Indian in England

Moved home...

2009-07-17T13:20:00.004+01:00

If you are looking for me, I have moved home.

This is my new address: www.chindu.net

Where dogs don't bark

2007-10-03T17:36:00.000+01:00

PARTICULARLY telling on the English way of life was my friend Deepa’s comment the other day (actually she quoted her friend, but never mind):

“Yaar, these people, they not only keep their children quiet, but they even manage to keep their dogs quiet! You’ll never have a dog barking at you on the streets! Amazing!”

It really is, isn't it?

PS (for my uninitiated English friends): ‘Yaar’ is the Hindi equivalent of your ‘mate’.

How to survive the English

2007-07-06T19:16:00.000+01:00

I have survived the English for three long winters without – I hope – any permanent damage. I think that makes me something of an expert on them.

This interesting point was brought home when I appeared on an Internet chat for rediff.com this week (note to my Bournemouth University bosses: I did a good 'plug' and you owe me one). My audience was Indian students looking to study abroad and their deeply concerned parents, all eager to hear about my English experience. Most of their queries were on how to survive here, and I found myself thinking deeply about the various techniques I employed – which was when, rather like Archimedes, I jumped up, struck my forehead, and shouted "Eureka!"

But that alone would not have got me to blog. The deciding factor was the worrisome intelligence that 10 "young, energetic minds of Indian journalism", sponosored by the British Council under the Chevening scholarship programme, were headed for my university. Knowing fully well the peril they would walk once they arrived, not to mention the risks the unwitting English would run by having them around, here are a few tips, lest one harm the other...

IN India it is silly to say 'please'. In England it is silly not to.

No Englishman – or woman – will entertain your request without it; in fact, should you be fool enough to forget the magic word, an Englishman is required by law to put you to painful public death before sundown, or, at the very least, pull himself to maximum height, stare down his nose, and say, with the coldness of an Arctic winter, "I beg your pardon, sir!"

It is common to have five pleases in a four-word sentence. It is expected of you. So, please, start your sentence with a please; end it with another, please.

IF hedging was an Olympic sport, the English would win it every single time.

By 'hedging', I don't mean the act of making hedges (the English are very good at that too), but what is crudely known as 'beating around the bush'. The English are simply marvellous at it. They consider it the height of rudeness to come straight to the point, especially if they have a request of you, and need to prep themselves lavishly with 'hmms', 'hahs', and the weather. As a considerate fellow being, you must entertain this. You must grant them their time. They will make their point – usually within the year.

By the same token, resist the urge to make direct requests. If you want to borrow a pen from someone, it won't do to yell across, "Mind if I use that for a minute?" Start with apologies. Say you are dreadfully sorry for making a nuisance of yourself. Apologise for polluting the air in the same room as the pen-owner. If the mood moves you, inform him you are deeply ashamed of being born, but had no choice in the matter. After five minutes or so in such vain, you may mention the pen in a meandering fashion:

“I was just wondering... um, in normal circumstances I wouldn't even dream of asking you this, but, um, I find myself in a terrible situation today... of course, it is my own fault, and, um, it is really quite silly of me to bother you, I know, but in case you are not using that pen, er, if you can possibly spare it I mean, would you mind terribly if I borrowed it for a minute – only if you don't need it.”

You must look suitably apologetic and embarrassed when you make this request. Also, do note the very last part of that sentence: you must, must leave an honourable exit for the other.

DON'T tell an Englishman to shut up. He will drop dead with shock.

In India ‘Aw, shut up!’, ‘Buzz off’ ‘Drop dead’, ‘Get a life’, etc are considered essentials in any healthy conversation. In England, not.

Trouble with the English is, even in their rudeness they are polite. In India if you want to tell someone their work sucks, you would say (and here I quote my ex-editor-in-chief), “That’s utter crap, you prick. Rewrite it now or I will have your balls for dinner!”

The correct way to put that sentiment across in England, however, is: “Excellent! This is very good work! Very good work indeed! But perhaps you could consider smoothening out the edges a bit? Oh, no, you don’t have to rewrite the whole piece! Just do the lead, and the bit in the middle, and the end, if you can possibly spare the time.”

NEVER jump a queue – and ensure you don’t start one accidentally.

The English are passionate about queuing. They derive immense pleasure from the exercise and are never more content than when they are in a long queue. Nowhere on earth will you see such perfect pieces of art, such warm links of well-spaced personal cubicles with a Daily Mail-reading Englishman or woman in the middle of each (never ‘bunch up’ and crowd the person in front; that’s sacrilege), wonderfully unhurried (never show your impatience; queuing is meant to pleasurable), and gracefully tailing into the wide grey yonder. Seriously, a lot of effort goes into it.

And the English will queue at the drop of the hat. An Englishman will be hurrying home, desperate for his cup of tea and buttered scone, when, lo, he sees you admiring a particularly attractive mannequin. This is where you have to be careful. If perchance you have placed yourself behind some other idiot like yourself, the Englishman will rub his hands gleefully. "Aha," he will say to himself, "there’s a nice little queue there! Let me read the Mail and be happy and content again!”

By the time you turn around and realise your mistake, there will be a solid line all the way to Scotland.

MOST Indians complain about how 'cold' the English are. This isn’t really true. The English aren’t cold, they are just not warm.

It isn’t in the English blood to be overtly friendly. In India five minutes after you meet a stranger it is quite common to invite him home for dinner. In England it will take a few years.

For one, an Englishman considers his house not just his castle, but, as social anthropologist Kate Fox puts it, “the embodiment of his privacy rules … his identity, his main status indicator and his prime obsession”. Naturally he’s careful about who he lets in.

Second, because the English cherish their privacy so much, it doesn’t occur to them you actually look forward to company. In fact, quite often, when you feel they are being ‘standoffish’, they are trying to respect your private space.

When this happens, you must not feel offended and call them 'thanda ferangs’. You must forgive them – remember, they are only English – and show them the correct path by asking them home.

IF an Englishman asks you, “Are you all right?”, do not worry. It’s not because you look sick, or your fly is open (though a discreet check is always advisable). Nor should you take it as an invitation to unburden all your troubles on him. It’s just his way of asking “How are you?”

EPILOGUE.

Should any of you feel compelled to accuse me of intellectual theft from the Hungarian humourist George Mikes, let me say it is not because I am not capable of originality. He just happened to get here first.

Who but the English...

2007-03-10T10:33:00.001Z

THE English are possibly the most stiff-lipped bunch ever to sip beer and watch football, but one thing you cannot accuse them of is lacking a sense of humour. Their humour, like the rest of them, is very English – splendidly deadpan.

Bill Bryson tells of his meeting with a bearded Englishman stuck in the London Underground. Mr Beard's response to Bryson's query on how long he's been in the tube was, "Well, let's just say when I got here I was cleanshaven."

Isn't that classic? My own favourite, though, is the one I saw on BBC South the other day. There was a bit of rain this side, and the sea had done some damage to a few coastal villas. So there was this stocky, oldish gent standing in front of his house, his arm around his stocky wife, and telling the camera how it is to wake up in the morning and find most of your garden has vanished. This is what he said, more or less:

“I think it was about six in the morning when we heard a rumble. I looked out and I thought, oh, that's nice, the view has improved. So I walked to the window and found the garden has been freshly landscaped as well.”

Who but the English could say that, hey?

The man I will murder

2007-02-15T23:49:00.000Z

THERE'S a man I wish to kill. His name is God.

He’s a good guy, I am told. Great, in fact. Fair, and just, and all the rest.

I thought so too. For a long time. Then I wasn’t so sure.

He didn’t stand up to reason. Didn’t stand up when it counted. And when it didn’t, and he did, it was only after he claimed his bribe in blood.

My blood.

Perhaps he is old, he has arthritis, it’s difficult for him to stand. Perhaps he missed his cue. Perhaps, like in Bruce Almighty, he’s on holiday.

Fair enough. He deserves his break just like you and me. I can live with that.

What I can’t, and won’t, is this pretence.

That he’s great.

That he’s fair, and just.

Fair, he? Just, he? Not to me, not to mine.

That’s mine there, who he is trying to break, again and again and again. Mine there, whose smile – oh, what a smile! – he’s trying to rape.

That’s mine he has killed. Mine he killed the year before, and last year, and, now, this year – twice.

He’s my creation, mine to kill.

And I will.

I must.

Englishman, oh Englishman

2006-12-20T00:37:00.000Z

VENUE, a semi-detached house in Bournemouth. Fair English Man, who has come to do a bit of plumbing, has cornered Dark Indian Man, who rents a room there.

