Tide in the affairs of men

 

There is a tide in the affairs of men.

Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune;

Omitted, all the voyage of their life

Is bound in shallows and in miseries.

On such a full sea are we now afloat,

And we must take the current when it serves,

Or lose our ventures.

-      Brutus and Cassius, in conference.

Although this is fiction from a completely different era, context and geography, the lines, especially the first two, always remind me of 26 July 2005. A day which the good folks of Mumbai will never forget. I certainly will not.

Today, 19 years later, the day continues to evoke vivid memories.

The tide and flood which rendered the city afloat on a full sea (‘twas high tide after all) was one of those freak weather phenomena which are increasingly getting normalised. 944 mm of rainfall – about 50% of the annual rainfall – fell on the city in less than 24 hours. “Unprecedented” is too weak a word for this catastrophic weather event.

Many stayed put where they were, hoping to ride out the situation to the best of their resources. But a vast majority of people (this author included) tried to return to home and hearth for various reasons. The inevitable roadblocks, traffic jams, flooding of railway tracks and closure of the airport compounded a situation for which there was no playbook. Long lines of people trudging through waist-high water, cars abandoned on the road, trees on the roads, and destruction of homes and infrastructure painted a picture in darkest tenebrism. Bleaker than Dante’s Seven Hells. Noah’s flood was a mere bucketful in comparison.

Many people have asked why this happened and continue to ask even today. While there may be no straight or easy answers, suffice to say that nature’s obiter dicta cannot be tossed aside like a broken umbrella. Just like karma, nature too can be a bitch, of frightening proportions. Mankind’s blithe ignorance of the laws of nature and the disdain for the need to co-habit with nature, and not try to master it, will continue to produce such mind-bending calamities.

And the overriding question - did we take the current when it serves - to ensure that such events do not recur? No. We are seeing more of these natural disasters created by man’s intrinsic ability to shoot himself in the foot where nature is concerned. This must stop. We must go back to building harmony with nature. Or lose our ventures.

As for myself, how did I spend the day nineteen years ago? I was headed back home in a colleague’s car, with an old monk as co-passenger. Though I was on the road for over twenty-four hours, the monk’s sage counsel to “be wet inside and dry outside” guided me to my destination.

A Tale of two CTs (with apologies to C.Dickens)

 

I like general elections.

To many they are serious exercises of democrazy in which the electorate – that chunk of age-enabled citizenry that is suspected to be sentient enough - chooses its political representatives through a quaint process called “voting”. This “voting” is touted as a “duty for the citizens” of the country they inhabit.

To others, they provide a lot of CTs (Cheap Thrills). As aspirants clash for that most important currency – The Vote – those whose votes are up for grabs are treated to a show that rivals the best circuses going. From portentous proclamations of fighting for the greater good of our constituency, to thunderous assurances of showering benefits in exchange for Our Vote, all the way to sickly smiles and meet-and-greet marathons, We Who Vote get to see a side of human nature that would make Machiavelli nod gravely at this vindication of his belief that Politics Has No Relation To Morals.

And I just love the way people Show The Finger after voting.

2024 is a year filled with elections across the globe. I mean at the national level of course – granular level elections are held almost every day somewhere (for instance, I was elected Prime Mini Stirrer of Coffee in my house today). Four are of great social (media), political, economic and circus import – India, UK, France and the USA. Of these India and the UK elections are of particular interest to this author owning to his ancestry, roots, interests, and general curiosity levels.

The elections in India were mammoth, to put it mildly. 642 million people (you read that right) voted in an election festival that lasted 7 weeks. People were elected, the PM was duly (re) appointed, and the good citizens of the country went back to their argumentative selves (Dr. Amartya Sen, profound apologies). There were a few twists in the tale though. There was a whole doodah about faulty calculations (two zeroes that weren’t at the fore – from the land that invented zero, imagine!) and estimates of seats to be won – something possibly connected to the Indy 400. Then, the opposition benches suddenly became crowded. And noisy. For the first time in a decade, the country had a Leader of the Opposition in Parliament. This gentleman (one hopes to see a lady there soon of course) suddenly developed teeth and started baring them at the government. Finally, the country went back to reliance on ABC (Administration By Coalition). But all’s well that ends well. We the Voters showed that karma can really be a bitch.

In an interesting aside, both the LOG (Leader of Government) and the LOP (Leader of the Opposition Party) have beards. Macho democrazy. In Bengal they would be called Macho Das.

