Kutilaneethi

Send in the clowns

2012-01-28T02:35:00.002-05:00

OK, it is not a strange at this point to hear the words circus and Republican primaries in the same sentence.

There was Herman Cain in his clown shoes, Rick Perry and jokes about his misstatements, Newt Gingrich and his amazing human canon ball act (I read that on an editorial online – I cannot do better) and Mitt Romney and his high wire juggling. Of course, as of writing this, with the exception of Romney and Gingrich, the others seem to have fallen by the wayside. In theory, Ron Paul is still in the race, but where is he? Santorum announced earlier today that he has no plans to end his campaign, but… he was going back home to Pennsylvania to do his taxes this weekend… In the middle of a campaign… are you serious? Well, I guess, if your campaign isn’t going anywhere, you might as well go home and do your taxes!

Unless… that was a sly reference to Romney – and his tax woes!

If there was any time this primary season Romney seemed off script, it was on the tax issue. First there was the refusal to release his return – he dropped the ball on that one. Then there was the faux pas of earning “little in speaking fees,” all little of $300,000 plus – another ball down. And then, there was the issue of paying taxes at the rate of 14% - man overboard, I should say! Of course, Gingrich got the best of that deal heading into the South Carolina primaries. He clearly came off smelling likes roses. He looked good in the debates and obviously did well at the polls.

The stars seemed to all align themselves just perfectly for the Newt! Romney’s fumble… and then the clowning performance of Juan Williams (Fox) and John King (CNN) just served to wind up the former House speaker. Williams’ charge of racism and King’s bringing up the ex-wife’s charges against Gingrich were clearly not objective and the debates offered him the perfect platform to blast them from. The former speaker realizing that lambasting the media scored points with the audience pushed his advantage the rest of the evening.

The entertainment value aside, this is the weakest slate presented by the Republican Party in my memory. I realize that the rise of the Tea Party and the din of partisan politics have made this all but inevitable, but I still think the party can offer better choices -- candidates who might have made for much more serious contenders come November. While not my personal choice, I think, certain high profile leaders from Florida and New Jersey would have been much more winnable choices on the Republican ballot. While there is much to be said about the party discipline of Republican voters, I cannot think of any among the present crop garnering a clear majority of unquestioned support from within the ranks of their own party. Throw a third party candidate into this mix and it could be even worse for Republicans.

More Greek Drama

2012-01-28T01:44:00.001-05:00

It’s choppy seas for the dollar this week as foreign-exchange markets focus on U.S. employment data, a European Union meeting and details of a Greek bond restructuring. Likely to rock the boat is January U.S. non-farm payrolls out Feb. 3, especially since it comes in the wake of the flaccid GDP numbers on Friday.

Expect to see a weak jobs number that could send the dollar lower as it increases the likelihood of a new round of bond buying by the Federal Reserve. That, in effect, pumps more dollars into the market, sending it lower against the other currencies. A strong payroll figure should hold the Fed from any such move firming the dollar.

But, the dollar is headed lower nevertheless… Last week the Federal Open Markets Committee reiterated its intention to continue boosting the economy with low interest rates for the next few years. Now, that should money scurrying out to places like India, China and even Europe where they are offering a better rate of return. The FOMC announced that it anticipates economic conditions are likely to warrant exceptionally low levels for the federal funds target rate at least through late 2014. The Fed had earlier suggested that it would keep rates low until mid-2013.

Long-term Europe does not look so hot. The market is still waiting to find some resolution to the continent’s sovereign debt crisis. European Union leaders meet in Brussels on Monday to take the next steps towards creating a permanent bailout mechanism and enforcing greater fiscal discipline among members. The party pooper might as yet be Greece, which is in negotiations with its creditors reach a deal to reduce its privately held debt. How the Greeks restructure their debt could signal how the other southern European move to resolve their liquidity problems. Clearly, I am not seeing an early resolution to that problem; at least not this week.

What are the odds of that!

2012-01-28T01:00:00.006-05:00

So, last year at the AP Reading, we played putput golf at one of those kitschy golf centers in Daytona Beach. Somehow, I managed to trap the ball on a cylindrical totem pole on a steep incline on the 8^th hole. No! It is not a testament to my skill since I very smartly brought up the rear in our six-some. However, how does one manage to trap the ball on so impossible a spot? I had been thinking about the occurrence (probably far more than it merited), because when I came back to the hotel I wrote about it… Months later as I am clearing up the random thoughts that I am given to confiding to my computer and I have come across this one. I am not sure how much clarity in this train of thought was induced by the half dozen G&Ts I consumed before I put fingers to keyboard…

According to Bayes' theorem, the probability of event A (trapping the ball on the totem) given event B (finding a totem on a green) depends not only on the relationship between A and B (i.e., finding a totem on a green) but on the absolute probability (trapping the ball on the totem) of A not concerning B (i.e., trapping the ball on the totem in general), and the absolute probability of B not concerning A (i.e. the probability of finding a totem on a green). Thus, if 95% of the putts sucked so much as to trap the balls on the totem, this could be due to 5% false positives, 5% false negatives (good putts), or a random mix of false positives and false negatives. Using Bayes' theorem allows one to calculate the exact probability of trapping the ball on the totem, given a consistently bad putt for each case, because the probability of B (finding a totem on a green) will be different for each of these cases. It is worth noting that if 5% of bad putts result in a trapped ball, then the probability that an individual traps the ball on the totem is rather small, since the probability of totem actually showing up on a putting green is closer to 1%. The probability of a totem on a green is then five times more likely than the probability of trapping the ball on the totem itself. Answering your question, it is entirely possible!
Clearly, I have far too much time on my hands….!

Back in a Hobbesian World

2011-11-03T22:35:00.001-04:00

A referendum on the Euro debt deal will mark the death of an idea. An idea that promised an end to the petty squabbles among nation states; whose advent should have marked the onset of a new multi-polar world. Reality is messy and visibly vulgar.

There is political and economic turmoil in Europe – people are out on the street in Italy and Greece and the tension is just below the surface in Portugal and Spain. The presence of police in riot gear suggests the era of supranational states is at an end. And that portends of the return to the realist world where states scrap with one another.

The debate surrounding the financial crises in Europe and the rescue of the euro is increasingly being cast in terms of national sovereignty. In a way it was inevitable. Over the last thirty years governments have abdicated financial authority to mobile financial capital, and blamed international financial institutions about their inability to do anything. At the same time, the free flow of information enabled by the Internet and global media networks have also constrained governments that in the past have controlled their populace by controlling their access to information. With the loss of the ability to control the population, state actors appear to have also lost the ability to protect them – from the blitz of foreign ideas, from the vagaries of international business cycles and the fickle flow of international capital.

Not ten years ago it was reasonable to suppose the postwar concord in Europe could be stretched to accommodate the re-balancing of global power. Everyone, it was thought, shared an interest in sustaining a rules-based international order. However, few waiting on the sidelines of the G20 meeting today harbor that view. Globalization is not a positive sum game.

The ideal of a common Europe was built on the understanding that European national interests were best achieved by co-operation. That made sense when the key drivers were France, Germany and the western core. In a sense the seeds of the Union’s unraveling were sown in its success. The current crisis casts the Union project as a zero sum game -- Greece, Portugal, Spain and Italy’s profligacy paid for by German taxpayers. While the Germany state will not say that, many individual Germans will. Greece, both the state and its citizenry, have their own views on the legitimacy of the Euro deal brokered by Angela Merkel and Nicolas Sarkozy.

All across the world, there appears to be a scale back from the orderly world of postindustrial constructivism to that of brass-knuckle realism. There are fights about recognition of sovereignty; seats on the United Nations Security Council and influence within global financial institutions.

Those who thought states would empower supranational institutions to make decisions for them are being forced to rethink their positions. Truth be told, the concept of global governance has always had a bit of a pie-in-the-sky quality to it. The suspicion that multi-lateralism was rigged in favor of western values and state interests was always alive in Asia, Latin America, Africa and Eastern Europe. But the idea that the end of multi-lateralism could start in the capitals of the Western world is a bit of a shock. The abuse of global financial system, the widening chasm between the have and the have-nots and the failure to achieve meaningful financial governance at home, have all served to bring western internationalist ambitions to heel.

In Europe, the Union, once touted as a global superpower is struggling to stay relevant just on the continent; while in America, all talk is about the parallels with Great Britain at the start of the last century. As unemployment rises and there are few signs of a robust recovery, calls for protectionism and economic partisanship are being heard in the American political debate. And its is not just the Tea Party in the United States or le Pen in France, the shrill voices of self-declared patriots all over the world are calling for a defense of national interests. Even in India and China, countries benefiting from globalization, there are few willing to stand up for it. As for the former U.S. Speaker of the House Tip O'Neill was known to say, "All politics is local."

Across North Africa and the Arab world, newly emboldened citizenry is demanding democracy, threatening to dislodge disobliging dictators. Their slogans are not about Pan-Arabism or globalization -- they champion their nations states. They might not acknowledge it, but Thomas Hobbes is their patron saint!

This you got to see...

2011-10-27T20:05:00.006-04:00

So all the buzz on the blogosphere (at least the corner that I frequent) is about the Begairat Brigade and their new song Aaloo Andey. Now, the name itself pegs the group squarely in Pakistan; but nothing prepared me for how much Daniyal Malik, Ali Aftaab, and Hamza Malik were prepared to walk the razor's edge. The band’s name in Urdu, “Begairat,” is best translated as “shameless.” I am guessing you already got the “brigade” bit.

Apparently, they are a band from Lahore – the cultural capital of Pakistan and that quintessentially Punjabi city. The Punjabi overtone is hard to miss on the track, which mixes Urdu, Punjabi and English seamlessly. Aaloo Andey is their debut release and what a way to start. OK, so there are no sacred cows in Pakistan!

;) Get the joke?!

They take shots at everything -- from inflation to the ISI (the country’s feared intelligence agency); and everyone -- from the Chief Justice to the Chief Executive and the Army Chief. They appear to lampoon segments of Pakistani society, which they say celebrate killers and assassins. They seem unafraid to speak up, even on issues that have polarized public opinion, such as the popularity of Mumtaz Qadri – the security guard who shot down Salmaan Taseer, the governor of Punjab province, for his stance on the country's infamous blasphemy laws. Taseer urged a review of the law alleging it was used to target minorities. This in turn earned him the ire of the religious right. Aaloo Andey mocks people who celebrate Ajmal Kasab, the only one of the Mumbai terror attack killers alive and in police custody and even the mullah who escaped the Red Mosque siege under a woman’s veil.

But where the group really goes out on the limb is when they take a shot at Pakistan’s Army Chief Ashfaq Kayani, and the unprecedented extension of his term. But leaving aside the smart puns and the cheeky references these young chaps are making a serious social comment about how brutish and insecure life has become for the average resident of Pakistan. It is got to be more frustrating than funny when they rhyme that no one cares about the illegal operations of the security firm Blackwater (an American mercenary outfit said to be operating alongside the U.S. military), when there are plenty of attacks planned and perpetrated by local goons. However, I had to smile when they touch on the deep seated paranoia in Pakistan that blames the Zionists for all the country's misfortunes -Ali Aftaab holds up a placard that says “This video is sponsored by Zionists”

While the message might be funny – the truth it conveys is not a joke. The seriousness of their actions is not lost on the band members. As they sign off, a very morose-looking Ali Aftaab holds up a sign that says, “If you want a bullet through my head – Like this video.”

Oh, to be young! And wanting to change the world!

Still Being Told

2006-12-29T00:55:00.001-05:00

Journalism was Jana
A free spirit – A lilting smile
Very friendly – still a messy pile
Of stuffed pillows
And Erin plain
Lived in jeans
Worn out sweaters. Stains
Steps and stairs and steps to climb
Where a tyrannosaurus mac
And Eniac’s cousin sat side by side
Discussin
Old tales and breaking news
Paginations and stock reviews
Dismal drop-down ceilings
Muffled the fluorescent glow
And aged squeaky chairs
When you sat, they sank low
I miss Express and such desi lairs
Samovars and Samarkhands
I miss canceled trains and Bombay bandhs
I miss deadlines, I miss the dead
Futures past and life I dread

Watch this space...

Updated Self

2006-12-29T00:18:00.000-05:00

Is OPEC cooking its golden goose?

2006-10-22T23:46:00.000-04:00

As OPEC members agree to cut production yet again, in the hope of shoring up crude prices at a time of weakening global demand; you don't have to be an analyst to see tough times for the cartel ahead. At present, the cartel pumps almost 40% of the world’s oil, and their decision will affect retail prices for gasoline and other petroleum derivatives in importing economies such as the USA, Japan, China, India and across Europe.

This OPEC meeting unfolds against a backdrop of global economic fragility. It is not the announcement of the output cut that will hurt -- I think the cut (heavily speculated) is already more or less factored into the market. There may yet be a short-term rebound in prices, but crude prices would eventually decline over the next year or two.

