Ramu & the Tatas

Ramu sighed. This was definitely not going to be a great day. (Not least because no great story/event had yet been recorded with the opening lines "Ramu sighed".)

He did not realize it but every morning of his in the last few days had started with a heave of his chest followed by an intake of air.

*SIGH*

While his past bi-yearly trips had been vacations filled with promises of catching up with friends and relatives, this trip to India had been to settle some long overdue personal affairs. He had grossly underestimated what it took to get any personal business done in India.

(It had to be said in his favour that his FIRPM status did not help.)

Today was "Tata Indicom" day. The task was ominously simple. He had to locate the Tata Indicom office, handover the phone instrument and surrender his mother's phone connection.

But Ramu did not dismiss the task lightly. He had carefully noted down the address from the bills that the company had sent him. Their registered office on the company letterhead was listed as

#2and3and4, Thiru Vi Ka road, Royapettah, Chennai.

Royapettah seemed like a familiar landmark. After all he had spent more than a decade in the city and in his teens had cruised through the very same lanes in his "Hero Bicycle". It was his "pettai" (area).

Thiru Vi Ka road did not sound familiar, but Ramu was not worried. The renaming of roads in Chennai was not uncommon. It had happened before even when he was living in Chennai. Roads and streets named after former colonial masters had been renamed after Indian freedom fighters and even in some cases contemporary (and increasingly corrupt) politicians. It was probably "Peters road" he mused.

#2and3and4 flummoxed him for a little while. He finally figured that the Tata Indicom office likely spanned three buildings and hence was listed as thus. But he did not want to take any chances. With his trusty MTS 3G connection (with incredible broadband speeds starting at Rs 2 per day) and his netbook with the irritatingly small keys, he was quickly able to locate it on google maps and narrow it down to a small area. It was next to Bharani towers as per the map.

It was time. All the signs were good. His Tata Indica A/C car arrived promptly at 10:00 AM to get him to the Tata Indicom office. He handed over the keys to his next door neighbor and said his Tata goodbyes.

Along the way, he casually asked his driver for the day, whether he was familiar with Thiru Vi Ka road. He remained unfazed when the driver confessed his lack of knowledge of the street or its surrounding areas. He plugged in his trust MTS 3G connection (with incredible broadband speeds starting at Re 2 per day) into his netbook and acted as the navigator.

The flyover to Royapettah (Yup. There it was)
Royapettah high road (look!!! there was the road to Gil adarash)
Seethapathy Clinic (Best for appendectomys)
Thiru Vi ka Road (Royapettah High road becomes Thiru Vika. Slap on the head)
And there as proclaimed was Bharani towers with ??????

Ramu hopped out of his car and spent the next one and a half hours fruitlessly walking up and down the road that google maps promised housed a Tata Indicom registered office. He closely  cross questioned the security guards stationed outside Bharani Towers on their knowledge of the whereabouts of Tata Indicom.

He went back to his car.  He refreshed his browser and stared piercingly at the results. He did it again and again and again....But the answer frustratingly was always the same

#2and3and4, right next to Bharani Towers.

Finally conceding defeat for the day....he headed back home. He had not done enough research, but he would be back.

Tata to Tata Indicom? Not just yet. Not if he had anything to do it.

"I'll be back" whispered Ramu the Terminator as he slid into the backseat of his Tata Indica.

He leaned back and refreshed his computer screen. Nothing. The first casualty to the cause. His MTS 3G USB flash drive had stopped working.

His flash drive had lost its drive.

As the crow flies

Somebody needs to let Google know that any efforts towards mapping out Indian roads is a gigantic waste of time. Ditto for TomTom/Garmin or any other GPS device maker that has dreams of selling their wares to the burgeoning indian middle class. As for any fancy app for the iphone that can pinpoint the user's location, i think they made a movie for that. Its called "Chak De India" which approximately translates into (only in my own dictionary i must hasten to add) as "Chuck it kindly please". 

The reason i can authoritatively state this is because, through careful empirical observation on this trip, plus flashbacks from my past experiences(just like in bollywood movies....thats how my memory works), the evidence is inescapable. 

Everybody knows the way in India. Or to be more precise, 

Every living person in India you dont know  (a stranger) more likely than not will always be able to give precise directions to you, if you more likely than not look like you are lost and are seeking directions from them. 

In other words. Everybody knows the way in India.  

You just have to ask Ramu.  

Note for the reader: 

Who is Ramu you may ask?

Some of the experiences i am going to write about are easier to digest when you are visualizing a character called "Ramu". Otherwise you will find yourself constantly shaking your head thinking, "How could (Insert my name here)  be so stupid?". 

Ramu on the other hand...no justifications are needed for his experiences. He is after all a "Ramu". 

The Burra sahib and the natives

I was suitably amazed when in the course of languid conversations in Goa (meeting up with old friends), one of them informed me that any tax deductions made by banks could now be viewed online as long as i had my tax id or permanent account number linked to my bank account. With this i would no longer have to keep track of my Form 16's received in the mail to claim refunds. All i had to do was register my name, go to a TIN (tax identification number) center (in multiple locations so i could choose whichever was closest to home) show my identification and get my account activated. After which, I could simply get onto the web, print it out whenever i needed it. Amazing progress...The government was joining the Information Technology revolution. The beneficiaries of the revolution were not just corporations in the US, but common folks like in India who could now get their Form 26AS on the web.

It was all so simple. What could possibly go wrong? 

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 I followed the instructions. I went on the web, filled out a form, identified that the closes TIN center was just around 5-6 kms from my house and was in a location i was very familiar with. I had lived right opposite the TIN center close to 6 years.

When i walked in, it was around 2PM...(lunchtime in Chennai). There were a bunch of people sitting around doing a whole lot of nothing...and one fellow in the corner eating his curd rice. I had not printed out the form and was hopeful that somebody at the center would do it for me. (The hopefulness was more like the 2011 Obama "hope". Not the hype filled "hope" of 2008 where people would look back and remember that this was the day the earth started healing, but more of the 2011, "Its got to get better right. It cant be that bad?Right? Right?" kind of hope).

I was informed that there was "no current" (a.k.a electricity) and even if there was, they would not be able to print it out for me. So i went in search of an internet center where i could print out the forms. This took me another hour and a half. (The guy at the internet center had gone out for lunch and locked the place). When i got back, there were around 6-8 people seated in the little office waiting to be served. I was not sure what they were there for. Turned out that i did not have to wait my turn and so did not matter.

I was directed to a young girl sitting in front of a computer. She asked me to sign the printout i had obtained and ensure that my signature matched that on my PAN card (like a little driver's license which also served as photo identification). I signed it and handed it back to her. She took a cursory glance, gave me a little smile, and said
"Sir, it does not match. Why dont you try again?".

I gave a little "tch" of irritation as it looked perfectly fine to me. But as i was about to sign the document again, she quickly added

"Sir, why don't you first practice it in on this little piece of paper? I cant have more than two signatures on the printout".

I thought it was a smart idea, smiled and took the paper from her. And then i scribbled out a couple of signatures out on it, and handed it back. She smiled again, shook her head and asked me to try again. I tried a couple more times, and much to my chagrin was rejected both times. By this time, the whole office had begun to take interest. The 6 bystanders sitting in the chairs,started craning their neck, trying to see where i was going wrong. One "Uncle" shifted his chair forward, put his elbow on the table where i was trying out the signatures, and with undisguised interest stared at my signatures intently.

By around the 10th rejection, i had this strong sense of deja vu. I was back in school in the 9th grade. Kothadandaraman sir would not let me go home, until i got the answer right to the math problem. It was 5:30 PM. Everybody else had left....It was just me and him. Where was i going wrong in calculating the answer? Where was the mistake? Where? Where.

My consternation increased and i found myself soon in a mild state of panic. I tried doing it slowly, almost tracing it out to match what was on my PAN card. I tried it fast....I tried it slanted....I tried it straight. Nothing worked. Twenty attempts later, my signature was an unrecognizable scrawl,even to me. And slowly the panic was being replaced by a sense of irritation. My mom, who was with me whispered,

"Its ok. Take your time. Don't lose it".

The "uncle" leaned over and suggested that i needed to change the loop on the "R", and helpfully tried to trace it out for me with his pen. That turned out to be the last straw.

"YOU ARE MAKING ME FORGE MY OWN SIGNATURE." I spluttered incoherently...

I suggested to her in chaste english that she had no idea what she was talking about. I clutched my hair in frustration.

"How do you expect me to sign it the exact same way i signed it 11 years back? Are you a handwriting expert?", burra sahib yelled.

The natives just stared curiously back at the strange man, who looked exactly like them, but was mouthing words in a strange language.

Realizing that berating her in english was possibly the worst way of convincing her, i pointed to my face on the PAN card, i pointed to my face and yelled.

"ATHE MOONJI" (Its the same face, goddamnit !!!).

And then i grabbed the papers from her hand, and stalked out of the office. Ten paces, with a sinking feeling, i realized that there was nowhere else to go. The other TIN centers were miles away. I had no access to the internet.

So i called my friend up to tell him he had no idea what he was talking about and this online stuff was just utter rubbish. My friend did not ask me any questions. He simply asked me for my PAN number, called me back in 5 minutes to tell me that it was done and that my Form 26 AS was in the mail.

Thats how it ended. Really. 5 minutes of talking to my friend, and i had my Form 26AS. My friend was right as usual. India was forging ahead.

Forging ahead ....

I realize that anybody reading my ensuing posts is going to stereotype me as "one of those NRI's....Non Resident Indian that go back to India and bitterly complains about the weather, the traffic, the noise, the pollution, the lack of cell phone etiquette, . I also expect that they will point that i have lived less than a decade outside of India and that it is hypocritical to complain of any of the above, given that my years spent in India still outnumber those within.

