Desicritics Category: Culture: Personal History

Colour

IdeaSmith — Fri, 2 Jan 2009 10:44:02 EST

(Based on my fortnight-long tour of Europe in October 2008)

I buy a bottle of sandalwood scented sunscreen lotion. Yes, yes, I hate the fairness-driven notion of beauty as any self-respecting Indian should. But I don't particularly want splotchy multi-coloured skin either.

Along with my lotion, sits my spray-on foundation. No.5 is closest to my skin tone, according the salesman. I wondered how he can tell since all three (identical-looking) shades he selects for me, turn up reddish patches from being rubbed vigorously into my arm. Hooray, my blood is still red and turns up under the dermis to say hello!

~o~o~o~I go shopping on Tuesday evening, Wednesday morning, nights after work and weekends to prepare for a fourteen-day (and night) journey. Among my purchases are a grey vest with red lining on the neck. To be worn with black cotton track pants with a red lining down the sides. For deck wear, for nightwear, for 'I'm so sporty-I'm so cool' wear, never mind the fact that I've never seen the inside of a gym.

The next day, dad decides to play homemaker with the laundry. I pull the clothes out of the washing machine and in horror, exclaim,

What happened to my grey vest????!!!

It is now very pink with a red lining. Pink and Red! Ghastly, ghastly, ghastly!! And I don't have matching trackpants to wear it with! Dad looks quite contrite and then asks, rather timidly,

You don't like the pink colour?

~o~o~o~

At the airport, I discover that my flight has been delayed 4 hours. A discreet door tucked away at the far end looks interesting. Entry only for travellers who have a Gold Card. At 4 a.m. as I walk out, stomach full with delectable cutlets, sandwiches, hot soup and fine tea, I conclude that life in plastic, is fantastic indeed. And Gold continues to open doors.

~o~o~o~The breakfast shift is packed. I spot an empty table, the plates of its previous occupants bearing mute testimony to their appetites. I sit down.

Five minutes later I stand up so I can see over the bar and beckon to the servers. In vain.

Then I approach a tall, blond steward standing at the bar and wait for him to finish whatever he is doing and turn around. He does but his gaze glides smoothly over my head to a distant table.

Can I have someone take my breakfast order, please?

He fixes steely eyes on me and mouths,

Sit down and keep waiting.

Twenty minutes later, I flag down a Filipina waitress who smiles sunnily and brings me my breakfast immediately.

-------------

The next morning, I arrive early and have the satisfaction of bagging a prime seat with a view of the deck as well as the serving staff. I can be patient today, I decide, ignoring my growling stomach. At the table in front of me, the blond steward is charming two Americans. He dashes off and swishes back with the menus, in a smooth move and a pleasant,

And what may I bring you lovely ladies today?

I wait for him to finish. Waving now would be rude but I'm sure he can see that I've been staring steadfastedly in his direction. He finishes, snaps the menu shut and looks up and away.

Another group of girls approach. I've noticed them the last evening. Youngish, mini-skirted, very made-up. They never seem to leave the ship and a video camera follows them around everywhere. Models for a cruise brochure, I guess. One is blonde, another looks like a teenage Catherine Zeta-Jones and their friends are various versions of Christina Aguilera. They sit down, chattering and fluttering. The steward materializes from nowhere and a gaggle of giggles break out. And a few minutes later he brings them their breakfasts - yoghurt as white as the young Zeta-Jones and fruit.

I'm still hungry.

-----------

The next evening I join two couples for dinner. We select the biggest table. Ten minutes later, in good cheer, we move to another (equally big) table on the other side of the room where we decide the serving staff is hovering. But we don't seem to be able to catch the steward's eye.

As he swings by us for the fifth time, one of my group calls out,

Could you please taken our order?

He spits out with breaking his step,

It is not your turn. Keep waiting.