The U.S. will not doubt find the OPEC strategy to cut output “disappointing.” In the past U.S. Officials have stressed the need to step up crude production within the US. In fact the current administration has gone on the record in the past saying it wants to increase America’s energy production, to reduce reliance on imported oil. OK, GWB and DC have their eye on ANWAR. But, OPEC’s decision hammers home to everyone the importance of finding a domestic energy source and the need for a sustainable national energy policy that will ensure a stable, reliable, affordable and diverse energy supply.

Of course, OPEC could be shooting itself in the foot here, by ignoring signs from a weakening world economy. By propping up international energy prices, OPEC is not supporting the growing economies in Asia or the energy dependent mature Western economies. Additionally, OPEC will need to keep an eye on its 40% share of world oil production. High international prices will definitely fuel exploration and production in ex-OPEC regions, notably Siberia, the Caspian, Africa and South America. If the world economy is indeed slowing... OPEC's latest move could backfire. When oil can be found and produced for just $10 a barrel exploiting the world’s oil reserves is just too profitable at the current oil price. OPEC countries also need to support their energy-dependent customer economies, if they intend to be in business for long. Outside of traditional sources, surge over a critical price threshold could also push energy dependent economies to seek non-traditional sources. Japanese companies, notably its auto manufacturers have been developing alternative fuel engines for some years now. A workable engine burning something other than gasoline might not be that far off. Now, I am sure that's not good news to OPEC.

"What a difference a day makes..."

2006-10-22T23:15:00.000-04:00

When Kogi Kaishakunin gave me these tracks, I had no expectations. That's not a bad thing. Au contraire, it is the best way to start. But, I have been listening to Jamie Cullum since then, and then again and again... This chap is good. Cullum's is a crisp, but yet somehow lusciously thick sound; jazzy and yet not remote, and never too eccentric. A quick scout over the Internet... Apparently, he is becoming something of a one man British invasion. I see that he appears on late-night shows and does concerts stateside; promoting his album (or the one that I have) "Twentysomething," and doing his thing. BTW, the disc kicks off with a wonderful song "These Are the Days," which has all the elements of what makes a good jazz vocal track -- wonderfully nimble piano, simple yet meaningful lyrics, scat singing against a backdrop of a strong bass line. And do I detect the hiss of a record player?! If there is, that just a nice cute touch. The songs chosen (there are many covers on the album) play to the advantage of Cullum's nasal voice. And even when covering someone else's lyrics, he stamps it with his own originality -- the distinct nasal tone and nimble fingers over the keys. Not since Norah Jones have I been so pleased with so young a jazz musician. And yet, somehow, it is not old school jazz. Cullum brings a grungy, scruffy university beer pub feel to it. But, I'll take it.

Naghma e Azaadi

2006-02-15T00:50:00.000-05:00

So my friend Sambar is discovering urdu poetry written by Ramprasad Bismil.
Ok, he is getting it from the Bollywood flick, Range de Basanti; admittedly a strange place to pick urdu couplets… or is it. As a patriotic song Naghma e Azaadi is full of the stern stuff, but it does not quite live up to the poetic challenge. Of course, by saying this, I am opening myself up to some flaming idiot with an uber-nationalistic streak. But, I digress, Sambar’s piece was all about the movie, Bismil’s verse was just something he mentioned in passing. I have come to place stock in Sambar’s reviews – I mean to say, his review of Veer Zara certainly put me off the movie for good. I haven’t seen The Rising yet, and after reading the review, I am not certain I want to; but Rang de Basanti certainly seems to have the right ingredients.

But coming back to Bismil’s verse, I cannot help but notice, the verse is almost statement of intent.

“…waqt aanay dey bata deNge tujhe ay aasmaN,
ham abhi se kya batayeN kya hamare dil mein hai
khainch kar layee hai sab ko qatl honay ki ummeed,
aashiqoN ka aaj jumghat koocha-e-qaatil meiN hai.”

Read in the context of current politics, these are scary lines. All I can do is quote Ghalib.

“Pani se sag ghazeeda dare jis tarah
Dartaa hoon aayine se ke mardom ghazeeda hoon main.”

Damn Undergrads

2005-12-06T21:21:00.000-05:00

Undergrads make their decision to take a class based on the strangest criteria. One of my students told me that she wasn’t really expecting to learn anything in ‘this’ class, but she found the discussions I fostered in class to be really “interestin” and she liked how I “stressed there were no correct answers in politics.” What! Was I on pot or something? Wait, this gets better. She liked how I was “not all politically correct-en-all.” I guess, on that last count I must confess, I believe in equal opportunity insults, though I am not usually a stickler for that point in class, especially not the ones that I teach. I do suspect she was talking of the one time I referred to the French as the cheese-eating frogs. Of course, she did not allege I was an easy grader. I am a niggardly grader... What other pleasure does an underpaid, uninspired and underachieving graduate student have to look forward to? Still, I suppose I should take all that she said as a backhanded complement, but... Sigh!

Somewhere out there is a website called ratemyprofessor.com and I and almost any other people who have professed anything before a gaggle of undergrads across the US of A are listed on it. We are graded on Ease of the course, helpfulness and clarity, with terse epithets summing up our performance. Individual listings also sport chilly-pepper icons (to indicate hotness). Needless to say my grouse is that I don’t have one...

Very Trying!

2005-12-06T21:19:00.000-05:00

It is really hard to take yourself seriously, well any theory that you propose, when you cannot even devote the time to sketch it out in a convincing manner. I have been tooling with the draft of a research paper for far too long than I care to admit and I don’t think I have made much progress. Of course, the easy thing would be to blame it all on my fifteen-week old son… but I don’t think soliciting his intellectual contribution will further the cause of this doomed enterprise. Really! I think I need to exercise some discipline to make this three-ring circus work. While we are on that subject I don’t think I have put out a serious research note with any degree of perspicuity in the last two months. It has been the usual pedantic stuff. Suffice to say that I have just been driving on fumes. Even the STATA project at the University is stuck in second gear. Some days I am left with this immense sense of nothing! And I don’t know why? I am tired as hell!

So I was busy... What can I say...

2005-09-17T22:27:00.000-04:00

What kind of English do you speak? Me?

2005-08-01T18:20:00.000-04:00

Your Linguistic Profile:

40% General American English

35% Yankee

15% Dixie

5% Midwestern

5% Upper Midwestern

Figure out your own linguistic affinities here:What Kind of American English Do You Speak?

The Cheese Eaters Say 'Non'

2005-06-01T18:20:00.000-04:00

I find it ironic that rejection of the European Union constitution comes so resoundingly from ‘French’ voters. After all the idea of a single Europe united through trade at peace with itself, was first imagined by the French writer Victor Hugo in the mid-19th century. And it was in Paris in 1950s that the foundations for the modern EU were laid. Moreover for almost half a century the French have bandied about the idea of the EU as something uniquely French.

Having said that, I am not very surprised that the French derailed the EU. They have been moaning for some time now how the evolving EU is not quite ‘European’ in spirit and more Anglo-Saxon… The last time I looked both the Angles and the Saxons were from Europe, but isn’t it typically French to claim they are all for a ‘European’ Union and then grudge anything that does not look, sound or taste suitably French. One thing is certain -- the derailing of the one-Europe project will trigger a serious crisis in the EU. And I can’t wait to see on what grounds France will try to assert itself in Brussels.

The French ‘no’ coalition was manned by a motley bunch of domestic malcontents. At the top of the list were people moaning France's economic malaise; its 10% unemployment is often simplistically blamed on EU market reforms. Then there was the fear of the future admission of Muslim Turkey into the EU, and what that would mean for French jobs and rise of Islam in Europe’s heartland. Less tangible, but equally important, was the question of national identity and the popular belief in France's rightful place at the head of the European table. Never mind they have done little to deserve it. The admission of 10 nations to the EU last year not only brought in low-wage, market-oriented economies, but diluted French influence over the Brussels agenda and that is really what hurts collective French pride.

The media was full of a heart-broken French President, Jacques Chirac in the wake of the ‘no’ vote. But, I say spare no tears for Mr. Chirac. If anything, he is a victim of his own miscalculation. He has frequently used the EU as a tarbaby to deflect pressure from his government's tardy economic performance. No matter how passionately he then appealed to voters to say "yes", he couldn't turn this Brussels ennui around.

Many French voters saw the referendum as a chance to punish Mr Chirac. Having said that both Mr Chirac's political future and the direction of European integration face an uncertain future. Mr. Chirac, the wily politician that he is might have already deflected the blame – his prime minister, Jean-Pierre Raffarin resigned in the wake of the ‘no’ vote to be replaced by the colorful foreign minister Dominique Marie Francois Rene Galouzeau de Villepin.

The decision to seek the public’s opinion in a referendum was Mr Chirac's idea – apparently parliaments can ratify the EU constitution without one. Mr. Chirac sought public approval stating that "the honor and lifeblood” of democracy was at stake. The rejection amounts to a personal rebuff.

So where does the EU go from here? Well, that depends on whether the constitution is abandoned in its current form or a creative solution is found around the requirement that it must be adopted by all 25 member nations. The constitution is meant to streamline the EU's cumbersome workings and establish a president, foreign minister and a common foreign policy. As the Union has grown from its original six member nations, the need for transparent and efficient governmental mechanisms has become increasingly urgent.

The French and Dutch ‘no’ votes will push EU officials back into Brussels, possibly for a long hiatus. But the Union that has evolved over 50 years is unlikely to disappear overnight – French hubris notwithstanding. For now the EU will continue to operate under the treaty regulations of 2000. As for France, it will not withdraw, but last week’s ‘no’ vote has clearly dealt a cruel blow to any delusions it might have had about leading the EU.

A Long Haitus...

2005-05-31T18:17:00.000-04:00

It is nearly half a year to date since my last post, and despite promises to the contrary, I have not written one thing. Let me re-phrase that, I started out on half a dozen pieces but have failed to draw them to a satisfactory conclusion. No excuses. I just couldn't do a thing.

We have lots of big news on the home front. A big hurrah for the missus -- now officially a doctoral candidate. We are also expecting out own little bundle of joy this fall. And that promises to bring in lots of change into our lives. More on that in future posts. Stay tuned...

Humne Sab Sheyr Main Sawaare The

2005-01-01T13:44:00.000-05:00

Humne sab sheyr main sawaare the
Humse jitney sookhan tumhare the

Rang-o-khushbu ke husne-o-koobhi ke
Tumse the jitney istiyaare the

Tere kaulon-karaar se pehle
Apne kuch aur bhi sahaare the

Mere daman main aa gire saare
Jitne tasht-e-falaq main taare the

Jo saaye door charagon ke girdh larzaa hain
Na jaane mehfila-e-gham hain ki bazm-e-jaam-o-suboor

Jo rang har dar-o-deeewar par pareshaan hain
Yahan se kuch nahin khulta ye phool hain ki lahu

Working on something a bit long-winded, meanwhile enjoy Faiz.
Cheers!

Tumsa Nahin Dekha (or should I say Mujhe Nahin Dekhna)

2005-01-01T13:08:00.000-05:00

It is New Year’s day, am a bit under the weather and to add to my misery, there is a really pandu (S’s terminology not mine) Hindi movie on the tele. It is a sappy, soppy story about a rich boy and a poor girl. I am probably stating the obvious here, but why are so many Hindi movies so clichéd. Talking about movies, you just have to read Sambar’s take on Veer-Zaara.

Oye! Ki Gal Karda Hain?

2004-09-28T13:17:00.000-04:00

So, people are always telling me I write disparagingly about S. Not true, I protest! But, the issue remains, the things that get my goat usually have something to do with S; and these are the things that go up on the blog. Anyway, a blog is a blog is a blog. This is neither my shrink's couch nor the confession.

The truth is, S and I do lots of fun things together, some of which gets written about, most not. S does not seem to mind what I write about so much, until people bring it up. So, if you see a trend, my suggestion is, please don’t!

Having said that, is this point this blog jumps the shark? I don’t know…

2004-09-28T10:53:00.000-04:00

S and I pic by Mo
Posted by Hello

Camera! Camera!

2004-09-28T10:42:00.000-04:00

So I have a new toy – a Casio digital camera - my last splurge before going onto a student budget. I got a decent deal on it ($150 on Ebay, list price $400); not bad for a 4mp camera, eh! It had decent reviews online and the images (so far) appear satisfactory. I've had it for a fortnight now, but haven't really gone trigger happy with it. I'll have pics from it online soon. While the QV-R40 is small and cute the viewfinder is really tiny; as is the LCD screen. S has an Olympus, which has an easier interface. Once the pics are downloaded the Qv-R40 images are comparable to the Olympus.

What Was I Thinking?!

2004-09-27T01:17:00.000-04:00

A panda walks into a cafe. He orders a sandwich, eats, then draws a gun and fires two shots in the air. "Why?" asks the confused waiter, as the panda makes toward the exit. The panda produces a badly punctuated wildlife manual and tosses it over his shoulder. "I'm a panda," he says, at the door. "Look it up." The waiter turns to the relevant entry and, sure enough, finds an explanation. "Panda. Large, black-and-white bear-like mammal, native to China. Eats, shoots and leaves."

