Most of those who have known me over my 55 years would say that I did not live up to my potential. After all I am a graduate. My father left me a fair inheritance. That I could not quite hold on to, leave aside build upon. Now I sell trinkets and knick knacks at the shopping mall. I do not own a shop, I have a kiosk that is located adjacent to the taxi queue.
I am not going to get into what happened over the years, my follies and misadventures at business and why at the age of 55 I sell trinkets and knick knacks instead I will just tell you about my day.
I quite enjoyed my breakfast. I usually do. My wife is a wonderful cook. She made breakfast and I made the coffee. But we did not eat it together. She had quite a few chores in the morning so she continued with them while I ate my fill. She joins me everyday at the mall in the afternoon to help me with my kiosk.
She ironed my shirt and picked out a tie for me. I usually do not wear a tie to work. I do not own a pair of formal shoes and wearing a tie along with tennis shoes does not seem quite right. However I saw the tie that she had chosen and decided to wear it all the same. As my wife fussed over the knot I stole a kiss. That made her blush. She looks gorgeous when she blushes. No she is gorgeous. She just is. I tried my luck again but this time she moved away and the kiss landed awkwardly on her ear.
I packed some of the merchandise that had recently arrived into my station wagon and made my way towards the mall. It’s quite a long drive. It took me almost an hour and a half today as there was a little more traffic than usual. But it’s was not all that bad. I like the radio and I had my thoughts to keep me company.
I got to the mall just shortly after 9 and could not park in my usual spot. I had to walk a bit longer than I do daily and the boxes of merchandise did not make things easier but I managed. Though I must admit I did sweat a bit. Sweat does not bother me. I quite like it actually. I particularly like the feeling of sweat drying on the body coolly.
The young man and girl from Philippines, who handle the coffee kiosk and the doughnut shop, were already there but as usual not doing any business at that hour. The boy and the girl were having an animated discussion.
He has big ambitions. I like his drive. I think he will become quite successful and rich one day. The young girl seemed to listening intently to what he was saying. But it was quite obvious that the words were just sounds to her for she is quite enamored by the young man. She knows that I know that she likes him. I looked at her and rolled my eyes and she pretended not having seen me make that face.
I opened up my kiosk and arrange the new merchandise – wrist watches, play things for kids, a mini key board that was also a radio and played 150 prerecorded tunes - all fanfare versions of western classical music and folk tunes and of course there were quite a few new trinkets.
The man from Pakistan came and set up his kiosk behind mine. He sells all sorts of electronic goods and cellular phones. Like always he was talking loudly on his cellular phone. The man cannot finish one sentence without uttering some abuse or the other. It’s in his manner of speaking. He is hard working and perpetually trying to fix some deal or the other. He owns two more kiosks in the mall which are manned by his nephews. The poor chaps get an hourly round of abuses from him. These days he is not talking to me because I did not lend him 500 Dihrams.
The young girl from Philippines had customers, 2 young men from Russia or near about. I could hear her say, Hello siirrr in her sing song tone. They could not speak English properly and made fun of her accent. I found that funny, Russians making fun of her accent when they themselves have so much trouble conveying what they want to say. She looked helplessly at the young man hoping for a sympathetic glance or gesture but he was busy adjusting his till. I could not help but shake my head. I thought about doing something to help the young girl improve her chances with the young man.
An Indian woman accompanied by her two young daughters stopped at my kiosk. The mother quite liked a set of Golden metal earrings and the young girls were looking at necklaces and bracelets. The mother checked the price on the box and her brow stiffened. I could tell that she was trying to figure out what price to peg it at. The girls had picked out one necklace with blue stones and another which was light Silver.
The mother said “6 Dihrams, too expensive”.
I shrugged my shoulders.
“How much for these”, the older of the two daughters asked.
“4 and 5.50 each”, I said.
“Too much”, the younger of the two said. Obviously she had taken more after her mother. The Older one still looked keen on buying.
“I will give you 10 Dihrams for the earrings and the two necklaces”, the mother said.
I looked at what they had picked out and checked the prices on the boxes knowing very well what the costs were. “Sorry madam, special items. Fixed price. 15.50 Dihrams total”, I said.
“That other shop there sell for much cheaper than you. This not worth what you are asking”, the mother continued.
“Ok Madam for you 12 Dihrams” I said knowing that she would agree.
She took out a small coin purse from her hand bag and gave me 12 Dihrams. The younger girl already had the blue stone necklace around her neck as they left.
“So you fooled the stupid Indian woman early in the morning to pay you 12 Dihrams for your junk”, I was surprised to hear the Pakistani say. He obviously had gotten over me not lending him money or maybe he needed something else. For some reason he always spoke to me in English despite knowing that he could talk to me in Urdu his own language or in my language, Arabic.
I knew he was not being rude or mean. He was just being himself.
“Us sales guys, we will all go to hell. It is our job only to fool customers”. He continued.
“See boss you did not lend me 500 Dihrams, it hurt my heart. I am no thief, I am an honorable man. If I take money, I return. But I say to myself maybe you having tough time so I forgive you”. He said
“So I think you managed to get it from someone else. See friend, you and I work close together. We are also friends. I think that it’s best not to borrow or lend money, especially from friends. That is the best way to make sure that friends remain friends.” I answered hoping to ensure that the question of borrowing money would not crop up again.
“You are a wise old man but you know what good a friend is, if he not help you in need”, the Pakistani sure had a knack for argument. He hurried back to his kiosk to attend to a woman looking at his cell phones.
The young girl at the coffee counter was looking again at the young man. Like always he was busy with work.
I went over to the young man and asked him, “How are you today?”
“Alright”, he replied a bit sullenly.
“You do not sound alright. Is anything bothering you?” I asked.
“No nothing”, he smiled hesitantly.
I looked him in the eye knowing that he would continue.
“I used to work for 18 hours a day at home. I did not finish college because my family needed money. I came here to save more money so I could be completely self sufficient and also send money home. Here I am, I work just as much in a day and I am still not able to save much money. I need to find a new job.” He spoke agitatedly.