------------

The man who runs the ship restaurant offers a polite apology adding firmly that it has never been his policy to discriminate on the basis of nationality or race. He also tells us about his life in another country as an alien and promises us that he understands what we mean. An hour later, after many anecdotes about travel, belief and culture, he leaves us, charmed and smiling. I'm forced to conclude that Greeks are marvelous story-tellers...indiscriminate of their audience.

~o~o~o~Maybe it is windchill, maybe it's skin unaccustomed to clean air but my face has turned a funny shade of orange. It isn't tomato-red like the sunburnt Brits, not pink like the pretty Ukrainian stewardess, not chocolate like the African-American passenger in the neighboring cabin. It isn't even brown anymore.

My friend laughs at me and points to his sneaker lining to show me what orange looks like. I scowl and think to myself,

Orange-flavoured caramel, then.

~o~o~o~"A city like every other", I think to myself, remembering my own Island, home. The malls, the skyscrapers, the busy people, the money and the flash. Then I look at the gray pavements and the white kerb-stones, stainless and clean. It's Mumbai minus the paan-stains, I surmise.

~o~o~o~Everything in Europe is so expensive! I complain. I've gotten used to not converting to rupees in my head by now but even so the shops seem to be trying to palm off touristy junk to me for 10 or 11 euros apiece. I walk down the roads thinking of Colaba Causeway and I tell my companions,

Shopkeepers world-over do this!

I stare at the ocean and then I chance upon a man sprawled on the ground, next to an array of trinkets displayed on cloth. I can never resist these.

What's this?

I ask, holding up a curious black stone. He tell me that is from the ancient island of Delos, where he brought it over and carved it. I smile back and inform him that I was in Delos that morning and didn't see any black stones since they were all white pebbles and blocks.

He doesn't bat an eyelid as he says,

You, an Indian. I am Indian too. I won't cheat you. You also don't tell me what you say to Indian shopkeepers.

I shrug and say,

How much?

20 euros.

I sputter and tell him that all the stuff in the shops is 10 euros. He leers and says,

Okay you go back to India and buy there only.

The firang couple next to me bursts into loud laughter, apparently very amused. I toss it back and walk away.

I hope it turns their pink fingers green. And I hope that racist pig never shows his brown face back in the country that links him to me.

~o~o~o~The sea varies from turquoise to ink to cerulean, depending upon which island I'm on. Each time it has a personality of its own and each colour introduces itself to me in its signature style. Indigo, at the start of cruise looks at me through lidded eyes and tells me that I can take my time but I'll have to come to it, eventually. Blue, mornings, welcomes me with a bright cheery 'Hello!' and asks me to come out and play. Turquoise crooks its mischievous finger at me and commands me to follow it without a splash. And silver makes me bow my head in respect as it reminds me that water covers most of the planet that human beings haven't been able to conquer.

~o~o~o~Lunch alone since everyone is sleeping in. A friendly, American co-passenger waves to me as he passes but he declines my offer to eat with me telling me he's already eaten. He's on his wave to relieve his wife from her vigil on their sunning chairs on the top deck.

She arrives a few minutes later and sits down with her plate. We eat the unfamiliar casseroles and savor the fruits in companionable silence. Then we talk about what we've seen, where we are from and what we do for a living. She tells me that she works in a tanning salon. I listen, interested and then tell her that the concept is completely alien where I come from. She looks surprised and says,

But you are such a lovely colour!

~o~o~o~Over the bay, the water has turned steely-grey, like the sky. The wind is chilly too so I shut my book and prepare to move indoors. The tables next to mine are emptying too.

At least the night is the same colour over everyone.

Not One Of The Family

IdeaSmith — Mon, 15 Dec 2008 00:24:38 EST

Friend and openly gay writer, Parmesh Shahani in his book Gay Bombay says that being gay isn't just a sexual preference, it's a lifestyle.

My sexuality was something that I had compartmentalized as something that was surreptitious and all about the sexual act, not about an identity.

