Category Archives: Places

Cyclicality in Economies

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The imposition of custom duty on flat panel televisions last month is seen in some quarters as a signal that the government is serious about trying to reduce the current account deficit. Similarly, the increase of import duty for gold, twice in fact, during recent months is being seen as a signal that the government does care about the economy.

However, these moves have not been without negative effects. Signalling could be either ignored or misinterpreted. In either case, it might not achieve its intentions. Not all of these signals reach their aim. For instance, the higher import duty on gold has led to instances of  smuggling of gold.

At times like these, it takes guts to say that India’s crisis could be a good thing, and to take the effort to explain why. Prof. Jayanth R. Varma of the Indian Institute of Management, Ahmedabad has done exactly that in his post dated 29 Aug. The same post also points to three other links that are equally worth reading. His blog is worth following even for those who are not in the world of finance and business.

Besides this, there is also the history of other countries that we can consider in order to understand our own economy better. There is cyclicality which is seen in several economies. There are periods of booms and busts, and very often the cyclicality is something policy-makers might find difficult to act upon.

One country whose history is interesting for us to understand is Argentina. Apparently, Argentina is a country that has seen strong growth followed by political deterioration accompanied by economic decadence. For those who are even mildly interested, the Wikipedia page of the economic history of Argentina makes for very interesting reading. Many thanks to the person who pointed this out.

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Memories of Orissa

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A selection of thoughts and feelings from a recent trip to Bhubaneswar and Cuttack in Orissa, where I was

  • Awed by the granite structure of the Sun Temple at Konark, and awestruck when told that these were mere remnants and that the erstwhile main structure was more than double the height of the existing temple
  • Amazed at how each of the small dots, on the rim of each of the twelve twelve-spoked wheels of the chariot that is the temple, corresponded to exactly three minutes
  • Irritated at the mindless enthusiasm shown by everyone, including my friends, for photography – much more so than at the Taj Mahal: both the enthusiasm and the corresponding irritation. Clicking one picture for memories is acceptable, but going to a monument or scenic location does not transform you to an advertising model worth GBs of photos to be forgotten in a week
  • Struck by the realization, accompanied by a curious lack of surprise, at the Jagannath Temple at Puri, that God’s blessings can be bought, and that perhaps purchase was the only way of obtaining blessings there because you needed a ticket to reach the sanctum sanctorum. Which, as a philosophy taken to the extreme, would mean that the rich would become richer and the poor poorer. Not a sustainable belief by any means
  • Disappointed at the basket of sweets I bought because the 3-4 different items on the top didn’t reveal the fact that below the top layer there was only one kind of item (possibly the cheapest) that filled the basket
  • Drawn to stacks of brown sweets – fried layers of flour, coated with white powdery sugar that soon turned our fingers sticky and lick-worthy – at a roadside stall
  • Hungry but happy, as we sat on the floor eating tongue-scalding steamed rice and thick yellow dal and several side dishes from leaf-plates and earthen cups. The sale of this food, which was brought out from the temple after puja and which seemed to be meal offerings to the deity, was by itself serious business for numerous authoritative-looking raucous-voiced people
  • Visited by nostalgia at the sight of sewing machines in a handicraft shop at Pipli, where the old man explained that he and his wife had themselves made by hand all the bags and wall-hangings displayed in the shop
  • Intrigued, at the Buddhist Stupa at Dhaulagiri, by the sight of small boxes that served very effectively as printing cabins for quick photographs. The Stupa per se was hardly impressive but the printing set up intrigued me enough to take a picture and post it here:
Printer Setup at Dhaulagiri

The intriguing printer setup at Dhaulagiri: the little black object in the centre is a Canon colour printer!

On the Biscuit Trail, Sightseeing (Notes on Hyderabad)

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“I have orders for fruit biscuits from Karachi Bakery,” said my friend, as we set off from the guesthouse to the venue of S’s midnight wedding. “So do I,” said the third member of our party. By then, yours truly was torn between curiosity and the need to feign awareness.

“Karachi Bakery? I can tell you where that is,” said the otherwise reticent man who drove our car, suddenly becoming loquacious in describing the location of the apparently famous shop. So I was the ignorant one. But only for a minute longer. My friends soon told me how S used to bring those biscuits to their hostel whenever she came back from home, and how they all used to “just love it.” The next day, these two friends skipped a part of the post-wedding puja in order to trace Karachi Bakery and buy huge quantities of the said item. All this was why I decided to stop there on my way later from Salarjung Museum to Begumpet.