The elections in the Mother Country were apparently a foregone conclusion. A drop in the ocean compared to the one in its former colony. But the country laboured to prove that it is the Mother of Democrazy. The current Tenant tried to get inspiration from Ginger Rogers (Singin' In The Rain) but forgot that pithy one liner from Bill - “There is a tide in the affairs of men which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune”. My personal opinion is that Brown may be a common name in the Mother Country; dermal shades of the same hue may be rising (there is a significant land mass there which should be called India Occupied UK), the (ex) colonials may be contributing massively to shore up the afore-mentioned fortunes, but the country is not yet ready for a reverse power play. If I were part of IOUK, I would focus on that fortune bit and not worry about the affairs of men.

At the time of writing, the elections in France have thrown up the usual bouillabaisse. Though a highly author-itative country, it showed that Le Pen is not mightier. Le peuple français had obviously read Steinbeck’s Grapes Of Wrath and rightly pushed her sods away. Apparently they were going to shorten the length of the baguette. Quel horreur! One hopes the country is left to its own devices.

The elections in the USA are more of a Senior Citizens Home election. There should be a minimum and maximum age limit for candidates here. The mind boggles at the prospect of the Land Of The Free being run by a person who cannot run. With one candidate getting an earful, and the other likely to cast his vote for George Washington, one wonders if elections should be held at all here. I don’t think the average DonJoe is really bothered. After all, most can’t name their Senator, or the capital of their own state.

In closing I just realised why the Chinese don’t have elections. It’s because in Mandarin, there is no difference between the L and the R sounds.

Where have all the Brits gone?

I make no bones about my Anglophilia. Like most Indians of my vintage – caught between old rotary dial phones and the first tentative mobile phones – I grew up on Wodehouse & James Herriot, walked among old Gothic structures in areas called Fort, Churchgate, and Marine Drive, and wondered what fish and chips tasted like. I was (am actually, of course) the scion of a father who had not only studied Law in one of those Gothic Structures, but was adept at solving crossword puzzles of The Times, wrote “Esq.” after his name and frowned upon meaningless abbreviations. And was able to tie a Windsor knot effortlessly.

My friends in college were of similar persuasion and many a pleasant hour was spent on the cricket field boundary wall facing our college discussing Wodehouse and the doings of Wooster. In fact, if I removed my spectacles and gazed at the cricket field, I could be forgiven for thinking I was watching a match in rural Shropshire.

I visited London for the first time in 1992. My emotions on first arriving in The City (via Paris but that’s another blog) were understandably incoherent. I was all a-twitter (yes, the word existed even in the 90s and meant a completely different thing) and could barely wait to reach Oxford Street and imbibe…Englande! I tumbled out of the Underground and onto the Street, took a deep breath, and heard a peremptory voice asking for directions to Wembley… in Gujarati! I looked wildly around but all I could see and hear was non non-English folks and tongues (with Indian folks and tongues predominating).

Over the years I came to terms with this divergent binary to all that I held dear about the Dear Country. I put it down to that quaint British habit of taking rather than giving. I met natives (of my country) who were more English than the Archbishop of Canterbury. I met natives who had long strings of alphabets after their names or had a “Lord” prefixed to a decidedly Kathiawari or Gangetic-plain origin name. In all this I was reassured that the things that I held to be Truly British – the Queen, the BBC, the Prime Minister, fish and chips, tea, and cricket – were Truly British. These would never be anything but.

But of late, that reassurance has been shaken. Profoundly. The Prime Minister of the United Kingdom, the First Minister of Scotland and the Taoiseach of Ireland are of South Asian origin. The newly appointed Director-General of the BBC was born in a dusty town to the north-east of Mumbai, India. The current and previous two Home Secretaries of the Sceptered Isle trace their origins to the colonies. Chicken Tikka Masala, and not Fish and Chips, is the preferred cholesterol inducer.

Do not get me wrong. All these individuals have succeeded to the highest levels in their chosen profession by dint of hard work and talent. They deserve to be, or not to be, where they are. CTM, though a hideous amalgamation of chicken and cream which should never have been permitted to exist, speaks to the soul of every Ordinary Englishman in his cups.

Still, Where Are The Brits?

Summer's a bummer

I have never felt kinship with ovens. They signify heat, burning, and a Vulcan-ish degradation that does no good to anyone. But I live in Dubai. Where nature itself becomes an oven in summer, and man, like steak, transforms into a sizzling mass of melting fat and brown skin.

To most people, summer is beaches, ice creams, chilled beers, even colder Chablis, and bikinis. To others, it is peeling noses, blistered skin, and red rashes. Happy days, essentially. Especially for those who live in European climes, where rain, fog, mist, and grey are the most frequently used words.