Eats, Shoots & Leaves: The Zero Tolerance Approach to Punctuation
by Lynne Truss

This is a hugely interesting book! So interesting that I was riveted to the loo seat. Seriously -- And I don't use the phrase lightly! I began thumbing through a copy, which I had picked up from a thoughtfully provided pile within reach, when seated in Narayanan’s loo and I lost track of time.

Passions always run high in our household when we start talking punctuation. S tends to use semicolons and colons interchangeably and vice versa. It wouldn't be such an issue if she didn't bring her writing to me for a read; thus necessitating a long and increasingly grouchy explanation of why she is doomed to go to the hell reserved for the syntactically-challenged. To me confusing the colon with the comma borders on an immoral vagueness. I once read somewhere -- if you can't punctuate properly, you probably aren't thinking properly in the first place. I couldn't agree more.

What really gets my goat is the misdirected apostrophe. Like, "… recent reading's have led me to conclude…" Yes, begone, conclude yourself. I guess, this is the point that in medieval Japan the Kogi Kaishakunin would be sent off to dispatch the offending grammarian… But, I digress.

Lynne Truss's small, but eminently readable book is a defence of punctuation. She laments the name of the pop group Hear'Say, pounces on newspaper headlines with missing apostrophes, and tells us how she once demonstrated outside a cinema showing the film Two Weeks [sic] Notice, with a large cardboard apostrophe on a stick.

The book sketches out a clear history of punctuation marks and their usages - commas, dashes, brackets (or lunulae) and so on; ending with a plea to preserve our punctuation, when advertisers, academics, not to mention e-mailers and text-messagers and other anti-social elements are conspiring to destroy it.

Truss is funny too… in a reserved kind of English manner. But at times, the reader goes away feeling she is trying too hard. Like the point she volunteers to have 15th century Venetian printer Aldus Manutius's babies… What was that all about?

Alarmingly, Eats, Shoots & Leaves might turn you into a Lady Macbethian punctuater, exorcising the ghosts of your past excesses on every new thing you read, especially over the 24 hours following your reading of the book.

This is then a clever little book, and I don't mean clever in the American sense. It conveys a considerable amount of useful information, teasing out apparent contradictions and explaining correct usage.

If you ever wondered about whether (or how) to use a semi-colon, or why it's it's and not its, then you will enjoy this book. This is not a style guide, nor an absolute reference. It is a very readable book on grammar that does not lay claims to being one. It's a fun book on profound thoughts. Perhaps one that you might be tempted to leave within reach on occasions when you might have a few moments to contemplate such weighty issues. Thanks Narayanan, for leaving this book by the loo!

2004-09-20T19:02:00.000-04:00

Shoosh at her wedding
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Shoosh and Po Yo's Wedding

2004-09-20T07:02:00.001-04:00

This is one wedding I'll remember for a while. For one, we made it there on time. As for the other, I had the most stimulating conversation I’ve had for months.

Shoosh and Po Yo tied the knot – two weeks ago. It was a many-layered affair, not unlike their wedding cake - There was the wedding ceremony at a church in the City (to me the City is always New York City), the exchange of vows at the winery in New Jersey -- the logistics of which were handled, for the most part, by the bride and groom. Mind you, it wasn't the easiest of things, with people flying in from as far afield as Taiwan, the groom working his rotations in the New York hospital system and the bride at the Wall Street sweatshop equivalent.

Shoosh has been working really hard at this wedding, and it was just wonderful to see it all unfold according to her plan. S and I just turned up for the rosette on the cake – the charming ceremony at the winery. It was just the right weather driving in from across the Delware River – gentle breeze and cloudy bright, with no hint of the heavens threatening to open up. Po Yo was running around arranging flowers, checking to see if the champagne was chilled, making sure everything was just so! You wouldn’t think it was his wedding.

As we mingled, we realized there were very few guests – a few friends from their days at Johns Hopkins, a few close relatives, their parents and us! To the initiate of Indian ceremonies (with its few hundred attendees at the very least), this came as a total surprise.

Just then Shoosh floated in on a breeze in her wedding whites looking like a million bucks and every bit a beautiful bride -- meaning to say, nothing like my buddy from work. She seemed to be suffering from nothing like the wedding day jitters and we spoke of this that and the other before she moved on to welcome the others.

The ceremony itself was simple – Milad, with his background in divinities officiated. Shoosh has known him and his significant other, Babette, since Hopkins. She apparently took classes in Comparative French Literature taught by Babette. Milad spoke about the occasion, the couple and the ties that bind; his address punctuated occasionally by ebullient outbursts from Shoosh's year-old niece chortling over the antics of the winery's cat out on the prowl. If Shoosh had some concerns about la chat noire, she hid them well. Then again, knowing how she organized the whole thing, maybe she had some salt ready at hand.

The brief ceremony over, we repaired to the dining room, while the bride and groom took a detour among the vines… for some pictures. I've posted some taken by Babette below.

S and I mingled some more. I had the strangest sense of déjà vu -- I knew many people at the party, having heard about them from Shoosh, not the least of who were Milad and Babette, with whom we shared a table.

We had the strangest conversation over the wedding dinner ranging from the origins of Milad's name (which in Arabic means Noel), the legitimacy of the Hadeeth, whether Hinduism is indeed a polytheistic religion, to how elephants practice sex (I forget how that one started). Between Milad and I, we had poor Rik and Victoria all in splits, and poor Jean all embarrassed (I was later to learn). I never did find out what Babette thought about the whole thing. We had a raging conversation, which was all so strange (yes, even more than the oysters with shoes), for I had never met any of them before, not in the flesh anyway.

The clink of a spoon called the gathering to order. Shoosh's dad was visibly moved as he made his address – I was too. Though, I suspect, in my case it was the wine. It always tends to bring out my sensitive side. Fresh courses lubricated the wheels of conversation – we moved on to dessert and coffee, just as they opened up the dance floor.

2004-09-20T07:02:00.000-04:00

Shoosh & Po Yo - Pic by Babette
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Dilli Door-O-Dusth

2004-09-19T21:42:00.000-04:00

Yes, it's been a while getting that blog out. Between getting back to school (yes, I am back plugging away at that ol' PhD. again), juggling the job and trying hard as hell to get into shape, I haven't had much time in recent weeks.

Amid all that, C in London had me working on some new analytics package he is trying to sell to clients in Europe. I had a one-day notice on that. I threw together a couple of options pieces, a few macro articles, the odd strategy, laid it all over a composite fx forecast, laced liberally with event and data calendars for emerging markets, Australasia, Europe and North America and voila! Hope it does the trick.

Having said, that I find myself doing less and less intra-day stuff; my forecasts have been going more medium-term over the last few days. Concomitantly, my input into the next quarterly fx outlook is sure to be scaled back. Meanwhile, I am working on a macro-piece on oil. I'll have to bring on J and CMC on board for their tech view. Don't know how they’ll respond… Guess, the blog will have to wait a bit more… Oh, Well! Dilli Door-O-Dusth.

Cricket In A Sunburned Country

2004-09-02T22:16:00.000-04:00

I have just finished reading a most interesting book. In A Sunburned Country (sold in the U.K. as Down Under) is mostly about Australia. It is a travel book written by Bill Bryson, who, I suspect, is an American who has spent a good many years in Europe.

The book carries the reader along at a steady pace, neither hurrying him, nor boring him to distraction with too many details.

The bit I found most hilarious was about cricket. Well, Bryson is crisscrossing the island-continent-country Down Under in a car, when he chances upon a cricket game on the radio.

Listening to cricket commentary on radio, according to Bryson, is "like listening to two men sitting in a rowboat on a large, placid lake on a day when the fish aren’t biting; it's like having a nap without losing consciousness. It actually helps not to know quite what’s going on. In such a rarefied world of contentment and inactivity, comprehension would become a distraction."

Bryson goes on to comment on the commentary... "Neasden, it appeared, was turning in a solid performance at square bowel, while Packet had been a stalwart in the dribbles, though even these exemplary performances paled when set aside the outstanding play of young Hugo Twain-Buttocks at middle nipple. The commentators were in calm agreement that they had not seen anyone caught behind with such panache since Tandoori took Rogan Josh for a stiffy at Vindaloo in '61."

When you think about it, that's exactly how it would sound to someone who has never watched the game before in his life and is not privy to its joys.

In A Sunburned Country touches on variety of interesting aspects of travel that I haven’t encountered in a run-of-the-mill travel book -- vast expanses, primeval landscapes and improbable creatures. His travelogue is sprinkled with history and contemporary culture notes, all of which are inevitably amusing.

But, it is the bit about cricket that sticks to my mind, like the aftertaste of Bailey's after a nightcap.

About the game itself, this is what Bryson has to say. This excerpt is from Notes From A Small Island, a book about Britain.

"(Cricket) is the only sport which shares its name with an insect. It is the only sport in which spectators burn as many calories as players (more if they are moderately restless). It is the only competitive activity of any type, other than perhaps baking, in which you dress in white from head to toe and be as clean at the end of the day as you were at the beginning

"... Imagine a batter wearing a riding hat, heavy gloves of the sort used to handle radioactive isotopes, and a mattress attached to each leg. Imagine moreover that if this batsman fails to hit the ball in a way that heartens him sufficiently to waddle sixty feet with mattresses strapped to his legs he is under no compulsion to run, he may stand there all day and, as rule, does...

"If by some miracle he is coaxed into making a misstroke that leads to him being put out, all the fielders throw up their arms in triumph and have a hug... imagine all of this going on for so long that by the time the match concludes autumn has crept in and library books are overdue. There you have cricket."

I am sure to recall that bit and sport a smile the next time I stride out to the wicket from the clubhouse...

"Even Buffalos Don’t Drink Water In This Season"

2004-09-01T23:23:00.001-04:00

(Pothungoodi vellam kuddikyatha kalamanne)

Malayalam is the first language I learned to speak, and over the years, I have discovered the richness in its expression, both profane and profound… sometimes even confounding, hard to beat.

If, I like something better than a punch-line in Malayalam, it is a Malayalam punch-line translated into English. An appropriately-flavoured translation could easily fuel an entire evening’s worth of conversation. A true translation had to be tart and trite just as its original in Malayalam.

Over the years, I have come across some choice phrases like – I am here to shave buffalos (what’s with Mallus and their buffalos, anyway); or the more extreme... I will have your funeral feast (Ninnde pulisseri kazzikyum).

Or the one in the title… That one was a favourite of a high school teacher of mine. Sir Raghunathan used that when we asked to be excused to have a drink of water, especially during the rains. Raghunathan, a native of Kerala, taught math and science in a school in suburban Bombay, and he spiced his language with the choicest of Malayalam phrases. Of course, you had to know the language fairly well to comprehend what he was talking about, and the full impact was lost on most of my classmates. But, the Mallus in class, and we were a few, had quite a laugh.

There was the classic -- "Don't hand me the stick to give you a beating."
(Vadi kodutthu adi vangikyade)

Then there was -- Don’t get into the gun and shoot, ah!"
(Tokkil keri vedi vekyadde)

That was directed at Vijay, was one of the poor sods conscripted by his parents for extra tuitions with Sir R. Vijay had recognized one of the questions on a test as one he had managed a sneak peak at while they were being formulated at Sir R’s table. He was just about to share his rare and prescient observation with his dullard mate in the backbenches when Sir R’s voice boomed across the room. Needless to say, Vijay made no further moves towards the trigger.

There was one comment reserved for the more inconsistent and distracted ones among us. “You are either on the master’s chest or in the courtyard outside.”

That one got my vote as the uber-profound phrases of all time. For the Mallus who didn’t recognize that one. It’s… “Onnugil Aashan-de nenjattu, alyangil Kalari-de purathu.”

Christ! Trust Sir R to make math class a cultural experience!

What Was I Thinking?!

2004-09-01T22:42:00.000-04:00

Another alcohol-induced epiphany:
When it gets down to it, have you considered how ugly most people are? Pity, they don’t try to make up for it by being agreeable.

What Was I Thinking?!

2004-08-23T13:20:00.000-04:00

OK! Here is my thesis then: Women deal better with age than men do! They get peppier and manage to remain enthused about everything with every passing year. As for men... Well, we just age! As I looked up from the street into Cuba Libre, I felt seriously dated. It was at that point I realized that I hadn't been in a club for over eight years!

Our friends joined S and I for dinner at the DiNardos, a sea-food place in the Old City in Philadelphia over the weekend. We were done fairly early and some of us decided the night was still young and we should go dancin' instead of dessert. There were a fair number of happenin' places just round the block and we headed thataway.

To be very honest, if I danced after every meal, maybe, I could save on my gym dues. S and I are not what you'd call conscious weight-watchers. We are usually on a see-food diet we see food, we eat it!

So we walked a couple of blocks towards Penn's Landing and the clubs. We, in this case, being R, Mumbhai, Mo, Dr. Clean, S and I.

Café Spice seemed like a very desi-adda. The neon over the entrance only suggested a desi-motif, but the few people inside were unmistakable dal-khor. It was just past 8 pm and the bar was about as happening a place, as my neighbourhood church on a Friday evening. Nobody would be shakin a leg until a little later.