On Nizam Shahi road, the huge blue and pink signage of the bakery stood out, and the crowd in the store, engrossed in Christmas purchases, reminded me of Mumbai. The matter-of-fact way in which I was handed a sealed packet of fruit biscuits and a piece of the same to taste was a mild letdown: I had expected, quite unreasonably in hindsight, that such a famous item would evoke a sense of awe in its handlers. Nevertheless, I could see that customers in that particular section of the shop were reassuringly enthusiastic.

The welcome that the biscuits – square shaped cookies with tutti frutti and cashewnut– received at home was little more than lukewarm, perhaps because they were poor competitors to the thick home-made jaggery pudding prepared the previous day. The tales of visits to Golkonda Fort, Charminar, Birla Mandir and Salarjung Museum found more enthusiastic audiences.

To whoever would listen, I repeated stories that the guide had narrated, of the intriguing history behind various features of Golconda Fort, including how sound was transmitted from the gateway at the entrance and the reason behind the name of the fort. We could see that although large parts of the fort were destroyed by Aurangazeb, the existing structure was deemed worthy as a film setting, for we came across a full-fledged team shooting a movie and two youngsters repeatedly trying to record a short amateur dance video.

At Charminar, it was the apparent lack of functional purpose of the building that bothered our party initially. A little like the Gateway of India, said one of the viewers. But the bangles and pearls at Laad Bazaar made up for that.

At Birla Mandir, I was amazed by the devotion shown by the crowd as everyone chanted “Govinda, Govinda” in a peculiar and catchy rhythm. The whiteness of the structure stood out in stark contrast to my memories of temples in Kerala made of dark granite. The art exhibition at the adjacent Birla Science Centre complex was worth seeing but hardly attracted visitors, who were more interested in watching the show at the planetarium and the huge skeleton at the dinosaurium, and in exploring the interactive science exhibits.

Salarjung Museum was huge and well-maintained. The various forms of Arabic calligraphy caught our attention, including the Tughra style where the letters are used to form the shape of an animal, bird or object. We stood captivated by the Veiled Rebecca, a life-like and delicate depiction of a demure woman, sculpted in white marble. In several rooms, the utility items and ornaments of the royal family reflected taste and indulgence, craftsmanship and lavishness. We returned from the museum having covered only the central block, leaving the eastern and western blocks for another visit.

Back home, most of the Hyderabad saga was forgotten amidst the holiday season. But I was in for a pleasant surprise when I casually offered the fruit biscuits to a friend. “Karachi Bakery!” he exclaimed, in instant recognition, although the biscuits were no longer placed in their original box. Here, now, was a very memorable brand! Going on the biscuit trail in Hyderabad was worth it, after all.

Changed but Still the Same (Notes from a Homecoming Trip to Wimwi)

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After the awe of seeing the red bricks subsided, one of the first feelings I remember from my day of arrival at Wimwi* is the intense disappointment on seeing the dorm* room allotted to me – old, nearly unfurnished, paint flaking off and falling to the bed along one entire wall. Dilapidated, in one word. To think that this was what I had “achieved!” I was immediately and very kindly allowed to change my room. And after that first day, I don’t remember ever having had a chance to reflect on the quality of my accommodation.

<Before we proceed any further, some comments are in order. In this post I have used terms commonly used at IIMA – these are indicated by * at their first occurrence and explained at the end of the article. This post is also on the longer side, so please be warned. But if it is as much fun reading as it was writing, you wouldn’t notice the length.>

Going back to campus after a hiatus of a year and a half, the overwhelming sense of homecoming eclipsed all other feelings. The dorm room I got this time was no better, but time had changed my perspective so much that campus felt like a nature resort. And the days passed by in a rush. I strongly suspect that time runs at a different speed at Wimwi. Time is also scarcer, and hence more valuable and more valued, at Wimwi than anywhere else in the world.