“Things will work out fine for you. Just keep on working with dedication and sooner or later something good will come along. Look at the bright side, you are young and smart and I think your pretty friend there likes you”, I said with a gesture of my head to point out the young girl.
The young man just smiled but it was a warm smile and I think he was reassured.
“Bloody Russian whore! Wants the latest model of cell phone for 200 Dihrams. It costs 885 and she says she will pay 200”, it was the Pakistani.
He continued, “What does she think? That she can come and flirt with me and I will just give it to her. I will not even screw her if she was the last woman on earth and God came and told me that I was going to die the next day. Sali, kutti, randi, bhain-chudi, She must be making 1000 Dihrams every night just spreading her legs for every horny dog that comes around. Has she ever tried earning an honest living?
“How do you know that she is a whore?” it was the young man from Philippines.
“Hey you Chinki, you sell your coffee. Your kinds are no better. All Chinese and Russians here are bloody prostitutes…bloody living a life of Haram”.
“I am not from China and I am not a crook like you are”, the young man retorted angrily.
The Pakistani took a step toward him threatening but I stopped him. Just then his cell phone rang. It was his nephew from the other section of the mall. Had he picked up a bad time to call! The Pakistani muttered something and walked away to intervene at his nephews kiosk on some sale. He looked at me and gestured if I would look after his kiosk. I nodded my head.
A young Arab boy was going along with his mother. He saw the mini key board and walked over and started to play a cacophonous tune. He was quite happy doing it and I was happy to let him.
“Mummy, I want”, he said.
“No”, came the mothers reply firmly.
The boy stamped his feet and just stood there with his arms folded. The mother tried to pull him away and he started wailing.
“You are bad, you never give me anything that I want”, he said and tried to grab the key board. It fell on the ground and the back cover came off.
“Look what you have done. You broke it”, the mother shouted at him.
“Do not worry madam it’s just the battery cover which has come off. It is not broken”. I consoled.
“Sorry, he is quite a devil” the mother replied
The son thinking that he had broken it was quite docile now and hid behind his mother.
“Say sorry to uncle”, she scolded him.
“Sorry”, he replied tamely and walked away with his mother.
I put the battery cover back on and put the key board on the shelf.
“I do not understand it. You could have made her buy it saying that it was broken”, it was the young man said from over his coffee counter.
“That would not have been right and the fact is that it is not broken. It’s best not to play up on the greed of children to make their parents buy things”, I replied.
“Best of luck! You will definitely need it considering the fact that half the things that you sell are meant for children. You will never get a job with McDonald’s”, the young man replied wittily and I could not help but smile.
“How much for these ties?” it was a big man probably a German. “I have a meeting to go to and I spilled Mustard over mine”, he continued.
“One for 15 Dihrams and 25 for two. This Red and Blue Oxford stripes would go well with your black suit but this is for 20”, I said.
He looked at me as though I was out of my mind and walked away. He stopped in front of the men’s hair salon for a few seconds pondering over something and then walked in.
“Strange man. 15 Dihrams should be pocket change for him”, I heard my wife say.
I immediately felt happy seeing her. It was hot outside and she looked flushed. Her cheeks were the colour of the morning sun. I offered her my stool and took out another folding chair from under the kiosk.
“You want some water”? I asked.
She took out a small bottle from her bag and took a sip. I rubbed her hand and she smiled.
“Hello madam. Good you are here, now your business will pick up. The men will come to look at you and of course you can monitor your husbands charity”, it was the young girl.
She and my wife were friends. My wife kissed her and said something that made the young girl go scarlet. I guessed that my wife had made some joke about the young man.
The young girl looked at the young man and that confirmed my speculation.
From across the corridor I could see the German man who was keen on buying a tie pay 50 Dihrams to the barber. He had had a shave and his tie was wet with water where the Mustard stain used to be.
It’s strange how a consumers mind works. I thought to myself. The man had a dirty tie, he could have washed his tie in the men’s toilet for free or bought a new one for 15 Dihrams but instead he decided to get a shave and pay 50 Dihrams.
I and my wife had lunch at the food court. She had gotten a packed lunch box with her. My wife is friends with the Indian girl at the Mexican counter in the food court and she heats up the lunch in the microwave when her supervisor is not looking.
How I wish I could sleep for an hour or so after lunch but that’s a luxury I cannot afford. I and my wife headed back to our kiosk.
Business picked up after lunch and there was not a moment when we did not have someone browsing at the stall. A group of Japanese tourists picked up some Dubai souvenirs and T-Shirts. A middle aged Indian gentleman picked up quite a few multi coloured pens. I figured he would have quite a few children at home but was surprised to see him put one in his pocket. I guess he did not discriminate and felt that purpose preceded all else.
The evening progressed and along with it the pain in my knees. I wife offered her chair to me. I insisted that she continue to sit. The young man from the coffee counter saw this and promptly came over with his folding chair. I tried to refuse but he did not agree.
“Shabash chinki, shows you have respect for elder people or do you think that the old man will adopt you”, the Pakistani commented with a smile.
“I would not mind having a son like you”, I cut him short.
“It was only a joke do not mind”, the Pakistani said.
“I did not mind it. After spending everyday with you for 6 months, I know you”, the young man smiled.
The evening passed along and by 10 pm business picked up as the evening shoppers all queued up for a taxi next to the exit. Someone or the other came over and looked at the stuff. Trinkets, toys, scarves, cheap watches, pens…stuff that they do not really need but still want them all the same as it catches their fancy.
By 12 we were winding up. My wife counted the cash. Business had been good. I started packing up the merchandise.
Two Indian men and one woman were standing next to the doughnut counter. One of them wearing a Black coat took out and Orange can and asked the young girl if she would keep it. The other two, presumably husband and wife laughed. The girl declined. The man in the Black coat turned towards my stall, he looked a bit lost.
The young man from the coffee counter teased the girl in their language. I did not need to know their language to guess that the young man was teasing her about the man in the Black coat.
Two young boys walked over from the taxi queue. The elder of the two picked up a set of round magnets and threw them in the air. The magnets stuck to each other in mid air. The young boy caught them as they fell down. The younger one laughed gleefully. He took the magnets from his brother and threw them upwards but he threw them with too much force and one of the magnets went towards the Pakistani’s stall. Fortunately nothing was damaged. The Pakistani shouted all the same, “Oye khote de puttar. O whose children are these, mind them”.