We headed across the street to Cuba Libre, supposedly, the chief hangout place hereabouts. While there were a lot of people hanging around the entrance, it seemed like very few of the people outside actually went in. Maybe, it was the rather large man at the door -- the dude who carded me.

I always get carded when I go out with S! Maybe, it's because she looks fifteen and I look like the dirty ol' cradle snatcher! That would definitely explain the dodgy looks I get!

The bar at Cuba Libre is a shoe-box, with the counter set along the wall. It is a small space and looked crowded with just a few people standing around the bar. R wove her way through to the far side and the barmaid's station, followed by Mo, Dr. Clean, Mumbhai, S and I. Mumbhai bought us each a Mojito. At $7 a piece, I understood why the crowds stayed outside.

We made an abortive attempt at conversation over the loud, heavy music, but soon gave up as we slipped back into a curtain-lined alcove. Beyond the heavy drapes to our back was the dining-area, which would be cleared out to open the dance floor. But, not for a while. We hoped the lounge upstairs would be opened. Meanwhile, we sipped our Mojitos and bided our time. However, there is only so long you can stretch a drink, and after a while, we decided to step out.

We hadn't quite made up our minds about where we wanted to hang out even as we drifted into Continental. From the outside it looked like your neighbourhood diner -- all chrome and tile, but the inside was surprisingly 'cool', rather 'retro-modern, meets the cover of high fidelity'. The menu was definitely interesting, especially if you cared for fusion food.

We had just moved to Dinner - Part Deux, when some of Dr. Clean's friends from the city joined us. With ample impetus from one of 'the friends', the conversation took off. It was all over the place -- from revitalization of Philadelphia to Salman Khan's proclivity to shedding his shirt in every scene. And was there something mentioned about Shilpa Shetty's navel? It's all a bit hazy right now. Anyway, Mumbhai seemed really intent on getting 'the friend' up the chic-pea tree. Oh! It was hilarious!

Dinner done, we went back to Café Spice. The place seemed to be definitely more populated now. There were a few men my age... In all fairness, they were probably a bit younger than I was, but my self-image stopped getting older the day I turned thirty. The men stood awkwardly in groups of twos and threes, some nursing a drink, some wearing an expression that might have been more appropriate at a funeral. Most were dressed casually in blacks and grays (there is that funeral theme again), though some sported rather clubby shirts. You know, the kind that sticks to your frame and make your biceps look bigger than they actually are. Anyway, a high fashion appearance none did sport.

The women, on the other hand, were dressed to kill. They all seemed rather young to me. They were clustered in groups of fours and fives. They giggled, and every now and then pointed at something (or someone) and laughed. The few, who were with men, seemed to be looking around the room hoping they could snag someone better. The men, they were with, just stared over the head of their partner in fear that they would be rejected again.

The DJ began pumping out the music over the industrial-sized speakers, and some people began tapping their feet while others shook their head from side to side I guess, we were not dancing yet.

A mem stumbled past us and ran smack into the wall, before collapsing in the doorway. The bouncer rushed in to help her get up, but man was she pissed! Someone called for an ambulance, as a crowd gathered to watch the spectacle. The bouncer and his buddy were doing all they could to keep her from going into shock; that's when she threw up!

My friend, Basak had this theory that you never really buy a drink at a bar You only rent it You pick it up at the bar and... Well, I had to use the facilities, again.

On my way back I noticed the women had laid claim to one of the cubicles set into the wall like an alcove. Mumbhai sat at the edge of the table looking like he had run out of steam, Dr. Clean appeared very disinclined to join the festivities on the floor, even as music with a heavy beat began pulsing through the room. The DJ shifted gears and the backbeat sounded vaguely familiar. That was a definitely a tappa beat; and were those words Hindi? I really couldn't tell. But apparently, R and Mo could, and they were on the floor. S let herself be persuaded to step in too. This was not dancing as I knew it. Everyone was staging their own little show. Anyway, the women seemed to be having a good time.

Kutilaneethi

2004-08-20T13:12:00.000-04:00

Damn! I got beat to this post by John Snow. The U.S. Treasury Secretary came out and said on Friday morning that the oil price rise is a bubble! Big deal, I said that earlier this week, when CNBC started touting their “how the average investor can capitalize on rising oil price” specials. When the “average investor” gets to the table, you know the market is ripe for plucking!

Friday we saw yet another record in the price of a barrel of crude oil, as it topped $49 a barrel on the New York Mercantile Exchange. Suddenly $50 a barrel is a very real possibility and the talk has moved to $60.

Consider this: Oil has risen over 50% in the past year. Much of that gain I see as unjustified. Sure, there is all the talk about India and China guzzling down all the oil, but that is really a lot of baloney. China was definitely running its engine on all cylinders last year and the year before. If anything, it is tapping the brakes on the economic engine now, by tightening credit and flexing policy muscles.

At least in some circles higher oil prices are being explained as a function of higher-than expected global demand, tight supplies, an increased risk of terror attacks and the decline in efficiency in production as the oil industry's infrastructure ages. That is excellent sop to feed the press, but it ain’t flyin here!

Sure, global demand is high, but look at supply – it is at record levels too. The current level of global inventory is about 300 million barrels.

Fear about reduced output capacity is also unjustified. The Organization of the Petroleum Exporting Countries (OPEC), which pumps out about 40% of the world's oil, has some 2.1 million barrels per day of excess production capacity. Moreover, oil producers continue to pump out oil at higher levels than before.

The threat of terror attacks is the only factor, I see as having some justification; but even terrorist actions tend to be localized and they seldom cut supplies drastically. At the present time a hefty fear premium has been built into the price of oil. That’s bid up prices $10 or more higher than where supply and demand intersect. The market cannot bear this premium for too long and it has to come down at some point.

In case you are wondering why the economy has not caved in as it did in the 1980s…. Well, for one inflation is not a threat – not enough to feed through the oil prices and destabilize the economy. Oil prices, adjusted for inflation, aren't as high as the early 1980s. There are indications that the current environment is fed primarily by speculators looking to make a buck now that other markets have grown ploddy.

That brings us to Yukos. Well, it looks like the company might go belly up after all. The Russian government is unlikely to forgive its sins, but they are unlikely to shut off the supply completely. Russia needs the cash that Yukos' oil generates. In all likelihood Yukos will be sold to another smaller Russian oil company or to a multi-national that can re-equip it and start pumping oil with a short turnaround.

In short, its time you short the market and pocketed your profits, cause this is as far as this ride goes!

Kocchu Karyangallude Tamburaan

2004-08-18T00:54:00.000-04:00

Another blog that owes its existence to comments by Kuts and the whole train of thought set off by Narayanan's recounting of Kerala history.

Narayanan and I got into this discussion about how pervasive Hindu (for want of a better label) symbolism had become in Kerala. 'Gods own country' was once the bastion of 'the most excellent law,' he said.

In case you did not get that bit, Buddhism is also called the faith of the most excellent law.

This came as a revelation to me for having spent most of my life in Bombay, I am not particularly aware of the rest of the country. Sensing a hesitation, Narayanan began plying me with examples.

"What do you know of Karumadikuttan?"

"That, he is an especially dark-skinned boy?"

He brushed aside my attempt at corny humour.

"Karumadikuttan, is a statue of Buddha near Ambalapuzha. It is at least ten centuries old. And it is not the only marker Buddhism left behind."

He went on to list a litany of objects and edifices, most of which I dont remember (a couple of neat Bacardis can do that to you). But he did provide the spark that lit the fuse.

My search led me to see the history of Kerala, and indeed Western and Southern India, in a very different light.

Among the first truly organized theological groups to reach, what is today Kerala, were the Jains. They predated the Buddhist missions of Emperor Ashoka by at least a hundred and fifty years.

Jainisms big push south came around 300 BC, under the patronage of Emperor Chandragupta Maurya (321-297 BC) and a Jain monk - Bhadrabahu. Jainism, apparently had a strong and broad-based following. Many Hindu temples in Kerala today, began their life as Jain shrines ostensibly.

The chief prathista of Kudalmanikkam Temple near Irinjalakuda in Trissur District is for all intents and purposes is Lord Rama`s younger brother Bharata. However, Ive read that it was originally a shrine dedicated to Bharateshwara, a Jain saint. A Bhagavati Kshetram near Perumbavur still features the carved images of Paraswanta, Mahavira and Padmavati.

Buddhism formally came to the South of India through the missions sent out by Emperor Ashoka. The Emperor`s son Mahindra headed a Buddhist mission to Sri Lanka. For more than 700 years, Buddhism flourished in Kerala. The Paliyam Copper plate of the Ay King, Varaguna (885-925AD) shows that at least in South Kerala, Buddhists continued to enjoy royal patronage well until 1000 AD.

They say, there is ample archeological evidence that many Hindu temples were once Buddhist shrines. Among the ones counted on this list are Vadakkunathan Khsetram in Trissur and the Kurumba Bhagawathi temple in Kannur. Buddhist statuary and iconography have been discovered in close proximity of Hindu temples in Tamil Nadu and Kerala. In the coastal districts of Kerala, especially Allapuzha, they are unearthed with alarming frequency. This is also the seat of Karumadikuttan.

Almost every town with the word pally (palli) attached to its name was almost certainly a Buddhist center. The word palli is associated with the Christian church in Kerala today, but the word has its origin in the Buddhist word for a center of learning. Hence the persistence of names like Pallikudam, Kanjirappalli and Villiappally.

So what caused Jainism and Buddhism to disappear? The Hindu Revival championed by Adi Shankara is of Kaladi is offered as the primary reason.

But, that is a simplistic answer. Over a period Buddhism lost its royal patrons, who likely switched their allegiance to Hinduism. Maybe the royals resented the growing economic power of the monks, or the fact that the lands belonging to the monasteries could not be taxed or simply that they represented an alternate powerbase. Whatever the reason, by the turn of the first millennium, Hinduism was on the resurgence in Kerala.

History offers a date around 700-800 AD for the arrival of Vedic Brahmins in Kerala. They travelled along the West coast, likely by invitation from a Kadamba King. The name of King Udaya Varman of Mooshika dynasty is associated with the settling of 237 Brahmin families in Kerala. One lore recounts how six outstanding Brahmins defeated Buddhist monks in public debates and established the intellectual supremacy of Hinduism. Tales of the genius of Shankaracharya also serve to reinforce the legend of superiority.

By this time Hinduism also found powerful patrons in the Kulashekara kings of the Second Chera Empire. The royal patronage of Brahmins brought about radical changes in the social, political and cultural landscape of Kerala.

Communities living on the soil like the Ezhavas, most likely Buddhists once, were absorbed into Hindu fold. The Ezhavas are themselves a very interesting people. Until the advent of Hindu revival and the emergence of Nairs, they were the dominant social group in Kerala. They were originally immigrants from Ezham, (Tamil for island) likely Sri Lanka. The original sons of the soil, were no doubt, buried under tons of soil, or lots of toil in any event.

Returning to our story the old Gods were not thrown away. Those that could be, were co-opted into the emerging Hindu fold like Bharateshwara and numerous Bhagavatis. Others objects of worship like the Sarpangal and Bhramharakshas were relocated away from temples and outside the Pradikshina-patham, but were still revered and paid homage to.

With established social mores and a system of education hard-wired into the social structure, the Buddhists were not a walkover. For almost a thousand years they had provided religious and social guidance to the people. Buddha (and Buddhist ideals) continued to be worshipped for a while. Even today, say some, Sastha or Ayyappa, is a Hindu veneer on Buddha. It is easy to make that leap - Swami Sharanam sounds remarkably like Buddham Charanam!

(Caveat: Most of the information here is from what I have read (online, books and journals), and the jottings I have made over the months from talking to people who seem to know a great deal about this issue. I make no claims about its source or accuracy just my take on how I have come to understand my slice of history. And yes, I apologize for the rip off title. Apologies to Arundhati Roy.)

Bryn Athyn Cathedral

2004-08-15T19:27:00.004-04:00

Halfway, stands a church
Large scraggy walls,
Imposing façade,
A bell tower that would do
Nebuchadnezzar proud.
I like to run my finger
Across the wrinkled stone.
Resting my cheek
Against the cool wall,
Smelling the wetness,
Communing to the soul
Of the stone.
I am petrified!

(-from God’s House on King)

I wrote that on a wet afternoon in late fall standing across from the church on King Ave in Columbus many years ago.

I've always liked the vast quietness of old churches and cathedrals. I like the silence and peace insulated from the noise and misery of the world outside. I like the hushed footfalls that echo in the haloed gloom and how whispers amplify themselves within the stone walls. I like to look up to the feathery heights of the vaulted ceiling, supported by carved wooden beams— airy, yet enduring. I like the way the light dribbles through the thick, plain glass wrought high above in myriad petals, and yet how it transforms the coloured panes into a radiant screen.

I scarcely pass by an opportunity to visit an old church. I am not into flashy monstrosities that are filled with people. I prefer the quiet ones trod by few feet. My favourite is the old cathedral in Exeter in the South of England. Though, my fondness has grown in recent years for one not far from where I live these days.