Fences and facilities

I noticed that the campus seemed demarcated by fences in an attempt to keep away the stray dogs, a vain attempt because the gates of the fences usually remained open. Indeed, there is something about an academic institution that makes spirits far freer than in an organization that pays a salary for working, for keeping your ideas to yourself and for doing what you are told. In the latter, the chaos of enterprising free human minds is mercilessly reined in by rewarding subordination.

It was heartening to see the new sports complex, with an indoor badminton court – so what if it was not equipped with the best of lighting? And the SAB, the Student Activities Block, which has been a long time coming; the new super posh dorms of rooms with attached bathrooms – a rare luxury for the students of Wimwi; two more ATMs, in the right places; more, and yet inadequate, signboards to indicate directions to dorms and facilities in a campus that seems like a maze even to seasoned residents.

Food and fauna

I spotted more eating joints – the expensive but healthy Joos has been relegated to the realm of memories and only the space remains, as if awaiting a new occupant; there is Falafal (think Hindi not Lebanese) aimed at the same I-care-more-about-health-than-wealth customers (I exaggerate, of course); a Nescafe right near the girls’ dorms; an enlarged Nescafe in the new campus. And KLMDC* still sells home-made cookies, these are still just as popular; the fruit vendor still enjoys a monopoly; tiffin deliveries take place as usual, of packed lunches that look unhygienic but taste genuine like only home-cooked food does; the food in the student mess has expectedly gotten worse over the years and subscription seems to have fallen each year.

The animal kingdom at Wimwi has not diminished even one bit. At Falafal, a bold squirrel approached till the seat opposite mine, and stood poised to land in my plate with its next jump. I threw a yellowed neem leaf to the floor and the squirrel, well-trained as it must have been from numerous titbits thrown by residents, ran towards the leaf. But very soon it was back, and this time I broke up a corner of my bread slice and offered that. The squirrel sniffed around, but could not (deliberately did not?) spot the meal, and returned to its pose, again ready to jump onto my plate. In the meantime, another squirrel grabbed the bread piece and ran away. I have a feeling that squirrel one often helps its brothers this way. In the land of RG-giri* this was a refreshing sight.

Reading, living and studying

The best-kept secret of the Wimwi campus, VSL, or the grand old Vikram Sarabhai Library, is still majestic and well-maintained. It hasn’t lost its charming effect on me – within minutes of entering the welcoming silence, I noticed and picked up Stephen King’s ‘On Writing’ in the new arrivals section and Peter Drucker’s ‘Adventures of a Bystander’ in the shelves, both of which I had been planning to read.

In dorm 3, the same old almost shelf-less fridge reigns over the pantry, but the new microwave oven has stolen the spotlight from the old one; the basement, known lovingly among current and former residents as the dungeon, still has some of the least wanted rooms and the most well-bonded group of residents; the erstwhile cleaning lady has been moved out, but the mildly servile attitude has remained, now shown by the new cleaning lady.

There is no more a WAC run* because electrons run faster and the Internet has taken over the work of fast feet. But Turnitin* does its job just as skillfully. And the 2.30pm surprise quizzes are back in the system (after having been displaced when first year classes were held in the afternoon as well because a new section of students had been added), with the additional caveat that the announcement comes only at 1.45pm! All those who thought it was a good idea to skip lunch because of (the possibility of) a quiz might consider eating because the suspense would not be broken before 1.45pm.

Outside the classroom

For students, placement is still the ‘top of the mind’ question. Professors, as has been the norm, show no recognition that the third slot* is the “killer slot” with classes in full swing, placement talks to be attended and placement preparation to be carried out by fachchas and fachchis* who are only just about getting used to the system. Some courses are no longer being offered but others are being offered in two sections due to overwhelming demand from students. Professors, I am glad to notice, are still sensible and high-thinking as they were in my time! The FPM* students have not moved out but they have moved on, just as I have, and they talk as easily of research as I would of client meetings.

That there was no Onam celebration on campus this year was surprising and unpardonable. Malayalis the world over are known for two things – for quickly bonding with fellow Mallus and for celebrating Onam wherever they are. The best aspect of such bonding, perhaps the one aspect that allows a seemingly insular relationship to flourish, is that the resulting group is very open to non-Mallus. Of course, only those who try joining the group will realise the warmth of the welcome they will receive. In my batch, our Spam* treats often included a friend who hailed from another state in South India.