Yes, perhaps. I guess I can't claim to understand fully since my choices go by what society sees as the norm and anything else is forced to be defined starkly, clearly as separate.

I was recently at a party and ended up sitting next two friends who both happened to be gay, one guy and one girl. I've known each of them independently for years now. Till a few months ago, I didn't even know that they knew each other and from what I can tell, they've only recently become friends. That they get along so well suits me just fine since they're both such lovely people and besides I understand for each of them, considering the staggering enormity of the cause they each champion, it is good to meet a kindred soul. Add to that the fact that they're both such rollicking fun that getting together with both of them is usually a blast.

I turned away from the conversation on my other side to get back to them and found I had moved into a private guy/girl-watching session. He was checking out the geeky looking dude on my left while she had her eyes on a fiery femme fatale at the other end of the room. Chuckling and commenting on each other's choices. I was about to join in with an elbow-nudge and a side-joke when he said,

How about an introduction? You know him?

I hesitated for a minute, because I really didn't but also because I wondered if bespectacled eye-candy in question was gay as well. I shook my head and told my friend that I didn't think so. Both of them exchanged meaningful glances and almost in unison said,

She wouldn't know. She's not one of the family.

I'm not sure exactly what happened in that one remark but I suddenly felt cut out of the discussion. I've examined it over and over in my head. Is that really true? As a straight person, do I also not feel attraction, ponder on it, act on it? Do I not run through similar thoughts of whether the object of my affection reciprocates? And does it really matter that I'm crushing on the opposite sex while my friends are ODing on the same sex?

What's with the family bit anyway? That part really annoyed me. I've never judged either of them or been anything other than respectful of their choices, their opinions and feelings. Each of them is a real, live person to me, not a body bearing a tag that says 'Gay'. Then why do they hang the tag of 'Straight' on me and behave like it makes me less kin to them than to each other? I felt excluded. And I felt betrayed, that's what.

I must ask whether the gay community hopes to ever get the respect due to it, considering what a tremendous backlash they are and will continue to face in years to come? And whether in the process of defining themselves clearly, they aren't drawing boundaries between straight people and gay people in a 'them' versus 'us' scenario. If the gay community wants to enjoy the same rights as others, on the premise that they are no different from anyone else, I think they should start thinking of themselves as the same as everyone else. And family is people who love and accept you, not necessarily people who like the same things you do. But that's just me.

Missing InSomnia

Chaitanya S — Fri, 12 Dec 2008 11:14:20 EST

“We are having a blast at the Taj tonight…remember to bring your camera along…it is going to be an all nighter”.

As I sat glued to CNN, I realized what words like “Taj”, “tonight”, “blast”, “camera” and “all night” meant to me. As I sat through the night watching the footage, the brain screamed of fatigue but the eyes remained wide. My roommate passed by at 5:00 am and sniggered, “Still up? Are you suffering from insomnia tonight?”. “No. InSomnia is suffering tonight”.

I knew InSomnia had shut down a year or so ago. But all my best memories (only memories?) of the Taj revolved round that night club. We’d make it a point to party there whenever possible. For us living in the suburbs, the 30 minute drive to reach our destination was more than worth the effort. The slow moving traffic gave us an opportunity to actually “talk” and catch up with each others' lives. The moment we’d cross Worli, the traffic would give way and the road was there for the taking. Marine Drive, was where I’d roll down the windows. The cool sea breeze hitting our faces added to the thrill of going to party. The screams of “put the windows up, you idiot, it’s ruining our hair” couldn’t dampen our ecstasy.

On 26/11, the absence of cars round the Taj was an antithesis to my experience. I recollect the plush automobiles snaking round the grand building. I remember being caught up in that long queue for valet parking on every occasion. On such occasions, comments from my beloved backseat drivers ranged from, “this is taking us longer than our drive” to “I told you to leave early, numbskull”.