Stumbling across the cathedral was a stroke of luck. I was hunting covered bridges in Montgomery and Bucks counties a few years ago. It was one of those quaint projects I assign myself from time to time. I was driving across Bryn Athyn when I saw the spire rise over the treetops. I was smitten.

I remember the first visit, my footfalls softly echoing as I crossed the length of the church and towards the altar. At the far end, the chancel was cast in a purple haze created by daylight filtering through red and blue stained-glass windows. Later, as I sat and listened, an old chant rose from a side chapel where a priest was saying mass. It punctuated the silence, emphasizing the solemnity of reverence and glory.

Bryn Aythn (Welsh for Hill of Cohesion) Cathedral is built in the Gothic-Romanesque style. Work started in 1913 and it took more than 30 years to complete. When the project was completed, the Great Depression was still raging and the principal patron, John Pitcairn, I am told, commissioned the Glencairn House next door just to keep the workers employed. That is a beautiful edifice too. Its quaint charm heightened by a cloistered garden with a Moorish fountain set in the center and a Julietesque balcony overlooking it.

I have come back many times to walk the grounds and the surrounding landscape, which is almost as beautiful as the cathedral itself. And I try to bring back as many people as possible to its joys.

2004-08-15T18:37:00.000-04:00

Bryn Athyn Cathedral, Bryn Athyn, PA
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Never offend people with style when you can offend them with substance. - Sam Browne

2004-08-13T12:49:00.000-04:00

Now there's a thought!

De Gustibus Non Est Disputandum…

2004-08-12T00:04:00.000-04:00

My most recent copy of the Bloomberg magazine (gratis with my Bloomberg account, I suppose) has an interesting gobbet from Schott’s Food & Drink Miscellany (review here).

I am very fond of this section in the Bloomberg. I might gloss over the other sections – the self-promotional bits about how traders use the special Bloomberg functions to maximize profits; and tips on new analysis strategies on the financial terminals etc. However, the bits on food, I never skip.

The Schott write-up focuses on how this bird called ortolan is prepared. This is a gourmet affair, you understand. You may never have heard of an ortolan, much less eaten one. For those of you from the U.K., this is the bunting we are talking about.

Anyway, Ben Schott, in the second in his series of quirky compendiums of gastronomical information, offers grisly details on how the ortolan is prepared.

“The traditional method of preparing and eating ortolan is as curious as it is barbaric,” he writes.

“The tiny birds are caught alive and kept in a dark box (or blinded) so that they gorge themselves continually on grain. Once they distend way beyond their natural size, the birds are drowned in Cognac, plucked and roasted.

“After their heads have been cut or bitten off, ortolans are eaten whole (bones and all) from underneath a napkin – to hide the shame of such cruelty and gluttony from the sight of God.”

The manner of eating was apparently, devised by a monk who wanted to hide his gluttony from God’s gaze.

By no means is the ortolan the extreme in French cuisine from what I hear. A friend and I have been having talking, co-incidentally, about this very same issue – the excess of French cuisine.

Some of the pre-revolutionary parties were wild to the extreme in their cuisine. One recipe from Alexandre Dumas’ Le Grand Dictionnaire de Cuisine comes to mind - Rotie al'Imperatrice – the dish fit for the Empress. It involved dressing, marinating and stuffing a series of birds into another, from the smallest to largest. It all began with a fresh olive... which was pitted. In place of the pit was placed an anchovy, which was then placed in the mouth of the thrush... I think the smallest bird was a thrush, the largest a turkey. The birds were then all stuffed into a suckling pig before it was roasted. You cut through a section to get bits of all the meats... But the best bit, apparently, was the olive which was fused with the essence of the taste of everything else around it...

BTW, I have heard, eating the ortolan is banned in France. but I have also heard that long after it was banned, President Mitterrand reportedly had two for one of his last meals… his head covered by napkin and all.

There's no accounting for taste…

2004-08-11T23:11:00.000-04:00

New York, New York
Posted by Hello

Kutilaneethi

2004-08-10T23:44:00.000-04:00

The U.S. Federal Reserve hiked rates 25bps to 1.50% and said the U.S. economy is about to grow stronger again. The statement that accompanies the rate hike also touched on a few other points – namely: that high oil prices are a matter of concern; there has been a period of slowdown, but that it will be transitory; and that the Fed will move at an optimal pace on policy – slow if need be, fast when required. One important implication of the FOMC statement is that the Fed expects oil prices to ease back down. They attributed the recent slowing in growth 'importantly to the substantial rise in energy prices' and yet they state the economy 'is poised to resume a strong pace of expansion going forward'.

Thus if oil prices persist at current record high levels or climb higher, the Fed will have to consider the dampening impact on growth. That would imply that the U.S. central bank could hold rates at 1.5% in September. Judging by the high degree of similarity between the June 30 FOMC statement and the one issued on August 10, the Fed does not appear worried about the risk of a sustained slowdown in growth as many on Wall Street seem to be. The Fed appears confident growth and hiring will rebound in the coming months.

The statement maintained their intention of proceeding at a measured pace, it called their stance accommodative after the move to 1.5%, it unsurprisingly still saw inflation pressures of H1 as transitory, it noted some slowing in growth and labor conditions (attributing this to higher energy prices) but asserted that the economy is poised to resume stronger growth. It is this latter assertion, although a subtle nuance, that has disappointed bond traders in the midst of a quarterly refunding at overly optimistic interest rate levels. The balances of risks were left roughly equal.

The statement was a bit of a disappointment to bond traders, especially those carrying long positions, and looking for more hints of concern about growth and maybe hints of a pause in rate action at the September meeting. This statement is squarely in line with my outlook, couched in a manner that is more supportive of the U.S. dollar and stocks (strong growth still likely with low inflation).

But don’t go out and celebrate a September rate hike. Not just yet anyway. As we have stressed, if Greenspan is to succumb to political pressure and skip September, he will almost certainly package the move with low inflation rhetoric or will cite the increasing risks of higher energy prices. Therefore, if oil prices do back off, it is essential that all data related to inflation (CPI, PCE, PPI, Wage data etc) is supportive of their view that first half inflation pressures will prove transitory.

Otherwise, the Fed will be under intense pressure from the market to raise rates again before the election. If oil prices persist at near record levels, the Fed could cite new risks to the consumer and business outlook.

What Was I Thinking?!

2004-08-10T23:31:00.000-04:00

I was trawling through the net yesterday and read Anirudh’s blog about Quixtar (aka Amway, e-commerce opportunity etc.) Man, they sure are keeping up with the times, aren’t they?

I haven’t encountered an Amway type in a while. Either that or that I have my defences up so high, they can’t get through. S and I are naturally suspicious of any unknown desi who walks up to us and starts a conversation. We have cut short more than one such sally with “… if this is about Amway, we’re not interested.”

But not all Amway/Quixtar types are desis. A few years ago, I was at a laundromat and was chatted up by a firang. He was all sugar and honey.

“I am DBA here at *** (a large pharmaceutical company)… Oh, I love sambaar and rasam… I watch cricket with my Indian friends… I am going on a short trip to India this fall….”

I was suckered! You certainly don’t expect your average gora to con you with Amway… Anyway, I certainly didn’t. Most of my experience up until then had been with desi punters peddling Amway products.

For most of the drying cycle, we made small talk about the weather and the politics of the local township. He passed me his card as I was leaving and just as a matter of courtesy, I gave him mine.

Fast forward a couple of day’s and Ken (that was his name) called me up at work, just as I was about to leave for the day.

He babbled about the how well Indians spoke English and about some other inane issue. I was trying hard to disengage, keep the phone down and head home. At that point, he started talking about some “E-commerce opportunity that I shouldn’t miss.”

This was still in the hay days of the Internet boon – the late 1990s, so I guess, it had some kind of relevance. But suddenly, alarm bells went off in my head.

Up until this point, I had been very civil, but not any more…

“Has this got anything to do with Amway? Are you trying to rope me in into some kind of pyramid scheme?”

I think my question took him aback, because he began to stutter and make excuses and offer explanations.

Pressing home my advantage, I said that if it was, I didn’t want to have anything to do with it. I offered a curt greeting and replaced the receiver on the cradle.

But Ken was made of sterner stuff and over the next several days called me a couple more times. In the end, I had to threaten him with an exposse in the local newspaper to get him off my back.

I have known people with fair promise and decent social skills go the am-way and become social outcasts. One chap I knew back in grad school was ostracized to the extent that people would cross the road if they saw him coming his away and pointedly ignore him even if he talked to them. It was a shame!

Go Easy On The Drink, Oye!

2004-08-06T00:45:00.000-04:00

Jen hit me the other day with one of those broad-sweeping comments, that I have come to develop a distaste for.

“Indian men can’t just hold their drink!”
“No! Not really.”
“No, It’s true,” she insisted. “You guys are all shy and quiet, but one drink and you’re all over the girl.”
“Maybe, you just go out with the wrong Indians,” I said with a certain finality that killed the conversation.

In case you are wondering, I haven’t ever gone out with Jen. She lives in the village (as in Greenwich Village, NYC), and I in Philadelphia, and the two can never meet.

But Jen is into many things Indian – she is a vegetarian, she is learning the sitar, she has a yoga guru and she carries one of those jute bags, favoured by the likes of my dry-grocer in India. Only her bag (with a colourful image of Saraswati) is intended as a fashion statement… I think. And, yes, she has a strange fetish for desi dudes.

I got to thinking about her observation on the train ride back home. Sure, I knew plenty of desi dudes who drank like fishes and seemed none the worse for wear. My buddies from college and I polished off cases of booze each week. We traded in our season tickets to the football games for a steady supply of the tipple and we never got anywhere near a woman… possibly because of it too.

I pondered some more and realized there was, much as I might deny it, a kernel of truth to what Jen said. I thought some more and then it dawned on me that many people I have known over the years use alcohol as an excuse to misbehave.

A certain somebody, in my circle in the years past, made a regular habit out of it. A drink or two and he would chance a pass at the fairer sex. Most desi women, who were clearly on to him, steered clear of him. The ready targets were firangs obviously. At least on one or two occasions we saw him make his move, he was rebuffed, but he would slur his speech and pretended to be tipsy and the woman would let it slide. It was a rather sorry display.

Another interesting case, was a certain entel-type we knew. He often drank with us… peg after peg after peg…in silence in our basement apartment. That’s how we all drank then. But take him to a party and in two gomutram Budweisers, our man's face would take a dreamy far-away look and he would start reciting verse… Big turn on with some of the chicks we knew back then. I always thought, it was a sleazy trick to pull.

One chap I know now, married and respectable, uses the drink to a different end. He gets to a party, gets himself a drink just to be seen as one of the guys. His wife won’t let him have one at home, apparently. So a party, where she cannot visibly object, is his moment of defiance. I am sure, he does not even enjoy the drink. I have spied him emptying peg after peg of the best highland single malts into the wash-basin or worse still, the flower bed, putting on the charade of getting high.

If it were my place, I’d say… “Go easy on the drink, oye!”

Can't Wait For The Santa Pub Crawl

2004-08-03T15:23:00.000-04:00

Ok, I shan’t name names here, I promised Doug, I shan’t and I shan… Oops!

Anyway, certain people are girding up for the annual Santa pub-crawl. That is what A and his buddies call their annual outing of binge drinking. I know, it is not quite Christmas, but hey! There is no time like the present for a good thing, wot?

This is a ritual that has a long and rich tradition stretching back in time to, oh! Say, the mid 1990s. I don’t think any of A’s friends could have legally imbibed alcohol before that. Why! Some of them barely need to shave, even now. Anyway, they go from bar to bar around the city drinking. Well, anyway, bars that will let in two dozen, drunk sods dressed like Santa Claus, down to the beard and boots.

The list of obliging bars have been steadily shrinking in recent years, I have been told, as the Santas have become increasingly rowdy. I am sure the bartenders must hate it, especially when these guys make a bid for free drinks, pounding the bar with the glasses chanting – “Santa drinks for free… Santa drinks for free… Santa drinks for free…” You get the general idea! These juvenile attempts apart, A insists, Santa always pays for his drink.

I always thought the bars should be laying out the welcome mat for these guys. Two dozen drunken Santas, and paying ones at that, should be an amusing sight. Beside, the sheer comic effect of a bar full of Santas is bound to attract other people, who too would pay for a drink or two or more.

I must admit, there is a certain originality to the idea, walking around town dressed as Santa Claus well before Christmas. There are of course rules to the whole enterprise. The Santa suit cannot be washed, or pressed (even if you have puked on it the year before), a brush is the best you’re allowed. Suddenly, I am beginning to see why the bartenders are not too keen to have a houseful of Santas.

The crawl has kicked off, for years now, from a certain Ukrainian bar (no names). It is a festive occasion and the first drink, I am told, is on the house. But, not all the ale-house keepers along the road are so welcoming. At some point in the recent past the proprietor at an Irish bar we shan’t name, but whose sign features a large shamrock, booted the Santas out with no regard for their image.

The Santas accept there is always the danger for even the most decorous of events to deteriorate into a general fracas… And the crawl is no exception. As anyone with some basic experience with alcohol will tell you, a lot of booze of varying kinds don’t sit well together and tend to force themselves out of the system – while the reaction is entirely involuntary, it is not a pretty site.