Outside campus, there’s a flyover under construction, heralded by traffic jams and dusty roadsides; wayside eateries have moved to give way, but the taste of the roadside poha has not reduced one bit! Good old Ahmedabad is still the same – reckless driving on the roads; sarees worn the Gujarati way; a well-functioning BRTS (unlike in Delhi); and the winter approaching slowly, with its cold fingers reaching the dorm 3 dungeon first.

On the way back to the hustle and bustle of consulting life, I realised how true the cliché was: you can take the Wimwian out of Wimwi but you cannot take Wimwi out of the Wimwian!

-~-

The jargon

Here’s my attempt at describing the meaning of the slang terms that have crept into the post. Naturally, it is impossible to convey the complete sense of any slang. I haven’t given away much of the reasons for the terms, although there are traditional reasons for every term, nor have I expanded abbreviations. The terms are listed in the order in which they appear in the post.

Wimwi: IIMA

Dorm: A standalone set of 30-40 single rooms that has a culture of its own

KLMDC: The management development centre in the heritage campus (aka the old campus)

RG-giri: A kind of unhealthy competition prevalent among students of Wimwi, especially in the first year

WAC run: The process of running from dorm to classroom in order to submit in time a printed copy of a particular written assignment in the first year

Turnitin: The software that detects plagiarism

Slot: Half of a term; six slots make a year

Fachchas and fachchis: First year students

FPM: The doctoral programme

Spam: The Malayali students group

A Land Uncannily Like Kerala!

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There is something very intriguing in the view from the aeroplane as it descends over Udaipur. The sheer greenery of the land below makes me wonder whether this is a verdant hillside of Kerala. And the roadsides bear a sight so familiar on the roads of Thrissur – wild creepers growing complacently on electricity poles and on the stabilizing steel wires joining the poles to the ground!

It is difficult to believe that I am in the state of Rajasthan which I have associated with deserts since learning about the Thar desert during standard 3 in school. Clumps of multicoloured lantana (kongini in Malayalam) on the roadside, an abundance of wild grass with yellow and violet flowers, fresh foliage on trees – the rain seems to have worked magic on the land!

I notice that shop fronts are covered with writing in Hindi, so is the wall space between shops, possibly because hoardings are yet to make their way into this place. Is this a land where people don’t talk much? And if they do, they perhaps speak in full sentences? I wonder, because the typical shop sign reads “groceries and household items are available in this shop” instead of the ubiquitous laconic “groceries and household items” that you see elsewhere.

While Udaipur is known for its lakes and palaces, there is more to the place. On our trip to Kumbhalgarh Fort, we pass roadsides so scenic that I have seen them only in old calendars: a gentle river meandering its way over stones rounded by years of flowing water, flanked on both sides by flowering shrubs and trees, and green mountains in the distant horizon. Knee-high man-made walls of weather-hardened cut rock crisscross the area, reminding me of some of the last scenes in ‘The Shawshank Redemption,’ and young shepherd boys guide their goats to grazing land. Schoolgirls wave at us as the bus passes; I remember reading somewhere that we are obliged to wave back, if only to keep hope alive in the minds of the enthusiastic children.

The Fort itself is well-maintained, its 36 km long wall stretching out ahead of us, encompassing several Hindu and Jain temples. Our guide is a small boy who goes to school in the morning and leads tourists through the Fort in the afternoon, regaling them with stories of the seven-and-a-half-foot tall king who reigned in the Fort’s heyday. We gasp and pant, our knees rebelling, over the rock-paved incline at the beginning, and wish there were banisters to hold while descending steps, but the boy is lithe, almost impatient, as he waits for us at the next interesting spot.

We sit on the stone steps in front of a temple and the mild breeze cools down the weary tourists. After a picnic lunch by the riverside, we are on our way back to civilization and pollution, honking horns and dusty air. But the enchantment stays with us, and before we leave Udaipur, we have all, with varying strength of intention, contemplated visiting the place again. I, for one, would like to see again this land in North-West India that uncannily reminded me of Kerala!

Before the Taj, Spellbound

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This is about an impromptu visit to the Taj Mahal – a visit motivated by sceptical curiosity rather than by a sincere interest in historical monuments – and how it left me more amazed than usual.