I’ve frequented all the best nightclubs in Mumbai city. Anyone would tend to do that if they’d party at least twice at week. But InSomnia always had an X factor to it which I could never actually put my finger on. Maybe it was the architectural splendor of the Taj on entry. Or maybe it was the element of mystery I felt as I approached the club for the first time. It was through a narrow corridor which was flanked by designer stores on either side. All the shops were closed by the time we’d go to the club, but it was my secret ambition to shop there someday. I no longer nurse that ambition, but you tend to have crazy aspirations when you are younger. I remember entering the darkness of the club down a flight of stairs and immersing myself into the loud music and flashing lights.

Back then, the only shots inside were either at the bar or through my camera. The blasts were our youthful emotions exploding on the dance floor. Every ounce of fatigue which had accumulated due to the 60 hour work week went up in smoke. We made sure to uphold Mumbai’s reputation as “the city which never sleeps”.

On the way home, I remember the “nakabanis” or roadblocks at which I’d stop at. Police would speak in their stern but polite Marathi and screen the car. Far from being a nuisance, it would be reiterate the fact that I was safe in my beloved city. The police were just making sure that we citizens drove home safely.

I will always feel safe in Mumbai. It is my home. I know I am being protected. Fear will not give me sleepless nights. Now even InSomnia can’t give me sleepless nights in Mumbai. I really do miss InSomnia.

My Clandestine Reading and Other Literary Habits

Deepti Lamba — Thu, 11 Dec 2008 10:14:36 EST

"Dee, shit! you've got me into massive trouble!"

"Bhav, sorry yaar, ma decided to clean my cupboard. She never touches my stuff usually."

I still remember the hoopla caused in my house over a Mills & Boon. The book was called Counterfeit Bride.

I still have the book.

Ma had discovered the book wedged between my jumbled up clothes. I was eleven at the time and the book had been given to me by my best friend. Bhav had got it free with some shampoo.

She didn't like to read; I did and so the book was given to me.

Ma confiscated the book. I continued to have counterfeit reading habits; Classics in front of ma and romantic novels in the loo. My reading habits remained clandestine till I turned 15 and one day I gathered courage and told Ma point blank "Everyone reads them at school"

She gave me a disapproving frown and gave a reluctant nod.

I promptly asked for my confiscated book.

"You remembered it after all these years?" She was surprised.

"I remember all my books, ma. And its called Counterfeit Bride. Want to know the storyline? I remember that too." I replied cheekily, flipped through the book and walked off to my room.

Whatever be Ma's reasons for not letting me read romance novels I outgrew them by the end of college years. Some of my 'intellectual khadi' wearing friends found romance novels to be beneath their feminist dignity.

One of them had raised an eyebrow and remarked "You till read Mills & Boon? How quaint!"

What was quaint about it I could never understand but I did respond with that it was a 'time pass' habit. More like a mental chewing gum to deaden the mind.

Why did I defend my reading tastes back then?

Of course now I have more 'adult' tastes. I stopped reading romantic novels back when I was in my twenties. Reading sex never interested me. It was all the same kind of shit- bells ringing, blood surging, penetration, gasping, trembling and all very unbelievable.

Even the virgin in me recognized the shit that was printed pages after pages. I knew I could write better sex scenes even without much practice and post marriage I did.

I wrote erotica and unfortunately I found myself suffering a similar predicament for writing sex instead of reading it.

The reactions were the same except instead of 'do you have to read it'? the words were- do you have to write it? Can you not write something more productive, more intellectual type? Can you not write something that will not embarrass us?

I tried my best to explain- They are just words. Reading or writing them doesn't make me an immoral person.

"Rape scenes? How could you?"

"It was fan fiction and the criminals did suffer for their actions."

"I didn't finish it. It was too gruesome."

I sighed

"The criminals did suffer-"

"I don't want to know. You have to stop writing such drivel."

"I have written more stuff-"

"No! this must stop immediately!"