Last year some Santas got into trouble for indulging in the sport of writing their names across the sides of buildings and bare walls... with bodily fluids… you get the idea!

But A assures me these unwholesome elements, who, though in an absolute minority, give their well-meaning trek through town a bad name.

The Santas who have completed their pilgrimage of the 18 or so pubs are considered the initiated. While extremely fulfilling (I have this on the record), the effects at the end of the run are not always pretty. On our office notice-board is the picture of a rather disreputable-looking Santa slumped against a lamp-post with a rather large wet patch across the front of his pants… and an equally large grin pasted across his face.

Last year our mutual friend B went along for the crawl, or was it the year before… Anyway, he was totally pissed by the sixth pub and was dragged along for a while before being left under the 59th Street Bridge, or at the entrance to some bar near there anyway. B has no recollection of most of the crawl, only that he came to, in the wee hours of the morning, a bum was swearing at him for taking “his spot.” With nothing wounded, but his pride, B managed to call a cab and head for home.

I have heard of a few score Santa crawls across the country. I know there is one in Atlanta and another in Baltimore. There is even a “how-to guide" online. Parent-types, who are reading this blog, might do well to check this out. You might then want to make sure your kids are safely locked down and secured on the night of a crawl, if your town does have one. The effect of a drunk Santa on the minds of the young and impressionable, could be disastrous.

Anyway, if there isn’t a Santa Pub Crawl in your town and if you feel adventurous enough to start one, maybe I could get A to sell you the exclusive rights… Ho! Ho! Ho!

An Afternoon Of Cricket

2004-08-03T14:25:00.000-04:00

It was not entirely an afternoon in vain. At least, I did not go out for a duck, and a catch in the slips was sweet. My gauche knee bothered me a bit through the game, but the morning after, I was right as rain and feeling alive as I hadn’t for years.

The last time I played cricket in any form, were a few overs, on a dusty afternoon, in a school maidan in the central suburbs of Bombay with Vasu, Aditya and Tushar. The year was 1988. The last time I padded up to go out to bat was at Don Bosco grounds in 1985… It has been a while.

Not that I hadn’t quite thought of playing, but the opportunities come few and far between. So, when MumBhai called to ask if I wanted to join in on a “friendly”, I could not but be all optimism and buoyancy. MumBhai plays at Prior Cricket Club in Philadelphia – a halfway decent ground, a handsome club house (though it has seen much better days) and a fairly earnest bunch of players who came in all shapes, sizes, ages and hues. Prior was playing a local college team.

In all honesty, I was not enthusiastic about my chances, as I saw fresh-faced kids lining up on the other side. They looked definitely more mobile and motivated than I had been for years. I did not even have my whites, and MumBhai very accommodatingly loaned me his club shirt for the game.

It was very surreal to watch a game from the clubhouse steps after all these years. The opposing team won the toss and elected to field. We started on a slow note, the runs came in ones and two. But, the opposing bowlers were fairly erratic and by the end of the 10th over, we had more in extras than individual scores.

Sitting on the porch, sipping a cold beverage, I was feeling extremely smug. MumBhai had me down to go seven down in the order. I did not think, I’d actually have to bat. And then the powers that be had a change of mind and I was asked to pad up. I padded up quietly calmly, but it was not actually until I started walking up to the pitch that I began to have doubts. Would I be able to see the ball? Would I able to move like I used to?

At the other end was a fellow economist “S,” who despite coming to cricket rather late in life had been knocking the ball all over the place.

I took my guard on the leg stump, said a silent prayer and looked up. The bowler started his run-up -- a short one, left arm around the wicket, I could sight the ball perfectly, as it left his hand and pitched a decent length. I brought my bat into its path probably a little later than I’d have liked to, but no harm done. The ball rolled down the pitch a few feet, its momentum killed.

That was the last bowl of the over and the bowlers changed ends. Having kept my eyes on the ball all through, I did not feel so bad; but my reflexes were clearly rusty from lack of use. S played the first ball of the next over with a straight bat. The next he flicked off the pads, down the leg side. We ran a single. My turn at the crease.

It was a decent ball, good length, just going a shade to the offside, I cut it late and started running down the wicket as I saw the ball go past first slip. I opened my account. But, even as I started I knew, my knee wasn’t quite all there. I ambled down the wicket.

A ball or two later, S drove one down towards mid-wicket. It was a legitimate single, I started out an instant too late and by the time I crossed the crease at the other end, the keeper had the bails off. S was all apologies for having gotten me run-out. But, in all fairness, the fault was mine. I shuffled my way back, not entirely disappointed. At least, I did not go out for a duck.

Having gotten over the fear of facing the ball, the game became more immediate. I began to assess balls and strokes as a player would (though from safety of the club house). There was another run-out, but the bowlers were tiring, as the humidity and heat took its toll.

P had an unlucky stroke and MumBhai after a few decent drives, pulled back at the last moment to give an easy catch. C who came in at the end, together with S, swatted the ball all over the place, giving the scoring, which had picked up from the initial overs, a big boost.

The batsman, no longer cramped by the need to save their wickets, started to swing big. S lofted one into long on… right into the hands of a waiting fielder, who obligingly dropped him, enabling him to get his fifty.

The score at the end of our innings was 171.

We took to the field after a short break. MumBhai let J, the captain, know, I had a gauche knee. Everyone went out of their way to ensure I had a position that did not require a great deal of running. So, I spent most of my time in the field in first slip.

“I” an older gentleman, opened the bowling attack along with MumBhai. In fact, my catch in the slips came off a ball by I, which nicked the edge of the bat as it swung away. The Prior bowlers kept a decent line and length for the most part and were less free with extras than their opponents. The later spells by “P” kept the college batsmen pinned to the crease.

The score had barely tipped into triple digits before the last man snuck his bat under his arm on his way back to the club house. By this time I felt like a raisin left out in the sun.

Paddling By Moonlight

2004-08-02T15:32:00.000-04:00

The idea for a midnight paddle came up as Sambar lunched with S and I about two weekends ago. Chowing down on the Vendekkyapuli and the Matki chi Usal, proved to be rather inspiring. We had done all manner of trips over the last year. Short sallies over the lake in the afternoon, overnighters on the Delaware, a morning’s paddle on the Chesapeake Bay. What more could we do… short of throwing ourselves into a chumming rapid.

I guess, that was the point, the Vendekkyapuli kicked in and Sambar came up with the brilliant idea of a paddle by moonlight. A quick consultation of the calendar told us we had a full moon in two weekends. That was it.

It took a while to sort out; and while we varied from the original script in location and the number of kayaks, by Thursday morning, Sambar and I were certain we were going out on the Schuylkill on Friday night.

Sambar picked up a kayak for me from Eastern Mountain Sports on his way back home. I saw the moon, a giant white saucer low on the horizon, just as I was driving into Sambar’s complex – An auspicious omen in indeed.

I got to his place, just as he was cooking up his Boca-burger surprise for dinner. After shooting the breeze about the tensile strength of 19th century swords, the oratory of Sivaji Ganeshan, the genius of the Tamil Sangam and other similar esoteric subjects that often come up at Sambar’s place, we loaded up the kayaks and set out toward the put in.

A short distance from Phoenixville, we turned off a bridge, down an incline, onto a road that skirted the Schuylkill Canal. We turned left into a smallish parking lot and pulled the kayaks off the carrier. The last minute checks – the paddles, the LED lights, a liberal spray of DEET and we carried the boats onto the river bank.

It was not much of a put in -- just a mucky slope. Being less adept of the two, I got into my kayak and Sambar launched me into the water. He soon joined me and we set off. The flick of the paddle and we moved from the shadows of the trees on the shore, into the shimmer of the moonlight. The moon, now high in the sky was no longer large, but it was bright as a flashlight. There was a fair current and the boats moved along with barely a paddle.

The sounds of the night were amplified. The air was somewhat warm and the humidity hung on my upper lip. There…that was the plop of a frog launching itself into the water, and there… the sound of a bird taking off from the branches above.

The night air conveyed all manner of sounds – cars, their tires hissing on distant roads, the trains running across the trestles of a bridge somewhere downstream. The steady booms of cannon fire… perhaps the historic re-enactors at Valley Forge was practising their skills… The river carried us fast and easy. Sambar, who has done this stretch of the river by daylight, led the way, picking his way around strainers, submerged rocks and under the spans of bridges.

The light of a fisherman’s lamp cast a small circle of light on the near bank. We could just make out the form of a man in waders hunched over his fishing rod. The moon followed us through our trip down the river, peering at us occasionally from between the branches, sometimes coming out into the open for a clear look at us.

I had brought along a disposable camera and I went trigger happy (until the flash conked off). We did not say much, Sambar and I, just drifted along, a paddle splash now and again.

An hour into our ride, Sambar began scanning the near bank on the left-hand side intently. Overhead, I saw the power lines, he had earlier said, marked the point where we had to pull out for the canal. I had, frankly, expected the canal to connect to the river. But here, we had to pull out and carry the kayaks fifty yards or so, to the canal. The luminous dial face of my watch said 10:30 pm.

Take out was another mucky affair, but it went through much better than we feared. We walked through a path cut in the tall undergrowth (by Schuylkill Canal volunteers) till we reached the canal. A road and a street lamp stood on the other side, beyond the towpath. We launched into the still waters of the Schuylkill Canal. We paddled steadily into the night. The canal was lined on both sides by trees. Occasionally houses came up on the right-hand side. On one occassion we saw a restaurant. Gardens fronted the canal, and we could smell fresh blossoms.

The mirror of the canal’s waters was only broken by our paddle strokes. The reflections cast by the houses and trees along its edge made it seem like we were floating above an underwater world.

The moon cast its perfect likeness on the water and Sambar was reciting the Mantrapushpam. Just the right subtext for the evening.

“Yopam pushpam veda / pushpavan prajavan pashuvan bhavati|
Chandramava Apam pushpam|
Pushpavan, Prajavan pashuman bhavati||
Ya Evam Veda / yopa mayatanam Veda
Ayatanam bhavati. Agnirva Apamayatanam / Ayatanavan Bhavati/
Yo gnerayatanam Veda / Ayatanavan bhavati/”

What Was I Thinking?!

2004-07-29T10:23:00.000-04:00

I’ve just been reading a blog by Sankar that somewhat summarily dismisses ISKON as crap. Needles to say the author was flamed in return by a reader. And while I hold that everyone is entitled to their views, I feel, Sankar’s views are not entirely in the extreme. Of course, experiences define impressions and all that.

My own experiences have not led me to form a wholesome view. Of course, what I see of ISKON is here in the U.S. and they have a nice Temple in West Virginia and decent Indian food, but I cannot but help think they are packaging “Sanatana Dharma” as an escapist philosophy for westerners. I mean, you don’t need to tonsure your head and wear a dhoti to be embrace Hindu (now, that should really be Sanatana) philosophy. Moreover, I think cotton dhotis and sarees are especially impractical attire for the cold weather of North America. I get the distinct impression that for many of the westerners within the ISKON fold, adopting the attire is an attempt at taking on an identity different from their peers. It is like the wearing a mullet or a punk hairstyle.

I also don’t give much for how they market themselves either. I particularly resent a fresh-faced white kid in an ucchikudumi (a topknot) accosting me on the street asking me I have been delivered by the words of Prabhupada and if the Geetha has brought enlightenment into my life. And I don’t think a bunch of pseudo holy-bolies singing – RamaRamaKrisnaKrisna at train stations and airports do much to advance the cause of Sanatana Dharma. If anything, our faith is a private affair, our philosophy more subtle and our outlook more sophisticated – isn’t that what sets us apart from the others?

My take is that the ISKON sentiment is well-placed though the delivery mechanism leaves something to be desired. Softly, softly now.

Turning On The Comment Button

2004-07-28T13:11:00.000-04:00

After dwelling on the idea for a while, I turned on the “anyone can comment button” on this blog today. It is a little sad to stumble across a blog with page after page of posts with “Comments (0)” under each post. Even if the blog does have regular readers, the lack of acknowledgement could be demoralizing to the writer. The blogosphere is inherently a democratic forum; and the expression of the democratic voice is the post and the comments the post elicits. Witty and informed comments and intelligent questions, I think, add to the readability of a blog. It lends it both relevance and legitimacy. The whole point of a blog is to have conversation. So, here goes nothing!

“CLICK”

Kutilaneethi

2004-07-28T10:32:00.000-04:00

There is a lot happening on the American political scene this week, not the least of which is the Democratic Convention in Boston, and you can catch all the latest action on the Internet. The Internet serves up a varied fare from your “establishment” views to the ‘extreme.” But, I bet you already knew that.

The funniest thing I saw on the Bush-Kerry spar online was on a site called “jibjab.com”

In case you haven’t seen it, this is a SouthParkish animation set to the tune of Woody Guthrie’s “This land is your land,” with Bush and Kerry trading insults in rhyme. As a parody it is quite good, but its success has once again brought forth America’s ugly side – its propensity to litigate.

The Richmond Organization, a music publisher that owns the copyright to Guthrie's tune through Ludlow Music is taking a jab at jibjab.com… in court.