The Indian man in the Black coat seeing all this burst out laughing. This irritated the Pakistani further.
The elder boy was a bit taken aback with the Pakistani’s outrage but the younger one wanted to play more with the magnets. His mother came over and made him keep the magnets back on the shelf. The young boy looked very disappointed and turned back to look at them as his mother dragged him away. I picked up the magnets and walked up to the kid and gave them to him.
“No thank you, we do not want to buy it”, it was the kids mother.
“It’s a gift for the little one, you need not pay me”, said I, having no intention of selling it to them.
“Your husband will make you bankrupt”, the Pakistani turned and said to my wife.
As I turned back, my eyes met the Indian’s. He smiled a perplexed smile.
I walked up to my wife and she smiled and I quickly bent down and kissed her on her cheek.
“Adam, Adam and Eve”, I could hear the Indian mutter. I wonder what he meant. His married companions laughed at him. I definitely think that he was a bit drunk.
We packed up and the young couple from Philippines helped us carry some merchandise to our car.
The drive back home was quick and pleasant. I drove with the windows rolled down, sang some old songs that were being played on the radio with my wife and held her hand throughout the journey except when I needed to change gears.
I had a good day. I think I have had a happy life. What do you think?
Saturday, June 14, 2008
Food Court
The food court at most malls offer a varied choice - Chinese; Lebanese; Iranian; Italian; the Americans on account of their global promise of providing choice to the consumer boast of a Burger King, a KFC and a Mc Donald’s - all serving an assortment of meats with buns of bread, French Fries (wonder why it is called so) and of course Coke or Pepsi depending on their tie up; and last but not the least Indian food - at times a separate franchise for North Indian food and a separate one for South Indian food - a true tribute to our varied heritage and of course due to the fact that we make up a huge percentage of the population which is in fact perhaps the majority (An honest confession again - Please note that as I am not aware of the exact percentage of Indians in the region I have made the sentence inordinately long and even used the term in fact in conjunction with perhaps, two terms which are in fact mutually exclusive).
Parul and I after an exhausting session of furniture scouting went to the food court to grab a bite to eat. Parul was clear that she wanted to eat Chole Bhature at the Light of India. The backlit picture of what looked like a Rajput princess was reassuring but the Phillipina at the counter was not and I also hold the belief that Indian food cannot be franchised as it calls for a degree of expertise and cannot be mass produced the way meat and buns can be.
So I decided to do the rounds scouting for options.
Lebanese I immediately wrote off - grilled meat (one has the choice of chicken, beef and lamb), with bread and chick pea sauce (ground chana with olive oil). Was in no mood for it.
The Chinese reminded me of the slight buzz that I got in my head on account of the MSG.
I have sworn not to eat any of the American fare on account of it being unhealthy and of course bad value for money but I must add in the same bite the fact that all of it does seem to get imprinted in the mind as its so easy to eat and I must confess tasty too in a vague sort of a way.
Italian - the sight of cheesy pasta made my stomach churn.
I was in a real quandary at the south Indian stall. My mind immediately cried Idli's soaked in sambhar and chutney. "Zorry Saar, Zaambaar is zerved zeparitly", the Mallu infourmmmed me.
The Chole Bhature at Light of India were nice and oily.
Parul and I after an exhausting session of furniture scouting went to the food court to grab a bite to eat. Parul was clear that she wanted to eat Chole Bhature at the Light of India. The backlit picture of what looked like a Rajput princess was reassuring but the Phillipina at the counter was not and I also hold the belief that Indian food cannot be franchised as it calls for a degree of expertise and cannot be mass produced the way meat and buns can be.
So I decided to do the rounds scouting for options.
Lebanese I immediately wrote off - grilled meat (one has the choice of chicken, beef and lamb), with bread and chick pea sauce (ground chana with olive oil). Was in no mood for it.
The Chinese reminded me of the slight buzz that I got in my head on account of the MSG.
I have sworn not to eat any of the American fare on account of it being unhealthy and of course bad value for money but I must add in the same bite the fact that all of it does seem to get imprinted in the mind as its so easy to eat and I must confess tasty too in a vague sort of a way.
Italian - the sight of cheesy pasta made my stomach churn.
I was in a real quandary at the south Indian stall. My mind immediately cried Idli's soaked in sambhar and chutney. "Zorry Saar, Zaambaar is zerved zeparitly", the Mallu infourmmmed me.
The Chole Bhature at Light of India were nice and oily.
Lukman - The Pathan
My mother used to tell me that I was named after Hakim Lukman. As the title suggests he was a medicine man, an exceptionally gifted one at that. It seems that he would roam in the forests and the herbs and the plants would talk to him and tell him about the uses that they could be put to.
Unlike my brothers and cousins I was small built. My mother hoped that like my namesake I would one day become a famous doctor. I too harbored the same illusions and when I was young I used to walk in the small stretches of shrubs that dotted the vast barren, arid vastness that surrounds my hometown - Dara Adam Khail in Peshawar.
I would listen hard to the shrubs but they never talked to me. I concluded that the shrubs were not of any use and that’s why they had nothing to say. At times I imagined that they would talk to me. And my mind would convince me that it was indeed the shrubs that were talking, so I would pluck a few leaves and dutifully administer them to my younger sister who would often complain of stomach aches or to my dim witted neighbor, Majid who often got beaten up my the village bullies.
My father put an end to my medical aspirations one day when my sister started to vomit after I had fed her my magic potion. The entire village cracked up laughing at me when Majid earnestly volunteered to put my medicine on my back side to heal it. The mockery of the villagers and the beating given to me by my father squashed all my desires to heal any of them. They simply did not deserve it.
Dara Adam Khail lies in FATA (Federally Administered Tribal Areas). Federally administered means that there is no one to administer. My village comprises mostly of my relatives. All of us lived in a cluster of mud houses that was surrounded by a wall made of clay and brick. The design was such that the entire village could be sealed off by just locking the front doors of two houses. One large Afridi family we were, all living and quarrelling together.