Summer creates a two-way traffic lane. The folks who call this country home go back to their actual homes, or congregate in said grey climes, glad to be away from the near-blinding sunshine, roads crowded with the pale migrants, and heat that can fry eggs on the pavement (been there, done that...). The city is suddenly overrun with paunchy, pale migrants from grey, dystopian lands, hoping to soak in the heat, get sand in their sandals and proudly carry back the "Dubai Tan". In this part of the world, sun, sand, blue sky, and air conditioning are part of the landscape. Like Chicken Tikka Masala in Brixton.

Where I live, summer is not so much a weather pattern as a retail extravaganza. Summer implies massive "sales", "fantastic offers", and stock clearance promotions of last year's parkas and woolens. Because we trade in everything which can earn a margin!

If you are here at this time of the retail calendar, summer is something to be enjoyed from the icy-cool confines of your home, office, car, or nearest temple to retail excess. Though near-nudity is frowned upon, most people in the open push the margin (aka the hemline) as much as possible without being bunged into the dark confines of a holding cell (also air conditioned, by the way).

Summer is all very fine and dandy. But when you live in a country where the sun shines for most of the year, ditto blue skies, the temperature in summer is that of a rare steak (pardon the meaty references), and rain is a four-letter word you read about in rare manuscripts, you do yearn for a touch of the Boreas, a whiff of cold, and a nod to Jack Frost.

I can take summer or leave it. In my home country, summer was a precursor to the monsoon and the start of the new school term, both in June. These are not happy memories. My name means "winter", and though not a cold person, I am happiest in this weather.

And where I live, winter is not so much a weather pattern as a retail extravaganza. And the temperature is akin to a well-iced Riesling.

On a head lies a crown

You would have to be in your 80s or 90s to have watched both an earlier coronation and the one today, of a monarch of the "United Kingdom and other Commonwealth realms". Since I am not in the age band mentioned, the chance to watch the coronation ceremony today was a once in a lifetime occasion (hopefully).

I couldn't watch today's ceremony in its entirety - a common man's labour is a burden not to be mocked at - but I did follow a bit. And no doubt, yards of media real estate will be devoted to the event in the days to come. So I am assured of enough fodder to feed my curiosity, nosiness, and general interest in trivia.

And I suppose (and hope) that this post will also go down as part of the coronation archives.

There are many monarchs scattered around the globe - some serving, some retired, some forced out. But none of them can come close to generating the grandeur, history, and plain spectacle-worthiness of a British monarch.

The British monarch carries more history on their (damn pronouns) shoulders than most other monarchs. A central part of social and political life in the island for the better part of a thousand years, and a global phenomenon for nearly 300 years, the British monarchy get its share of barbs today, well into the 21st century.

But modernity is nothing but the continuity of tradition in new clothes, so the enthronement of a new monarch today was merely a part of the continuum that is the British monarchy. And never mind if the commoners (read republicans) moan about the lack of relevance of this institution.

The late Queen Elizabeth II was considered a "mother figure" by most Britishers, and her passing was almost unthinkable. Especially because it happened so suddenly. But the immediate declaration of the current King as the new monarch (aka Head of State) assured the public of continuity, if not synchronicity with the mood at large.

Unlike other monarchies, the British monarchy is a very familiar feature to most people on the planet. Most of our ancestors were "subjects of the crown" at one time (I remember trying to claim "British ancestry by virtue of my grandfather and father being British subjects", when asked why I should be given a British visa). 

Due to this massive footprint of Empire, I sometimes feel that there are more "Brits" outside the British Isles than in the Isles! Most former colonies still cling to most things British, while the colonies seem to have colonised the UK entirely. Remember, the Prime Minister is of Indian origin and the First Minister of Scotland is of Pakistani origin. On my first visit to Oxford Street as a wide-eyed, dyed-in-the-wool Wodehouse fan, I could only hear Gujarati! And when I asked a pale-skinned lad where the Brits were he replied "Can't say, I'm Irish." In my 12 visits to the country since then, I have met a Baronet, a Lord, and the richest person in England. All are Indian. Many of the key players in today's coronation are of non-British ancestry, and this flexibility of accommodation is a key feature of today's monarchy in the United Kingdom.

There is much chatter about the monarchy being a closed user group due to its inherent "heriditary" nature. That the monarch is an accident of birth. That it's not a given that a monarch may have the ability to lead. But there is much to be said about absorbing "leadership" and "ruler" traits from a thousand years of collective family experience. Yes there are the bad eggs - which farm doesn't have them? But the British monarch has a very visible, active, and involved role in the Armed Forces of the country, and the entire sequence of responsibility to, and of, the armed forces (a much loved and respected institution in any country), is something that underscores the centrality of the monarchy to life in the UK. And being part of the Armed Forces does imbue one with leadership traits. If nothing else, you learn to bite the bullet. Or dodge it. Depends on your outlook and position in life.