FEM: “You a student, eh?”

DIM: “Yeah.”

FEM: “Picked up some English yet?”

DIM: “Sorry?”

FEM: “I said, how’s your English going?”

DIM (puzzled): “Not too bad. Why?”

FEM: “You know all the alphabets now?”

DIM (more puzzled): “Uh?”

FEM (speaking slowly): “Have you picked up all the al-pha-bets?”

DIM (seriously puzzled): “Uh, I think I know all the alphabets, yes.”

FEM: “Wonderful! So what comes after ‘S'? Go on, tell us!”

DIM: “Uh, ‘T’, since you ask. Why?”

FEM: “Correct! So how about one?”

DIM (wonderingly): “Huh?”

FEM (in typical English fashion, coming ponderously to the point): “How about making us a cuppa? Go on, there’s a good lad!”

Englishman, oh Englishman, why do you think every foreign student who comes here comes here to learn English?

And Englishman, oh Englishman, why hide behind an 'S' when all you want is tea?

Bless Rooney's little foot!

2006-07-09T18:21:00.000+01:00

THE English have the most charming of all national pastimes. Honestly, can you imagine anything better than swaggering to the pub, swigging beer, swearing at the screen, then getting your nose busted by anyone willing to throw a punch?

Getting your nose busted is an integral part of the fun. Till Wayne Rooney accidentally stepped on Ricardo Carvalho’s balls the other day ("Terribly sorry, old chap, but I do wish you wouldn't leave them lying around"), everyone sprouted one. A busted nose, I mean, not balls, though I suspect some people have those too. Lads unfortunate enough not to have a found a willing partner to do the busting just stuck a band-aid on their noses.

This was because it was disgraceful to walk around with an unbust nose. It was as bad as not displaying the English flag from some part of your person or property. Since the English flag is very much like the Red Cross one, and since everybody displayed it everywhere, it looked like the Red Cross had taken over England. Thank goodness the Queen’s got her country back now.

As I was saying, the English have a unique way of amusing themselves. I find this way quite amusing. But some people don’t. They call it ‘hooliganism’. Twits. This is not hooliganism, but an extremely creative form of recreation, which, due to its sophistication, is only appreciated by the highly intelligent. It is the only one I know that provides muscular, cardiovascular, larynxical and renal workout to the participant.

Wish the World Cup came around more often.

Young guy, old girl

2006-06-30T15:03:00.000+01:00

OVERHEARD in the men’s, this conversation between two eight- or nine-year olds, as they wetted the dirt on their face at the washbasin:

"Did you see Tim today?"

"Yes."

"Did you see his girlfriend?"

"That was his girlfriend?"

"Yeah, the new one!"

"But... she is old! She must be at least 11!"

Tim, old man, what were you thinking?

Punctuate the mother!

2006-03-24T17:39:00.000Z

IF I were a mother, and English, I would be ashamed of most of my children. Honestly, when will they ever learn it is Mother’s Day and not Mothers Day?

Everywhere I go I see special offer signs. The butcher, the pub-owner, the postman, the mechanic, the gas man, the garbage man, everyone’s got a deal for Mother. And everyone seems to have more than one mother, bar W H Smith and a few other worthies who I am sure hired a professional proof-reader.

For fucks –- I mean, fuck’s -- sake, get that apostrophe in.

She's lucky, oh she is

2006-03-08T11:09:00.000Z

NOT in two years, not since I stepped away from a minefield called Kashmir, have I been so moved as I was last evening.

A handful of talented people, dressed in white, did that with their road-show, Beyond Belief.

They made a Gaza Strip of my mind. Brought to life, on a cramped podium, a conflict we all know about but don’t know about.

They didn’t tell me about Ariel Sharon and Ismail Haniya. They told me, instead, of Hasan and Noura and Rachel and Basma.

They told me about the girl who is lucky because she lost only one eye and the boy whom the soldiers shot in self-defence.

They made me angry, upset, hurt. Wince, cringe. Think.

Do watch, all, if you ever get a chance. It’s live multi-media communication, powerful and poignant.

It’s about people like you and me.

Nice. Very nice

2006-02-22T15:28:00.000Z

ART, or anything close to it, is completely wasted on me. That’s a known fact. Still I went to an art exhibition at Gallery 286 in London the other day.

I went because my friend Pearl John, the artist in question, promised me free orange juice and biscuits. Besides, she was using a bit of my text -- actually I borrowed it from someone who borrowed it from someone, but don’t let that bother you -- in one of her anti-war pieces, and I wanted to ensure it was showcased prominently.

Some of the holograms -- there’s something called holography out there, did you know? -- were quite colourful and exciting. I stroked my chin, looked at them from different angles, and said, “You combine text and visuals very effectively.” Pearl was very impressed and got me more orange juice.

I spent some time watching the artist. You need to be a good kisser to be a good artist. You have to be fast and be able to handle large traffic. In the three hours the private viewing lasted, Pearl dispensed at least 250 kisses: four kisses per person (two on arrival, two on departure), there were about 65 people, so you do the maths.

I also nosed around a bit, eavesdropping on the people who came to view art. It was very rewarding, and here are a few snippets of captured conversation…

AND the Artist stood by the door, powdered and polished and perfect, smiling and nodding and kissing, then smiling and nodding and kissing some more.

"Are we doing one or two?" said the Fly, offering a cheek.

"Always two," admonished the Artist, kissing him on one cheek, then the other. "That’s more arty."

MAN-in-Black walked into the cream-walled room with Lady Long-Skirt and seriously began viewing art.

"Lovely," said Lady Long-Skirt.

"Yes," said Man-in-Black, peering into the soul of a hologram. "Very personal."

"Very nice," said Lady Long-Skirt.

"Yes," said Man-in-Black. "Very nice."

"THAT'S all about her travel in America," said Man-in-Black.

"Yes, but what are those lines?" said Lady Long-Skirt.

"I think those are lights," said Man-in-Black. "Neon or something."

"In those colours?" said Other Woman.

"I think she photographed them from a car," said Man-in-Black. "Those are probably cars passing by. Or maybe lights. Neon or something."

"QUICK!" said Ms Pixie-Face. She had dark hair, long legs, and wore a black top. "Come here!"

"What?" said Mr Pixie-Face.

"Come here! It’s beautiful!"

"What?"

"Take a peek!" said Ms Pixie-Face, leaning over the windowsill to lift the cream curtains and reveal a slice of the wet green world outside. "Isn’t it nice?"

"WHAT'S this?" said Lady Long-Skirt.

"This is from the Internet," said Man-in-Black.

"Oh."

"This is a blog."

"Oh."

"A blog is short for web log."

"Oh."

"Yes. It’s like a diary."

"Oh, I wouldn’t know the first thing about Internet."

THE Fly paused by the stairs at a quizzical look from the In-House Girl.

"Just going upstairs,” he said, smiling.

"Excuse me?"

"Going upstairs," said the Fly. "To look at the stuff there."

"There isn’t any stuff upstairs. That’s private!"

"Oh," said the Fly, and flew away.

AND the Artist stood by the door, polished and polite and pleased, still smiling and nodding and kissing, then smiling and nodding and kissing some more.

"Thank you ever so much for coming," the Artist said, planting two more kisses. "I appreciate it."

Don’t be silly and so bloody English, thought the Fly. Aloud he said, "My pleasure."

Life stops for no one

2006-02-20T13:35:00.000Z

THAT girl in the corridor, that girl in torn jeans and blue jumper who flashes a smile and moves away: what does she know of me?

That girl in the front row, that girl with her hair piled all high who scribbles down every word I say: what does she know of me?

That girl at the door, that girl in a skirt too short for this winter day who mutters an apology as she walks in late: what does she know of me?

They know nothing of me. I know nothing of them.

They could tell me tales that would make me weep. I could tell them my brother died today.

If we did, perhaps we would look at each other for a second and say an awkward sorry before we went back to what we were.

He dies, you die, I die; life stops for no one.

Life stops only for the one who died.

Lunch with Lord Daffodil

2005-07-01T21:57:00.000+01:00

THE other day I had lunch with Lord Daffodil in London. Daffodil is not his real name, of course, but what the heck. A rose by any other name would smell as sweet, no?

Not that Lord Daffodil is a rose. Oh no. He is unlike any flower you care to imagine. But he is a real lord. I can vouch for that. Having spent bitter days with Lord Curzon, Lord Dalhouise, and Lord Mountbatten just prior to my school-leaving exams, I know the real item when I see it.

We happened to be together at a certain place during lunch hour. Since we move in the same circles, I felt duty-bound to buy him a sandwich. He was my guest, in a manner of speaking. And he looked hungry.