The only thing that brought us together was our frequent fights with the neighboring clans. And that we did often. Once my uncle thought that a Pathan from a neighboring village had stolen his slippers so he decided to take him to task and started off a blood feud that continues to this day.
No reason was small enough to start a fight. It would usually start with individuals and before sun set would engulf the entire clan. The elders would pack their guns and were off to ravage the enemy. And any one old enough to hold a locally made rifle was considered an elder. 4 of my elder brothers, 13 cousins and 6 uncles died by the time I fought my first battle aged 11.
Since the area was so arid that it could not even support subsistence level agriculture, the primary occupation of most tribes is gun making and gun running. An occupation that has been relevant historically and contemporarily in the region. Being a region that gives very little, we are used to having and making do with very little. This makes us Pathans well suited to hard work.
A region that provides its young with very no options other than war mongering, those who have a peaceful nature have no option but to look for a livelihood elsewhere. That was my predicament by the time I was 18.
My distant uncle was working as a construction worker in Dubai and he offered to get me a job in his company. In exchange my father had to agree to marry off my younger brother to his not so pretty daughter without any dowry. I have since made it up to my brother. He was the first person in the entire village to own a mobile phone with a camera. Just one of the gifts that I gave to him and to my ugly sister in law the last time I went there.
I felt sad at leaving but at the same time was excited at the thought of going to a foreign land. My entire family came to bid me farewell at the airport. The plane lady showed me my seat. After sometime I could hear a voice but did not know where it came from. I thought that it must be someone talking on a wireless as it sounded similar to that.
The plane started and the passenger next to me did something to the belt that was in his chair. The plane lady went around looking at everyone’s crotches. Why was she doing that? She came to me and I stiffened. She pointed to the belt and gestured something with her hands. I could not figure out what she was saying. So I just sat still and looked straight ahead. She bent down and tried to do something to my stomach and my crotch. I jumped up with a start and shouted, "Don't you have any shame, touching me like that".
The fellow in the seat next to mine told me that she was trying to tie my belt and showed me how to do it. I felt my face gleaming with embarrassment as I said, "Sorry madam".
I felt sad looking at the mountains as the plane took off from Peshawar airport. But then I realized that I had 9 glasses of Coca Cola. The most I have ever had at a stretch, beating my record of 7 that I had at my cousin Ismails wedding. I felt the urge to relieve myself but I was scared to ask the plane lady to open the door so I could do so. How could I bring myself to tell her what I needed to do? Also what if I fell down.
I looked out of the window realized that the skies above the clouds was just a vast stretch of blue, quite uniform and arid like the vast rubble stretches of my home land. From time to time I could hear a voice but did not know where it was coming from. After some time I could feel the plane going down. My heart sank. But then I looked out of the window and realized that the descent was gradual. I realized that I was about to reach my destination. Soon I could see the ground and what I saw and felt I cannot forget to this day. Barren, vast stretches of sand. My home was also dry and barren but the mountains were beautiful. And here I was about to land in a dead desert.
Unlike my brothers and cousins I was small built. My mother hoped that like my namesake I would one day become a famous doctor. I too harbored the same illusions and when I was young I used to walk in the small stretches of shrubs that dotted the vast barren, arid vastness that surrounds my hometown - Dara Adam Khail in Peshawar.
I would listen hard to the shrubs but they never talked to me. I concluded that the shrubs were not of any use and that’s why they had nothing to say. At times I imagined that they would talk to me. And my mind would convince me that it was indeed the shrubs that were talking, so I would pluck a few leaves and dutifully administer them to my younger sister who would often complain of stomach aches or to my dim witted neighbor, Majid who often got beaten up my the village bullies.
My father put an end to my medical aspirations one day when my sister started to vomit after I had fed her my magic potion. The entire village cracked up laughing at me when Majid earnestly volunteered to put my medicine on my back side to heal it. The mockery of the villagers and the beating given to me by my father squashed all my desires to heal any of them. They simply did not deserve it.
Dara Adam Khail lies in FATA (Federally Administered Tribal Areas). Federally administered means that there is no one to administer. My village comprises mostly of my relatives. All of us lived in a cluster of mud houses that was surrounded by a wall made of clay and brick. The design was such that the entire village could be sealed off by just locking the front doors of two houses. One large Afridi family we were, all living and quarrelling together.
The only thing that brought us together was our frequent fights with the neighboring clans. And that we did often. Once my uncle thought that a Pathan from a neighboring village had stolen his slippers so he decided to take him to task and started off a blood feud that continues to this day.
No reason was small enough to start a fight. It would usually start with individuals and before sun set would engulf the entire clan. The elders would pack their guns and were off to ravage the enemy. And any one old enough to hold a locally made rifle was considered an elder. 4 of my elder brothers, 13 cousins and 6 uncles died by the time I fought my first battle aged 11.
Since the area was so arid that it could not even support subsistence level agriculture, the primary occupation of most tribes is gun making and gun running. An occupation that has been relevant historically and contemporarily in the region. Being a region that gives very little, we are used to having and making do with very little. This makes us Pathans well suited to hard work.
A region that provides its young with very no options other than war mongering, those who have a peaceful nature have no option but to look for a livelihood elsewhere. That was my predicament by the time I was 18.
My distant uncle was working as a construction worker in Dubai and he offered to get me a job in his company. In exchange my father had to agree to marry off my younger brother to his not so pretty daughter without any dowry. I have since made it up to my brother. He was the first person in the entire village to own a mobile phone with a camera. Just one of the gifts that I gave to him and to my ugly sister in law the last time I went there.
I felt sad at leaving but at the same time was excited at the thought of going to a foreign land. My entire family came to bid me farewell at the airport. The plane lady showed me my seat. After sometime I could hear a voice but did not know where it came from. I thought that it must be someone talking on a wireless as it sounded similar to that.
The plane started and the passenger next to me did something to the belt that was in his chair. The plane lady went around looking at everyone’s crotches. Why was she doing that? She came to me and I stiffened. She pointed to the belt and gestured something with her hands. I could not figure out what she was saying. So I just sat still and looked straight ahead. She bent down and tried to do something to my stomach and my crotch. I jumped up with a start and shouted, "Don't you have any shame, touching me like that".