To those readers i would like to assure them that i am still a resident in the eyes of the tax authorities in India, (In fact one of my experiences that i am going to write about has to do with trying to change that status). In addition, i would also like to point out that one of my endearing qualities that makes me so lovable is the ability to forget any wrongs that have been inflicted on me fairly quickly. A quality that is more a byproduct of poor memory that in it is a saintly temperament.

So, for future reference, if you do wish to censure me with reference to my India travelogue, please dont throw me under the NRI bus. Instead watch out carefully for the vehicle with the number plate that reads "Former Resident indian with a really poor memory" and then stick it to me.

India Travels

The path to every India travelogue attempt of mine is paved with great surreal experiences that deserved documentation . So you may well ask yourself, what are the chances that this new series is going to be any different? My advice would be to write that down on a piece of paper, or on a word document on your computer and file that question in the folder "R" for "Rhetorical.......".

But what can i do? Every time i return from India, i get overwhelmed by the potential writing material that it gives me. And i start off in right earnest....until...yawnnn...what was i talking about?

I really really really want to give this India trip the writing treatment it deserves. I want to....So i am going to break it up into really small posts.

There i am done...That was the first one.

Flute Maami

The first few hours of practicing new instruments have to be the most exruciating for both the person playing the instrument and to any non parental ears. It ranks right up there with fingernails on a blackboard.

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I was 14 years old, when i first picked up the bamboo flute. An 18th century explorer would have described my initial efforts thus.

"Day after day, the young boy holds a small wooden hollow bamboo stick against his lips. There are 8 round holes on the stick. 7 of them are spaced roughly an inch apart from each other. The 8th hole is placed further apart from the remaining 7 and it is through this hole that the young boy tries to expel wind. The sound that emerges is best described as "Phoo, Phoo, Phoo". Clearly this effort has significance as for some reason his mother and grandmother watch him admiringly from a distance, nodding encouragement. It strikes me that the ritual must date back to the times when coal was the primary fuel for cooking and blowing wind through a hollow tube was a means of stoking the dying embers."

My cousin, considerably older than me, was kind enough to serve as my first teacher and gently lead me from the coal blowing stage to a point where a layman without any recourse to ear plugs or cotton could make out the base 7 notes . That took around a year before my impending 10th grade board exams allowed me to excuse myself from any further practice.

(One of the joys of being raised Indian if you could call is that, is that academia pursuits always trump any other field. Irrespective of the level of talent i may have displayed, nothing could take precedence over the 10th standard board exams or for that matter the 12th standard board exams.)

I renewed my efforts at it once i entered my 1st year of college. Or perhaps it would be more appropriate to state that i was made to renew my efforts at it.

I was 17 years old. I had moved on from emitting involuntary "Phoos" to voluntary "Phooees".....the dismissive sound employed the world over by teenagers with their parents. I expressed my displeasure in no uncertain terms when my mother suggested that i take up my flute training up again. But my cousin, had in all his kindness already arranged with his flute teacher to take me under her tutelage. It was agreed that she would stop by my house twice every week for lessons. My mother bore my many tantrums on the subject with the same saintly patience she had exhibited before and has exhibited since.

My flute teacher or "flute maami" as i called her was a wizened old lady in her later 70's and extremely passionate about her work. Most of the time she would teach at home, but for a few chosen pupils, she would make the trek to visit their houses to teach them. My status as one of the chosen was more a testament of my cousin's goodwill and the passion he had displayed with her.

After every lesson, she would give me detailed instructions on the length of time that i needed to practice before her next visit. More often that not, she would catch me hastily practicing 5 minutes before her next visit. On the rare occasions that my mothers exhortations prevailed, i would sit down to practice, only to find that it served as a trigger for my next door neighbor to start his practice sessions. In one of those coincidences that can happen only in real life, he not only played the flute but also was an "A" grade All India Radio artist. His practice sessions were impromptu concerts, that were an exhibition of his extreme mastery. All of us would simply stop whatever we were doing to listen. My practice sessions in relative terms was an exhibition of my extreme mastery of charcoal blowing skills. Lets just say he did not help my cause.

Flute Maami was extremely patient with me, but it must have taken all her resolve to not whack me over the head during our lessons. She tried everything to evoke more discipline. In one of her lectures, she told me that even if i could not appreciate it now, i would find appreciation for it later in life. My response as usual was

"PHOEEE"

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Over the course of two years, i had tried every excuse to rid myself of the lessons. But now i was about to enter my final year of college and had finally found a seemingly impregnable excuse to end my lessons. Ignoring my mom's entreaties, i decided to broach the topic with my teacher as we sat down for the lesson.

ME: "I have my final exams coming up in March. So i think we will need to stop these lessons in December"

Flute Maami: "Why wait till December. We can stop right now".

And with that she picked her little cloth bag with her notebooks and her flute and walked out of the door never to be seen again.

It was the month of June, 1995. I had just had my last flute lesson.

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Over the last 17 years i have carried my bamboo flute everywhere with me. It has resided in suitcases, on mantelpieces, on my living room sofas, collecting dust but more or less intact. A few weeks ago, i picked up the flute again and started playing it. I have one captive audience in my 9 month old daughter who does seem to appreciate my most recent efforts at charcoal blowing. She shakes her head from side to side, when i start playing and then continues pottering about with her toys. When i stop playing, she stops doing whatever she is doing, looks up at me with her cocked to one side and...emits a loud "Huh?"......seemingly asking "Why did you stop" .

Thank you Flute Maami, wherever you are. You were right. I do appreciate it more now.

Day 2 - "Ramu"

So my 2nd day of writing and i am already stuck...Nothing comes to mind. I suppose in keeping with the spirit of the blog, i am putting pressure on myself to have something interesting to say in a humorous sort of way.

So i shall try and write a little story...And try and keep it simple. And annotate my story as i go along (like the director's cut in the DVD).

His name was Ramu. (Why ramu? Because ramu is a simple name. Conjures up images of a simple little boy, probably some sort of helper in a house or perhaps he is a 8 year old boy who lives in a village, and plays with his friends by the river everyday, goes to a local government school where he is made to learn lessons by rote...

He was having a bad day. (Why was it not a good day? Perhaps his father had boxed his ears in the morning because his teacher had complained about his playing truant in front of his cousins)

But he was optimistic that tomorrow would be a better day (Perhaps it was the weekend coming up. He did not have to go to school. And he would get to play with priya, his first crush).

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Ramu got into his fire red Ferrari, threw it into gear, and screeched into traffic, causing a couple of cars to visibly swerve out of the way. What a nightmarish day...The stock market had gone into a tailspin for no apparent reason. His boss had given him a dressing down for taking the positions he had in front of his peers. He had warned him not to expect any bonuses if he continued down this current path. To top it all, his wife had left him a voicemail demanding an explanation about a jewelery bill she had found tucked away in the pocket of his suit.

He slowly calmed down as he weaved his way through traffic, his car's speedometer eventually reflecting his mood.

Monday would be a better day. Yes. The stockmarket had to recover. He would get his bonus. That way he could continue paying for the apartment where he had his mistress. He would come up with a story to explain the bill. Perhaps buy another necklace and give it to his wife. Ofcourse that would mean another expense to add to his growing debt, but it could be done.....

He smiled sardonically. "Ramu". It was ironical. The only thing simple in his life at the moment was his name.

He heard a siren behind him. He looked into the rearview mirror and saw the flashing lights of the traffic cop behind him...

Can i write everyday?

See....Its more than 6 months since my last post....And i want to do this little experiment...Starting today, i am going to post everyday. About nothing generally, in the hope it will resurrect the muse, address the elephant in the room and ask it a question why??? In fact...makes me want to hum a song....

Musee musee haathi....kyon why why...musee musee haathi kyon....

Who said anything about quality?

Marathon Post

Before you start reading about my efforts at running a marathon, please be warned that it might take a marathon effort on your side to read this entire thing…
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“The Journey is the destination”

Back in April, running a marathon was just an idea although it was somehow something I had always wanted to do. That makes it sound a little more dramatic that it actually is… Some of the other “somethings I have always wanted to do in the past” include..….. learn Kung Fu after watching “Fist of Fury” , join the army after watching “Fauji”….(a television program from my childhood days.)

All through my adult life, I had never managed to run more than 4 miles at a time. (“Adult life” makes it sound as though I ran a lot as a kid, but perish that thought…”). But slowly over time, as I stuck to the weekly runs and the weekend group runs, my confidence grew and the pace and the length of my runs increased. I found myself running around the Charles River in Boston on weekdays, wind in my face, sweat on my brow, enjoying the warmth of the sun on my skin, watching my fellow runners go by…(listening to the background score of “Chariots of Fire” would enhance the reading experience at this point”).

The typical marathon schedule includes running 3-4 miles on weekdays and doing long runs on weekends on a Saturday. So in May, the long runs started at 8-9 miles and every subsequent weekend, we would add a mile to the run.

By end July, as I was doing 14 and 15 mile runs on the long weekends, I was convinced that running a marathon at a 9 minute mile pace was just a matter of time….Add to it, that I found fairly significant physiological changes….face thinned out…dropped a few pounds and (best of all) all of this even though I was eating the vegetarian equivalent of a horse everyday.


And then on August 2nd, (to use a running metaphor), the shoe dropped….
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One of the main pieces of advice given to novice runners is that you should always listen to your body during your runs. (Basically the theory is that if you feel any kind of pain, don’t push it, otherwise you could make it worse.)