The first sight of the Taj Mahal takes my breath away. Nothing in photographs or gushing praise from friends has prepared me for the sheer beauty of the white structure. It is solid yet weightless, rooted on its pedestal yet floating against the backdrop of the off-white sky, reaching up to the clouds. It is unearthly.

I am so captivated that I stand awestruck, to simply stand and watch and not take a step closer. The incredible lightness of the monument seems to arise from the fact that there is only pure sky behind the Taj, no greenery, no other visible buildings, no mountains. I am in the presence of something bigger than, almost untouched by, humanity’s everyday trifling cares.

Image of the Taj Mahal against cloudy skies

When there’s only the Taj and the sky

And the inside was as incredible as the outside: intricate patterns of flowers and leaves and creepers, all etched in delicate white marble using coloured stone. Even if they were paintings, these etchings would have been works of art. That they are made of resilient stone makes the achievement astounding.

When the setting sun shone down, the subtle play of light on the domes made the Taj glow as if it were made of pearl, the side facing the sun giving off a sheen that only white marble can. At times, the building seemed to shimmer and float. As the sky grew darker with rainclouds, the white structure stood out even more, pale and light yet unshakeable.

I wondered at the vastness of the mind that envisioned such beauty before it was manifest through the monument. And I sat at a conveniently located bench, simply watching. Every school child must be sent on a sponsored trip to visit the Taj, I thought magnanimously.

On the way back, I puzzled over what made the Taj unforgettable: the building seems light as a feather floating up to the skies, and yet it seems solidly rooted to its own base. This sheer presence of opposites embodies the very real and very human paradox of wanting to belong while also wanting to stand out, to be different but also to be part of a group. We want to be up in the air, with its attendant excitement, but soon enough we long for the ground beneath our feet, and the familiar safety.

Quite clearly, the Taj Mahal can make poet-philosophers out of its beholders!

The Complicated Question of Mumbai vs Delhi

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Which city do you like best, aamchi Mumbai or saddi Dilli? Ask this question to anyone and they will have an opinion, even those who have not seen either place. Having spent time in both cities, let me be presumptuous enough to offer my take on the evergreen topic of Mumbai vs Delhi.

  1. Definition: land of business vs land of babu-dom
  2. Pace of life: quick and busy vs slow and easy
  3. Pollution: no visible dust or smoke vs “quick, I need to get a mask!”
  4. Traffic: escapable using the local train vs you’ve got no choice but to sit and curse away your time
  5. Auto rickshaws: black and yellow vs green and yellow; and the latter run on CNG
  6. Auto rickshaw drivers: charge by the meter vs fleece the passenger in direct proportion to his/ her ignorance of Hindi
  7. Capriciousness of auto wallahs: Ah, now that’s one parameter where both cities are equally exasperating. You are lucky if the place you wish to go to matches the place the auto wallah wants to go to.
  8. Temperature: uniformly comfortable throughout the year vs always hotter or colder than you’d like it to be (No wonder then that people from Delhi find Ahmedabad’s winter “pleasant”, as I complained in this post on what I dislike about winter)
  9. Rainfall: flooded roads vs desperately waiting for the rains
  10. Culture: “this city is for everyone, literally” vs “this is my city, what are you doing here?”
  11. Suburban train: dirt cheap (no pun intended) but efficient vs posh but inefficient
  12. People: mind your own business vs “I’ve got all the time in the world to stand and stare”
  13. Rent: resign yourself to the reality of effectively giving away an iPhone each month vs take comfort in the fact that you don’t give away even a smartphone each month

P.S.: The genesis for this post lies in a question: which city is better, Delhi or Mumbai?

My immediate answer was that I did not know enough to comment. For instance, I didn’t know till about three years ago that the h in Delhi was silent. And yet, my answer was not fully true. For one, you don’t need to know much about something to form an opinion. (Think of some of our dear politicians. Or some b-school graduates.) Indeed, if I could form an opinion of Istanbul without as much as stepping foot on Turkish soil, why not on two cities in India that are no longer alien to me? (In case my fairy godmother with her magic wand is reading this, Istanbul is one city I’d like to spend some time. Orhan Pamuk just has a way of weaving reality and dreams so closely that you forget to distinguish between the two.)

Moreover, I was ineffectually trying to be diplomatic because the questioner happened to be from Delhi and I am, if anything, mildly in favour of Mumbai. There, I have given away my opinion, if it wasn’t already clear! But I dare say Delhi is beginning to wield her old-world charm on me.