"Daffodil, old chap," I said, tapping him on his right shoulder. "You look hungry. Fancy a bite?"

"That would be lovely, old chap," he said gratefully. "I am a bit peckish."

"In that case let me get you a sandwich," I said kindly. "What would you like? White or brown? And you aren’t a vegetarian, are you?"

"Oh no, no. I eat everything. Brown, white, black, anything is fine!"

"Splendid. You stay right there then. I will be back in a second."

I got him a whopping big coronation chicken on brown and a whopping big coronation chicken on white for myself. He fell on it like a hound on deer. Not to give offence, I followed suit, and we sat there in companionable silence with our mouths full, grinning at each other. At least, I grinned. The lord was too busy.

Now, I am aware most of you plebeians have never lunched with a peer. Why, the majority of you might not even have seen a real live lord. So while Daffodil tackles coronation chicken, let me see if I can paint him for you.

I must say the good lord is quite an accomplished chap. Member of the House of Lords, psychiatrist, peacenik… and if that doesn’t impress you, he was deputy head boy in school (and he was only a teenager then, imagine) and a keen amateur musician (gave lungs as a baritone soloist in his younger days, I understand).

A man of many parts, certainly. Yet I was a bit disappointed. To me he looked more like the owner of a prosperous construction company than a lord. Average height, stocky, hairy hands, thick head of hair worn Salman Khan-style. And rather bullish shoulders… you know the kind that belongs to self-made men who work their way up by their 40s and then start going soft all over.

And the shoulders were a bit soft. At the beginning of our discourse I had given it a friendly poke -- purely in the spirit of scientific inquiry, you understand -- and it felt slightly squishy.

That said, Daffodil did have a personality. He wore a healthy, well-trimmed greying beard, which he stroked every two minutes. Together with his wide set eyes below rather mean eyebrows, he looked forbidding but distinguished. And when he lifted his sandwich for another bite, cufflinks gleamed gold at his white-sleeved wrists. So did two rings, on his right ring and left little fingers. Clearly this was a man who could afford his own lunch.

Sandwich finished, Lord Daffodil gave a little sigh of pleasure. He looked almost approachable.

"Ah, that was nice, wasn’t it?" I said. "We must do this again."

On second thoughts, I shouldn’t have said that. I am not sure I can spare the time to go out with the Daffodils this summer.

I, Englishman

2004-12-27T11:24:00.000Z

IN the year gone by -- I have been an Englishman for one year and one month now, thank you very much –- I have acquired a measure of civility that is frightening. I don’t push past old ladies anymore (well, only when they don’t move out of my way), I don’t jump queues, and I at times even apologise when I cut into conversations (“I am sorry, but you are talking absolute rot”). Honestly, how will I survive in India?

That’s the trouble with the English. They are so bloody civil they turn even people like me into paragons of politeness. A friend of mine renowned for his multi-coloured linguistic talents -- once I heard him detail the logistics of someone’s birth to that someone in a single luminous sentence culled from five Indian languages -- says he has never said so many ‘thank-yous’ and ‘excuse-mes’ in his entire life as he has since arriving in Manchester last year.

Neither have I. And frankly I think the English take things, not to mention themselves, a bit too seriously. In my opinion there is no reason for you to apologise if you elbow someone in the face while getting off a bus. Even the English can understand it is an accident. So the elbowee should move on, leaving the elbowed to rub his face. That’s the intelligent way to go about it.

Alas. The English haven’t evolved sufficiently for that. So they make a song and dance of it.

The elbowee will first beg the elbowed’s pardon for placing his elbow where it didn’t quite belong. The elbowed will then beg the elbowee’s pardon for placing his face where it didn’t at all belong. Then the elbowee will ask the elbowed whether he has hurt the elbowed’s face with his elbow, whereupon the elbowed will want to know whether he has hurt the elbowee’s elbow with his face. Both will assure the other their elbow/face was fine, and anyway it was their own fault.

Having finally satisfied themselves of each other’s welfare, they will proceed to attend to the little business that had started it all. Namely, getting off the bloody bus. At which point they realise the driver has driven some four miles from their stop -- the driver being, of course, a sensible Indian.

These English. When will they ever learn?

Save Roman

2004-09-25T22:40:00.000+01:00

THE reason you haven’t seen me here for a while is I have been busy. Wait till I tell you what I have been up to.

My friend Dr (Almost) Roman and I have decided to do a ‘Bernd’ on the world. Now don’t ask me who’s Bernd. If you don’t know Bernd, you are a net cretin and you don’t deserve to know who Bernd is, just like I was a net cretin and didn’t deserve to know who Bernd was till I found out who Bernd is.

We are doing a Bernd because I need £21,000 urgently. I won’t tell you what I want it for. I honestly won’t let everyone know I intend to contribute to the financial welfare of my university since the poor folks running it cannot survive without my help. You don’t need to sing your own praises, right?

Roman doesn’t need £21,000. But since he is a good sport, he has agreed to accept it. Just so I won’t feel bad, you understand.

So here’s the plan. We put up a web site, ‘Save Roman’. With the following text, duly signed by yours nastily, under a picture of Roman looking cute and helpless:

I swear by God I will extinguish this lovely academic light on New Year's Eve if my account doesn't show a balance of at least £42,000 (half for Roman, half for me) before then.

You can save Roman!!!

I promise I will not just free him, but donate him to a stud farm where he can spend the rest of his life as playboy in a way we would all be jealous of.

There will be snapshots of Roman’s life -- Roman lecturing, Roman seminaring, Roman conferencing, Roman in his car, Roman at home, Roman on the beach… Once you have connected with him completely, and your heart is yearning for him to be on a stud farm, you will each transfer £1 into my account -- or one of you can transfer the whole amount, I don’t mind -- by Paypal.

We will also sell ‘Save Roman’ products online. Virile Roman tees for men, sexy Roman tops for women, trendy Roman tracksuits for men and women, pretty Roman pens for students… We will milk it dry.

Naturally, the Daily Echo will carry a news story. The Guardian will pick it up, and so will the BBC. It will become a world story. The staff and students at the Bournemouth University -- not to mention stud farm owners across the world -- will come to know of it. Pounds will begin pouring in.

Personally I think this will be bigger than the Bernd attempt. Roman has the kind of prowess Bernd can never hope for, and in his case, it should work on two levels.

First, there will be the people who will pay for Roman's release. This includes most biggies in the Bournemouth Media School. It will be a straightforward, above-the-table transaction.

Then there will be those who will pay for his non-release. Naturally, this will be under the table, for which we have made special arrangements. This group -- with me at its head -- comprises people whom Roman gives a complex. This means most people who know him, including all research students in this august institution.

So there we are. I am placing a life in your hands. Save Roman.

PS: In case you are still wondering about Bernd, click here.

Dust to smoke

2004-08-26T23:13:00.000+01:00

AND now my thoughts are with a girl, a young girl…

…who lit her husband’s pyre this morning in a strange city, a city she had brought him to be cured -- lit it with her heart breaking, but with no tear in her eye.

…who sat immobile in the morning sun watching the smoke curl up lazily and said, quietly, “Look, amma, there’s Anjum going.”

…who sat on his cot and held his hand and prayed and prayed and prayed he would wake up once more -- just once more -- so she could “tell him again all the things I have told him so many times.”

…who, when living became too painful for him -- unbearably painful -- and yet he fought on, had the courage to say, “Quit any time you want... it’s okay.”

…who, before death smothered him in a coma, had only a single prayer in her bursting heart, “I just want his pain to be less… he is suffering so much.”

…who dried the tears of his parents and was a tower of strength for them at the final farewell… because… “Because he was like that, no?”

On Sunday, after dispersing the ashes of a full life, she will fly back to an empty house, an empty city, an empty life.

I don’t have enough thoughts for her. Spare a few, if you can.

He still lives, motherfucker

2004-08-25T15:47:00.000+01:00

DEATH, be not proud.

He lives, motherfucker, he still lives.

He wins.

Live it!

2004-08-20T17:55:00.000+01:00

EVERYTHING, every darned thing in this world, has a peak.

And everything, every darned thing in this world, offers a slope after the peak.

Ordinary mortals collapse on their way up. The extraordinary carry on.

You, as you have proved many times over, are beyond extraordinary. Way, way, way beyond.

For a year they have said you are dying. You are still with us. Not because of the wonder their drugs did. But because you want to live.

This is your peak.

Live it.

I have always felt you will walk down that slope. Today, after I spoke to you, after they all said you will die soon and you still told me in a hoarse gasping whisper ‘I will pull through, I will pull through,’ I know you will.