So as I was out on a 17 mile run…Around the 6th mile, my body decided that it wanted to have a conversation…

Muscle : Hey. You….You there?
Me: Huh? What????……Wassat?
Muscle: I’m talking to you. Do you know where I am ?
Me: Nope…..But you seem to be a bit of a pain…..
Muscle: Hmm…I thought so. Bad comment. You realize you just added an insult to an injury?

And just like that my knee locked up. It was the 1st week of August. The announcement from my muscle happened in the 12th mile of a 17 mile run. I was on a biking trail, 5 miles away from civilization (i.e my cell phone). So I hobbled off the trail and went in search of a phone. (When you run long distances, you try not to carry anything as it tends to weigh you down). I eventually found an empty church under construction and with a working phone line in one of the office rooms. (If that sounds farfetched please remember it’s a church. Miracles happen.)

Eventually my running mates found me inside the Church, which aptly enough was called the “Follen Church”. (This miracle was tinged with a little irony.)

The muscle I found out later was called the IT Band (Illio Tibial band), (not to be confused with geeky amateur music troupes found in large software corporations), it runs down the side of the leg from the hip to the knee. I was advised to take a couple of weeks off.

Two weeks later…..

It was time to join my running mates. Having missed two weekends in a row, the long run this time was for 19 miles. I had done the required, icing, stretching etc that was recommended for the injury. But then on the 10th mile it happened again…

Knee Joint: Hey you…
Me: Who are you now?

Knee Joint: You realize what a privileged existence I have had in the last 34 years? And now all this pounding. This just aint right….

IT Band: Listen up….I don’t feel so good…..

And so on the 10th mile, I stopped, hailed a cab and went home. I had added “runners knee” to my injury list. I spent the next couple of weeks making trips to different physiotherapists, but by end August I was seriously doubting my ability to run the marathon on October 11th. (The long runs are very critical to the marathon preparation.) .

Some more rest, icing and stretching followed. I decided to hit the trail again around September 10th. This time the run was for 22 miles. And one of the last long runs leading up to marathon day.

(The last 2-3 weeks of the marathon training are called the “tapering” phase. This is basically to let the body recover from all the hard running of the previous months. So the runs taper down to 5-6 miles 2 or 3 times a week leading upto the marathon.)

Around the 10th mile, the pain started again. This time I ignored their jabber and continued on. I eventually made it through the full 22 miles much to the relief of some of my running mates, who were wondering if they should have had a cab dispatched to pick me up somewhere in the middle stretch.

(One of the best parts of the the lead up to the marathon was the running group I was part of. The camaraderie that develops over the course of time makes you really look forward to the long runs. And having them along with you for the ride is a big part of what makes it memorable. )

After this run, I had to face upto it. With two more long runs left to go and my left knee the way it was, there was a very strong possibility that I would not run the marathon. After a lot of soul searching, I decided to make it my last long run. For the next few weeks, I avoided running completely….(from a training standpoint…the worst possible thing to do)…

Instead I spent an hour in the gym everyday on the elliptical to keep my cardio (stamina) up and tried some rehab exercises my physio had recommended. It did not help that I could not visit my physiotherapist as I was traveling on work all through that month.

But, I was determined to show up in Chicago and run atleast a few miles even if I could not run the whole course.

And so I went to the nearest DMV and changed my license plate to “Chicago or Bust” . (Ok. That did not happen).


D-Day Countdown

In the weekdays leading up to the marathon weekend (the marathon was on October 11th a Sunday), I was like a little kid on Christmas eve, waiting for Santa, wondering if he would get any gifts at all. (Ok. That means I was really excited…just in case you were wondering)

On Friday afternoon around 3 hours before my flight, I got a sudden panic attack that I had forgotten how to run….( An elliptical is no compensation for the real thing). I wore my shoes and headed out. I ran two miles before I calmed down. (You now have an inkling of what my wife had to put up with in the weeks leading up to race day.).

Finally it was time to catch the flight…. which of course was delayed. We reached Chicago close to midnight where my wife’s relatives were on hand to pick us up.

Saturday morning. The plan was that my wife and I would make our way to the Marathon expo where we were supposed to pick up my “bib number” and my shoe chip, (an electronic chip that would help track my progress through the race). We had also made plans to meet up with my running mates.

We were all so excited that we wandered round and round the exhibition until finally it dawned on us that exhausting ourselves was no way to prepare ourselves for race day. So after a nice pasta meal that evening organized by the Chicago Asha running group that we were part of, we adjourned to our respective locations.

(Running uses up a lot of Calories. One of the best parts of the training, is the ability to eat as much as you want knowing that all of it would be burnt away through your runs. The fuel that the body needs for these long runs are Carbohydrates. And so just before marathon day, all the runners are advised to do a “Carbo load” roughly 12 hours to the lead up. This just translates into indiscriminate consumption of Pizza and pasta.

The runners are also advised to drink lots of water the previous days in order to “hydrate” properly before a race which also translates into lots of trips to the restroom)

Sunday, October 11th, Race day

All the running textbooks warn about 1st timers excitement prior to race day and that the chances of a good night’s sleep being minimal. I was a textbook case.

(Our plan was to wake up at 4:30 AM to catch the train into the city. We were supposed to meet at the Asha group tent at 6:30 AM. The actual race was scheduled to start at 7:30 AM.)

To say that my sleep was disturbed would be an understatement. Around 12:30 AM, I woke up convinced that it was 6:00 AM and I had missed the marathon. Between 12:30 and 2:30 AM, I made approximately 60 trips to the restroom. Finally at 2:30 AM I dozed off. At 3:30 AM my wife’s alarm went off (she had set it for east coast time, while we were on CST).

Finally false alarms notwithstanding, we made it to the train station at 5:00 AM. And were greeted by around 2000 bleary eyed fellow runners with the same we had.

(Time for some statistics. The Chicago Marathon has roughly 40000 entrants and on race day, over a 1.5million people converge into downtown. Again we had been warned not to drive in, but it was still a surprise to see the number of people at the station that early in the morning.)

Finally after meeting up at the Asha tent and some last words of advice, we headed to the start line.

The weather that morning was just over 30F (-1 C). And was expected to go upto 50F (10 C) through the course of the day. From the runners point of view, 50F is perfect running condition, as the body warms up fairly quickly on the long run and the cool weather actually helps too keep the body temperature down and reduces the chances of dehydration.

(In 2008, as an example the temperatures during the same period in Chicago had been closer to 85F, and the marathon had to be almost called off, after one of the runners died of dehydration.)

We were advised to wear an outer layer that we could toss to the side once we warmed up. So in my case the preferred mode of clothing was a trash bag.

The “elite” runners (people who can run the marathon in less than 3 hours) typically start at the front of the group. Runners such as I., the amateurs and the first timers and I were much further back. When the race kicked , off, it was not a bunch of people racing away. It was more like a slow shuffle to the start line. And so even though the race started at 7;30 AM, it took me around 20 minutes to reach the start line.

Mile 1 – 5 – The pain in my left knee started almost immediately. But the adrenaline at the start of the race, combined with the race atmosphere made sure that it was nothing more than a slight pain. I soaked in the race atmosphere along with Tarang, one of my fellow runners. I had worn my name on my shirt, and so I was pleasantly surprised to hear my name called out by a total stranger. So surprised in fact, that I turned to them and said “Thank you”.

Every 2 miles or so there were tables on the side of the road, with volunteers handing out Gatorade and water, followed by aid stations for emergencies.

With the pain in my knee, I decided to take it slow for the first half and not force the pace.

My wife was waiting for me at mile 2, but in all the excitement I missed seeing her.

Mile 5-10 – I had settled into a steady pace, but the knee was still bothering me. Tarang parted company with me at mile 9 and decided to forge ahead. Sandeep a fellow runner also passed me at this point. At mile 10, I spotted my wife in the crowd, jumping up and down, trying to cheer me on. It was exactly the boost I needed. After a quick hug, I settled back into my running

Mile 10 –13 – I made it through the next couple of miles, on the strength of that hug, but by mile 12, the pain was bad enough that I decided to take a restroom break, stretch a little bit and “walk”/”run” my way through the rest of the marathon.

(No. The Kenyans doo not take bathroom breaks. But for the rest of us humans not looking to break records, drinking as much as we do through the course of the race, taking a bathroom break is not a bad idea). I lost 10 minutes in the whole process as there was a long queue to the restroom and worse got a real scare at the end of it.

When I tried to start running again, my left knee “locked” up. Every time I tried to bend it, the pain was excruciating. I was petrified that this was the end of my race. I hobbled over to an aid station to pop a couple of Tylenols in. I tried again, gritting my teeth through the initial steps and after a few minutes the pain settled into a dull ache. That was the last time I tried to “Walk/run”.

Mile 15 –20 – At mile 15, a fellow Asha runner from the Chicago chapter spotted me and accompanied me for a mile before forging ahead. At this point, my goal was to reach the 20 mile marker. Physically apart from the knee pain, I was feeling very good. I felt that I had more left in me and the medicines had also kicked in. So I deliberately slowed down to a point, where I could barely feel the pain, saving myself up for the last few miles. At this point, one of fellow runners Abhishek caught up with me briefly and we ran for a little bit.

At mile 17, I spotted my wife again. One more quick hug , recharged, I settled back into my run. I was very focused in this pace as the miles and kilometers rolled by.

Mile 20-23 – The l5-20 mile phase had been so good, that thoughts around “finishing strong” slowly made their way to the front of my brain. I contemplated increasing my pace over the last 6 miles to get a strong “finish”. So at mile 20, I tried to step it up…And then it happened…

Left Knee joint: Hey….Hey..Whoa there Usain Bolt…Wait a minute here…You feelin me??

