.
As the years rolled on, and my friend became more than just that, I found myself making more and more frequent trips to that house, and even while I was in college in another city, I found ways to make at least an annual trip there. It was my home away from home. More than a home, it was an eco-system. It was as though the building was the focal point of many people's lives, not just those who slept under its roof. Sweeper, electrician, cook, students, adopted children, all found a place there, and were, I daresay, the better for it.
There was no shortage of people to converse with, and there was always someone around to put some tea on the boil and serve up some munchies for hours of chitchat late into the night. I got to know the house and its residents better, and was fascinated by the many stories, both bitter and joyful, that it had witnessed over the decades.
The feeling of belonging to that house was formalised, seven years after my first visit, when the lady of the house became my mother-in-law. Since then, that has been my home address in Delhi. The kids have also got to know the house, and come to love it as I do. They have climbed the ladder and discovered the attic, played cricket in the lane, and Uno/Snakes&Ladders with my mum-in-law’s students.
Forty years after my family first started renting that house, the owners have decided to sell. My mother-in-law will probably have to move out sometime later this year. I look forward to one last stay at 14/4 this October, to pay my heart’s arrears.
Living in, or even simply being associated with, a house over several years makes it an inseparable part of one’s existence. The years of association with a particular house become a reference point for memories from a period in one’s life. I can think of two or three houses in my time that evoke strong emotions. One of them is at 14/4 Shakti Nagar, Delhi.
My first visit to that house was nineteen years ago. My classmates and I had finished school, and were in the Delhi University area, filling up admission forms for various colleges. I dropped in to my friend’s house, and received some career counselling from her school teacher mother. I recall feeling an easy comfort in that house almost instantly.
There was a constant buzz, with students of my friend’s mom flitting in and out, and a general atmosphere of sharing and community living. Sizewise, the house wasn’t much, with a little doorway flanked by two rooms, opening out into a small open courtyard with a round dining table where the family (and it seemed the constant stream of visitors) had meals and conversation.
On the other side of the courtyard was a wall, which separated my friends’ part of the house from their neighbours’ almost identical portion. The two sides were connected by a doorway that remained open at all times. Another family occupied the first floor of this two storey building – but the general impression was of one large household rather than three independent ones, with banter being traded across walls and floors.
What the house lacked in size, it more than made up for in character. The little courtyard was ringed by the kitchen, bathroom, toilet and washing area, and there was a little ladder that led up to an attic that was too small to stand upright in, where a cat and her new born litter lived. My friend’s family had moved in there in the early 70s, and that was the only house she had ever lived in.
As the years rolled on, and my friend became more than just that, I found myself making more and more frequent trips to that house, and even while I was in college in another city, I found ways to make at least an annual trip there. It was my home away from home. More than a home, it was an eco-system. It was as though the building was the focal point of many people's lives, not just those who slept under its roof. Sweeper, electrician, cook, students, adopted children, all found a place there, and were, I daresay, the better for it.
There was no shortage of people to converse with, and there was always someone around to put some tea on the boil and serve up some munchies for hours of chitchat late into the night. I got to know the house and its residents better, and was fascinated by the many stories, both bitter and joyful, that it had witnessed over the decades.
The feeling of belonging to that house was formalised, seven years after my first visit, when the lady of the house became my mother-in-law. Since then, that has been my home address in Delhi. The kids have also got to know the house, and come to love it as I do. They have climbed the ladder and discovered the attic, played cricket in the lane, and Uno/Snakes&Ladders with my mum-in-law’s students.
Forty years after my family first started renting that house, the owners have decided to sell. My mother-in-law will probably have to move out sometime later this year. I look forward to one last stay at 14/4 this October, to pay my heart’s arrears.
Sunday, May 2, 2010
Canberra and fairness cream
We liked Canberra. It has a typical capital city atmosphere. Capital in the administrative, and not commercial, sense. Rows of low rise administrative buildings. Impressive monuments and stately buildings such as Parliament House, large traffic roundabouts, and quiet in the weekends.
We were there over the last weekend in April – it was a long weekend with Monday being a holiday and the drive from Sydney is beautiful. They say Canberra is at its prettiest in spring, with the flowers in full bloom, but late autumn is also a feast for the eyes. In India, autumn is an alien concept, and my earliest recollections of that term are from references in Archie comics, where the teenagers’ parents are perpetually shoveling snow in the driveway (winter) or sweeping leaves in the yard (autumn). So with this trip to Canberra, I can confirm that the trees actually do turn various shades of orange and red, and present a rather splendid sight.