Kyra in Kerala – a Summer to Remember

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Summer is here, with sunshine, mangoes, and memories of school vacations. Here’s a post that raises a toast to summer days!

This summer I have a friend coming to stay at home for a week – Kyra, an exchange student from Italy. She is making the most of her term break by visiting Kerala, well known among tourist circles as ‘God’s Own Country’. The epithet is apt, partly because Kerala has one of the most pleasant climates in the world.

Here, my favourite time of the year is neither winter nor summer but that peculiar windy season from late October to early January. Even as I write this down, I can hear the wind rustling through the green fronds of swaying coconut palms… Yes, this coastal state in South India is humid but once you get over the initial surprise, it becomes bearable, because your skin and hair will thank you for the humidity. Not many may care about that, but Kyra does and so do I!

Kyra enjoys the outdoors, and so we plan to hit the beaches and the backwaters. We’ll first go to Alappuzha where a houseboat on the backwaters is the best place to listen to the gentle lullaby of the waves. I am sure Kyra will enjoy “kappem meenum” which is Malayalam for “tapioca and fish”. Somehow the English translation makes the dish seem far less mouthwatering than it actually is. If we are daring enough, we will try a dash of toddy, which is the alcohol made locally from tender coconut.

And then on to the beaches, of which there is an abundance in Kerala. Kovalam is one of the most talked-about beaches and offers good seafood as well, so that’s our destination. My (slightly biased) opinion is that beaches in Kerala are more beautiful than those in Goa or Dubai. I hope Kyra agrees!

Two days there, and then we go to Kochi where nature meets modernity in a port town that also has a naval base and an international airport. There my plan even includes getting Kyra to buy and wear the kasavu mundu, the traditional off-white coloured gold-bordered two-piece attire of Malayali women! The next day we will be off to Thrissur to watch a traditional temple dance performance, known as thaiyyam, during the temple festival near my house. Thaiyyam is markedly different from typical dance performances, and I’m sure we will both enjoy it.

Before making her plans to come to Kerala, Kyra asked me about the weather here. And this is what I told her: Kerala is not a hill station (unless you go to Munnar and give the beaches a miss). But that doesn’t mean you avoid the place in summer. Instead, arm yourself with protective gear from the house of Lakme Sun Expert, pack lots of cotton clothes, and then have a blast!

I also told her that Kerala is a place unlike anywhere else in the world. If you don’t believe me, check out this video titled ‘Your Moment is Waiting’ from Kerala Tourism. It portrays quasi-natural experiences that a tourist has in Kerala, far removed from the loud sounds and flashy images typically shown in tourism ads. While your own experience as a tourist could vary widely from that shown in the ad, it is very much possible to find inner peace and get in touch with “the real you” in the calm environs of Kerala.

P.S.: The motivation behind this post is an IndiBlogger contest sponsored by Lakme India. Lakme is a brand I admire, and more importantly, one that I trust. The latter quality is especially important for a cosmetics brand. To know more about Lakme and the contest, check out http://www.facebook.com/ilovelakme

P.P.S.: Half of the contents above are fictional, but I am not saying which half!

I Bet You’ll Go ‘Wow!’

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If Gurgaon could dream, Dubai would be its vision every time.

Concrete towers so fresh they look like they rose up from the earth about a month ago, cars the only vehicles on the road, busy professionals, unbearable heat outside the air-conditioned cocoons of the office and the car – all with a pervasive hint of artificiality – Dubai at first sight uncannily reminded me of Gurgaon. But while Ambience Mall might aspire to be among the largest in Asia, it is simply too conservatively built compared to the Dubai Mall or Mall of the Emirates. Conservative because Dubai is constructed king-size; the extravagance might well be unmatched by anything else in the world. In terms of sheer excess of luxury, even Singapore pales in comparison to Dubai.

Indeed, any visitor to Dubai (and ultimately nearly everyone in Dubai is a visitor – there are very few people who “belong” to Dubai the way people think they belong to India or Mumbai) is sure to go “wow!” at the grandeur and ambition that turned the desert into a city and built a collection of islands in a replica of the world to be sold to private owners. And it’s called ‘The World’! Check out this link to help yourself be wowed again. If the global economic crisis had not dampened the ebullient state of affairs, we might have been witness to ‘The Universe’ next.