Today the British monarch is more an advertising campaign for their country rather than a "ruler of all that they survey" (I really need a solution to these pronouns!) The pomp and pageantry of today's coronation is no doubt as much a media success as an organisational one! As long as the TRPs and talking heads see merit and value (even transitory) in the monarchy, I see no immediate threat to this institution. 

Be that as it may, as someone who lives in an absolute monarchy in the Middle East, I know that the bonds tying the monarch to their subjects can be as strong or as tenuous as the monarch wants. I can see the huge respect and affection given to the rulers of the country where I live, and how they respond in kind.

And on that note, let me return to my tea and cucumber sandwiches with chutney.

God Save The King!

Junetenth

I hated June. Primarily because it heralded the start of yet another laborious, benighted, sodden academic year. In India the academic year for all levels of education (such as it is) starts around the 10^th of June. This dystopian situation is compounded in Bombay by the onset of the monsoon season, with its grey skies, flooded rail tracks and damp, garbage strewn roads. I wasn’t particularly enthused by education at that time, and I am sure the feeling was mutual.

Bombay in my growing up years wasn’t a pleasing place at any time of the year, but the monsoon made it particularly noisome, fit for neither man nor beast (the average Bombayite falls into neither category, so he is totally fit for purpose.) As a student I was in an intermediary stage of evolution and my pleas to avoid school during this season, for fear of potential damage to my nascent psychological well-being, were fobbed off with earnest exhortations of how education was important to Get Ahead in Life!

I particularly disliked this period of the year due to the necessity of walking to school with a bag full of books – I abhor all forms of physical exertion except turning the pages of a book or raising a glass or fork to my mouth. My school was about 3 miles from home and the parent body felt the exercise would build a growing body and mind. Umbrellas of course were not an option to keep both boy and books safe and dry. The raincoats then in popular use barely reached one’s ankles and made the wearer look like a sherpa with a secret sorrow.  With the dampness seeping in through rubber shoes and making the socks wet, said boy was miserable, to put it mildly.

College years didn’t change my point of view of Junetenth, at least in Bombay. However, opportunities for travel began to show themselves and I discovered the joys of traipsing through boroughs and vales, hills and plains away from Bombay. The new-found liberty of parking oneself in a restaurant overlooking a verdant vista on a side road to somewhere and titillating the taste buds with tea and fried foods (apparently a Thing in the monsoon) helped reduce the mordant dislike that I used to feel for Junetenth.

Coming to man’s estate I found myself in Paris one grey September day, set to

rise further in the realms of academe. It was fall, it was raining that day, and it was raining heavily. But to my utter surprise, I found myself standing in the rain on the street outside the métro station and absorbing the genteel, delicate drops falling on my upturned face. The air felt fresh and clean, the roads were glistening like the lips of a beautiful woman drinking wine and the sheer profusion of colourful rainwear lifted my spirits no end. Of course, my spectacles misted up and I caught the death of a cold after that and was laid up for almost a week with fever and the shivers. But the realisation dawned on me that Junetenth was no more a problem!

The academic season in this developed and beautiful country starts in September, when the weather is fit for spoils and strategems of love, good wine and long walks (as Shakespeare would have said if he had lived in Paris as a student.)

I now look upon rain as a partner in fun and an affirmation that life is not just a four-letter word!

Ego, Igitur Scribo

I stuttered badly as a child. Really badly. I couldn’t even speak an entire sentence fluently, leave alone hold my own in a debate or other verbal activity. Growing up in the 70s and going through the rigors of education by numbers, I developed an extreme form of shyness and preferred my own company.

This shyness and preference to be in a shell made me gravitate towards the written word. I found books (not textbooks of course) to be a convenient and easy escape from the taunts and “sticks and stones” as Shakespeare put it so nicely. Books also allowed me to think – which I could without stuttering.

I also discovered a flair for languages and found French to be a wonderfully expressive language in which to put down ardent words of love and desire (though these were never delivered to actual living persons). And most importantly, I didn’t stammer at all when I spoke in French!

From reading to writing was a natural progression (though the third R wasn’t, and isn’t, my forte at all). Writing allowed me to express myself fluently, without halting, hesitating or pausing. In school, I delighted in writing essays, short stories and other pieces of prose. Esoteric topics like “The Autobiography Of An Umbrella” or “A Trip Through The Rain In India” were easy as pie for me. I could write, and keep writing, without fear of breaks or mockery. Long form essays and literary critiques in college were finger-snappingly easy!