One of the high points of the trip was the visit to National Science and Technology Centre, better known as Questacon. As a healthy entertainment option for kids, there are few things to beat a museum full of working models and gadgets that invite children to press buttons and watch things happen. I remember from my childhood, the great fun we had on trips to the Nehru Children’s Museum and Birla Industrial & Technological Museum in Calcutta. I wonder if those facilities are still in good repair or have degenerated with time. With more stimulating (though not necessarily healthy) sources of kid’s entertainment now available, places like these seem to have sadly waned in popularity.
*********************
How cynical can a celebrity get, in peddling his personality to get even richer? I always thought of Shah Rukh Khan as an intelligent, cultured sort of chap based on his interviews. All that was shattered last week, when I saw him in a TV commercial, peddling a fairness cream. I think that is totally unacceptable in a country like India with its deep-rooted prejudice against dark skin. These celebrities need to use their power to impress young minds more responsibly, rather than exploit weaknesses in our countrymen’s psyche for their financial gain.
Aamir, please don’t disappoint me.
We were there over the last weekend in April – it was a long weekend with Monday being a holiday and the drive from Sydney is beautiful. They say Canberra is at its prettiest in spring, with the flowers in full bloom, but late autumn is also a feast for the eyes. In India, autumn is an alien concept, and my earliest recollections of that term are from references in Archie comics, where the teenagers’ parents are perpetually shoveling snow in the driveway (winter) or sweeping leaves in the yard (autumn). So with this trip to Canberra, I can confirm that the trees actually do turn various shades of orange and red, and present a rather splendid sight.
One of the high points of the trip was the visit to National Science and Technology Centre, better known as Questacon. As a healthy entertainment option for kids, there are few things to beat a museum full of working models and gadgets that invite children to press buttons and watch things happen. I remember from my childhood, the great fun we had on trips to the Nehru Children’s Museum and Birla Industrial & Technological Museum in Calcutta. I wonder if those facilities are still in good repair or have degenerated with time. With more stimulating (though not necessarily healthy) sources of kid’s entertainment now available, places like these seem to have sadly waned in popularity.
*********************
How cynical can a celebrity get, in peddling his personality to get even richer? I always thought of Shah Rukh Khan as an intelligent, cultured sort of chap based on his interviews. All that was shattered last week, when I saw him in a TV commercial, peddling a fairness cream. I think that is totally unacceptable in a country like India with its deep-rooted prejudice against dark skin. These celebrities need to use their power to impress young minds more responsibly, rather than exploit weaknesses in our countrymen’s psyche for their financial gain.
Aamir, please don’t disappoint me.
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Bolly good time
Last night, the wife and I watched “Ishqiya”. Last week, we saw “Wake up, Sid” and “LSD”. All three are very good movies. Two are made by debutant directors, and the director of the third, Dibakar Banerjee, is only three films old. Will this period in history be looked back on as a golden age in Hindi cinema, I wonder? There have been so many good movies in the recent past, many of them by new film makers. “A Wednesday” and “Jaane Tu Ya Jaane Na”, released last year, are other impressive movies made by first time directors.
What has changed since the time I was growing up? Why do so many more movies appeal to me now, than, say, ten years ago?
The language of our cinema has changed, and is more appealing to the young urban Indian – more everyday conversation and “underplay” rather than “overplay”. Filmy melodrama has been given the boot. Note that even tearful scenes nowadays very often end up with a twist of humour. Perhaps we have become apologetic about having a good unadulterated cry. Having a self deprecating laugh at the end of an emotional scene somehow makes the melodrama more acceptable. “Dil Chahta Hai” was a significant milestone in this journey. No one seems to say “Kutte Kameene! Tera khoon pee jaaoonga!” any more in our movies.
There is a rush of young directors, who have brought with them a much needed freshness to the business. When I was growing up, directors were men in their forties and fifties in safari suits. Now they are, quite often, men and women in their twenties and thirties in t-shirt and jeans. The younger generation no longer wants to spend a decade assisting someone before they strike out on their own. We no longer wait until middle age to buy a home, or make a movie.