Here are my observations on Dubai – some of them could be disputable, but that makes them no less interesting.

All buildings are beige villas or grey high-rises. Colours such as blue, green, red, yellow, purple and others on the spectrum are absent perhaps because they don’t match the sand, though the sand per se is rather difficult to spot unless you are right on the beach.

The sand is white and the sea is blue, with no pieces of trash lying around for you to either complain about or justify conveniently throwing a piece of your own.

Traffic rules are followed; walk on a pedestrian crossing with your eyes closed and you will still reach the other side unhurt. (This has not been verified by experience.)

If the radio in the taxi is playing Hindi music, that’s nothing to be surprised about. Just be glad that, Mumbai ho ya Dubai, the taxi-wallah speaks Hindi.

Petrol is more readily available than water, perhaps even cheaper. (Now this could be an exaggeration, but you sure get the drift.)

If you are vegetarian and you don’t eat cheese either, your weight loss plans will come to fruition in far less time than you bargained for.

If you are standing really close to the Burj Khalifa, you are well-advised to do some neck exercises before you attempt to look at the topmost point of the tower. Blaming the world’s tallest building after you sprain your neck is no fun.

<Personal opinion disclaimer applies.>

P.S.: To set at rest the question that might be lurking in your mind, Dubai on a short visit doesn’t feel like the Mallu home-away-from-home that “the Gulf” is sometimes termed as.

Small is Big in Good Old Mumbai!

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From ‘Oh my goodness, this garden, if you can call it a garden, it’s… it’s so… small’ to ‘Well, a garden is a garden even if it is only as big as the store room at home was’ – this succinctly puts across what has transpired in the past couple of weeks, as yet another drop (yours truly) has begun its saga in the human ocean that is Mumbai. Indeed, I am beginning to realise how lucky I am to watch kids playing in the crowded comfort of the garden, instead of being obliged to watch serials through the window every time my neighbours turn their TV on. Small things really count.

Small kindnesses shine upon you like twinkling stars and stand out amidst the waves of hurrying people. In a shared taxi, a co-passenger (and I know no more of her than that she had a kind face) offered to pay my ten rupees as well when the driver denied having any change with him. Thankfully, I was saved from an obligation to an unknown good Samaritan because the driver changed his mind at the end and like a benevolent magician, produced hitherto non-existent change! I prefer to believe that the lady inspired him towards helpful behavior.

It also helps to have a sense of humour. How else can you stomach it when you see an unnatural kind of crowd in CST and on asking a passerby, get the nonchalant reply ‘shooting chal raha hai.’ Before recollections of unpleasant news assailed me, I realised from the overall lack of panic that in spite of the urgently hurrying crowd which simply did not allow you to stand and stare in search of the ticket stamping machine, CST had space to allow movies to be shot there. The shock of that one instant took time to ebb away, but it was probably worth it – how else could the movie ‘A Wednesday’ have been made? You may spend all the money you have, white or black, but it would be simply impossible to re-create CST for a movie scene. And I am not talking only about the millions of rupees you would have to spend on bringing in extras just to create the ubiquitous crowd.

But then, since when has Mumbai been about serious movies only? It is the land (and sea) that can undoubtedly lay first claim upon the romance genre of movies in India. So it was a surprise to read a statement on a board in Mahim: ‘A life without love is like a year without summer.’ A year without summer, of all seasons? I would love that! Clearly, the message is a legacy from the colonial days, harking back to the nostalgia for the much-longed-for English summer. Given how fervently admiring many Mumbaikars are of the rain, the quote would be much more apt if it said ‘A life without love is like a year in Mumbai without the monsoon.’

Oh, but how I would love that as well! Not for me the rain in Mumbai – it is incessant, windy, pours down exactly when and where you wish it wouldn’t, and makes the roads muddy, stinking and no less crowded anyway. And this is only the prelude to the monsoon, apparently. But it gives you lessons in industriousness that you don’t get anywhere else – instead of running for cover, people just go about life as usual. And not just any people, workers on the roads unfazedly going about collecting garbage make you wonder why you even thought of complaining about the rain.

All in all, this is one city you could dislike less and less every day!