You die when you give up.

You, my friend, will never give up.

Because you know, better than me, that there is no such thing as a peak without slope.

PS: Sorry, won’t be able to make it to India in November. But will certainly be there for Easter.

Is there life without hope?

2004-08-13T23:06:00.000+01:00

IN the southern corner of India, quite close to where my parents live, there is a small town called Thodupuzha.

This past week I found my thoughts drifting there. To a particular house that serves as an ayurveda hospital.

My friend Anjum, who suffers from stage IV cancer (see April 17 post), was there. He and his wife Patcy had travelled down from Mumbai for a two-week treatment under one of Kerala’s reputed specialists, Dr S.

Thodupuzha was salvation for Anjum. Despite a major surgery and seven draining rounds of chemo, his oncologist in Mumbai had nothing positive to tell him. Dr S -- and this little town next to mine -- was Hope.

“Finally someone is telling him something positive,” Patcy said. “It’s nice to hear that, you know.”

It was also nice to hear what Dr S privately thought. “Anjum is standing in a vast emptiness now,” he said. “But I think he will pull through.”

A year of battling cancer had sapped even Anjum. He had lost about 10 kilos. His haemoglobin count was alarmingly low. He had trouble breathing. He was depressed.

Once in Thodupuzha, his outlook improved. The first four days saw him feeling ‘better’. Then his blood pressure climbed. He felt restless, couldn’t sleep.

Things improved by the eighth day. The BP was under control. Though feeling weaker than ever (expected, Dr S said, since the medicines were the ayurvedic equivalent of chemotherapy; he would feel worse before he felt better), Anjum began looking forward to the improvement promised to him in another two weeks.

Home in Mumbai now, Anjum feels drained. He is so tired he can’t sleep. So breathless he can’t speak. And as he continues Dr S's medicines, in his mind is the question: was he better off without this treatment?

But also buried in his mind is Hope. Borne out of the faith he has invested in Dr S, out of his will to live.

Hope. Is there life without it?

PS: I just got this text from Anjum: 'The only fight we lose is the fight we abandon. What's abandon? :-)'

Kiss, kiss, the English way

2004-07-28T00:56:00.000+01:00

FOR a people who are painfully private, the English are pretty public when it comes to kissing.

There they would be walking down the road, upper lip stiff and at the ready, when suddenly romance overcomes them. The next thing you know, they have grabbed hold of their partner and are kissing the life out of him/her. If there is no partner handy, they go for the nearest person available, which I think is the correct way to go about such things.

What I am talking here is not the feathery kisses you read about in books. This is romance with muscles. This is hardcore, thirst-quenching, soul-searching, dementorish stuff, which makes energetic drunkards of couples and blocks the traffic.

It really does. Block the traffic, I mean. Only last week I saw a girl going hell for leather at her boy. The boy was driving on the Holdenhurst road with half a hand -- the rest being agreeably engaged -- towards the ASDA roundabout in Bournemouth. The girl increased her assault and the car screeched to a halt at the circle. And though the way was clear, they stayed there for the next few minutes. I craned my neck to see inside -- just so I could report on it accurately, you understand -- and the two cars behind waited patiently for them to finish.

Now don’t think this happens only with the youth. Even the middle-aged and the old succumb to it, though, fortunately, the very old stick to holding hands and grinning goofily at each other.

Like with the youth, the elders get an extra kick if they have an audience for their kiss-and-gos. Everyone’s favourite place is any sort of queue, just as they are next in line. Once quite late at night, an ASDA cashier and I waited a long time for a couple to finish their business. Being English, the cashier looked away, but I kept a close watch on the kissers just in case they needed any sort of assistance.

Personally I find all this most entertaining. This is partly because I am from India and mostly because I am me. Unlike the English, Indians are undoubtedly a much excitable people, who normally blurt out things. An Indian, if he doesn’t like something, would say, ‘This is utter crap,’ whereas an Englishman would say, ‘Smashing! How wonderful!'

Despite such unreserved expressions, Indians -- and here’s the irony -- clam up when it comes to kissing. If they want to kiss, they go home, lock the door, pull down the blinds, check again if the door is locked and the blinds down, look over their shoulder, then kiss. Then they will open the door and put up the blinds and pretend they haven’t kissed, for fear the kiss police of a certain nationalist party will arrest them.

This all goes to prove things are exactly the opposite of what they appear to be -- that within every Englishman there beats a heart of pure passion.

Dr Commando

2004-07-21T00:46:00.000+01:00

SOME decades ago, when I was 23 and gung-ho, the editor sent me to spend time with the commandos.

The idea was to roger me, of course. Globular Citizen, as the Ed is known far and wide, made it clear he would accept nothing but an ‘experiential’ piece. Get under their skin, feel what they feel -- or don’t bother coming back.

So I buzzed off to Belgaum in Karnataka, which is where the Indian Army turns its 'boys into men', (the boys and men call it ‘buggery course’, though), and ran around with the commandos a bit. It was all most enjoyable, especially being pushed off hilltops and thrown from tree-houses three stories high, not to mention feeling up voluptuous snakes.

The whole point of the 42-day course, from what I could see, was to tell you you were no good. Then, just as you were about to tell them what you thought of that, they would say, hang on, if you let us roger you some more we might be able to turn you into a passable specimen.

I bring all this up not just because I want to tell you I am a highly-trained killer commando, and so you should show me due respect, but because I have come to realise one of the greatest truths of modern world:

PhD is like commando training.

Like with the commandos, a PhD starts with taking you apart. Only, here it is done intellectually. Literature review is what the academicians call this interesting exercise, when they let you potter off and read everything written on your topic. This is essentially to make you realise you know nothing. In that sense, it is the best way to measure the depth of your ignorance.

Then comes the ‘patch-up’ time when they piece you back. They let you play the academician and write papers and go to conferences. Soon you begin to feel full of yourself again, and by the time you finish your thesis you are positively bursting.

The point I am trying to stress here is, never mess with us academicians. Because, you see, we are intellectual commandos.

His name is Head. Dick Head

2004-07-13T13:26:00.000+01:00

THE other evening I called my landlord a few names his mother hadn’t thought up. I also encouraged his exit from my attic. I believe he missed a few steps on the way down, owing to the momentum he acquired suddenly.

If you ask me, Dick -- let’s call him that, shall we? –- got what he deserved. He is actually an old woman masquerading as a middle-aged man. Not just any old woman, but a nitpicky one with an abnormally large nose, who routinely runs her hand under my kitchen utensils to see if they are clean, and goes on all fours to see if there is a speck of dirt on the inside edge of the cavity under my loose floorboard.

Dick likes to leave me little notes demanding a ‘good clean’ of this or that. A few weeks ago he was alarmed at a solitary bluebottle that came in through my open window.

“I think that bin area needs a good clean,” he said. “I came up here to get something and there was a bluebottle! Boy, if that starts laying eggs in your food, you are in big trouble!”

This time he surpassed himself. The oven was ‘dirty’, there was ‘grease’ on the kitchen stand, and the area beneath the doormat could do with ‘a good clean’. He stuck his note into the oven, left it wide open, pulled the mat to one side, and did a few other endearing things -- to ensure I didn’t miss any of the ‘dirt’. He also came up in person to have ‘a good talk’.

Which is when I told him to bugger off and words happened and I, ah, evicted him.

BUT since Dick is an old English lady (who most certainly ran a boarding house at some point), and I am an English gentleman now, we did it the English way.

Which is a bit different from the Indian way. As you will see:

[Enter Dick, humming.]

Dick: Chindu, did you see my note?

Me: Yes, I did. (Yeah… and you can shove it.)

Dick: The oven was a bit dirty, you know. (It was bloody filthy!)

Me: Oh, was it? I am sorry you found it that way. (How DARE you snoop inside my kitchen!)

Dick: It could do with a good clean, you know. For hygiene reasons. (You better clean it up.)

Me: I think it is clean, Dick. (I will be darned if I do!)

Dick: I am not so sure, Chindu. And if you allow those carry bags to accumulate in that corner, the next thing you know there will be rodents. (Clean it!)

Me: Actually I am fine with them there -- the carry bags, I mean. And Dick, I do believe you need to give me some room for decisions like this. (This is MY kitchen, you dunderhead. Bugger off!)

Dick: Of course. I am just saying that for your own good. Also, I live downstairs, so it will be good for both of us. Perhaps you are not aware of the hygienic requirements in this country… (This is MY house. And I want it MY way!)

Me: Oh, I am quite aware of it, Dick. And I am certain this meets those requirements. (You are now seriously pissing me off, asshole. Fuck off!)