While the average quality of movies has certainly gone up a notch, what I do miss a little bit is the “epic” movie with strong emotional content. Granted, the movie industry churned out a lot of crap in the seventies and eighties. But occasionally, there also came along a mind-blowing piece of emotionally charged cinema capable of producing goose-bumps and making the heart pump faster, even on repeat viewing. Are we capable of producing a “Shakti” or “Deewar” today, I wonder?
This minor point aside, I think it’s a great time for Hindi movie lovers.
What has changed since the time I was growing up? Why do so many more movies appeal to me now, than, say, ten years ago?
The language of our cinema has changed, and is more appealing to the young urban Indian – more everyday conversation and “underplay” rather than “overplay”. Filmy melodrama has been given the boot. Note that even tearful scenes nowadays very often end up with a twist of humour. Perhaps we have become apologetic about having a good unadulterated cry. Having a self deprecating laugh at the end of an emotional scene somehow makes the melodrama more acceptable. “Dil Chahta Hai” was a significant milestone in this journey. No one seems to say “Kutte Kameene! Tera khoon pee jaaoonga!” any more in our movies.
There is a rush of young directors, who have brought with them a much needed freshness to the business. When I was growing up, directors were men in their forties and fifties in safari suits. Now they are, quite often, men and women in their twenties and thirties in t-shirt and jeans. The younger generation no longer wants to spend a decade assisting someone before they strike out on their own. We no longer wait until middle age to buy a home, or make a movie.
While the average quality of movies has certainly gone up a notch, what I do miss a little bit is the “epic” movie with strong emotional content. Granted, the movie industry churned out a lot of crap in the seventies and eighties. But occasionally, there also came along a mind-blowing piece of emotionally charged cinema capable of producing goose-bumps and making the heart pump faster, even on repeat viewing. Are we capable of producing a “Shakti” or “Deewar” today, I wonder?
This minor point aside, I think it’s a great time for Hindi movie lovers.
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Back home
The multi-coloured lights of the skyscrapers in Sydney's CBD adorn the night sky, as my train crosses the Harbour Bridge. In half an hour, I will be re-united with family after my week long India trip.
The two leg return flight via Singapore passed smoothly. I slept on the five hour night shift from Mumbai to Sing, having finally learnt that the handset has a Do not Disturb button.
The last day of the India trip was spent in Mumbai/Thane, to attend to some property matters. The work part completed, I treated myself to a head massage at a local haircutting saloon. Those who have experienced this with a barber in India may know that there comes a time in the routine, when the vibrating massage pad is held to one's ear, and a finger stuck inside it. The sensation that follows is simultaneously ticklish and very pleasurable. Not all barbers include this extra in their routine, but from my experience, most in Mumbai do. This barber, to my delight, was not an exception.
On the return flight, I managed to add two more movies to my previous tally of four notched up on the onward journey - "Blood Diamond" and "Sherlock Holmes". I was halfway through "Nine" and a sizzling hot number by Penelope Cruz when the crew announced our descent into Sydney.
*********************************
I don't know if it's parenthood or advancing years, but for a few years now, I find myself choking up during emotional moments in movies, which I saw through with a yawn and a smirk in the past. Must be finally getting in touch with my sensitive side.
The two leg return flight via Singapore passed smoothly. I slept on the five hour night shift from Mumbai to Sing, having finally learnt that the handset has a Do not Disturb button.
The last day of the India trip was spent in Mumbai/Thane, to attend to some property matters. The work part completed, I treated myself to a head massage at a local haircutting saloon. Those who have experienced this with a barber in India may know that there comes a time in the routine, when the vibrating massage pad is held to one's ear, and a finger stuck inside it. The sensation that follows is simultaneously ticklish and very pleasurable. Not all barbers include this extra in their routine, but from my experience, most in Mumbai do. This barber, to my delight, was not an exception.
On the return flight, I managed to add two more movies to my previous tally of four notched up on the onward journey - "Blood Diamond" and "Sherlock Holmes". I was halfway through "Nine" and a sizzling hot number by Penelope Cruz when the crew announced our descent into Sydney.
*********************************
I don't know if it's parenthood or advancing years, but for a few years now, I find myself choking up during emotional moments in movies, which I saw through with a yawn and a smirk in the past. Must be finally getting in touch with my sensitive side.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