I discovered a few channels on which to write - no digital platforms then but essentially the “middles” of prominent newspapers and some newsletters recommended by friends. The newspapers of course rejected my submissions without grace or gentleness. But I still treasure (and framed) the first ever rejection note I got – at least they bothered to reply! I also got opportunities to do English-French-English translations and earned enough to pay for my ticket to France for higher studies.

I started working in advertising and found myself doing more copy work than client relations. The opportunities to meet writers in different languages who could weave magic with words was exhilarating beyond…words! I also got opportunities to work in PR where I could use my writing skills to generate a lot of content such as press releases, white papers, ghost articles for clients and so on. This also helped me learn how to shape my thoughts and writing flow into coherent content and not just confused rambles on a page!

I moved to Dubai in the early naughties and continued to work in advertising. One of my core functions was to manage copy and content for all my clients. I thus got a chance to practice my writing skills on a wider canvas and explored industries as diverse as foods, airlines, telecom, medical services and financial services. The growth of the internet, social media and digital channels, and the development of the “smart phone”, gave me innumerable opportunities for pithy, silly or plain thought-provoking content which could be published at the click of a button.

I also started a blog to document the quirks, delights and tragedies of everyday life. You are reading this on my blog!

To conclude, my motto is “Ego, Igitur Scribo” – I Am, Therefore I Write. I can think of no more fulfilling activity than writing and I can’t wait to put down all the ideas jostling in my head on to paper till the ink dries out!

Shifting houses is a moving experience.

For someone who is loth to move more than a metre or two in any direction, and who believes a nomadic existence is against all civilised norms, I have moved homes 7 times in my decade and a half in this heathen outpost. From barely 3 months (hurried midnight departure after the building was sealed by the authorities) to a decade in a hotel apartment on one particular street, my tent-pegging in Dubai has covered all types of sand and many miles.

The latest – 8^th – move was on New Year’s Day 2022 (a rainy day with glooming clouds) to the City of Smiles – Sharjah. About 20 miles nor’nor east of Dubai as the falcon flies, and 20 minutes’ drive on a weekend or at the witching hour. The weekday drive can be at least an hour, thanks to a complicated route design that makes several roads spiral and circle the overlap area between the two cities, and then merge onto just two expressways. I believe people carry emergency rations on their daily run. But since I am working from home these earthly considerations do not spoil my appetite nor my sleep.

Moving home is traumatic, to say the least. And I don’t mean only on the emotional front of uprooting self and putting down new roots. I am not one for “new experiences” at the best of times and nostalgia is a huge part of my mental outlook (read my post on nostalgia).

The whole exercise of packing, discarding unwanted mementoes of one’s rather chequered existence (which were wanted just the previous week), transporting the lot to the new shed and unpacking and displaying the assets is a back-breaking, draining activity fraught with angst and desperate pleas to various Gods for redemption. Besides, this entire activity goes against all known laws of physics and nature’s rules on vacuums - how two cupboards are not enough for goods that slumbered peacefully for years inside a drawer is a Buddhist conundrum that cannot be answered with mere coffee.

There is also the very existential revelation that one's life can be packed in a few bags.

But we have benefits. One, a bigger house with a…separate front room and bedroom! This is important for someone who has lived for the majority of his life in a studio apartment. Two, my very own writing desk and chair. Three, sylvan surroundings (though one window looks out onto a building site that resembles a bombed out space in some of the more excitable Arab cities). Four, a less hyperbolic and glitzy environment, which resembles a typical Arab city. And finally discovering my collection of glassware makes the chest puff out. Pride of place of course goes to my Khukri and samurai swords.

And the unexpected joy of discovering restaurants with interesting names.

I am reminded of my parents’ exhortations to move up in life. Looking out from the balcony of this 8th floor apartment, I am happy that I have finally done that.

Wind beneath my wings

 

Parenting cannot be taught or learnt in advance, even though there are many hundreds of “How To” books on the topic. It’s learning on the job.

My father was at the tail end of the brood that his parents looked after, and one would expect that he benefitted from the cumulative learning thus acquired. And that this learning would be deployed for the wellbeing of his own trio (I have a feeling I was the accident of the family but that’s neither here nor there.)

As a child – and even after reaching man’s estate for that matter - I did not have any yardstick for comparing the way my father exercised his fatherhood over me and how others exercised theirs. I did have expectations honed by an intensive study of global cultures and practices (mainly Archie comics and Wodehouse books) but I soon realised that these were good only in theory.