And boy did I feel it. I quickly slowed down….and settled back into my jog. The miles rolled by 21….22(my wife was here again..but I did not see her)….23…..At this point, I could not think about stopping or walking. I just wanted to cross that finish line. The big posts marking the miles and kilometer signs helped. I glanced at the 35km sign in passing and found myself thinking about it…

“35 kms. I have actually crossed 35 kms”…..Plod, plod…plod

At mile 24, I looked up and glanced around after a long time at my fellow runners. And found myself smiling. We were all doing the zombie shuffle….Just trying to keep one foot in front of the other and trying to get to the finish line. And just as suddenly I was overcome with emotion….I was almost there…

At mile 25, there she was again.. This time, I could not even slow down for a hug…Stopping was not an option for anything….I had to content myself with giving her a big wave and blowing her a kiss…She ran along the side for a few seconds…That was the last I would see of her before the finish line…..

And then I was into the home stretch. I passed the sign that said 40kms… The road curved to the right and then to the left….And finally there it was… …”The Finish line”….

And just like that with a smile slightly wider that Julia Roberts and roughly the size of my shoulders, with my arms raised…I crossed the finish line. I had just completed my first marathon and felt like a million bucks.

Fall Day

A beautiful fall day. And on a day like this, he could say with conviction that of the four seasons, this was his favorite.

Winters were unpredictable, and on really cold days with the gray overhang, and the sun a distant memory, seemingly interminable.

Summers were nice. But then there were expectations that came along with it. Every day had to be bright and the temperature just right. Too hot and you would have to lather yourself with sun screen, wear a hat and sometimes a thin layer of sweat as well to go along with it. And even that was ok. If it stayed that way. But just a few rainy days, and every conversation would begin with "Can you believe the weather.......?".

Spring was fall's sibling, but the temperamental one. Restless.Impatient. There were reminders in the air of bright sunny days, happy faces, picnics, hikes and on some days there were even promises made. ....But there was the moodiness that you had to deal with. A nice sunny day could regress into a cold blustery winter day. And with that all the hope from those promises made would get sucked right out of you. Some people could deal with that. But it was not for him.

Fall was his season. He loved waking up to the crisp morning air and heading out to his favorite nature trail. Feeling the warmth of the sun on his skin as he walked under the trees. The trees themselves a cornucopia of colors. To him this was nature showing off her artistry, the leaves the palette with which she painted her magic.

He had brought her here to show her this. Hand in hand they walked the trail, the leaves crunching satisfyingly under their feet. And there were more every second. All around them, the leaves floated gently to the ground.

Very little was spoken. Though she had wanted to tell him all morning, right from the moment she had woken up bleary eyed, sacrificing her precious morning sleep, she had not find the right opportunity. His enthusiasm was infectious and she had been caught up in it.

They reached the edge of a clearing. He stopped. Took her into his arms. She looked up at him and started to say something.

"Shhhhh". He said. "Just listen." And they stood like that. In the middle of a clearing, the sun's rays streaming through the trees, the birds chirping in the background, until she could not hold it back any longer.

"I need to pee"

The Great Indian Horizontal Queue

To understand Customer Service in India, one has to have a basic comprehension of the Theory of HIQ or in its more expanded form, the Theory of the Horizontal Queue.

The Theory of HIQ - Beginners guide

A queue by definition involves a straight (or perhaps slightly meandering) line of things or people standing one behind the other. To this definition, we apply the ABFNS function to arrive at the HIQ.

ABFNS is something that every Indian child hears when growing up. However since this dissertation is intended for a mass audience, a brief explanation is warranted.

The ABFNS theory states that in order to survive and be successful in one’s endeavors one must always strive to be at the top of anything (or anybody) in the performance of any task. The theory in its expanded form reads

“Always be first, never second because there are one billion people waiting to take your place".

So when you take your average Q and apply the theory of ABFNS, it results in the HIQ or the Horizontal Indian Queue. That is a line of people standing parallel to each other,(in line with their parents instructions and their parents before them), to avoid the possibility of being second.

Mathematically, this can be expressed as

Q(ABFNS)= HIQ

A practical demonstration of the HIQ theory can be seen in everyday life. The shopkeeper selling prepaid phone cards and other assorted stationary. The very popular bakery selling vegetable puffs and other assorted goodies. And perhaps the most evident …..the line at the airport terminal and the Railway station ticket counters are great demonstrations of the Horizontal Indian Queue in its purest form.

It follows that the theory of HIQ has over the years, has led to some significant developments in the field of marketing and more specifically customer services. The Japanese have TQM, the Americans have Six Sigma and India’s contribution to this ever growing field of management is the ECF approach.

ECF or “Everybody Comes First”, is the Indian solution to the challenges posed by the HIQ. Initially, the theory came under some criticism as having no practical significance as it suggested that the number of customers service personnel would need to equal the number of people in the HIQ.

To address this criticism, LMC theory or “Let me check” theory was offered as a counterargument. The LMC theory postulates that by calculating the probability of a decisive response from a customer to a question (see note below), it is possible to determine the average time that is available to a service rep can toggle back and forth between customers.

(Note: The probability of a decisive response or PDRC is a function of the availability of clear and lucid instructions made available in advance to the customer (CLIAC). In other words,

PDRC= Fn(CLIAC).

In an Indian context, CLIAC is always closer to zero. It follows that PDRC will always be closer to zero and therefore application of the ECF principle is almost always possible.)

A simple exchange between the author and a bakery shop assistant is provided below as a practical demonstration of the above mentioned theories.

Author (Entering bakery and shouting above the head of other customers) : I need One bread peas masal.
Customer Sales Rep (to other customer he is serving): One minute....Sir.
CSR (to Author) : Excuse me. Could you repeat?
ME : I need one bread peas masala.
Shop Assistant: Rs 15 Saar.Do you have exact change?
Customer : Err...Let me check
Shop Assistant : Hold on
Shop Assistant(to the next Customer): Sir. Excuse me. Could you repeat?

Of Ancient Indian practices

"Good Morning Sir. How can i help you turn into a raving lunatic frothing at the mouth, a pitiful mass of self indignation?"

The ancient Indian philosophical theory of "Maya" is not easy to comprehend for the layman. To realize that the life we lead, that our everybody ups and downs, that the sufferings we undergo on behalf our family and everyday livelihood is all our imagination, a trick that the gods play on us, so we can appreciate the true simplicity of life when we finally comprehend it, can (like this insanely long sentence) be quite difficult to swallow at one go.

But not after you have had a phone conversation with the Income Tax Department Permanent Account Number Services Unit. Here is a brief excerpt from a conversation that my wife (lets call her W) and a Customer Services Personnel (lets call him P) in the aforesaid department.

W: I have provided my passport copy to you and it has my first name and last name as proof of my identify as you had requested. So why is my form for a PAN Card not being accepted?

P: But Madam, you had filled your first name and last name in a single line on the form. But in your passport your first name and last name are in two different lines. We need some form of documentation where your whole name is in a single line.

W: You are joking right? Who the %&*$@ is this?

Me : Dear. Its Maya

Food Raman

So i probably finished around 2 weeks back,what in all likelihood has been my best vacation ever. There were quite a few highlights. And so instead of trying to write one single long enormous post about it, i thought i would break it up into manageable chunks for blogging. So am going to list them out here...

a) "SIR....Enna SIR" (a.k.a "Vanga Vanga") -Customer Service in India
b)The jetsetting baby (Getting your kicks on long flights)
c)"Beep Beep...Ring Ring...Swoosh Swoosh"- A new day dawns in Chennai
d)For whom the Bells Toll...A Brief description of my wedding and post wedding celebrations
e)Return to Ariyanayagapuram - The sequel to "Temple Tours"
f)The incredible pit - A gastronomic tour of Old Delhi and Chandni Chowk as described by my stomach
g)If you can drive a car in Delhi..you can also be a dentist - A treatise on Traffic in India

So that should take care of my blog updates for the next 20 years (taking my current rate into account).

So where do i start?

Arizona Vacation

Is this how FDR and Churchill felt on the eve of the landing of ships at Normandy, I pondered, as I woke up early on a cold Friday morning ready to go to work. (An opening line like that lends gravitas and a good travelogue needs Gravitas). T&I had laid out the plans for this trip a month back and finally the big day was here. We would be ready to launch our plans that evening. The weather of course would be key to our carefully laid out plans.

I checked the weather forecast. Heavy snow was predicted beginning that late afternoon. I was a little wary of the weather but T even more so. Those years in Boston had done nothing to diminish her sense of foreboding when it came to driving in the snow. I,on the other had, with my years of driving experience in the borderlands of the US and Canada , where “lake effect” snow was as common as the sighting of a flannel shirt and a pair ot jeans and workman boots, was unfazed by the weather.

It would be all right. After all chance always favors the prepared mind and no mind came more prepared than that of T. Wasnt it Churchill who said, “A Captain well rested, look no further than his crew to know why”. (At this point, in case Churchill did not say it, which in all likelihood, he did not, I would like to claim copyright over that.) I had slept well, secure in the knowledge that she would be there to remind me of any forgotten eye glasses, keys or wallet.

I headed out to work early, with a plan to head back early, before the heavy snow set in. A short trip to the gym, , given the days of unbridled consumption of food and beverages that lay ahead, was prudent. By the time I left the gym, the snow as predicted by the weatherman was falling in copious amounts. My car struggled to gain traction on the slippery snow. For a brief moment it slid backwards and I pondered my prudence , but thankfully my trusty steed of 5 years found its footing and I soon found my way home to T.