The fellow in the seat next to mine told me that she was trying to tie my belt and showed me how to do it. I felt my face gleaming with embarrassment as I said, "Sorry madam".
I felt sad looking at the mountains as the plane took off from Peshawar airport. But then I realized that I had 9 glasses of Coca Cola. The most I have ever had at a stretch, beating my record of 7 that I had at my cousin Ismails wedding. I felt the urge to relieve myself but I was scared to ask the plane lady to open the door so I could do so. How could I bring myself to tell her what I needed to do? Also what if I fell down.
I looked out of the window realized that the skies above the clouds was just a vast stretch of blue, quite uniform and arid like the vast rubble stretches of my home land. From time to time I could hear a voice but did not know where it was coming from. After some time I could feel the plane going down. My heart sank. But then I looked out of the window and realized that the descent was gradual. I realized that I was about to reach my destination. Soon I could see the ground and what I saw and felt I cannot forget to this day. Barren, vast stretches of sand. My home was also dry and barren but the mountains were beautiful. And here I was about to land in a dead desert.
Probabilities
Ananth has a gift for insight.
The other day as he commented that "A goal is nothing but a statistical probability".
Remarkable observation.
One needs to dwell on this for a moment cause it would be very easy to jump to the conclusion that all effort is pointless. After all, the instinct to be lethargic is the most dominant instinct in most individuals (sorry for the generalization, whats true for me need not be true to you though I have a feeling that you do agree with me).
Moral of the story, one can be nothing but a trier. The harder you try, the better your chances of success which incidentally is not guaranteed. After 80 minutes of trying hard, Ronaldo manages to pass one to Figo who heads it over the goal post. Two of the highest paid football players in the world. Highest paid because they try the hardest amongst the best.
The other day as he commented that "A goal is nothing but a statistical probability".
Remarkable observation.
One needs to dwell on this for a moment cause it would be very easy to jump to the conclusion that all effort is pointless. After all, the instinct to be lethargic is the most dominant instinct in most individuals (sorry for the generalization, whats true for me need not be true to you though I have a feeling that you do agree with me).
Moral of the story, one can be nothing but a trier. The harder you try, the better your chances of success which incidentally is not guaranteed. After 80 minutes of trying hard, Ronaldo manages to pass one to Figo who heads it over the goal post. Two of the highest paid football players in the world. Highest paid because they try the hardest amongst the best.
Third time lucky
The chinki eyed garhwali waiter presented me with a bill totaling to 78 AED for my Chinese meal along with a Chinese Fortune cookie. Closer inspection of the wrapper told me that the cookie was actually made in Great Britain. What the Chinese are doing to the West, the West is doing to China at least with regards to Fortune Cookies.
Anyway I tore open the wrapper and broke the cookie, but there was no fortune inside. That seemed logical, considering my life.
I told the waiter and he hurried back and got me another. I repeated the process with the same results. I was a bit perturbed I must admit. This occurrence has tremendous implications; you see a man who gets no fortune in his fortune cookie has nothing to look forward to.
By now the staff was quite intrigued. The Chinese waiters were actually murmuring in Chinese. "Beware of the man with no fortune", they seemed to be saying.
It was manager this time, who got me not one but the entire basket of Fortune Cookies and said with a flourish, "This time, you choose sir".
I picked up a cookie and struggled with the wrapper. The manager told me to hold it from both sides on the top and pull. I was a wee bit irritated. Here I was being not only proven to be unfortunate or fortuneless but also an imbecile who could not even tear open a cookie wrapper.
After a little struggle, I succeeded in tearing open the wrapper. The waiters and the manager stood around me waiting to see what the future held in store for me. I broke open the cookie and carefully removed the pieces and there at last after two unsuccessful attempts was a tiny piece of paper. One of the waiters actually clapped, a Chinese hostess beamed at me as I unfolded it. The manager was a bit disappointed as I read it keeping it close to my chest instead of reading it aloud.
'A current project will soon bring you great distinction'. Just the words I wanted to read.
But the reliability of fortune cookies in telling the future apart, the only thing that this incident can conclusively prove is that the goras fuck up. Or maybe it was just their Pakistani employees.
Anyway I tore open the wrapper and broke the cookie, but there was no fortune inside. That seemed logical, considering my life.
I told the waiter and he hurried back and got me another. I repeated the process with the same results. I was a bit perturbed I must admit. This occurrence has tremendous implications; you see a man who gets no fortune in his fortune cookie has nothing to look forward to.
By now the staff was quite intrigued. The Chinese waiters were actually murmuring in Chinese. "Beware of the man with no fortune", they seemed to be saying.
It was manager this time, who got me not one but the entire basket of Fortune Cookies and said with a flourish, "This time, you choose sir".
I picked up a cookie and struggled with the wrapper. The manager told me to hold it from both sides on the top and pull. I was a wee bit irritated. Here I was being not only proven to be unfortunate or fortuneless but also an imbecile who could not even tear open a cookie wrapper.
After a little struggle, I succeeded in tearing open the wrapper. The waiters and the manager stood around me waiting to see what the future held in store for me. I broke open the cookie and carefully removed the pieces and there at last after two unsuccessful attempts was a tiny piece of paper. One of the waiters actually clapped, a Chinese hostess beamed at me as I unfolded it. The manager was a bit disappointed as I read it keeping it close to my chest instead of reading it aloud.
'A current project will soon bring you great distinction'. Just the words I wanted to read.
But the reliability of fortune cookies in telling the future apart, the only thing that this incident can conclusively prove is that the goras fuck up. Or maybe it was just their Pakistani employees.
Easy Mice and Men
The meeting got over at 6 in the evening. Precisely 6 minutes before Iftar. I had virtually no chance of finding a taxi. I tried my luck by calling the taxi service, hoping to find a Hindu Mallu taxi driver but no luck.