I grew up as part of a large family of which a substantial number was elder to me. So, while respect was accorded to divers uncles and older brothers, who were treated like “father figures”, the relationship duality (that of give and take) functioned only with my father. He spoke, I listened. He commanded, I executed. He roared, I slipped under the covers.

I suppose that today my father would be considered a “hands off” parent, content with leaving the minutiae of daily upbringing to his wife and mate (the same person, I hasten to clarify.) He had a sense of responsibility towards not just his immediate family but to our extended family. He played the role of father figure to a whole raft of children in the family both onshore and offshore and bobbing somewhere in the merry throng was his direct heir (the genes ensured that I stood tall in the crowd.) Being a man of huge intellect and with a silent, brooding and somewhat forbidding demeanour, to approach him for anything was an act of courage akin to putting a hand on a sleeping tiger.

He was not one to lavish words or gestures of affection. He preferred to show that he cared through concrete action. Action for which he expected no recognition or thanks. He was the quintessential man in the shadows, content doing his duty as he knew best for his Quartet (mom and us siblings) and others. And when he felt he had done what he could by everyone around him, he slipped out quietly through the door. Three years ago, today.

So, while Mom provides the ailerons to give direction to my life, Dad continues to be the wind beneath my wings. And since a father expects no thanks, I will not thank him. I will only keep walking on the path he showed me. And hope that when I meet him again he will complete that story of the former secretary to the Jamsaheb of Nawanagar and the Morris Minor car.

Nostalgia is a bitch

 

An aunt recently wrote about the travails of moving house. She wrote feelingly about the dilemma of keeping or leaving things, of the weight of memories triggered by a forgotten photo that fell out of a bunch of dresses. While moving is par for the course for individuals or families in certain walks of life such as the armed forces, government service (especially in India), the diplomatic corps and the “global manager”, who move houses the way others change shirts, most of us go through life with perhaps one move at best.

Even this one move can be an extreme life moment, one that leads the mover to frequent bouts of lachrymosity and walks backward into the mist of time. I have been there. Even 18 years after moving, to a larger house (with my own bedroom!), I still pine for the old family house where our family of five squeezed into a tiny “half flat” and made it home, full of warmth and fun. As a matter of policy, I have stopped going to the area in which it is situated. The rush of memories makes me dizzy.

Nostalgia is a by-product of houses which have become homes. Of strangers who briefly became acquaintances, if not friends. Of a pastiche of visuals, edges blurred by time, which instantly raises a lump or a smile and vanishes into the ether. Nostalgia is a crutch for the displaced, offering a tiny ray of comfort for those who leave home by force, due to war, famine or other catastrophes.

I have lived in 5 different countries in my career. And the cities that I have graced with my presence – Kolkata, Paris, Amsterdam and Lagos among others – have all given me an armful of nostalgia, through which I can rummage and pull out a memory or two at any time. But in nearly sixteen years in Dubai, I have moved houses eight times. And nary a nudge of nostalgia from any of them. That’s because these were all functional abodes - I have lived in hotel apartments (or serviced apartments if you like) for the majority of my time in the desert. These do not lend themselves to roots or memories.

Neither does Dubai. Dubai has no time for the luxury of nostalgia. The past has been consumed and spat out. It is full of “carelessly discarded yesterdays” as the author Bill Bryson wrote (in a different context and on a different continent). The Dubai of yesterday is as nothing compared to today and will be completely obliterated by the Dubai of tomorrow. Which is good. Erasing a whole lot of yesterdays, where there is nothing but emptiness, is a smart move.

My brand of nostalgia is a blend of people and places. Even a mention of a tiny monument in Paris (o wondrous city of lights) tugs at the heart strings. But I barely made any friends there. Amsterdam is where I discovered the ease of mixing with people of other cultures. But I barely remember the sights. London is family and sights and sounds. And smells. Of wet earth, of Earl Grey tea, of that peculiar fragrance that is probably a famous air freshener brand which I have found nowhere else.

And what of Mumbai and the people there, you ask? Well, it will always be Bombay for me. The city and its people (friends, families, strangers) shaped me and made me fit for purpose. Whose raffish, no-time-to-stand-and-stare attitude brushes aside those who cannot move fast. But it’s where I created my own space and memories. And we are all a product of our memories, n’est-ce pas?

Nostalgia requires a large dollop of sentiment, of a willingness to go back in time. And an unconscious desire to hurt, because it pains us to know that the past will not return. Nostalgia bites hard just when you try to look into the future and try to move on. It chains our present and future to its sagging bosom. And that’s why nostalgia is a bitch.