And thus it was, a few hours later, we were ready to begin our trip
The plan was to park ourselves at an Inn (The Holiday Inn for those who demand more precision) the night before the launch of the aircraft, which was scheduled to depart early the following morning at 6:40 AM.

We stopped briefly at a restaurant called the “Dabbawala” in a small town in New Jersey for dinner. Our hostess informed us over a meal of excessively salty dal and slightly rubbery rumali roti that it was this very same restaurant that were the caterers to transcontinental flights of the carrier Jet Airways. I inadvertently let is slip that I had flown by the very same airline through Brussesl and that I loved Belgian chocolate, where upon she took it upon herself to interrogate me on my preferences in chocolates of that variety, declaring indirectly that she herself was a connosieur, having lived in that city for 8 years.

She was a talkative one that hostess, she was. But her interrogations were to no avail. I remained tightlipped secure in my ignorance of branded chocolates,. T pointed out later that we could have saved ourselves an inquisition if I had been a little less hasty in professing a preference for Belgian chocolates and perhaps a little more critical of the amount of salt in the lentils.

By and by ,we made our way to the Inn and called it a night happy in the knowledge that tomorrow, 8 days of unadulterated pleasure lay before us in the form of rocky mountains, cactus strewn deserts, red baked earth.

Sedona, Arizona was the first phase of the plan.



Day 1 – Saturday

T&I left the hotel at 5:20 AM the airport just a couple of miles away. By the time we parked our car and made it to the Aiport checkin lines, it was 5:40 AM. Our flight was at 6:40 AM and the line to the checking counter at Newark airport resembled the lines outside the Tirumala Temple in Tirupathi.

But we were lucky. A kindly Continental employee, took pity on us and cut through the lines and checked in our baggage for us. With the riff raff darshan at Tirupathi behind us, we only had to get past the special darshan line a.k.a Security

Finally past the security check, we rushed to our gates, only to find out that the flight had been overbooked and that we had to settle for the next available flight on Monday. I pleaded my case to the airline guy behind the counter to no avail. And there it was ”The best laid plans of men and mice”…We were stranded. Until T decided that this was the time to pull out the ultimate weapon. Her big doe eyes slowly teared up. Every mans Kryptonite. And just like that we had tickets for the 4:00PM flight. And we had been upgraded to first class too and had also got a $900 refund. Amazing what a little saline water can do.

Given that the weather was incredibly lousy and a lot of flights were being cancelled, we spent the rest of the day at the airport trying to get on any earlier flight that we could find.

We tried to get ourselves on the noon flight to Phoenix. And things looked promising. There seemed to be a lot of no shows. We were asked to line up on the walkway leading to the airplane door and were informed that as the names were called out, we would be let in.. And shuffling slowly forward we soon found ourselves at the threshold of the airplane door.

The airhostess told us to take a couple of steps back while she shut the door on us. The plane was full.

%&*$&$*#&$*% doesn’t describe our feelings at that point.

T went into overdrive. I watched in awe as she called up her company travel desk, find out alternate routings and then proceeded to bombard the airport personnel with questions. The answer was always the same.

“Sorry Maam. All flights are overbooked”.


But she would not give up. Once she found out that our 4:00 PM flight was delayed, she switched from overdrive to hyperdrive. I was exhausted by this time. Mainly from watching her . So I left her to her wanderings and decided to curl up with a good book. (Oops. I meant I decided I would take care of the luggage.) T would return from her wanderings from time to time, sit for a while, rant against the injustices of the airline system, muse on the fickleness of the weather gods and then jump up and run away as soon as a new idea struck her. I continued my role as luggage guardian and sounding board until it was finally time to board the flight….(Actually I couldn’t move even if I wanted to. I was completely engrossed by a book “White Tiger”).

By the time our flight took off, it was 8:30 PM, meaning we would only land at Phoenix at Midnight on Sunday. Sedona was alteast 2 hours away. But we decided to drive all the way. Our car had XM radio with 250 channels and so I spent almost my entire journey twiddling through the 250 channels unable to settle on any one. (As T likes to point out, women flip channels to see what is on TV, men flip channels to see what else is there.)

As we approached Sedona, the only lights anywhere in the vicinity were the lights from the headlamps of our car. And so just for the fun of it, I decided to switch off the lights to see how dark it got as I drove.

It was an interesting experience. I realized that switching off the headlamps while driving at 80mph in the middle of the desert at 2AM in the morning, while thrilling for me, made T hyperventilate.

We finally reached Las Pasada, a Bed and Breakfast inn we had been booked into at 3:00 AM on Sunday Morning.

Tired but happy at having made it, we hit the sack.

Day 2 – Sunday

The next morning, we awoke at around 9 AM to find ourselves in the midst of gorgeous red mountains dotting the landscape…(Do mountains dot landscapes?).

Breakfast was between 8:00 to 9:30 AM and so we hustled our way to the dining room, where we were greeted by our host Carlos. After a hearty breakfast, we decided to hike up Cathedral rock, a popular hike which promised spectacular views. It was a gorgeous day for a hike, around 18 C, sunshine and a perfect day for a hike.

So we went to a nearby factory outlet and spent an hour shopping there for the perfect clothes for the hike in perfect weather.

We reached the start of the hiking trail, only to find that there were no parking spots available. Unsure about what to do, we drove around aimlessly for a little while until the parking gods…(Hindus are supposed to have over 3Million gods…I am sure a parking god is in there somewhere…) took pity and opened up a parking spot. But not before testing our faith by jamming the front wheel of the car, between two rocks.

Now a little bit about Cathedral rock. Sedona has certain designated areas called vortex fields which apparently are caused by strong forcefields emanating from the earth or in this case red rocks. So it is supposed to be a thingy that you can use to balance your ying and yang (or male or female side) so you are suitably effeminate in your temperament if you are a guy and suitably butch if you are a girl. (So after reading that explanation you feel this urge to google Sedona +Vortex, go right ahead. I will understand.)

It’s a fairly steep climb and so T accompanied upto a point beyond which her yang took over and so being the yin I decided to venture a little further ahead to check out the sights. All in all it was a fun outing. On our way back, we did our bit to help the local ethnic populace by purchasing some fancy Indian ornament from a genuine Indian. (I will let you work that one out. )

After that it was time to explore the town of Sedona and find a good place to have lunch at. As fate would have it, we picked the 2nd worst Mexican restaurant in the United States. The top contender for that award is on the way to New Hampshire if anybody is interested, and yes we have had the privilege of dining there as well.

For some strange reason, perhaps the result of the vortex fields and its share of kooky people it no doubt attracts, Sedona has a bunch of art galleries, filled with exotic art and glass figurines that you could buy for a few thousand dollars. Actually when I say “you”, I probably mean somebody else, as “you” would have to be either kooky or a multi millionaire to buy them and I don’t know any multi millionaires (and I don’t want to call you kooky). And if by any chance you ARE a millionaire and you ARE reading this blog, how about patronizing my art huh?

So we toddled in and out of a few galleries before deciding that it was time to head home. The Mexican lunch had so killed our appetites that T&I literally didn’t have the stomach to eat out and so we went grocery shopping, picked up a couple of DVD’s and headed back to a simple meal of sandwiches and fruits.

Day 3:

This was the day we had picked out a standard touristy thing to do and so we decided to do a Jeep tour into the redrocks. The weather forecast was for a gloomy morning with some strong showers in the afternoon.

So we headed out to do a quick “B” in the “B&B”.

The tour was set for 11:00 AM and so we carefully prepared ourselves for a long day out.

T packed our sandwiches.
T packed our Snacks
I packed our Rain Coats
I packed our Ipods
I packed our 3 layers of clothing
I packed our gloves
T took our keys from the table
We took our wallets and purses
T took our reading and sun glasses from the bag
I took the camera out of the bag and placed it on the table
We wore our hiking shoes

And soon we were ready to leave.

And we headed out and reached the Pink Jeep tour, registered our presence, patiently listened to the tour guide walk us through……and just as it was our turn to get into the jeep, it dawned on me……

Have you figured it out yet? No? See, there you go. It could happen to anybody. I had left the camera on the table. But as Shah Rukh Khan famously put it in DDLJ with that slightly constipated look that he has patented

“Bade Bade deshon main choti choti baatein hoti rahti hain, hain na?” (Roughly translates to “Small small things happen in big big country).

So our trip got pushed out by an hour as we headed back to the hotel, picked our camera up and came back , registered our presence, patiently listened to the tour guide walk us through his lines.…And finally we got assigned our pink jeep and hopped on to it along with an Italian couple from …you will never guess it….Italy.

Our driver/tour guide was an old lady probably in her early 60’s. She was earnest, cheerful, talkative, full of information and unfortunately incredibly boring. I don’t know what it is, but I think my tour guide God (yes…its one of those 3 million I mentioned before) has just decided that she (why not?) doesn’t like me. It doesn’t matter where I am, New York, London, Boston, I always get a tour guide that brings out the psychopath in me. I listen for the first few minutes and then get dreamy eyed thinking about different ways of slitting their throat.

So when I refused to provide her any encouragement and when she realized that the other couple’s English was only slightly better than her own Italian., her only hope in that jeep was T.

And T did not fail her. She was magnificent through the entire 2 hours of the jeep tour. I watched in admiration as she singlehandedly motivated the lady .

Old lady: Old mouldy joke. (think of any one you know..she was full of them)

T: “Tee hee hee”

Old lady: “That old rock is around 2 million years old”.
T: “Wooowwwww”

Old lady: People hike here in winter..
T: Really??? That’s ammmaaazzinngg.

Old lady: Would you like to drive over that steep rock?
T: Noooooo. I could neevvverr do that.

So on this went on for an hour

At our first stop, I offered T the option of tossing our guide out over one of the steeper rocks. But T, she of the gentle heart, refused to entertain my request.