Thought I'll be better off in my quest to find a taxi driven by a Hindu Mallu on the road. No luck. A Pathan stopped but his face told me the expected story when I told him that it was Sharjah I wanted to go to. He was apologetic but I told him that it wasn't a problem and that he should put his meals first.
The good thing about it being Iftar time was the fact that I could smoke in the open. I pulled out my packet of cigarettes only to find none in it. Funny things these cigarettes, how perfectly they wedge themselves in between my lips. An object with a purpose. Much unlike me. Fortunately Spinneys was just across the road.
I walked into the Macgrudy's Bookshop inside Spinney's and browsed around, hoping to find something that could keep me occupied. How I missed a good book. One that kept me occupied, also murmur to myself, "My thoughts exactly” or painted a new picture or gave me a road map just me gave joy....you know what I mean.
Like with the Taxi and the empty packet of cigarettes no luck here as well. I was aghast. A man who cannot find a book to read in even a modest bookshop (and this outlet was just a notch above modest) has nothing to look forward to. Random thoughts raced across my mind. None of them any good.
I bought a pack of cigarettes and on the way out fortunately found a cab driven by a Pakistani, who must have finished his meals.
The disturbing random thoughts still prevailed even when I got home. I thought I'll listen to some of my music. Some thing that I had not done in quite a while. I got the CD that Mukul had cut for me of all the songs that I had on the hard drive in Bombay. All my favourites. I skipped 145 songs and still couldn't find one that I wanted to listen to. One that gave me the 'joy' that I was seeking. I began to like a few but then realised after sometime that I was only pretending.
The songs just played and I kind of half listened to them. I picked up a book randomly from the bookshelf.
John Steinbeck's, Of Mice and Men. Parul had recently bought this along with a few other books. I had one copy in Bombay also but never got around to reading it. It was lent to me in Mudra by Rhitwik Bhattathiri, a Lab scientist turned client servicing boy from Cochin. We shared a Taxi at times. We spoke mostly about music and books and he spoke a lot about this book and then one day he got it for me. I promised to promptly return the book to him after reading it. Needless to say, the book was lying unread when I packed up my bags to come to this part of the world. At that time I even made a mental note of couriering the book to him to his new office but just didn't get around to doing it.
I got past the first page and the second. Hope stirred. The continuously approaching guitar riffs in the background were music to my years. Song 188 and Mike Patton cried out, 'I'm easy like a Sunday morning'.
I look forward to the week.
Thought I'll be better off in my quest to find a taxi driven by a Hindu Mallu on the road. No luck. A Pathan stopped but his face told me the expected story when I told him that it was Sharjah I wanted to go to. He was apologetic but I told him that it wasn't a problem and that he should put his meals first.
The good thing about it being Iftar time was the fact that I could smoke in the open. I pulled out my packet of cigarettes only to find none in it. Funny things these cigarettes, how perfectly they wedge themselves in between my lips. An object with a purpose. Much unlike me. Fortunately Spinneys was just across the road.
I walked into the Macgrudy's Bookshop inside Spinney's and browsed around, hoping to find something that could keep me occupied. How I missed a good book. One that kept me occupied, also murmur to myself, "My thoughts exactly” or painted a new picture or gave me a road map just me gave joy....you know what I mean.
Like with the Taxi and the empty packet of cigarettes no luck here as well. I was aghast. A man who cannot find a book to read in even a modest bookshop (and this outlet was just a notch above modest) has nothing to look forward to. Random thoughts raced across my mind. None of them any good.
I bought a pack of cigarettes and on the way out fortunately found a cab driven by a Pakistani, who must have finished his meals.
The disturbing random thoughts still prevailed even when I got home. I thought I'll listen to some of my music. Some thing that I had not done in quite a while. I got the CD that Mukul had cut for me of all the songs that I had on the hard drive in Bombay. All my favourites. I skipped 145 songs and still couldn't find one that I wanted to listen to. One that gave me the 'joy' that I was seeking. I began to like a few but then realised after sometime that I was only pretending.
The songs just played and I kind of half listened to them. I picked up a book randomly from the bookshelf.
John Steinbeck's, Of Mice and Men. Parul had recently bought this along with a few other books. I had one copy in Bombay also but never got around to reading it. It was lent to me in Mudra by Rhitwik Bhattathiri, a Lab scientist turned client servicing boy from Cochin. We shared a Taxi at times. We spoke mostly about music and books and he spoke a lot about this book and then one day he got it for me. I promised to promptly return the book to him after reading it. Needless to say, the book was lying unread when I packed up my bags to come to this part of the world. At that time I even made a mental note of couriering the book to him to his new office but just didn't get around to doing it.
I got past the first page and the second. Hope stirred. The continuously approaching guitar riffs in the background were music to my years. Song 188 and Mike Patton cried out, 'I'm easy like a Sunday morning'.
I look forward to the week.
Signs
Not sure if I should be reassured or just disappointed
Sometimes you have to go a long way ahead to be able to turn back
A nation celebrates
The GGC cup is a football tournament that is played amongst the Gulf countries i.e. Saudi Arabia, UAE, Bahrain, Qatar, Oman and Kuwait.
UAE won the GCC cup yesterday.
To set the context right, UAE has a population of nearly 7 million of which 70% i.e. 5 million are expatriates namely Indians, Pakistanis Philipinos,other Arabs. This leaves only 2 million Local Arabs of which nearly 60% are below 25 years of age.
UAE as a nation does not have too many occassions (leave aside religious festivals, which anyway are not specific to the nation per se) when they can come together as a nation and celebrate. The biggest 'festival' is in fact the Dubai Shopping Festival.
So can you imagine what would happen when a nation dominated by youth (most of whom incidentally have cars and more money than you and I can imagine) decides to celebrate - absolute chaos on the streets but a sight to see all the same.
Out they came in their Pathfinders, Patrols, Land Cruisers, Camry's etc....blasting their horns in a cacophanous frenzy and all I could do was smile and say, "Mabrook".
The Black Label Man
Krishna Bar is quite an oddity but only for alcoholics like me who can still identify oddities. It’s a dimly lit restaurant in Vile Parle East, quite close to the station. It has backlit glass mosaics of under sea life and also murals of Emperors and fighters who seem to be a cross between the Greeks and the Mughals.