I just read a story on CNN that quotes an official for the publisher as saying the jibjab parody has caused huge damage to the song.

Now, that is possibly the most stupid thing I’ve heard. If anything, it has exposed Guthrie’s song to a whole new audience. And it is quite obviously a parody, and a clever one at that.

My favourite part is where Bush describes Kerry as “a liberal weiner,” which Kerry counters by calling Bush “a stupid dumbass.” And oh, yes, I like the way Kerry keeps referring to his “three purple hearts.”

And then there is Bill Clinton… well, you can watch it here.

Going back to the suit, I don’t think Guthrie’s publishers have much of a case, certainly not according to what I learned in my media-law class. This is political satire and a parody and therefore, as Jibjab attorney Ken Hertz pointed out in the CNN story “entitled to the fair use exemption of the copyright act."

Moreover the chaps who made the movie Gregg and Evan Spiridellis are not making money out of it. You can pretty much see it for free. But jibjab and its creators are certainly getting a lot of media attention.

What Was I Thinking?!

2004-07-27T21:59:00.000-04:00

“Don’t give balltalk man!”

You could have knocked me down with a feather (or a phrase) – At once both evocative and obnoxious.

Makapau is in the house… Only, it wasn’t. I was one the PATH train riding back to Newark, NJ at the end of an otherwise uninspiring work day that featured dull phrases like Elliot waves, short-selling, stop-loss and the occasional dead-cat bounce.

Balltalk man was a breath of fresh air… from the past. I strained to hear more of the conversation from somewhere within the throng in the middle of the carriage…

“Bullshit! It not happening man!….You tink you’re God or wot?…”

I was really craning my neck at this point.

In case you are wondering, my English motor has not blown a fuse, I assure you.

The language, I record so faithfully here, is what I grew up listening to – English, as spoken by many East Indians. It is what some of us fondly refer to as Makapau English.

I could not mistake it for any other. I have heard it often on the playgrounds of Don Bosco, in the locker rooms at Brabourne, the bus stop in Kalina and a million other places in between. But I hadn’t encountered the likes of balltalk man since I left Bombay in the early 90s.

In case you haven’t figured it by now, Makapau English, does not exactly subscribe to Wren & Martin. I did try and point it out to one of the flock once. It was an exercise in futility...

“F*%# WrenenMartin, mayn”

“Really, now you should adhere to rules of grammar, if you want to speak proper English”

“Who, you to tell me ‘bout English, did I aks you. What you know ‘bout English”

“Well, I figure, I know something... Any way it is ask, not aks...”

“I talk how I want. You know, my people are English, I’m Anglo-Indian. I’m English”

“Well then, all the more reason you should follow the rules, it’s your mother tongue…”

“Ehhh! Don’t go on my mudder ah! I’m telling you, don’t go on my mudder.”

“Alright, I am sorry, but I wasn’t anyway. Look, it is important to speak the language as it was meant to…"

“Who talking to you? Don’t give more balltalk mayn… I am tiring”

Then there are those odd bits that really cannot even be woven into a conversation, like the things you hear on the soccer field.

Alex Fernandes takes a spot kick. The ball flies over half the field landing near Bosco D’Costa, who passes into along the sidelines to Dominic Machado. Running parallel to Dominic along the center of the field is Robert Patterson shouting “Eh Donya mayn, putthru mayn, putthru.” Bosco lends his voice, shouting to Dominic to “see” Robert. Dominic refuses to “see” Robert and attempts to kick a long one to Brian running towards the goal. Brian traps the ball and is about to "poke" one into the right-hand corner of the goal, but the referee blows his whistle…. Brian has been caught off-side.

Robert peeved at the slight runs up to Dominic…

“I swear mayn, you deaf or wot? You can’t see me? I’m shouting all the time.”

The language is not just the punch of words. Undeniably, words like ‘putthru’ could scarcely be used elsewhere. The real beauty is also in the manner in which sentences are strung together - I swear mayn, you deaf or wot? You can’t see me? I’m shouting all the time.

Now, isn’t that a gem!

The train disgorged half its occupants at Harrison station including, I guess, Balltalk man. For, there were no desi-types as I scanned the carriage as the train pulled out, just a gaggle of giggly Puerto Rican girls heading back home to Newark.

What Was I Thinking?!

2004-07-20T01:38:00.000-04:00

The usual result of a man’s cohabitation with a woman is to make him a trifle more petty, a little more mean, a shade more shallow than he used to be and all together lacking in substance. I recall being able to say profound things in such funny ways without making the effort and being light on my feet and possessing a certain savoir faire... And now I am just a middling slob concerned mainly about getting through the week, wearing laundered clothes to work and sleeping in late on Saturday mornings. I am concerned about what people actually think of me and worry if it is bad form to turn up at a wedding without my wedding band on my ring finger.

Used to be that I could knock back a couple of Patiallas without a second thought. Now I vex about “not” appearing drunk. I am less intense and more inattentive to things around me. Maybe I am not drinking enough. Hand me a chotta, yaar….

More Tastless Comments!

2004-07-20T01:13:00.000-04:00

I am down memory lane in Bombay again this evening. I remember Kooler’s Café in Matunga, and the Restaurant and Cafe outside Dadar (Central) Station… I forget the name. They were both Iranis….

I guess, I must not have been more than four years old (I hadn’t quite started school yet), when my dad took me to this Irani restaurant. I cannot recall where it was, but I remember the black chairs and the round tables and the manager’s counter right at the entrance, and I remember, most fondly, the Kasata ice-cream.

Desi cuisine was not on the menu when people in Bombay went out to eat a generation or two ago. I read somewhere that the most common restaurants in the city until the late 1960s were the Iranis. They served up the standards of British high-tea: cakes, flaky pastries, buttered brun (a crusty bun), sweet buns, rusks and tea with milk and sugar.

There is something distinct about Irani restaurants. Yes, the décor is still stuck in the 1950s, the menu in the 1930s and the proprietor (who usually doubled up as the manager) looked like they were from the late 1800s.

But that was not it. Maybe, it was the mirror on the walls and the ceiling – that was a touch of gay… wouldn’t you say? Perhaps… Perhaps not. It was not the picture of Zarathustra, who looked on serenely from behind the cash counter. Indians are used to their holy-bolies.

The Iranis were quaint – they served tea in British-rail-type service, and the cookies served out in china saucers came out of bulbous glass jars placed along the cash counter. The restaurants usually occupied the strategic corners of buildings, and you could spot the manager at the counter from across the street. The Irani café exuded an attitude, that no other restaurant I have ever been to since, does.

That’s it – an attitude! The attitude of the waiter, who couldn’t care less if you didn’t like his service. An attitude that came across in the Bawaji in his sweaty sadra swatting flies off his marble topped cash-counter. The attitude reflected in the indentation in the said marble top, from years of abrasion from coins transacted over its surface. Some restaurants took the attitude to a Seinfeldien level.

I recall a restaurant near Metro Cinema that actually had a set of written directives for its customers. I don’t remember its name… Maybe, it was Bastani… I am not sure. Any way, it is not far from Kayani’s so famous for its nan-katais (cookies). Most of the rules, as I recall, were prohibitory in nature. They ranged from the garden variety (Don’t put your feet on the chair) to invigilatory (No discussing politics) to the extreme (No hanky panky in the stalls).

Nissim Ezekiel, Bombay’s erstwhile unofficial poet laureate was inspired by the signs to pen the “Irani Restaurant”

“Instructions:

Do not write letter
Without order refreshment
Do not comb
Hair is spoiling floor
Do not make mischief in cabin
Our waiter is reporting

Come again
All are welcome whatever caste
If not satisfied tell us
Otherwise tell others
God is great.”

Beside the rules, I recall, they had an excellent bread pudding. Across the street, Kayanis was more well known for their excellent cookies and plum cakes.

The Iranis are on their way out. I fear, I might not even see them on my next visit. There was talk during my last trip of Kooler being converted into an Uduppi.

Bombay’s fast food has decidedly gone South Indian these days. The Shettys and the Nayaks from the South have seized on the Irani template, adapting the design to suit their ends. The straight-back black chairs have given way to sturdy benches. Marble-tops have been replaced by formica-topped cafeteria-style tables. The buns and biscuits have given way to vadas and doasa. The footprint is almost the same, but the Uduppi’s buzz of efficiency, stands in contrast to the quiet, easy pace of the Irani. There is still a garlanded picture and incense sticks behind the man at the cash counter – chances are it is Nityanand, not Zarathustra. Oh! I do miss the Bawaji in the sadra behind the counter.

Qui In Ventem Urinat, Se Lavare Constat...

2004-07-18T17:02:00.000-04:00

.. That's all that I have to say for today. In case you are wondering what that means.... Well... Who pisses in the wind, washes himself... Goodnight!

What Was I Thinking?!

2004-07-18T16:54:00.000-04:00

I’ve ceased to be moved
Not fear, nor pain
Not love, nor gain
Or sentiment of any kind
Stirs those thoughts in my mind
Not booze, nor rush of any kind
Prods the muse, or makes me write
I fear, I am dead from the inside
How else could I explain these tides
My memory ebbs, my thoughts wane
I recall no joy, nor prick of pain

More Tasteless Comments...

2004-07-18T00:05:00.000-04:00

Addendum:

Vada-pau-walla’s tended to be less of performance artists. That distinction usually went to the pau-bhaji-wallas. I still recall the ones lining up outside Borivli Station on the Western suburban train line. Every evening, L.T. Road came alive to the clanking of spatula-on-griddle as the pau-bhaji-walla bhaiyas served up their mashed vegetables with a pool of melted butter and a garnish of chopped onions and cilantro, and just a squeeze of lemon. The voices, in orchestrated rhythm, called out in the heavy up-country hindi.

The pau-bhaji cart has not evolved much, oh, for the last 50 years or so. Just a bit bigger than a small dining table, riding on four bicycle wheels, it features a pressure-primed kerosene stove with an enormous griddle. One pan is heaped with potatoes, cauliflower, cabbage, peas and any other vegetable the bhaiya who runs the stall happens to find in the market that morning. The veggies are mashed in with oodles of butter, liberal handfuls of a fiery spice mix called the pau-bhaji masala, and pulverised into a thick puree. That pounding of metal spatula on griddle is the call to dinner in Bombay. On the other pan is a pool of molten butter in the middle of which is piled a mountain of small bread loaves – the pau.

At the heart of the popular street fare in Bombay is the humble loaf of bread. The pau, as Bombayites know their fluffy loaves, baked in eights, is a Portuguese word. Until the advent of the Portuguese, Indians ate their bread unleavened, many still do. By the way, another of the main ingredients in the both vada pau and pau bhaji is batata (another Portuguese word). You may call it potato, or aloo as the upcountry natives call it. The Portuguese carried the root to the subcontinent from its native regions in their South America. Cashew, chilli-pepper and the tomato were among the other South American transplants in India.

The marquee over the pau-bhaji cart usually has an appropriately auspicious name like “Jai Ambe Pau Bhaji” or “Jai-Javan Jai-Kisan Pau Bhaji,” and is festooned with dim Christmas lights. The food is usually served up under the light of a hissing petromax gaslight. Of course, that might have changed in recent years.

More Tasteless Comments...

2004-07-17T23:56:00.001-04:00

I wrote up this bit on the train ride back home some time last week, but then forgot all about it. Rather than let it go to waste here it is.

It’s been raining steadily for the past two days. Not the wholesome and lusty sort of rain from my native sub-continent, but more of the intermittent firangi drizzle that comes down in spasms. It was an eventful walk back to the PATH Station this evening, upturned umbrellas, billowing skirts, and plastered shirts not the least of it. As the wind howls in from across the Hudson, I am often reminded of my walk from Express Towers near Nariman Point to Churchgate Station. I do miss Bombay so. It was still Bombay when I left and I persist in calling it that.

Something cold and clammy reminded me of something hot and piping – A vada pau.

It is that most Bombayish of foods. Something that quite does not belong anywhere but there. For the uninitiated this is a spicy deep-fried potato-patty burger. It is the fusion food from before the term; and it tastes best off the street cart.

At this point, I recall a nasty and tasteless joke about the one-armed vada-pau walla, but I shall spare you the agony. What I will focus on is the vada-pau-walla on Khau galli (alternatively called Jaundice galli by those who never ate there) just behind Express. I can recall stepping out onto the street a hour or so before lunch and into the crisp aroma of deep-fried chick-pea flour and the sizzle of the vadas bobbing about in the wholly unwholesome oil in a huge wok. The cooked vadas piled onto a large salver, from where, the vada-walla’s sidekick, ever at the ready, stuck it between two halves of a pao, sprinkled liberally with chilli-garlic powder and handed it to waiting customers. A rupee could get you a vada-pao then. I am sure inflation has caught up with the vada-pau-walla as well. If you wanted a drink, there was the sharbat-walla at the ready a few steps down the road, or the cool-drink stall not very far either.