The Moving Finger Writes…

This is neither a tribute to Omar Khayyám nor am I trying to copy Agatha Christie (the other Agatha mentioned by a fellow author is neither here nor there).

Yes, I did say “fellow author”. For I have joined the hallowed, serried ranks of those who write. Of those who put thoughts on paper for a reader, who write not in ledgers but books.

In keeping with modern trends and thoughts, my first book is what's called an "e-book", a Kindle edition made possible by a certain bozo called Bezos. It might lead to untold riches and fame. Or it might not. But that is not the point, n’est-ce pas!

People are at a loss to react to a statement such as “I am an author”. The reactions range from “awter?” (awful writer) to “aawter?” (aaw he’s a writer!!). You also hear a shuffling sound as people try to subtly move away from you, fearing a sales pitch, or worse, an offer for a free reading!

But my readers do not have to worry. I do not intend to force my output on unsuspecting people or those who read nothing more taxing than the cereal boxes at breakfast. I know my readers are more discerning, and will go through vale and meadow, climb through boughs and tramp through deserts, to get my book. (Actually, all they will need to do is log in). For the princely sum of 99p or equivalent in coin of the realm of their country my readers will get access to a book that will elevate, entertain and amuse.

Everyone can be a writer, but to be an author requires a tenacity of purpose, above-average dermal thickness, the ability to look beyond the here and now, and the inexplicable desire to enrich people’s lives through engaging prose. Ah well, it could be verse.

The story doesn’t end there. This is merely Volume 1. The worth of an author, even an e-author, can only be seen if he is voluminous. So, there will be Volume 2. Possibly a Volume 3 and Volume 4. Followed by a compendium.

So please log in and get engaged. And help a struggling author in his quest to spread sweetness and light! You could also listen to a song about paperback writers by a group of 4 lads, while tapping on the keyboard.

Should a chef become a "global brand"?

The best chefs, in my not so humble opinion, are those who dish up hearty, flavourful food, the plates creaking under the weight of substantial comestibles. They let their food speak for itself, and practise their art in specific locations, presiding over the stove as happy purveyors of Good Food.

Everyone knows that “food” is one of my preferred four-letter words. I spend most of my time eating, thinking about eating, watching food programmes or reading about food. I eat whatever doesn’t eat me, thanks to a very liberal home upbringing and strict parental rules about (a) not wasting food (b) not being too fussy about food. But I am not a cook and can’t go beyond the basics in a kitchen.

 Since moving out of home and hearth (and mom’s kitchen) a score and eight years back I have perforce been obliged to frequent restaurants of different hues, shapes and cuisines. Student cafeterias to roadside shacks, dingy dhabas to purveyors of fancy rubbish, streetside stalls to food courts in malls, my tongue has been tingled by a variety of tastes and flavours. Memorable meals there have been aplenty, and some humungously disgusting meals too.

I like quality and quantity in my food. A growing boy’s appetite and all that. So those twee concoctions offered by “World Famous Restaurants”, with a glob of yellow, green and perhaps brown, are not what I seek or like. I have dined in some of these WFRs thanks to the generosity of friends and family, and while I managed to keep a straight face and make appropriate appreciative sounds at the pink Nike-like swoosh cuddling two perfect beans, the digestive system looked askance at me and raised several questioning eyebrows.

 Most of these WFRs are helmed by chefs who have earned A Name. They are a brand burnished through love for good food, (sometimes) education at renowned culinary schools and a consistency of quality that only happens through sustained hard work at the stoves. These WFRs are not cheap. But their fame spreads through word of mouth and the happy sighs of fatted diners who have had their fill! Most of these "brand chefs" are content to ply their trade at one single location, be it in a bustling city or in sylvan countrysides.

However, some of these chefs go rogue and decide that they want to become Global Celebrities. So, they (a) spread their wings (b) experiment with their food, and (c) get on TV food shows. The single-location restaurant spreads like a rash in the “culinary capitals of the world” (some of which, like Mumbai, are questionable). These outposts are helmed by staff "trained by world famous chef ABC". The World Famous Chef visits his culinary empire, checks that the staff is following his instructions and takes off for the next cooking show.

The skills of a good chef do not travel well. The fame of a chef is not enough to justify high prices and gushing hurrahs for a restaurant unless the chef is cooking himself. I will pay $$$ for a meal cooked by say, Paul Bocuse. But certainly not for a meal cooked by a “chef trained by Paul Bocuse”. It’s like seeing the Eiffel Tower replicated in Las Vegas. Not The Same Thing! I would rather that the chef developed his own name using the skills gained from Paul Bocuse.