From the moment he walked into the bar, he stuck me as odd. His shirt was not right. It was just too white. He looked like a banker or a currency trader with some multinational firm. The only thing that cast a shadow a doubt was his stubble. Though the banker and currency trader types had started wearing khakhis off late, a stubble was just out of the question.
Actually I was myself a bit of an oddity for Krishna Bar, which catered strictly to lower middle class clerk types. Though I had seen better times, the past decade had not been a part of those better times.
Alright, precisely 11 years ago, I had won the Filmfare award for the best original screenplay but that was 11 years ago and a lot changes in 11 years. What had not changed was the fact that I could pass judgment on a person the instant I saw him. After all, I did go to Doon school, so that gave me a right to be condescending and look down upon just about everyone. The fact that I currently proof read back of pack copy on soap and shampoo labels at a not so happening advertising agency is quite besides the point.
I had just finished a quarter of whiskey. I had long stopped distinguishing between the good, the not so good and the downright putrid. What I drank was purely a question of how much money I had in my pocket. So Red Knight it was these days, though I drank it the same way that I drank single malt in the good old days.
The 'Banker / Currency trader' was sitting alone. Johnny, the bar tender approached him and asked him what he would like to drink. The words that he uttered were pure music to my ears, "Do you have Black Label?” he said.
No he did not say it in Hindi or Marathi. He uttered those words in English.
"You mean McDowell's Black Label?” clarified Johnny.
The man in the white shirt started had at Johnny's name tag and said, "No the one that is named after you."
"Yes sir, Johnnie Walker Black Label, large or a small?"
The man in the white shirt was quite exasperated. “Just get me a whole bottle will you".
I could not help but think what this guy was doing here, among guys who were drinking Gilbey's Green Label and Alcazar Vodka? Anyway, this presented me with the opportunity to drink Black Label. You see I did have a friendly face and was A1 when it came to conversation.
I took a large gulp from my drink, and stared at the White Shirt. Just them he happened to notice that I was looking at him. I picked up my glass and said, "Cheers". He smiled back and mouthed the same. I knew that this was my chance to help him finish his bottle of Scotch. I picked up my glass and walked up to him. "Satyajit Majumdar", I said extending my hand. He shook my hand and looked at me wondering what was it that I wanted.
I read his mind and couldn't help but laugh and sang out, "What was it you wanted...", a not so known Bob Dylan song, not that anyone in Krishna Bar could tell the difference between Bally Sagoo and Bob Dylan.
The White Shirt's response left me astounded. "Tell me again so I know", he completed the lyric that I had started.
"Well, you have me at a loss of words", said I.
"Ranjan, Ranjan Singh", he said and pointed to the vacant chair in front of him.
A moment of uncomfortable silence followed. I drained my glass empty and gently placed it on the table.
Without asking me he picked up the bottle of Black Label and poured me a rather stiff one.
"Thank you", I said
"I must say I find it quite surprising to see someone who can quote Bob Dylan here", he said.
"What's your excuse", said I.
"Just killing some time", he answered. He picked up his glass and it was then that I noticed the odd way in which he picked up his glass. His forefinger did not touch the glass at all.
"What are you saving the forefinger for? The wife or the mistress?” I said knowing that obnoxious statements could be potent ice breakers.
He laughed, "Neither actually, I am saving it for better things", he said.
"Didn't pick you up for one who swung that way", I continued the jibe.
"Aren't you getting a bit too cocky?” he replied coldly.
"Cocky! Pun intended there?” I laughed.
He looked straight at me. For a moment I could not tell what was going though his mind and then he burst out laughing. "You're a funny guy", he said and poured me another drink stiff drink though my glass was not yet empty.
"So what do you do? Ok let me guess, you're an investment banker who lost his job a few days ago. The market crash got you?” I said
"What did you say your name was? Mr. Knowitall?” he jeered.
"Come on, it's just something I do to amuse myself and incidentally that's what I do for a living. I am in the business of knowing people...in advertising you see", the moment I said it I knew that it must have sounded really pompous.
"Advertising! That must be cool. Let's just say, I do what I do to amuse myself", He said coldly.
"That's a good job to have and I must say you must be doing pretty well", I said
"Yeah I am not complaining", he said and picked up his glass again in the same peculiar manner the forefinger pointing at me as though he was going to shoot me with his make believe pistol.
"Why do you pick up your glass that way? Trust me you'll get a much better grip if you just use that forefinger too", I said.
"I have a pretty good grasp, even without my forefinger and how I hold my glass should not make any difference to you", he seemed a bit irritated.
I was quite tipsy by now. He poured me another drink.
"OK why don't you guess what it is that I do? Let me give you a clue, my forefinger plays a huge role in what I do", he said.
"You are a cricket umpire. You raise that finger and out goes an aspiring young batsman or a has been or a wannabe at Shivaji Park or Cross Maidan", I was most pleased with being so articulate.
"Impressive but not correct", he said and smiled and poured me another drink.
"You're, you're, you're a gig gigolo and impotent gigolo sho all you have left as tool of the trade are your fingers", I laughed.
He laughed loudly.
"Professhional...kite flyer?", I slurred.
I was now seeing double and the bottle in front of us was almost empty. I knew I had to be heading home now. So I drained my glass and without asking him emptied the rest of the bottle and finished the drink that I had poured myself in one quick gulp. I tired to get up but felt dizzy so I thought I''d just sit for a while.
"Spuriush stuff....made in Ulhashnagaar I think", I said.
"It tasted alright to me, maybe you should not drink so fast", I vaguely heard him say.
From the corner of my eye, I could see one dada / state corporator type walk in and being given the full treatment by the waiters. Even the owner of Krishna Bar had come up and was personally attending to him. My head was spinning. The white shirt in front of me was looking even whiter than before.
The marble top of the table felt cold against my cheek. And I was suddenly woken up by a loud noise. My head throbbed as I looked up and saw blood oozing out of the dada / state corporator's head. The chair in front of me was empty. I thought I saw the guy in the white shirt look at me and point his forefinger at me just as he walked out of the glass door which had a dolphin painted on it.