I gently banged my head against the wall as the long distance call came to end. I was a kid again facing ultimatums.

Weaving stories had become an addiction for me. I could write other stuff; well, I was writing other stuff - book reviews, memories from past, movie reviews blah blah blah but I was also playing naughty on my site and got rapped on my knuckles for it.

There was no more clandestine writing for a while. In fact after all the exasperation and my prema donna reactions I came to realize my fight for freedom of speech in the jack off section was not all that worthwhile.

I could still write erotica but more along the lines of Mills & Boon; boy meets girl, boy has soft porn sex with girl, they fight, they make up and live happily ever after- Yuck! I flipped through the tattered pages of Counterfeit Bride and bid that part of my life a quiet adieu, at least not under my real name;)

Honoring Rabbi Gavriel Holtzberg and Rebbetzin Rivka Holtzberg, Martyrs of the Jewish People Who Died in Mumbai

Ruvy — Wed, 3 Dec 2008 00:28:41 EST

As Mumbaikars mourn their many dead and comfort their many injured, Rabbi Holtzberg and his pregnant wife were buried in Jerusalem today.

It may not be clear what the Haba"d does or why. Let this tale from my own life be an illustration.

When I was living on the streets of Saint Paul twenty-five years ago, there were barely any Jewish agencies to help homeless Jews. But there was the Haba"d House. On a cold winter day I walked from downtown to a large residence in the Highland Park neighborhood and knocked on the door. I was tired and hungry. I was welcomed in as though I were a lost son.

The rabbi didn't care that I didn't know what blessings to say over the food (I do now). The rabbi didn't care whether I was dressed as he deemed a Jew ought to dress. He didn't care that I had not said the afternoon prayer or the evening prayer. None of this interested him. The Rabbi offered me food. He was concerned that I had not eaten a decent meal, and insisted on feeding me a decent meal. He asked how it was that I came to be homeless. The story was simple and I told it to him.

I ate, drank some soda. I ate some more. When I was satisfied and full he made his proposition: if I wanted, he would pay for my transport to study Torah, Talmud and all the things a Jew should concentrate on learning. This would be either in Jerusalem or in Brooklyn. I was interested. I wanted very much to go to Israel. But I didn't want to grow the beard I had shaven off in law school; I already had a streak of white hair in my beard from the spot I had pulled at and pulled at in tension trying to comprehend principles in case law. I had forgotten how to wrap tefillin around my arm and head and it embarrassed me terribly (I know now). And most of all, as nice as this guy was, I didn't want to lose my intellectual independence.

So I thanked the rabbi, and told him I would get back to him with an answer in a few days. I never did. He knew he had not made his sale. But, nevertheless, he paid for a motel room for me to sleep in. I showered, and shaved and cleaned all the dirt from the street off of me. I watched cable TV. The next morning I was a homeless bum again.

This rabbi did for me what Rabbi Gavriel Holtzberg and his wife Rivka, z"l, hy"d (may their souls be remembered for blessings and may G-d avenge their blood), did for thousands and thousands of Jews passing through Mumbai. They served kosher meals, they explained Torah and Law and tried to do with each of these Jews what the rabbi at the St. Paul Haba"d House had attempted to do with me - to draw me closer to G-d. They gave them a place to sleep and rest their weary heads.

That is their mission. That is the mission the Lubavicher Rebbe gave them many years ago - to reach out and get Jews to perform mitzv�t - commandments and good deeds - and thus draw them to G-d bit by bit. If asked, they will explain to non-Jews the Seven laws of Noah, which we Jews believe to be universal laws upon all of mankind. But they will not proselytize nor attempt to convince a non-Jew to become a Jew, nor will they preach the Seven Laws of Noah.