A good chef needs to allow his brand’s mystique and aura to develop over time. A "Gordon Ramsay" restaurant in Marine Drive, Mumbai, may add a certain cachet to Marine Drive, Mumbai. But you are not eating a Ramsay Meal. Though you are paying for his brand value. The whole chain becomes an assembly line, with meals produced through a written list of instructions. This allows no space for a customer to interact with a Celebrity Chef (for which he or she is paying good $$$$), not does it allow the Chef to dazzle with his skills, to come up with an impromptu riff on a piece of meat that makes the customer feel special!

There are exceptions of course. Particularly when its a cuisine that goes global rather than a chef. We all know the Chinatowns all over the world. There are famous restaurants which have opened branches in different cities. But it's the food here that is the brand. And perhaps the place of origin. These restaurants can be pricey, but they serve that valuable purpose of reminding us of home, which is priceless!

So, remember, not all Chefs can be global brands. Some are best in their home markets only.

And while you wait for the next smoked offering from your favourite chef, remember what the Great Foodie Baxicius said: “Molecular gastronomy just so much gas.”

Hate, Love, Rain

I hated rain. 

During my growth years, the onset of the “monsoon season” in India equalled the start of the academic year. Those were dark, grey days, literally and otherwise. I did not like school. Not one bit. The education dished out was not meant for me. The soul was burdened with the weight of woe and the school bag. Umbrellas were a luxury and the raincoats were designed for Cindrella's dwarves rather than a chunky, fast growing lad. My school took “mass education” literally – 5,000 brats hummering away made it difficult to stand out in class and recognised as a budding genius. Unless you sat on the first bench and kept raising your hand all the time. All in all the combination of rain and a curriculum designed to turn the student into a drivelling, gibbering snorter made me wonder if Nietzsche actually had a point. 

The manic tremolo of raindrops on the awning over our windows at home is a sound I will never forget. It disturbed my sleep, my meals, my studies (such as they were) and was a background VFX that I can do without today.

Moving to man’s estate I finally got the chance to experience rain as a gift from the gods and not as a dam(p) nuisance. My love affair with rain was kindled in Paris, where the autumn rain helped me effortlessly dish out maudlin musings and robust food and wine pairings. London was wet through and through but the vision of huge Union Jack umbrellas, beers and scotch eggs in a cosy tavern just north of Swiss Cottage, vast swathes of rolling green fields glistening in the rain and hot tea in a village called Little Slaughter with lightning and thunder for company as the world stood still are some of my best memories of the city and the country. And West Africa is a byword for rain of course – it probably needs a separate post!

Unlike Paris and London and to an extent Amsterdam, Mumbai in the rain is not the best of places to be out of home in. The mud, the smells, the overflowing drains and on select days the tide in the affairs of (Mumbai) man, which when taken at the flood, leads to your shoes and trousers (and more) getting damaged beyond repair! Not to mention water-borne illnesses! Do not for a moment get trapped by lurid descriptions of roasted corn / spicy snacks / hot tea outside in the rain. These are mere projections of a weak mind.

The infamous Mumbai floods of 2005 convinced me it was time to move to a place where “rain” is chimeric – heard of in song and lore perhaps but rarely seen. Dubai happened fortuitously but with my usual impeccable sense of timing I landed there on its Annual Rain Day - when I believe the camels are decked up and let loose to frolic in the drops of rain while the natives roll up the windows of their Rollses – and was stuck at the airport for 3 hours.

However in the decade and a half since I have basked in sunshine through the year, with the memories of grey monsoons during school days like an old wadi in the desert - lifeless and dry. How I now crave for a flood to fill up that wadi! (for a glimpse of dubai in the rain check out my 1st ever blog post: dubai rain

I love rain. I am at my happiest when indoors with a cup of the steaming and a good thick novel (no Bookers please) at hand, while the heavens above open up. There is something about the sound of rain, pelting down on rooftops, tippering on leaves, that makes me sigh with a sense of what could have been, of unfulfilled desires and wishes (unkind folk who suggest that the sigh is really a wheeze are wet behind the ears). The occasional lightning and thunder are value additions which uplift the soul. And sometimes scare the beejezus out of me due to volume and intensity.

At these times, I like to think that the Guv’nor is up and about with a wee dram, about to tell me one of his lawyer stories.

And I am sure he would agree with the revered sage Baxicius’ advice on how to handle rain: Better to be wet inside and dry outside.