Notwithstanding our guide, the jeep trip was quite a lot of fun otherwise as we climbed up rocky roads and rocks. I would recommend it to anybody.

So after the tour, we decided to head out to Jerome, which apparently had an old abandoned mining town from the 1920’s that had been preserved as a tourist attraction.

We finally got to a town that looked like the ghost town mentioned in the tourist pamphlets. I walked into a candy store and enquired cheerfully of a really old lady whether this was the famous ghost town of Jerome. She looked offended by the question.

I found out from her that this was a proper town and that I was in a proper store and the ghost town was a couple of miles away. I got back into the car feeling suitably sheepish and drove up to the ghost town.

It was full of old things from the 20’s. Old rusted carts, machinery and cars and trucks. There was even an old sawmill that was operational and a really fat mule called pedro. The cause of Pedro’s obesity lay in his feedbag. Every person who came to visit the town, felt obliged to give it something to eat from the feedbag. I did my bit to add to Pedro’s medical bills.

Other points of interest included a functioning restroom, which T&I used. (For the record, in case anyone is interested, there haven’t been any significant developments on the restroom front since the 20’s.) The novelty quickly wore off and we decided to head back to town for dinner.

We dined heartily at the Wildflower bread company café, to a simple meal of soup, sandwich and pasta of roughly 8000 calories each. (They had HUGE portions).
Our best tasting meal on our trip to date and thus ended Day 3.

Day 4:

The weather forecast for the day provided for a sunny morning heading into rain and snow showers in the afternoon. (Weather in America is a huge topic of conversation as anybody who lives in the US well knows.)

So we decided that we would have a nice relaxing hike in the morning and end the day early as we needed to head out to Vegas the following morning.

We spent the first two hours of our hike driving up and down the road trying to figure out where the trail head for the hike we had marked out was. Finally, after calling the park rangers we were informed that the trail had been closed down. He gave us an alternative hike to a place called Doe mountain.

It was around a 30 minute hike up the mountain to some magnificent views of the Arizona mountain ranges. After 30 minutes on the mountain top, we decided to head back down to lunch.

Years of being a vegetarian in the US has convinced me that the best possible cuisine for a vegetarian is Indian. It is the only kind of cuisine designed around vegetarians. So my stomach always longs for Indian food on these trips.

And having noticed an Indian restaurant on our way to Doe mountain, I decided that we should give it a try . Now most Indian restaurants, especially in remote areas in the US are almost invariably North Indian and almost always serve the most unhealthy kind of food you can find in the Northern Hemisphere. But my faith in the God of Indian Cuisine in the US has been of the purest kind. Pray long enough and hopefully he will provide you a miracle. This has been fortified by a selective memory that quickly forgets any facts that may have the power of questioning the basis of it.

At the end of our meal at the restaurant, my faith severly shaken, I resolved to subsist on Oatmeal and cereal for the rest of the year. (Only a few days away.)

By this time the storm clouds had gathered, ominously portending snow. We had only one item left on our list. A scenic drive through Oak Creek Canyon.

We drove approximately a half hour in the opposite direction, while T prayed to the GPS gods to provide us a satellite signal.

(This involves taking the GPS, smushing your nose and GPS against the windscreen, while uttering chants to Ra, the Sun God of the Ancient Egyptians. If that doesn’t work you get out of the car, thrust up your arms, GPS between your palms, and turn round and round, peering into the sky in the hope that somehow it will help you spot the signal .)

Our prayers answered eventually, we turned around and started driving the other way. By this time, T was suffering the effects of our long hike and heavy lunch. (the latter more likely) and managed to sleep most of the way. The drive was largely uneventful. Just slushy roads with some nice views.

We came back to the hotel and packed our bags for the next stage of our journey.

The Grand Canyon and Las Vegas.

I am the Walrus

Yesterday, T& I went to a concert by a group called Rain, that do a tribute to the Beatles. The band dresses up exactly like the Beatles did back in the day and even change their costumes to mimic the evolution of the band through the years.

I was one of the youngest in the audience of roughly 4000 people. The remaining 3999+ were all atleast over 50 years old. In other words, no spring chickens here, just fall hens.Lots of them.

I was also the brownest member in the audience in a sea of white, which isnt very difficult to imagine if you have met me cos in most audiences i am the brownest. The color of rich deep chocolate. Yummmm. (Thats for rich deep chocolate ofcourse).

Now there are certain advantages to concerts such as these. It nice to have 50+ year olds as your audience members. Everybody looks like your friendly TV stereotype grandpa and grandma. (Assuming you are 15 ofcourse. If not, thats your parents i am talking about.)

For starters, you feel young. Something you certainly wont ever feel if you go to a Hannah Montana concert or the Jonas Brothers. The fact that i even know their names should let you onto how clued in i am to teen pop culture. ( I know.Yuck!!!.)

T& I were a little late getting into the concert and our seats were right in the middle in a row in of 20 seats. 18+ white hairs and bald heads watched us with (grand)fatherly/motherly concerns as we stood there waiting for the usher to usher us in. (Cos thats what they do). But she took her time. And so T&I decided to wait.

But the grandpas and grandmas would have none of it. The lady in the aisle seat whispered into the earpiece of her companion, who turned to her right and did the same. And soon all 9 of them stood up and sat down. And the end of that impromptu game of "telephone"....our middle seats had turned into two aisle seats.

(Please call 1-800-888-DUH, if you want to know how that happened.)

Another nice thing about this kind of concert, is that you already know all the songs.

Chances are , when you go to a concert, it is "somebody you know"'s favorite band, and you just want to go along cos you were asked and you think it will be fun, and you really only know two of the songs, but you decide to go and buy the bands album two days prior and listen to it all day and night so you are familiar with the rest of their songs.

Go on. Confess. You went to the "Green Day"/"Motley Crew"/"" concert and did that didnt you? (Yes. My teenage years were traumatic. Conforming was so tough...Sniff sniff. )

And who hasnt heard the Beatles? (Except ofcourse your desi parents..cos while "Beatles Mania" was going on in the rest of the world, they were being scandalized by Rajesh Khanna singing "Roop Tera Mastana" to Sharmila Tagore .)

So as they churned out their rendition of Beatles hits over the years, T&I sang lustily with the audience to every song. We shook to "Shake it up Baby", promised to "feed and love when we were 64", stood up when we were asked to...(50+ audiences have to be asked.), Imagined there was no heaven and even no countries too, finally ending the night with "Na Nah, nah, na na nah, na na nah, Heyyyy Jude".

Nothing like Beatles Mania...Is there?

"Na Nah, nah, na na nah, na na nah, Heyyyy Jude".

Notes on an Indian Vacation 3

I decided to remain awake the whole day to get into a normal sleeping pattern as early as possible. The first thing to check of course was whether the house was internet enabled. I fished the wireless router out my bag, hooked it to the Airtel modem and in a flash had a wireless internet connection up and running. I was pleasantly surprised. 3 years ago it had taken me almost a week and a half to figure out the set up for the wireless router using the SIFY connection. Also the internet connection as i recalled although touted as broadband had a tendency to time out every now and then.

But no more. I had budgeted a few hours to do the set up. But instead i found myself wired and ready in less than 10 minutes. The rest of the morning was spent unpacking and cluttering up my mom's spotless apartment.

That afternoon in a bid to stay awake i decided to make a trip to adyar to visit a friend of mine who was expecting a baby at any moment (literally). My mom and i after a brief bargain with the auto driver, (more out of habit than any real need) that was as successful as my attempt at obtaining an airline upgrade, (this time it was my Vijaykant impression...."Enna prabu" (pronounced brapu)....Adyar variya") i found myself inside an auto. Once again, the amount of traffic on Old Mahabalipuram Road hit me.

Well. Almost. For the first five minutes i found myself clenching my fists, closing my eyes, everytime i saw a truck heading down towards us.......convinced that this was the end. By the end of the ride, muscle memory being what it is, i had adapted. Old lines immortalized by drivers past made their way back into my database.

"Dai porampoku, Veetu la sollitu vandhutaya?" (Hey porampoku. I hope people back home arent expecting you back.......... I have no idea what porampoku means.)

The inside roads unlike the main roads were reassuringly different. With the exception of houses converted into glitzy shops (with names like Jazzhead, Impressions, Fashionstate...), nothing seemed to have changed significantly. Over the next couple of days as i got to travel a little bit more, the impression was further reinforced.

We made our way back home after an hour or so. The rest of the day was spent in a haze of visiting relatives, until it was finally time to hit the sack.

I had resolved to wake up early the following morning and visit Chennai's best kept secret. An oasis of calm in the midst of city life, it had been my sanctuary during my CA days, my place of Zen. To me, literally and figuratively the coolest spot in Chennai.

The Indian Institute of Technology Madras.

Notes on an Indian Vacation 2

After two long 9+ hour journeys, our flight finally landed in Chennai. The aircraft on the 2nd leg of the flight from Brussels was practically empty. Possibly another reason to recommend Jet airways. More leg room. You could keep your feet up on the seats next to you.

As soon as we landed, the Captain let us know that he had trouble finding parking space. All the gates were taken. Aha. Clearly a sign of the infrastructure issues i had read plenty about while i was in the US.

After about a half hour, the Captain finally found a parking spot. I had my second temple moment, when all the passengers got up and quickly got their luggage down and streamed past me, while i stupidly stared bleary eyed, hoping that the line down the aisle would stop to allow me to join in. Finally i stuck my leg out, tripped up a fellow passenger and used the opportunity to get in line.

As i walked down the stairs the first thing that struck me was that there seemed to be a lot of airport staff in blue uniforms simply standing around doing nothing. The first of many times that i would feel that.