Dick: I am sorry. I disagree with you on that. (You are the asshole!)

Me: I quite like the way things are, Dick. (Fuck off!)

Dick: Well, you can decide what you want to do about it, certainly… whether you would like to continue staying here. It’s entirely up to you. (I want you out of my house, you bastard.)

Me: Thank you. I will think about it. (Fuck off!)

Dick: I am sorry to have bothered you about this. (I WANT YOU OUT OF HERE!)

Me: Oh, that’s all right. (FUCK OFF!)

Dick: Goodnight then, Chindu. (ASSHOLE!)

Me: Goodnight, Dick. (UP YOURS!)

[Exit Dick, not humming.]

Um, anyone got a vacant room?

God, you old goat

2004-06-26T23:01:00.000+01:00

WHEN I meet my Maker, which appointment I have scheduled in 2084, I intend to ask Him a few things. And He better answer.

Why, why, why, why did He stop with just 24 hours in a day? I mean, what’s it about 24 hours? Why not 36, or, better still, 48?

I will tell you why. It’s because of me.

God, you see, likes to see me sweat. He likes it when I run around like a headless chicken, trying to meet yesterday’s deadline. And if He can pile more work on me then, He is positively in heaven.

In heaven He was this past 20 days. Besides my regular commitments of waitering (more about it later), data entry, and, yeah, occasional research, He destined I take on another stimulating job: ‘housekeeping’, better known as toilet cleaning (couldn't say no; it’s the Gandhi in me, I suppose).

Then He threw me another bone, and another, and another, then another… exam invigilation (they knew not who they were trusting), sticking stickers (never mind where), armchair journalism (joined Ponytail’s club, yes), ‘markings’/evaluation (in place of a lecturer I had poisoned)…

Of course it didn’t fit into 24 hours: Up at 6:30 am; fix breakfast, gobble breakfast; fix lunch, pack lunch; fix dinner, pack dinner; leave kitchen spotless for landlordly inspection (later, later); jump into shower, jump out; leap into clothes, leap out of attic; huff to job (of the day), huff out; puff to second job (of the day), puff out; crawl to desk… start failing students.

By D-day Minus Three, I still had a mountain of markings left. Press releases, short stories, brochures, feature articles, all were coming out of my ears. Still I marked.

I marked first thing in the morning and I marked last thing at night. I marked in between. I marked at breakfast, at lunch, at dinner. I marked as I walked to work and I marked as I worked.

While He laughed his head off. He would have died with merriment, I am certain, if I had missed the deadline. But I didn't miss it -- I truly am an amazing person -- mainly because I didn’t want Him dead. Oh no. I want Him around for our appointment.

God, you old goat, you got some answering to do.

The English like it cold

2004-05-31T12:06:00.000+01:00

THERE is a nice warm glow inside me. That’s because I have just finished a nice meal and a nice drink at someone else’s expense, which is a nice reason to have a nice warm glow inside you.

Actually, that’s not quite true. I have a nice warm glow because it is nice and warm here. The sun has been shining non-stop -- well, sort of -- the last couple of weeks. Frankly, it’s worrying me.

I am not the only one. Even the natives are unsettled. Initially they thought it was only the summer. But now I see worried frowns.

Give the English wet wintry weather and they are in their element. They put on rain-jackets and gloves and Wellingtons, and allow their dogs to take them for a walk. A walk is usually a few miles each way, across the muckiest paths possible, and is most enjoyed when it is raining. En route they meet other dogs walking other Englishpeople. While the dogs stop to mark territory, they exchange smiles like semicolons, and remark what a jolly fine day it is.

But let there be a stretch of sun, and they can’t cope. They begin to burn. This is mainly because they pay tribute to Salman Khan, which is only natural, as he honestly deserves hefty tributes for his beauty and brains.

I mention all this since I want to come directly to the point and tell you the summer is here. While this means I don’t have to swallow frozen sandwiches for lunch anymore, it also means I don’t get to wear my black leather jacket. Which is a tragedy.

It’s a tragedy because the said item allowed me to carry half my office and quarter my home on my person. Besides, it made me look incredibly hunky. And it ensured I didn’t have to iron my clothes even once in the last six months.

Now I know why the English are content with the cold. I am beginning to see the wisdom of winter.

The sun's shining

2004-05-26T21:54:00.000+01:00

PEOPLE, the sun is shining. So I am making some hay. Enough of it, I hope, for next month’s fees.

Meantime, let me wish my good friend AYYAPPAN, who got married last fortnight. Like a good friend, I forgot his wedding day in the midst of all my hay-making. So here's wishing him and his brand new wife Lakshmi a wonderful, wealthy life with tons of happiness, health, and whatever else they may care to order...

And now here are my responses to your responses...

Phantasmagoria: Always a pleasure, ma'am. Here you are! *grin*

Krishna: Yes, sir, I am right here in Bournemouth. Since November.

PseudoFreud: So I got competition, do I? Well.

Rash: Yep. Can’t help it. Too much blood, too large a heart.

Chakra: That’s a question. And a thought. But there is the beach, right? And it is summer, right? And there is my blog, right? Hell, what else do you need in life!?!

Dan: ‘The police have arrested a man who allegedly impersonated a police officer.’ Never can digest so much news at one time, I can't. Incidentally, wrote for my old publication yet?

Preshit: Thanks, mate. Used to work in Mumbai. But coming across ‘bhannat’ for the first time. Bhannat. I like it. Bhannat...

Ponytail: Was, if I remember right, and I always remember right, giving you much-needed advice on how to conduct yourself professionally. That’s serious talk, not chatter. The nose incident, can’t remember it. I am sure you must have done something to deserve it.

Anita: Rubbing nose, or any other body part, with Ponytail isn’t all that appealing a thought. But pushing him around, that’s appealing. And, er, Ponytail isn’t really an Eskimo, though he has this igloo to protect himself from the vagaries of... well... everything.

Joyee: Good to see you again. When do you start blogging?

Now excuse me folks, I got some hay to make.

Oh, the poor Britons!

2004-05-17T21:50:00.000+01:00

MY heart bleeds for Britain. I am serious.

What brings about this profuse seepage is the fact that the British have very little to be happy about. There is so little spice in their lives -- apart from baked potatoes -- that I am seriously worried about their welfare.

In winter their most interesting conversation is how long it rained (“A bit wet, i'nt it?), while in summer it is how long it didn’t (“Nice day, i'nt it?). Twice every year, for the sake of some activity, everyone turns their clock one hour back and one hour forth, to summer time and winter time, and derive immense pleasure (“Ohhh, that was such fun!”) from it.

It is my theory -- actually, it is someone else’s, but what the hell -- that this lack of excitement pushed them into the business of colonisation. You can’t expect a man to spend his entire life staring at the rain and drinking tea and taking the dog out for a walk, now can you?

Trouble is, nothing happens here. I listen to the BBC news bulletins every morning and it makes me want to immediately start staring at the rain and drinking tea and taking the dog out for a walk.

Of a three-minute bulletin, four minutes are news from everywhere else but Britain. The rest is for weather and the kind of information you normally find in weeklies under the head ‘tidbits’. Like:

“A recent study shows 98 per cent of rivers in England and Wales have fish in them. This is attributed to better sewage maintenance.”

“Britain’s leading horse breeding expert Mr Twinklethrope (or some such) has criticised the government for not allowing him to clone horses.”

I swear I didn’t make these up. I listened to three bulletins that day. As the day progressed, and as usual nothing happened, they kept stretching these two items, bringing in lengthy sound-bites from Twinklethorpe and the fish-man. Twinklethorpe said he criticised the government, and the fish-man said the rivers had fish indeed.

Another morning I was informed more Britishers are clearing up their dogs’ poop from public places -- 27 per cent more, the BBC man said happily, quoting a ‘recent study’.

I find all this strange because I am from India. There we get real news with our morning tea, and pretty much through the day:

“148 people were killed and 348 injured when the Dhakka-Lagao Express derailed early this morning near Vishakapattanam. A senior railway official said the accident occurred because the engine driver forgot to board the train after the last stop.

“Opposition MLAs today dragged the speaker from under his chair and stripped him, bringing to end the winter session of Parliament. They said they were exercising their democratic rights.

“Gujarat Chief Minister Morendra Nari said for every shot Pakistan fired into Kashmir, he would shoot two into Pakistan President Mervez Pusharraff the next time they met …”

In the absence of such excitement, it is only a matter of time before the British try their colonisation trick again. That, of course, will necessitate a quick trip home on my part to lead the freedom struggle, and, frankly, I am not looking forward to it. I am lagging behind my work as it is.