Last week, terrorists, whose actual aims remain unclear, tortured and murdered Rebbetzin Rivka Holtzberg along with seven other Jews at the Haba"d headquarters in the Nariman House in Mumbai, a place they had carefully targeted. Just before Indian Commandos liberated the Nariman House, they murdered Rabbi Gavriel Holtzberg. His body was found still warm. And that is why they were buried today. Another couple will continue their work in Mumbai. The Haba"d will not be deterred by the evil of a terrorist. They will light not merely a candle in the darkness, they will light a torch to drive away the darkness.

This link is a You tube video of an Israel National News report of the funeral of Rav Gavriel and Rebbetzin Rivka Holtzberg, zikhron�m l'brakh� v'HASHEM y'nakém dam�m. It is about eight minutes long. I ask you to watch. It says more than this Jew in the mountains of Samaria can, no matter how hard he tries. Rav Holtzberg and his wife Rivka are survived by their son Moshe; may he become a great man in Israel.

ברוך דיין האמת

BLESSED IS THE TRUE JUDGE

Obituary: Sabina Sehgal Saikia

Kim — Sat, 29 Nov 2008 14:27:34 EST

Sabina Sehgal Saikia was a food writer who had been with the Times of India group for over 17 years who at the time of her untimely demise had risen to Consulting Editor at the publication. She died in the Terror attacks in Mumbai where she was staying on the 6th floor. She was in Mumbai for the wedding of Bachi Karkaria's son next week.

Sabina could make or break a Delhi restaurant based on her reviews. She initially wrote an extremely popular column called "Main Course" for the Saturday Times, which later moved to the Delhi Times.

I was first introduced to her, when I picked up the Times of India Restaurant Guide for Delhi, 8 years ago. My next 2 years in Delhi were made tolerable by this handy book. I tried out restaurants based on her recommendations and agreed with her judgment over 80% of the time. She was honest and direct.

The Times of India Restaurant Guides to Hyderabad and Bombay could never match up to the standard that Sabina had set. She had spoiled me against other guides with her perfection and accuracy.

I subscribed to the Times of India in Delhi, just to read her column, although the Hindustan Times gave much better news coverage in Delhi.

An excellent cook herself, she soon visited me in my living room on NDTV cooks demonstrating an especially fiery looking Green Chilli Pickle.

I never met her face-to-face, but I felt like I knew a part of her. The part of her that loved good food and in Saif Ali Khan's words "acha khaana khane ke liye, hum kahin pe bhi chalenge" (to eat good food, we will travel anywhere) and in a wierd way, I identified with this part of her.

Sabina will be sorely missed in the food writers world. Our sympathies go out to her husband Shantanu and her two young children who will feel her absence much more than her millions of devoted readers.

Sabina you brought joy into the lives of food lovers: May your Soul, Rest in Peace.

Disjointed Questions on the Bombay Blasts and Its Aftermath

Kim — Fri, 28 Nov 2008 12:11:12 EST

Being in a distant country while Bombay is under siege, is nerve wracking at best.

My first long stay in Bombay was for my first job, with MBA degree in hand. The first weekend trip we took together as Management trainees was a local train ride from Andheri to South Bombay. We caught up with other batchmates in town for a movie at Metro Cinema and headed over to Cafe Mondegar for a drink and later carried onto Cafe Leopold because we had heard so much about these Bombay favourites. We then walked over to the Gateway of India and gazed at the iconic Taj Palace and towers. Gathering courage we felt we could project enough confidence to walk in and use their washrooms, which we managed.

Since this was the late 90's, B-School salaries weren't as astronomical as they were at the turn of the millennium and we obviously couldn't afford to eat in there, so we headed over to Bademiyan's for more affordable fare.

All these locations were under the media spotlight for the last 48 hours, for reasons one would never have dreamed about.

Personally, this attack was very hard hitting because of the sheer numbers of family and friends who live in the area, who were working late in the area, or were eating in the area after work. As is usual after every such attack in India, we started calling and smsing, then emailing and scrapping (when the phone lines were jammed and over loaded) and everyone we knew in the location to check on their status. This time it was a much, much longer list of people we were checking on.