The luggage took about an hour to arrive. I watched in half amusement as my fellow passengers took turns doing "opparais" (ancient ritual involving sitting crossed legged on the ground and slapping your head to your forehead as you mourn your loss) to their luggage as they waited for it to arrive. As always, there was that uniquely indian feeling that i could sense all around me. A sense of urgency, a feeling that if let your guard down for moment, you would lose your place by the conveyor belt, that somebody would spirit away your luggage the moment you looked away and that if you didnt study hard and top your class and take care of your luggage as your elders told you to, you would soon be a homeless hobo standing on the street corner begging for change. (Well...it could happen you know)

While we waited for our luggage, airport staff continued doing an outstanding job of staring at all of us.

I made my way out of the airport. At the far end of the aisle leading out, there were two counters. One of them had an usher who caught my eye a 100 yards out and maintained it all the way as i made my way down to the counter.

"Yes Sir. Please come. Yes. You are almost there. No. No. Dont look at the other counter. Bad counter. Bad counter. Vanga. Vanga. Focus sir. You can do it Sir. Only 3 more steps sir."

After i paid the requisite amount, he took me down to an old dilapitated ambassador car and woke up the driver. For a moment i stood there pondering if i had been suckered but then decided to embrace the moment. There couldnt be a better way or reliving the past. The Ambassador car. Flagship of a generation gone by. A car that was almost completely mechanical in a digital world with perhaps the exception of the gaudy LED "disco" lights that blinked above the picture of Lord Shiva on the dashboard. This was a car that that had never required a shock absorber. Not while the human back was available.

As we made our way out of the airport, i was struck by the ongoing construction all around. I threw it out of the car and continued staring out of the window. The roads were better lit and were certainly a lot broader than i remembered them. Familiar landmarks like Kathipara Junction looked very different. The car crawled passed some familiar sights but more often that not a lot of unfamiliar one. I found myself a little disoriented as i couldnt make out which side of the road was the right side to drive on. This was because my driver kept driving down both sides of the road. I attributed it to a combination of jet lag and poor traffic sense , but somewhere the next morning i realized that it was because a lot of the roads had been converted into one ways and was not necessarily a reflection of my drivers driving skills.

The car turned down into Old Mahabalipuram Road and it was only then that the pace of change in the last 3 years struck me. (I get hit a lot). The road was near unrecognizable. It was now a 6 lane highway. And at 3 am in the morning there was a mini traffic jam by Tidel Park. Who would have thunk it.

So on we trundled until finally i spotted it.

3 years back the apartment complex was the most dominant on the landscape. Now it was dwarfed by buildings all around. Brightly lit, shiny steel towers housing IT companies where thousands of young workers toiled away industriously serving customers all across the world. Thomas Friedman was right. The world was indeed flat. Sri Jayendra Colony, Flat E to be more precise.

I decided to wake the driver up. He had had driven the entire way with his eyes closed. (A skill that while admirable was not very conducive to spotting miniature apartment complexes by giant buildings.)

But i had made it. It was good to be back. Home Sweet Home.

Notes on an Indian vacation

Now everybody has their own way of picking their airline. I picked Jet airways simply on the basis that it had the best chance of having the best airline food for somebody like me. A vegetarian. My theory is that if you are vegetarian, there is only cuisine designed around vegetarians......Indian and accordingly picked Jet.

At the check in counter. i tried turning on the charm to get myself an upgrade. (This technique involves leaning across the counter and asking in my best amitabh voice "Any chance of an upgrade? Iyyain?".) It of course never works.

As expected at the gate, most of the people waiting to board the flight were Indian. I was on the phone engrossed in a conversation with a friend of mine when the pre-boarding flight annoucements were made. When i looked up i found myself the only one still sitting in the chair. Everybody else had congregated near the counter. Deja Vu happened right there. I had my first traditional Indian moment......The kind you have in temple lines

"Oh my god!!! Oh my god!!! I have lost my place in line.... i am not going to get a seat, somebody else is going to get my seat. You idiot. Why did you have to speak on your cellphone. You blew it. Everybody else is ahead of you. What do i do? What do i do? Sharpen your elbows. Dig to your right. Now to your left....Shove that old lady aside...,,Get closer. Get closer.

There he is . I might get the darshan after all. Is that the flight attendant? I think i see his shirt sleeve? Shove harder. Whats this thing by my leg? Its a kid. Hey kid, do you wanna play superman? Here let me pick you up and show you. Up, up and away.

Finally made it to the front of the line. Quit shoving people. No manners. Cant you see i am busy getting my personal time with the flight attendant? Sir. Excuse me. Have they announced my seat number? No? Oh Almighty Venkatachalapathy. Thank you. Thank you.

Darshan over, i turn to the guy next to me and ask him, "Hey did you check out the diamond stud on his left ear?".

I reached my seat and looked around for luggage space. And suddenly came across a really old acquaintance that i had last encountered in a train journey in Delhi.

"UnKal Ji".

Trying to find space in the luggage bin above my seat, i removed a coat with the intention of shoving it back in, once my luggage was stowed. UnKal Ji magically appeared by my side.

UnKal Ji: "What you doing? What? What?"

Me(politely ): UnKal Ji, i was trying to rearrange it to get my bag in. Your coat can be stuffed in

Uncle Ji removed the coat and showed me a gaping hole where my bag aside, he could have stuffed himself in and triumphantly declared

"No space. No space. See? See? Take your bags elsewhere". He shoved the coat back in and banged the lid shut.

Seething with rage, i turned to the other side and found some luggage space. But my manhood had been severly damaged by UnKal Ji. So in my best Tambram "I am highly educated and above all this" way stared at the back of Uncle Ji's head, devising in my head imaginary comebacks.

"Excuse ME sir. We are not on the local bus from Ajmer to Jaipur, and i am not a chicken farmer SIR" in my best english accent. (Side Effects of watching the movie "The History boys" ".)

The rest of the flight was uneventful. But i was mightily impressed with the leg space and level of service. The seats had a power point to charge phone and laptops. Individual screens on each seat. And this was in economy.

Bottom line. Uncle Jis notwithstanding, Jet airways zindabad.

Jungle Boogie - The Art of aging gracefully

Logic would dictate that age and experience should result in our becoming more broadminded and receptive to what life has to offer.

But paradoxically as we grow older, it turns out to be the opposite.

The need for routine becomes more pronounced with time. As we transition from our teens to our 20's, the 20's to the 30's and 30's to "we are really old now arent we", the nature of and the desire for activities undergoes a slow but steady change.

Perhaps a fable would better illustrate this point.

A fable from the heart of Africa. The tale of Oluwuyebe the Jungle warrior from the tribe of Mkolo-mbembe.
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From his early childhood Oluwuyebe (lets call him Olu to save time) had watched his father, go out into the jungle and bang his drum. Before your mind can turn to untoward thoughts about what that means, let me hasten to explain that in the jungle, the drum was used as a means of communication across vast distances. If you have read Phantom Comics, perhaps the term "Jungle Telegraph" might hold greater significance. ("You not read Phantom, you miss lot of racist insinuations ", Old Jungle Saying.)

So Olu's dad was one of those Jungle Telegraph guys. So guess what, there was nothing more that Olu wanted to do than bang that drum, just like his dad did. His dad initially was a little skeptical about Olu's choice of profession. Although banging the drum was a steady job there were a lot of other professions that brought more meat to the table. But seeing how interested Olu was, he decided to take him on as an apprentice.

Olu would watch his dad carefully as he beat the drum.

"Dum Dum Dum Dum Dum Dumakku Duma Dum Dumakku Duma..Dum Dum Dum Dum Dum Dum Dum Dum..." (A beat made famous years later by a popular Indian Music composer).

And faithfully Olu would imitate it.

"Dum Dum Dum Dum Dum Dumakku Duma Dum Dumakku Duma..Dum Dum Dum Dum Dum Dum Dum Dum..."

His dad watched proudly over the years as Olu faithfully banged his drum in exactly the same way that he had. Olu was talented. His messages were loud and clear.

Time went by.

Olu was now in his teens. Somehow banging the drum to his dad's beat did not seem to be enough. He wanted more. And so one day he decided to experiment a little bit.

""Dum Dum Dum Dum Dum Dumakku Duma Dum Dumakku Duma". He paused for a length of time.

then went on.......

"Dum Dum Dum Dum Dum Dum Dum Dum..."

Later that day, his father took him aside and chastised him for not banging the drum the traditional way. His father did not recognize the significance of the gap between the drum beats. It was of course the well known "generation gap" that Olu had banged out that day on his drum.

The gap grew worse over the next few years...

"Dum Dum Dum"....On some days it seemed to his dad thats all Olu played. Olu meanwhile was having the time of his life. The different sounds he generated had all the beautiful young women in his village swooning over him.

"Nobody bangs like Olu" they would whisper to each other and giggle excitedly whenever they saw him coming. Olu decided to experiment.

"DumDumDumDumDumDumakkuDumaDumDumakkuDumaDumDumDumDumDumDumDumDum..."

His father when he first heard it could not beleive his ears. That night Olu and his father had a major showdown. Olu's mother tried to interfere, but his father had decided that enough was enough.

"First the gap, now the joint."

"If he wants to live in this house, he has to bang it my way".

"He will never understand, Mom. Why does he have to make a big deal of everything? Whats the harm in a small joint? Its not like people cant understand me. Everybody does it ".

With those words. Olu walked out of the house.

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Olu moved to a different tribe. He never grew tired of beating the drum, but it didnt seem to be enough. He needed a different type of banging, something more permanent. So one day when Mbhali walked into his life, he decided to take the plunge and get married.