The Khau galli vada pau walla by no means served up the definitive vada paus. Another venerable institution of a vada-pau walla was the one outside Dadar station, well on the way to Dadar station anways, just as you came off the bridge across from Plaza Theater. The crowd outside his shop, was reminiscent of those outside a bank going bust. If they had to form a queue, I am sure it would have stretched a couple of blocks, but your average Bombayite waiting for vada-pau was hardly likely to form a queue.

2004-07-17T17:38:00.000-04:00

Blogger under the bridge
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What Was I Thinking?!

2004-07-14T00:42:00.000-04:00

CMC was at it again, raiding the damn refrigerator. The half of my PB&J sandwich I left after my morning snack was AWOL by lunchtime. Damn! A 27-year old with a 130K job and you’d think he’d be able to afford his own food!

I still remember the time Maggie sent out that e-mail demanding to know who ate the rest of her fruit-flavored yogurt.

It went something like… “I missed my yogurt, whoever ate it is going to be sick, I have a sore throat… I hope you feel really sick and die.”

Pat came the missive from CMC’s terminal

“No fair, I am a growing boy and I need all the nutrition I can get…”

Only problem was that CMC was not at his terminal when the message was sent out. But, that is not to say he might not have done it.

His usual defense is, “… the damn thing was in there for two days… you snooze you loose”

Take heed, if in two days you don’t retrieve your food, CMC is liable to do a Sir-Mix-A-Lot on your eats.

The cookie monster spares neither the cookies left on the pantry counter, nor the donuts on the shelf, nor the sandwiches in the bag at the back of the refrigerator. He is not even beyond licking the cream off the cream cookies to inoculate them against anyone who might think likewise.

Things have toned down a bit since Maggie’s yogurt did the disappearing act. CMC has become very conscious about what he eats these days. No! That does not mean, he has stopped helping himself to others' food. He has stopped raiding the draws for chocolates; instead he prefers protein bars. He might not make a sally for your pack of potato chips, but that does not mean your trail mix packets are secure within the deep recesses of your bag.

Take last week for instance. AD was getting his feedbag on at his computer; and there was CMC standing over his shoulder espying his half-eaten sub.

CONVERSATION

CMC: Dude, whatchyougotthere?
AD: Just your reg’lar sub from subway
CMC: One of the 7 under 6 things?
AD: I don’t know what your mean
CMC: (Impatient now)… 7 sandwiches under 6grams of fat, shithead…
AD: I think so…
CMC: Do you mind if I have bite?
AD: Can I stop you?

Further dialogues are quite futile because by now CMC has his mitts around the sub and is taking a huge bite that leaves two thin slivers of bread and just a suggestion of what might have been between them.

AD quite overwhelmed by the turn of events surrenders the remains and the rest of the sub disappears down the hatch.

CMC: Are you going to finish your shake too?

Nuffsaid!

From time to time we get reports from outside the office about CMC foodscapades. It is a little difficult to gauge what is fact and how much of what we hear is fiction – with CMC you can never be certain.

We hear he has taken up an evening job with Au Bon Pain.

Why?

"Dude, haven’t you heard? They let the staff help themselves to all the goodies not sold at the end of the day. That’s some serious shit!!"

Kutilaneethi

2004-06-29T09:44:00.000-04:00

A Quarter And No Change

I am shooting from the hip here, but we have been talking a lot about this at work. The U.S. economy is clearly growing, but not all indicators line up for the duck shoot. The take is that the Federal Reserve will hike rates a quarter percentage point on June 30 – no biggie there. It is a forgone conclusion. The FOMC could upgrade the chances of achieving sustainable growth over the next few quarters to better than even, in light of the fact that by most definitions we have already achieved it.

The big news once again will be the statement… if it comes with a change in bias.

Most people I have spoken to, and clearly most of them are at IDEAglobal, expect no changes in the balance of risk, assessments for growth, inflation or policy guidance. But policy guidance… well, there is a slight chance the Fed could deviate from the expected “measured pace” if inflation pressures pick up more quickly than now expected.

The May Federal Open Market Committee statement said output expanded at a solid pace and hiring appeared to be picking up. In the inter-meeting period, production growth was every bit as strong and more importantly April and May payroll reports demonstrated conclusively that a robust employment recovery is now underway. We therefore expected the labour market assessment to reflect this crucial development.

In the same period the FOMC found that inflation was beginning to stir. Not too worryingly so -- long-term inflation expectations appear to be well contained. But, inflation is the bond-holders biggest bugbear and so expect the Fed to refer to this issue, if only to suggest they have everything under control.

A 25bps hike and no changes to inter-meeting inflation assessment, inflation risk could help the market sharpen the view on what will happen in August, before the election, the end of the year, and by this time next year.

The Fed’s preferred course would be to curb inflation in the months ahead, not move again before the election, and the end of the year. If inflation comes in firmer than what is characteristic of price stability for a sustained period, the most we see as possible is 25bp more between the June meeting and the election and 50bp between the June outcome and the end of the year. Looking ahead, in the first half of 2005 the Fed could find itself in a position where multiple half-percentage point hikes are necessary to push back down on inflation.

Kutilaneethi

2004-06-28T22:51:00.000-04:00

We woke up this morning to news that the Iraqi interim government was handed the keys to the country by U.S. administrator Paul Bremer two whole days ahead of schedule. The idea in doing so, ostensibly, was to pre-empt insurgents from springing a nasty surprise on Wednesday and spoiling the transfer party – That would have been egg in the face for all concerned.

Does this mark the end of the occupation? I don’t think so, though many will say that it does. With more than 130,000 American troops and thousands from other nations still in Iraq, Iraq’s "sovereignty" will be severely circumscribed. And while they will be a less visible presence – the foreign soldiers will still be there.

So what has the five-minute ceremony brought Ghazi Ajil al-Yawer and interim Prime Minister Iyad Allawi and indeed Iraq? A head start on militants for one; but more importantly, it gives the interim government the moral ground to make sovereign decisions and bring their nation much-desired peace. This is also the first sign from the Bush administration that it recognizes the reality on the ground, and is moving to render unto Iraqis’ what’s theirs.

While the White House is congratulating itself on its perspicacity, the claims that first brought the U.S. into this war ring ever more hollow. The weapons of mass destruction, the principal reason for going to war, were never found. The much trumpeted aim of bringing freedom to Iraq is ever more distant – violence is endemic and all the signs that mark freedom, a distant memory. Iraq’s infrastructure is in the stone-age, jobs are scarce and Iraqis desperately poor.

The Bush administration’s prediction, at the start of the war, that it would be greeted as liberators now appears to have been premature. There is little love for the U.S. today in the fertile crescent. The Sunnis understandably hate the occupation, the Shias are suspicious and angry and Kurds in the north, once unquestionably allies, are questioning the administration’s motives.

The administration, it appears got the tactics right, but tripped over strategy. Defense Secretary Donald Rumsfeld was only partially right when he said, Iraq could be taken and held with a small, highly mobile force. Winning the war was fairly easy – it was keeping the peace that the allies failed miserably at.

The decision to disband the Iraqi army instead of simply purging the Baathist elements in hindsight appears to have been the perfect recipe for the chaos and unrest that followed. Into the void left by the army flowed in Islamic militants and other vested interests. Instead of becoming the crucible of democracy in the Middle East, that Bush publicly said it would, Iraq has become the proving ground for Jihadi elements.

In Iraq itself the mood is somber -- no celebratory bursts of gunfire, no speeches, parades or parties. The people are weary, worried and watching.

2004-06-15T22:31:00.000-04:00

Sambar negotiating a riffle
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2004-06-15T22:16:00.000-04:00

I am not entirely certain I want to go out for an overnighter on the river again. If it’s not my fellow campers, it’s the damned river.

Sambar’s plan was brilliant in theory, but somewhat erratic in execution. Rather than renting the kayaks on the river, we’d pick them up from EMS (the sports rental, not the dead communist) in Exton; then hoist them atop our cars and drive to the put-in (for the uninitiated that’s where you get into river). At a third the price of the rental at Dingman’s Ferry the deal at EMS was a steal.

In all honesty, I think Sambar’s earnestness got the better of him, not to mention our out-of-wack scheduling; for it was 2 pm when we left Exton and almost 6 pm before we pushed off the gravely shore at Dingman’s Ferry. Being summer in the Northern hemisphere we still had decent sunlight, but never likely enough to cover the 15 miles the “king of kayak” hoped to get us to cover on our first day on the river.

The idea, and I swear Sambar is totally wedded to this, is to cover 28 miles or so between Dingman’s Ferry and The Gap (as in the Delaware Water Gap) in two days. Not impossible for the well muscled and madly motivated, but somewhere in the realms of fantasy for underpowered nerds with minimal motor skills. Sambar, who works out fairly regularly, exorcises his samurai demons each weekend, clearly does not answer to this description; but his cousin, his friend and I most truly do.

Still for a bunch of novices we did all right covering about 12 miles in about two hours on the first evening. I attribute it to early enthusiasm.

We ran a few riffles, walked the water with our hands over a dead stretch or two, but overall, I think the evening flow, aided by the release of water upstream and some well-muscled rowing did the trick. Once again, the sun was well over the hills by the time we got around to looking for a campsite. And this time I cannot blame Sambar, since Naren and I rode point. Sambar was playing Yoda to Praveen who appeared clearly ill at ease.

The site we picked this time was about three miles upstream from our spot last year, and a whole lot more accessible. We took out (kayak-speak for got out of the river) around 8pm, and being able-bodied men and otherwise agreeable, had the tent set up and tea ready in about 15 minutes. No chit-chat, we drained out the water and hauled the kayaks up a short incline close to were we pitched the tent.

The light went out like someone had flipped a switch, and suddenly all the ambient sounds seemed amplified. There was someone stepping on a twig, the water babbling over the pebbles on the river bed, the chirp of the insects and the rustle of the wind through the trees.

I love this part, camping in the wilderness -- wading out into the river in darkness, from the cool of the night into the warmth of the water, from the dry sand onto the nibble of tiny fishes and tickle of the weeds. If only I could drive up to the campsite and pitch tent. There was a bright moon high in the sky this time last year.

This year the moon was cloaked up in a cloud bank and the spring chill had not quite dissipated. Somewhat damp clothes and late spring breeze kept us from getting comfortable By 9:30 pm we had a decent campfire going, but that seemed cold comfort. Warm tea and parathas were nice, but by 10 pm we were clearly cold, and aching – all of us, except Sambar, who was checking out the black emptiness as the fog lay down over the water.

Bengeys, Tiger balms and ibuprofen bottles did a quick round, before we crawled into our sleeping bags. It seemed like forever before we went to sleep. It was cold, dark and I ached in a million muscles. And for some God forsaken reason Leonard Cohen kept singing in the Tower of Song in my head …

“Well my friends are gone and my hair is grey
I ache in the places where I used to play
And I'm crazy for love but I'm not coming on
I'm just paying my rent every day
Oh in the Tower of Song
I said to Hank Williams: how lonely does it get?
Hank Williams hasn't answered yet
But I hear him coughing all night long
A hundred floors above me
In the Tower of Song.”

And then it all went dark.

2004-06-15T21:26:00.000-04:00

self
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What Was I Thinking?!

2004-06-11T10:15:00.000-04:00

Walking to work from the PATH station in the “bathtub” at the World Trade Center, especially in winter “inhales vigorously.” And what’s with all the bloody tourists standing around the site, gawking at the empty pit. Shoo! Scram! The show is over, go home! There is nothing to watch. There hasn’t been anything to see here for the past three years. I was here on Sept 11, and I say, enough of this, let’s move on! Any way, they are not New Yorkers. You can tell the way they linger and get in people’s way. New York is like the tourist capital of misery.

What else can I say? If you endured a subway ride to get here in a carriage that smelt like the last bum who had eased himself in it and through the dank and dirty tunnels, you’ve got to like misery, or maybe you are into S&M. As for the New Yorkers, they don’t have a choice – they live here.

New York is a strange place -- the weather is as radical as the people. Of course, you might choose to dismiss this as typically expatriate. Well… May be it is. I have never quite cottoned up to the elements here. Ten minutes ago, looking out of my window, it was quite sunny and bright. The sun shone on the buildings across the Hudson in Jersey City, and now it looks like the trailer of The Day After – all bleak and grey and the heavens are threatening to open up. And there is a cool wind about. It seems like a nice time for a smoke.

The smokers have become, like another sub-species here in New York. Mayor Mike Bloomberg’s efforts to bar smoking in public places and bars leave very few places for them to congregate. You can see them huddled around buildings, just outside the front doors furtively pulling on their cigarettes, looking dismal and harassed. Can’t say I blame them either. With a pack of smokes costing close to $7 in the city – I would look harassed too, if I smoked regularly. It’s been close to six months since my last cigarette, and with the weather, the way it was, I feel the urge.

Walking from the Fed building round the corner, I saw Messers Joe, Sean and John clustered around the side entrance like clams to a rock and walked up.

“Could I bum a fag off you guys?”

It was like one of the moments in The Matrix, when they slow everything down till things are suspended in mid-air.

Then Sean broke out into a broad brogue guffaw, while Joe choked on his smoke and John; well John tried very hard not to wet himself.

“What, What? Was it something I said?”