Mind your English

2004-05-10T21:53:00.000+01:00

BEFORE I came to England, I believed the English sort of knew English.

They do -- sort of.

My feeling is they started off on the right track, but got lost somewhere along the way. This probably happened while they were legging it across India in tight breeches (“Oh dear, it is so hot here! How about a ginger beer, Dick?”), buying cardamom and ginger (“Could I possibly have a pound of that, mate, and another of that? Cheers.”), and on the side parting a few moronic maharajas from their crowns (“May I request the pleasure of seeing your headgear, Your Highness? Excellent…”).

Anyway, the English have forgotten their English. This pleases me greatly, because it allows me to waylay an Englishman and say, “Hah, I bet I can spell better than you!”

The English, however, haven’t gotten around to figuring out their linguistic depravity. They still believe they are wizards. So they make fun of the Americans. Only the other day my landlord Dick -- whom I shall introduce at an opportune moment -- said as he collected his weekly pound of flesh: “Hah! The Americans! They don’t speak English. They speak American!”

Now I am not saying don’t be nasty to Americans. Personally I believe they deserve all that they get for letting a prize imbecile shack out in the White House and shoot holes across the world. (“Rumsfeld, if you have finished with Iraq, get a move on Dagoria, will you? And get one of your girls to roger that old goat Saddam a bit.”)

So go ahead, be nasty to Americans. Meantime, let me have a little fun, reviewing a few -- just a few -- things I have noticed:

In London, Leeds, Bournemouth, and Wakefield, respectively: Kings Cross, Kings Road, Worlds Best Chips, Graziers Arms… And at a presentation by a top official of a certain university: Invigilators responsibilities… (For god’s sake… er, is it gods sake?)

At a car sale somewhere between London and Leeds: ‘Cars available at shocking prices.’ (My… but who would want to buy?)

Inside my institution of learning: ‘Do not open. This door is alarmed.’ (Okay, won’t… but tell me what alarmed it?)

Outside my institution of learning: ‘Vehicles parked in unauthorised positions and likely to cause an obstruction may be towed away and will only be released on payment of a fee as prescribed by the university.’ (Now that’s what I call uncomplicated English.)

En route to my institution of learning: 'For Sale ... Estate Agents' (How much for one?)

At -- and this is the one I love most -- the expensive private hospital I work: ‘Disabled Toilet’ (Gosh. Who broke its leg?)

I am not finished yet. Guess how they greet you over here? Not with ‘How are you’, like civilised people. They say, ‘Are you all right?’

Imagine. There you are walking in to work, smiling benignly, and they go ‘Are you all right?’ Why shouldn’t you be? The first time I heard it I was taken aback. Had I shaved only half my face? Or, horror, had I forgotten to zip up (again)?

Recently when someone greeted me thus -- and what else can you expect from people who say ‘Cheers’ for ‘Thanks’ -- I said my health was bad, and listed out ailments from fluent diarrhoea to SARS and AIDS, to which the gentleman said, “Excellent… catch you in a minute” and kept walking.

“Sure,” I told his back. “But I bet I can spell better than you!”

Hah.

Why I am mad

2004-05-06T21:00:00.000+01:00

PEOPLE think I am mad, which I am, of course. But they think I am really mad.

Why, they ask, have I chucked a decent job and gone for an academic qualification -- and energetic sofa-lifting -- that will not make me rich, famous and popular, since I am already rich, famous and immensely popular?

In answer, let me reproduce what I wrote to convince the folks at my university, who asked me the same:

This is my sabbatical after nearly 10 years in journalism. As a journalist fighting constant deadlines, what I have missed most is the opportunity to give all I have to a news report or feature.

Events unfold before me; I am an eyewitness to history in the making. And all I can think of is my deadline, how to get the maximum in minimum time.

In the race to present a ‘comprehensive picture’, to ‘cover all angles’, the minutes of the event --- the little bricks that go into building it -- fall only in my peripheral vision.

I see those fleetingly. I wish I have time to stand and stare.

I never have.

This is my chance, my chance to stand and stare. This offers me a luxury that journalism rarely does: to focus on a topic of my choice, a topic I am passionate about, closely, minutely.

Which, as you can probably make out, is mostly bull. What really brings me here is the glamour of a certain prefix.

That, and the weather.

Sure? Confident?

2004-05-03T22:24:00.000+01:00

LAST week I hosted two episodes of a British version of the Indian Kaun Banega Crorepati, which incidentally is the Indian version of the British Who wants to be a millionaire.

Ah, I can see my ex-colleagues in Mumbai shutting their mouths with their hands. Gosh, didn’t they have to put a gun to my head to make me do plain ol' audio for a couple of desperate -- and eminently forgettable -- reports in 1999? Amazing how the lure of money can cure camera-shyness.

And so I sat last Tuesday on a bar-stool-like contraption, facing my first competitor in the hot-seat, the first question for him blinking at me.

There was no audience -- I had insisted on that; if they wanted people and clapping and laughter, they could mix them all in later -- and we were in a claustrophobic space. The overhead lights were harsh and I was beginning to sweat, which is something I do wonderfully well when...well...overhead lights are harsh and I begin to sweat.

“When did mammoths cease to exist?”

My voice sounded squeaky. So I repeated the question, constricting my throat muscles to attain what I hoped was a Bachchanish baritone:

“When did mammoths become extinct? A) 15,000 years ago B) 10,000 years ago C) 20,000 years ago D) 5,000 years ago.”

That was better, I patted myself. Almost there. Next time drawl it out and serve it with a half-smile -- just so the women can swoon, you understand.

The hot-seat guy, a student, was evidently more in touch with the mammoths than me. He came up with an answer immediately.

“A,” he said. “15,000 years ago.”

“Sure?”

“Yes.”

“Confident?”

He nodded.

I locked it. We moved on to the next. He answered. Next. Answer. Next. Answer... Then I threw a couple of toughies at him, stuff I didn't have a clue how to pronounce.

“What is… *gulp* …Pleistocene epoch?”

“What is… *double gulp* …Holocene epoch?”

So it went.

At the end of the session, I shook hands with him. Then I removed the ‘Exam in progress’ board from the door. Then I went home, having earned £30.82 from the university’s Learning Support department for ‘scribing’ for a disabled student.

What do I miss about India?

2004-04-26T01:29:00.000+01:00

MANY people I meet ask me: what do I miss the most about India?

“My salary,” I tell them. “My Big Fat Mumbai salary.”

And that is almost the truth, though I must admit the size of my former salary is more a distortion of my mind than actual fact. In any case, I quite enjoyed having a certain amount deposited into my account every month in lieu of the faultless and extraordinary services I provided -- exercising the equipment in the gym regularly, ensuring no food or drink the canteen produced ever went waste, standing behind colleagues to make rude remarks about their work, snapping at people to bring cheer and liveliness into the office… in short, keeping everyone on their toes.

I bring all this up not to point out I was criminally underpaid -- which, of course, I was, and I plan to sue my ex-employers for it -- but to mention there is something I miss about Mumbai more than my salary.

Namely, my dance classes.

That’s right: my ballroom dance classes.

I took up ballroom after my successful failure at jazz dancing. Actually, that’s not true; I had started even before that, about the time I decided to marry a certain lady of my acquaintance, though it was only in the last seven or eight months before I left India that I put on my serious dancing shoes.

My Editor-in-Chief, exhilarated by the fact he was finally getting rid of me (he had tried hard for six-and-a-half years, poor chap, sending me again and again to unhealthy places), was too busy writing glowing testimonials for me and troubleshooting with the management on my behalf to supervise what exactly I was doing. Which left me enough time for some serious dancing.

Till then I had tried mostly Standard ballroom, at the J J Rodriguez’s, one of Mumbai’s venerable (not to mention expensive) institutes, a couple of levels alone, and then in the company of my delightful friend Jyotsna. Both of us were exceptionally gifted -- me with a few left feet and she more traditionally --and I must say that made for a most exciting partnership.

Last summer, having put the Ed-in-Chief to some useful work, I started on Latin ballroom. My interest in Latin owed a lot to Deepa Karkera, who I met on Ballroomdancers.com while furiously surfing for people to join Footknots, an interest group for ballroom dancers I had launched in the throes of my initial dance-mania.

My major concern was whether I would be able to get the fantastic hip movements that Latin (Rumba, Cha Cha, Bolero…) so called for, especially since my hips were, well, a bit unmoveable. To compound things, I was used to Standard dances like Waltz and Foxtrot, which called for the exact opposite -- upper body sways with absolute stillness of the lower body, and rise and falls.