They had their first child. A son. By this time Olu's drum beats had moved out of their staccato days into a more gentle rhythm.

"Tat Tat Tat Tat Tat Tat Tat Tat Tarararararara Tararara
Tat Tat Tat da da da da
Tat Tat Tat Ta da da da"

(Remember that beat? Qurbani.)

Years passed. His son learnt to bang the drum exactly like Olu. Until one day, his son came up to him and asked him...

"Hey dad..what do you think of this?"

"Dum Dum Dum Dum Dum Dumakku Duma Dum Dumakku Duma..Dum Dum Dum Dum Dum Dum Dum Dum..."

Olu held back his anger. Later that evening he told his wife.

"I hate these new fangled sounds and the way kids bang about nowadays. I am going to have to talk to him".

Mbhali said nothing. But later in bed that night, she turned to him and said

"Do you remember when you were a teenager and were experimenting with joints? Didnt you tell me that your father never understood you?"

Olu didnt sleep well that night.

The next day, Olu called his son over and told him that he wanted to bang his drum with him. Olu began

"DumDumDumDumDumDumakkuDumaDumDumakkuDumaDumDumDumDumDumDumDumDum..."

His son couldnt beleive what he was hearing. His father was actually playing a joint with him.

He had the coolest dad in the world.

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For those of you who havent got the moral

"Depending on their age people will always bang their drums differently. The trick is to remember how you used to bang it at that age".

Thats the secret to becoming a well respected, venerable tribe member.

The Button Paal Warriors

The Aavin milk depot next to the house was open for a mere thirty minutes in the morning and evening. Missing this window, would involve walking an additional twenty minutes to the main depot located roughly a mile and a half away.

Pacchai Amma, our faithful family retainer of over forty years rarely (if ever) missed this window. Every morning at 6 AM and then at 3PM, she would head to the Aavin Depot, with a big aluminium vessel tucked under her hips, to get the "Paal"(milk) packets required for the day.

She carried a Red Card (for Fat free milk) and a green card (For Regular Milk). Each card entitled the holder to 2 milk packets. She would hand over the cards, get them punched in and collect the milk packets.

In the evenings, my grandmother would sit on the steps of the front porch waiting for her. This was her break from her regular chores and she and Pacchai amma would sit there for a few minutes, under the sun shade and catch up on the days gossip.

Every day for 30 years this ritual was faithfully followed, until technology in the form of a refrigerator made its appearance at my grandfathers house. The fridge obviated the need for Pacchai Amma to make the evening trip.

The morning milk could now be stored safely, away from the strong madras heat.
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Every summer, my grandfathers house was invaded by assorted uncles & aunts and their kids.

To prepare for this influx, my grandfather would write out a letter to the local Aavin Paal authorities, stating his need for more packets of "Aavin" milk. With letter in hand , he would walk down to the Aavin Milk Co-operative Office in Mandaveli, patiently stand in line until his turn came along upon which he would hand over the letter and obtain the extra "cards".

Summer holidays at my grandfathers house was endless cups of Carromboard and tea. The additional cards that my grandfather had obtained were not always sufficient to meet the demand when the house was at its full capacity.

"We need more milk", my grandmother would mutter.

The call would go out.

"Find Kanna and Kumar. Button Paal Venum".

My cousin Kannan, elder to me by around 4 years, was always the one that my aunts or uncles would call on whenever they needed errands to be run. He was the "Chammatu" of the family

(Chamattu - A Tamil word that does not have an English synonym that does justice. It is a combination of looks/obedience/discipline that all elders seek in their children but rarely find.

It takes some doing to achieve a state of Chamattu as a child. Once achieved, it ensures that people older than you automatically pat your head all the time and you rarely get scolded. Moms will use your name as an example when chiding their children to do better.

However it requires a fine balance to maintain that state and carry it off as too much Chamattu can result in a flip over to the “Ashadu” category, unfortunately another word that does not lend itself to easy translation.

But I shall try.

Take Little Lord Fauntleroy. The kid is so good that, at the end of the book, it leaves you with a feeling of wanting to smack him on the side of the head, to knock all that goodness out.

That is risk of “Ashadu” that I am referring to. It comes out of being too “Chamattu”. )

So I used to hang around Kannan, hoping that some of that “Chammatuness” (Noun form of Chamattu and a word that I just made up), would rub itself off me.

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Although we were grizzled Veterans with plenty of experience in getting “Button Paal”, my grandmother like a good commander in chief would still unfailingly always give us this little piece of advice.

“Make sure you screw the lid on properly lest you spill the milk”.

(I am paraphrasing. Nobody ofcourse uses “lest” in real life.)

The pail was a little ever-silver one, that had a screw on lid with a little handle on top and was capable of holding 5 litres.

She would then proceed to decorate us with the pail and a crumpled 10 rupee note.

The strong May heat would beat down on us, as we walked down to the depot, located roughly a mile away, clad in the standard uniform demanded of such weather.

White Cotton Pajamas a sleeveless cotton vest and “Hawaii slippers”.

The walk down was full of philosophical discussions that only a 10 year old and 14 year old could have.

We would discuss our grand plan about opening a rental store for videocassettes that would house every movie ever made. It would have more than 7 floors and would have multiple copies of every movie, so when the summer holidays came around, there would be no chance of saying no to customers, especially little kids who were there just for the summer.

(Great ideas they say are born from personal experiences.)


At the depot Kannan would hand over the 10 rupee note, get the little tokens that we would need to insert into the milk dispenser.

I would insist on hitting the Button once the vessel was placed under the dispenser. (Hence “Button Paal”).

I would peer anxiously at the top of the vessel each time wondering if the milk would spill over. It never did.

The walk back would take slightly longer that normal. We would stop multiple times , taking turns in holding the cold vessel against our cheeks, seeking instant relief from the summer heat.

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“Kumar and Kanna Vandacchu”

One of my cousins would scuttle to the back of the house to inform the women folks that reinforcements had arrived.

The afternoon Tea could now be made.

As always we were greeted as heroes

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The next morning at 6:15 AM, the gate to my grandfathers house would swing open with a little squeak. Pacchai Amma would slowly shuffle down the path to the front door and deposit the milk packets on the front door steps.

Another normal day in the life of the unsung warrior.

Impulses

I have this sudden urge to fire a gun....Not a AK-47 or any other gun...I want that revolver from that bollywood potboiler..The one that goes..

Dishkyaoon.....Dishkyaoon..Dishkyaoon...

Dishkyaoon....Dishkyaoon...Dishkyaoon....

With an ordinary gun i would need to pause to reload...But not with a bollywood gun....

Dishkyaoon, Dishkyaoon...Dishkyaoon...

Dishkyaoon.....

Charles Sreeraj

I wonder if Karl Marx's inspiration for Das Kapital was a result of watching a tennis match at Arthur Ashe stadium.

Everytime i go to a tennis match or any other sporting event, the socialist in me wakes up. Because the best seats in the house are never available to the hardworking common man who has bunked office to watch live tennis. To add to the common mans woes, some of those seats never get filled.

Now like any other sporting fan with a cheap ticket, i have my way of dealing with it and so does my friend.

In my case, i carry a large cardboard box around with me that at a moments notice, can turn into a stage from whence one can rant against the injustices of a capitalistic system where only the moneyed or the influential are rewarded with close up views of Roger Federer matches.

My friend on the other hand calls out to his inner sociopath. His inner sociopath has a name. He is called Charles Sreeraj. Charles Sreeraj's sole mission in life is to find ways of getting past the ticket checkers whose mission ofcourse is to prevent the Charles Sreerajas of the world from getting past them.

Nothing is beneath Charles Sreeraj. Charles Sreeraj will stand at the entrance to the lower sections of the stadium armed not with tickets but with a variety of expressions, carefully practiced the night before, including

The Cool Dude look - A look that says..."Yeah Baby!!! Ofcourse i have tickets.Dont even bother asking me. Yawwwwwwwwwwwwnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn".

The Robert De Niro look - "You talkin to me? Huh??? u talkin to me???. "

Litle Lord Fauntleroy - "Excuse me, I am lost and my mommy is there....can i go in please? Blink Blink...my fluttering eyelashes"

The "Yaadon ki Baraat" look - Waving to somebody (ANYBODY)excitedly as you walk past the ticket collectors....

The 'I am interested in knowing you inside out look" - Nothing i want do more than chat with you on how to become a ticket collector...hmm...So you say you can sit anywhere you want????

I am with them Stupid = Yup. All these people i am following...I am one of them

As with any master villain, its the stupid sidekick that always causes the problems. And it doesnt help Charles Sreeraj, that he has to walk around with one that carries a soapbox to make speeches with and who turns into Porky piglet when confronted by a ticket collector...
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Continuing my little rant about the stadium, some of the sections demand their own weather report.......They dont call them the "nose bleed" section for nothing.

Now if you are a first time visitor to Arthur Ashe stadium, your jaw would admiteddly drop as it did the first time we made it to the stadium last year. It is a magnificent view rivaling another New York City attraction, the Empire State building. But once the mind has finished digesting the view and the brain slowly realizes that the lungs need more oxygen, reality sets in....and you realize that those two moving dots in the distance are really tennis players.....And that you really dont want to watch a tennis match from the top of the Empire State Building.

I suppose the only reason the stadium designers stopped adding layers is because tennis fans wearing oxygen masks would not make for a good television audience.

But i guess at this point it is only fair to tell you that neither Rama and I made it to Arthur Ashe stadium that day....

(Whaaaaaaaaaaaaat? your mind reels...What was that rant about then? What DID you do?)

Patience my one fan...There is more to come...