From the moment he walked into the bar, he stuck me as odd. His shirt was not right. It was just too white. He looked like a banker or a currency trader with some multinational firm. The only thing that cast a shadow a doubt was his stubble. Though the banker and currency trader types had started wearing khakhis off late, a stubble was just out of the question.
Actually I was myself a bit of an oddity for Krishna Bar, which catered strictly to lower middle class clerk types. Though I had seen better times, the past decade had not been a part of those better times.
Alright, precisely 11 years ago, I had won the Filmfare award for the best original screenplay but that was 11 years ago and a lot changes in 11 years. What had not changed was the fact that I could pass judgment on a person the instant I saw him. After all, I did go to Doon school, so that gave me a right to be condescending and look down upon just about everyone. The fact that I currently proof read back of pack copy on soap and shampoo labels at a not so happening advertising agency is quite besides the point.
I had just finished a quarter of whiskey. I had long stopped distinguishing between the good, the not so good and the downright putrid. What I drank was purely a question of how much money I had in my pocket. So Red Knight it was these days, though I drank it the same way that I drank single malt in the good old days.
The 'Banker / Currency trader' was sitting alone. Johnny, the bar tender approached him and asked him what he would like to drink. The words that he uttered were pure music to my ears, "Do you have Black Label?” he said.
No he did not say it in Hindi or Marathi. He uttered those words in English.
"You mean McDowell's Black Label?” clarified Johnny.
The man in the white shirt started had at Johnny's name tag and said, "No the one that is named after you."
"Yes sir, Johnnie Walker Black Label, large or a small?"
The man in the white shirt was quite exasperated. “Just get me a whole bottle will you".
I could not help but think what this guy was doing here, among guys who were drinking Gilbey's Green Label and Alcazar Vodka? Anyway, this presented me with the opportunity to drink Black Label. You see I did have a friendly face and was A1 when it came to conversation.
I took a large gulp from my drink, and stared at the White Shirt. Just them he happened to notice that I was looking at him. I picked up my glass and said, "Cheers". He smiled back and mouthed the same. I knew that this was my chance to help him finish his bottle of Scotch. I picked up my glass and walked up to him. "Satyajit Majumdar", I said extending my hand. He shook my hand and looked at me wondering what was it that I wanted.
I read his mind and couldn't help but laugh and sang out, "What was it you wanted...", a not so known Bob Dylan song, not that anyone in Krishna Bar could tell the difference between Bally Sagoo and Bob Dylan.
The White Shirt's response left me astounded. "Tell me again so I know", he completed the lyric that I had started.
"Well, you have me at a loss of words", said I.
"Ranjan, Ranjan Singh", he said and pointed to the vacant chair in front of him.
A moment of uncomfortable silence followed. I drained my glass empty and gently placed it on the table.
Without asking me he picked up the bottle of Black Label and poured me a rather stiff one.
"Thank you", I said
"I must say I find it quite surprising to see someone who can quote Bob Dylan here", he said.
"What's your excuse", said I.
"Just killing some time", he answered. He picked up his glass and it was then that I noticed the odd way in which he picked up his glass. His forefinger did not touch the glass at all.
"What are you saving the forefinger for? The wife or the mistress?” I said knowing that obnoxious statements could be potent ice breakers.
He laughed, "Neither actually, I am saving it for better things", he said.
"Didn't pick you up for one who swung that way", I continued the jibe.
"Aren't you getting a bit too cocky?” he replied coldly.
"Cocky! Pun intended there?” I laughed.
He looked straight at me. For a moment I could not tell what was going though his mind and then he burst out laughing. "You're a funny guy", he said and poured me another drink stiff drink though my glass was not yet empty.
"So what do you do? Ok let me guess, you're an investment banker who lost his job a few days ago. The market crash got you?” I said
"What did you say your name was? Mr. Knowitall?” he jeered.
"Come on, it's just something I do to amuse myself and incidentally that's what I do for a living. I am in the business of knowing people...in advertising you see", the moment I said it I knew that it must have sounded really pompous.
"Advertising! That must be cool. Let's just say, I do what I do to amuse myself", He said coldly.
"That's a good job to have and I must say you must be doing pretty well", I said
"Yeah I am not complaining", he said and picked up his glass again in the same peculiar manner the forefinger pointing at me as though he was going to shoot me with his make believe pistol.
"Why do you pick up your glass that way? Trust me you'll get a much better grip if you just use that forefinger too", I said.
"I have a pretty good grasp, even without my forefinger and how I hold my glass should not make any difference to you", he seemed a bit irritated.
I was quite tipsy by now. He poured me another drink.
"OK why don't you guess what it is that I do? Let me give you a clue, my forefinger plays a huge role in what I do", he said.
"You are a cricket umpire. You raise that finger and out goes an aspiring young batsman or a has been or a wannabe at Shivaji Park or Cross Maidan", I was most pleased with being so articulate.
"Impressive but not correct", he said and smiled and poured me another drink.
"You're, you're, you're a gig gigolo and impotent gigolo sho all you have left as tool of the trade are your fingers", I laughed.
He laughed loudly.
"Professhional...kite flyer?", I slurred.
I was now seeing double and the bottle in front of us was almost empty. I knew I had to be heading home now. So I drained my glass and without asking him emptied the rest of the bottle and finished the drink that I had poured myself in one quick gulp. I tired to get up but felt dizzy so I thought I''d just sit for a while.
"Spuriush stuff....made in Ulhashnagaar I think", I said.
"It tasted alright to me, maybe you should not drink so fast", I vaguely heard him say.
From the corner of my eye, I could see one dada / state corporator type walk in and being given the full treatment by the waiters. Even the owner of Krishna Bar had come up and was personally attending to him. My head was spinning. The white shirt in front of me was looking even whiter than before.
The marble top of the table felt cold against my cheek. And I was suddenly woken up by a loud noise. My head throbbed as I looked up and saw blood oozing out of the dada / state corporator's head. The chair in front of me was empty. I thought I saw the guy in the white shirt look at me and point his forefinger at me just as he walked out of the glass door which had a dolphin painted on it.
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