“Oh, don’t worry!” Deepa said. “The hip movements are easy… It depends on correct foot-placement, nothing else!”

She bullied me into visiting The Quickstep, the institute she worked for in Andheri -- and I was floored.

It was the basic batch I watched that day, dancing to Desert Rose, quick-quick and slow, forward and side, backward and side, gracefully, teasingly, in what is arguably the most sensuous of all dances, Rumba.

I signed up the next day.

On Tuesdays and Thursdays, I gave my bosses the slip and disappeared for a couple of hours.

A month on, I signed up for more. For Salsa, and another special Standard batch, increasing my time on the floor to six hours every Tuesday and Thursday, and four hours each on Saturdays and Sundays. My classes were only four hours, but I stuck on for some extra dancing with the other batches.

My Executive Ed, a pony-tailed gent with a strange weakness for long taxi-rides wearing expensive sunglasses, was most curious about my lengthy absences. I told him the truth -- that I was having an affair, with a series of beautiful women -- but he only looked at me suspiciously and mumbled “Bugger!”

A friend who saw my initial efforts was amazed at my talent. He complimented me, saying I looked exactly like I was lifting weights in the gym. Encouraged, I moved on, through lots and lots of Rumba and Cha Cha, a bit of Samba and Tango, some Salsa, R&R and Jive, more Waltz, more Foxtrot…. and finally Bolero (which is my second favourite dance, after Rumba and ahead of Waltz). I learnt the girl’s part too, just so I could force-feed my wife whenever I got the chance.

By September I was moving fairly okay (my cucurachas, which I spent hours practising in front of the mirror, had stopped looking like I had severe hip spasms), at least enough for me to be allowed to play stand-in trainer occasionally. Now this is where I introduce -- and lavishly plug -- my instructor-friend Anand Majumdar.

Anand, an engineer-turned-dancer, is a brilliant -- and I mean brilliant -- teacher. (Let’s face it: he actually got me moving.) A perfectionist, he insisted on correct footwork and posture, repeatedly, engagingly, and I like to think we got most of it down. So if you are in Mumbai and interested in ballroom, he is your man. Write to him, do, or ring him on 9820399296.

And now, and now, and now… My batch-mates are two levels my seniors, the Bandra branch (which I like to think of as my paternal property) is doing heavy business, Footknots have 39 members (ahem), The Quickstep has opened a branch in Mumbai Central… and I sit here missing ballroom!

Or is it the people I miss? Is it gentleman Jokhi, graceful Ruksana, meticulous Majumdar, wonderboy Vineet (17 years and, gosh, what a dancer!), madcap Mehejebeen (aka Ms Salsa), sweet Deepa, kind Kruti, tranquil Tejas, charming Maheep, clever Kalpaja, matter-of-fact Smita, and perfectionist Pam… and my online mates in Bangalore, Prithvi (people, he runs Rock Around the Clock and can be reached at (080) 567 29383 or by clicking here) and Epi and Pat and Frida and Celia -- is it them I miss?

Strange. In cold pale faraway England, instead of the hot curries and warm weather and the colour and confusion and chaos (not to mention the Big Fat Mumbai salary) I left behind, I am nostalgic for Rumba and Bolero and Waltz. Who would have thought.

He's still smiling

2004-04-17T20:28:00.000+01:00

IN September or October or November, or whenever I save up enough money for a quick trip home, I have a lunch date in Mumbai -- and I will be darned if I miss it.

It’s a date I made on March 22 by email. With two new friends, Anjum and his wife Patcy.

I call them ‘new friends’ because though I worked with Anjum for three years, we never really interacted. He was this cheerful, chubby guy, who looked a bit like the Malayalee film star Mohanlal (the two of them had a long chat, incidentally, one rainy day in Mumbai). At meal times Anjum always managed to order food that looked far more appetising than the stuff on my plate, and our interactions stopped with me raiding his plate shamelessly.

Seven months ago Anjum went to a GP with a rash on his abdomen. The GP got some tests done -- and told Anjum he had cancer.

Anjum went for a second opinion, to one of the most reputed hospitals in Mumbai. More tests were called for, and the outcome was gloomy.

Anjum had adrenal cancer. It had spread to his liver and lungs. His chances were slim.

Anjum was 31.

I met Anjum and Patcy when they returned from that appointment. Anjum’s face was a bit red, but that was the only indication something was wrong. He was still smiling, struggling to appear normal, and succeeding.

Over the next months, Anjum and Patcy proved themselves most gritty. They lived their private hell. But rarely did they let it show.

I met them a week later for lunch. In his jocular way, Anjum spoke about the relatives who came to visit him in a steady tearful stream. Patcy added her own comments, punctuating it at regular intervals with her trademark ‘Tereko maloom nahin main kya cheez hoon [You don’t know what stuff I am made of]’, and we all had a pleasant time talking about an unpleasant topic.

Only once was there an uncomfortable moment. Speaking about their long relationship -- they have been together since they were teenagers -- Patcy broke off suddenly.

“I have been around him for so long,” she said. “And now suddenly…”

“Now suddenly what?” Anjum said. “I will be here as before.”

Chemotherapy began. Anjum shaved his head to prevent his hair falling. He continued to attend office.

By the time I was ready to leave for England, Anjum was too weak to work. I spoke to him on November 10, the day I flew out. He sounded normal, discussing with me in detail his treatment, and how he was doing.

About a month ago, I spoke to him again. This time, on Rediff Bol, an instant messenger.

“Arre, yaar [What, mate],” he said, as chirpy as ever, “now I have lost my moustache too!”

Exactly a month ago, Anjum was wheeled in for surgery. They cut out his tumour. But he developed septicaemia and walked to death’s doorstep before breaking free.

He is home now, drained of strength, resting before the next bout of crucial chemo to tackle the secondary cancer.

He is still smiling.

Burning Bournemouth

2004-04-11T19:51:00.000+01:00

BOURNEMOUTH is a town that is always setting itself on fire here or there.

Every five minutes there is a fire tender tearing down the town centre roundabout on two wheels. Sometimes there are two, blaring sirens and all, followed by an ambulance driven by a succession of pretty girls (or is it just one girl, going back and forth?). Gosh, what a din they create.

The frequency of this road-race seriously alarmed me. The last thing I wanted was the town to burn itself out before I finished my thesis. So I threw myself into frenzied research.

A few weeks ago I was huffing it out in the university gym when the fire alarm sounded. Unused to obeying silly sounds I continued huffing -- till an instructor dragged me off the treadmill.

I tried to tell her I was from India, where we walked through fire all the time, and anyway I didn’t burn easily. But she pushed me towards the door.

“Hang on,” I said. “Let me get my clothes.”

“No, no, out!”

“Listen—“

“Out! NOW!”

So I stepped out into the cold and modelled in my shorts and singlet. After five minutes, I was ready for some serious defrosting.

Worse, there was no sign of fire, not even a wisp of smoke. But they would not let us in. The alarm had sounded and the premise evacuated. Now nobody could go in till the fire force arrived and gave the all-clear. That was that.

Just as I was seriously considering setting fire to the place myself, the fire tender arrived. A couple of firemen got out calmly. After a lengthy, painstaking investigation lasting 30 seconds they confirmed nothing was burning.

The next day I keyed in ‘UK fire statistics’ in Google and came up with this bit of official info: In 2001 there were 1,027,500 fire alarms across the country -- of which 481,000 were false.

And of the false alarms, which has increased by four per cent, more than half (279,800) were due to apparatus malfunction -- an increase of six per cent since 2000.

Now I know Bournemouth is not burning. We just happen to have a lot of faulty fire alarms here.

Spare change, sir?

2004-04-09T20:25:00.000+01:00

BOURNEMOUTH is windy. Wickedly windy. Through the day, every day.

Anyone under 12 stones is at serious risk here. Every year hundreds of children and anorexic adults are blown away never to be heard of again. An equal number -- mainly women on diet, I believe -- is deposited atop distant lampposts, trees and high-rise ledges, necessitating immediate rescue by hefty firemen wearing weighted boots.

This, of course, is the real reason why Bournemouth is such an expensive place to live in. The constant demand for rescue operations pushes up the council tax, which, in turn, hikes pretty much everything else.

Initially I found the wind cute. There I would be walking along and suddenly a gust would half-carry me a few furlongs. I would take a few more steps and the wind would do its bit again. It certainly was a faster way of commuting.

But once I made it clear I was going to be around for three years, the wind turned nasty. Now it always blows from the opposite direction, forcing me to fight my way. And when I am at the height of my struggle, leaning into it with all my weight, it would stop, just like that, and I would end up scurrying the next few metres to regain my balance.

Not just me, all Bournemouthians are exposed to this harassment in my part of the town. Around Lansdowne, which is close to the beach, you will see people doing this curious walk -- two steps in slow motion leaning forward, the next four at a run leaning back -- at any point of the day, hanging on for dear life to bulging, white ASDA bags.

The only person immune to all this is a lady of inscrutable age, who sits in a doorway near my office building. Wind or storm, she is there most evenings, wrapped in a brown blanket, her bright -- and sometimes glazed -- eyes shining out of a leathery face.

For the past five months, she has been trying to part me from my pennies. Needless to say, she hasn’t had any success, and I don’t think she ever will.

“Excuse me, sir,” she will sing out as I approach, “Would you have any spare change, please?”

And as I hurry past keeping a very firm hand on my wallet, “Thanks anyway sir, enjoy your evening…”

It’s amazing, her perseverance. I thought she would give up if I walked by pretending not to hear. I tried this for a few weeks.

Then I decided to give her my malevolent stare. I practised it in front of the mirror till my brow hurt and let her have it the next evening. No dice. For a person who sits still shrugging off the elements of nature, that was water of a duck’s back, I guess.

My nerves grated raw by her continued assault, I decided to be nasty to her. Choosing an evening when no one was within earshot, I walked towards her as soon as she began her song.

“Don’t have any change to spare,” I said. “Nor will I for the next three years. So you can stop asking!”

“Thanks anyway, sir,” she sang out through a mouth of reddish, broken teeth and liquor stench. “Enjoy your evening…”

She still asks me for money. But it doesn’t get under my skin anymore. We are allies now, and not just against the wind.

My world, my universe, my well

2004-03-17T18:15:00.000Z

BOURNEMOUTH -- my world, my universe… my well -- is associated with two great personalities besides me:

Geoffrey Boycott and Bill Bryson.

I am not sure how exactly Geoff is involved with my kingdom by the sea (must ask him the next time we get together), but a web site I stumbled across accuses him of being one of Bournemouth’s ‘famous sons and residents’. Since he confesses to birth in Yorkshire, I guess he must fall into the ‘resident’ category.

With Bill, I know what it is all about. Bournemouth offered him his first job as a journalist, when he persuaded The Daily Echo to hire him as a sub-editor a couple of decades ago. He stayed here for two years, editing kitty-party copies. I know this for a fact because Bill himself told me so.

Which all goes to show what a fine place Bournemouth is. Very warm and welcoming. Honestly.

We have seven miles of golden sand. We have a clear, clean bay that tempts you to tear off your clothes and plunge in. We have sun… or so I am told, and I am beginning to believe it as we creep up on spring.

We also have a record number of aged people living in a record number of care homes. This prompts unkind outsiders to call our little town ‘God’s waiting room’, but what attracts the aged to Bournemouth is precisely what makes it so special.

I think they coined the word ‘quaint’ especially for Bournemouth. It’s in the air, this ‘quaintness’ I am talking about, a mixture of timelessness and charm and serenity and wisdom that quilts you in happy listlessness. It’s like sitting in your grandfather’s lap, playing with his white beard.

There is not an awful lot happening, but somehow you feel content with the situation, and as far as I know, not many residents go rushing to London, or any place else, in search of excitement.

In fact, just the opposite. People from other places rush down to Bournemouth for a quiet weekend. The wealthy, including stars of all stripes, have villas by the sea, and Tony Blair holds his party conference on the beach -- or as close to it as he can -- occasionally.

To cater to the visitors, we have 103 hotels (approved by the Bournemouth Tourist Board), 44 guesthouses and 18 self-catering apartment units around the town. And 293 restaurants (of which 24 are Indian), 101 pubs, six wine bars, 37 nightclubs, and 41 cafes.

All this, unfortunately, makes Bournemouth an expensive place. Accommodation prices are comparable to those in London. For my single room in Springbourne, I pay £260 a month, which supposedly is a bargain -- and I live in an attic, though a cosy one at that.

But then, that has always been the case with Bournemouth. It started life as ‘a select retreat’, thanks to an infant who died on his parents one fine day in the late 18th century. This forced the father, a squire by the name Lewis Dymoke Grosvenor Tregonwell, to take the mother, Henreitta, for a holiday to recuperate.

Tregonwell was possibly a smuggler. He was also a captain in the Dorset Rangers, the ‘protectors’ of the coasts this side against the French, who are within hailing distance.

He brought his wife down to Bournemouth, which was then called either Bourn Bottom or Born Chine. She loved the place, and ordered hubby dear to make suitable arrangements for permanent residence.

Tregonwell obeyed. He bought eight-and-a-half acres of prime land for £180 (now that is what I call a bargain), built her a house by the sea, and proceeded to become the official ‘founder’ of Bournemouth.

Of course, the initial settlers tried their darnest to keep the town to themselves. But by 1930, middle-class suburbs were firmly established, and today we are 163,444 happy souls (490 of Indian origin, 98 Pakistani, 212 Bangladeshi, and 719 Chinese) living here.

No, make that 163, 445. I arrived after the census.

PS: Thanks Lebi, Anita, Priya, Meggie, Daniel, Nikita, and Chakra for your warm welcome. And newcomers, step this way for a minute, could you?

Warmth... in a cold country

2004-03-07T17:07:00.000Z

THE first person to put up with me in Bournemouth was Prasanna, a warm-hearted computer science student fast disappearing under the rigours of his course. He had made the mistake of answering one of my pleas on the university’s student message board, and I promptly latched on to him.

He lives in a two-storeyed house, roomy but weeping under the onslaught of eight students: seven Indians and one Turk. A hurricane had obviously finished a striptease there just as I arrived. It had also visited the kitchen for a quick meal before leaving by the back door.

Despite the situation, Prasanna and his friends -- Girish, Navin, Phani, Janardhan, et al -- went out of their way to make me feel at home.

“You can stay here if you like,” Prasanna said. “If you don’t, take your time to find a good place. No hurry.”

David Bradshaw of the Bournemouth Media School, one of my supervisors, was similarly helpful. There is a spare room at home, he said, and he certainly could put me up till I found a place.

Fortunately I didn’t have to bother him. I was able to move into a cosy room in about a week. Nonetheless, his and Prasanna’s offers were touching -- welcome warmth in a cold country.

2004-03-07T16:24:00.000Z

THOSE jeans that threaten to fall off you, low-rise hipsters I think they are called, those are the craze here.

At my university, girls seem to live in them (except at pub-time, when they climb atop six-inch ladders, all legs, in black). They wear flimsy belts with lots of holes or metal bits, presumably to hold the jeans up, but there is no way those contraptions could hold anything up. I am certain they actually use some sort of skin adhesive.

A sustained survey -- made possible only by the depth to which hipsters plunge -- also reveal thongs (gosh, I hope I have got this right) are quite prevalent. A bit uncomfortable, it looked to me. Like, walking around with something stuck between your teeth.

The other craze is streaked hair. Any colour goes, and the more startling the better. A combination of purple, yellow and green is most favoured.

Rings and studs -- on nose, lips, ears, navel, wherever -- need special mention. As do ‘pillow-hair’.

By ‘pillow-hair’, I mean precisely that. It is the guys’ fashion statement. Initially I thought they left home in a hurry and had forgotten to comb. Then I caught a cool guy in the loo, painstakingly teasing his hair with water into a frightful mess. He looked quite pleased with himself when he finished.

2004-03-07T15:36:00.000Z

RACISM, I had been told, is a favourite pastime in England.

They don’t seem to play that particular sport much over here in Bournemouth (pronounced ‘Bon-moth’, with unnecessary vehemence attached to the first bit), except for poking fun at Americans endlessly, though two Indian friends tell me some idiots shouted the usual rot at them once.

In my three months in England, I have had only one such experience. And that was in wintry Leeds -- 235 miles by road from Bournemouth, where my wife is studying -- while on a desperate job-hunt.

Noticing ‘Wanted: Assistant’ in a fish stall in the Kirkgate market, I switch on my irresistible charm and approach the middle-aged proprietor. She is serving a customer, mouth split in a stiff smile and stale sales-talk.

I wait. She turns to me. The smile freezes.

I am looking forward to being her assistant, I say. She looks at me with obvious distaste.

“I can give you an application form if you want,” she says at last, and waits for me to say, oh, no, that’s all right, and disappear. Instead, I say, yes, that would be nice.

She stares some more. Hands me a form. Turns back to her fish.

Perhaps she was only objecting to my face. Perhaps.