Some were barricaded inside their houses and offices in the area while their lifts were shut down and they were advised not to leave the premises. Many spent that first night in the office while the rest of us helplessly spent the night hoping and praying for their safety and that the violence wouldn't spread to the surrounding buildings.

We stayed glued to the television and kept refreshing news sites on our computer screen and anxiously followed the sequence of events. Coherent thought was not easy and plenty of questions and inconsistencies kept popping up in my mind.

First of all: kudos to our NSG, army, hotel staff and police for their heroic efforts.

Why/How did this happen:

Intelligence failure is something the foreign media has been harping about in relation to these attacks, but as someone else mentioned: weren't 9/11 and the London Subway attacks, intelligence failures too.

Could we have done anything more to secure the locations?

How many locations will you secure? We have a country of a billion+ citizens, so I don't think it is about securing locations. Terrorists target any and every location. The only way every place can be secured is if citizens take responsibility of being aware of their surroundings and people around them.

We need to stop cribbing about and finding innovative ways to avoid security measures at malls, cinema halls etc. They are there for our security.

Our government should focus on stemming the problem at its roots: training camps, poverty, education, unemployment.

The terrorists were armed with AK47's while a lot of the police and railway police were equipped with nothing more than a lathi. Do they even stand a chance?

Why were 3 top cops traveling in the same vehicle?

Rescue efforts:

The staff at the hotels responded admirably and heroically. Some even lost their own lives while saving the guests. I am not sure if they receive training drills for terrorist situations, but they did their best.

Politicians have no business being anywhere in the area when such situations are ongoing. Having them around, means that security and armed forces are forced to divert their attention to the "security of the politician"

What business did Gopinath Munde have to be at the Nariman House today?
Same problem when they visit hospitals were the wounded are taken. Doctors and nurses are forced to stop tending to their patients and clear the area so the politician and their entourage of news crews and security personnel royally stroll through the area and promise tax payer funds (other peoples money) as remuneration.

Media:

While NDTV was the most restrained of the lot, our media still behaved as irresponsibly as always.

People whose family members were stuck inside, is it fair to thrust microphones at their faces and ask them how they are feeling?

Rescued people being brought out of the hotel after a horrifying ordeal, is it fair to thrust microphones at their faces and ask them how they are feeling?

While Right to Information is a wonderful act, some lines should be drawn when it comes to National Security. Broadcasting the immediate moves of the security forces, dissecting their rescue maneuvers, having ex army personnel describe helicopter rescue operations in detail - this only gives more intelligence to the terrorists holed up inside who could be in contact with anyone with a cable connection outside the location, even if cable connection at the hotels had been cut off.

Broadcasting false reports of the operation being over when it isn't because they see a thumbs-up being exchanged between two NSG personnel.

We need an appointed official spokesperson who is the only authority allowed to speak to the media when an operation is ongoing. This person needs to receive reports from all relevant sources and be advised on what news can be released and what cannot. Press should only be allowed at this location and not crawling around the affected area causing more security hazards or getting caught in the cross fire. This should give controlled information and hopefully control the rumour-mongering too.

If the press are controlled in one location, it will also prevent the crowds who were at the locations today not to show solidarity or out of concern but were there for the sole reason of getting their face on camera. (This is a reality in India)

Role of Politicians:

They haven't done anything to prevent the situation, they should stay away from the situation as mentioned above.

Where has the champion of Bombay, Mr Raj Thackeray disappeared to? Which safe location is he hiding in?

Our Home Minister was ineffectual as always. Surprisingly, our Prime Ministers speech didn't induce confidence either.

Politicians need to rise above their petty politics of deciding whether to hold a bundh on December 1st or not.

They should instead be visiting the homes of the brave security personnel who lost their lives and appreciating the efforts of their husbands, sons and fathers (not to be sexist, but no female personnel casualty has been reported yet in this case) who lost their lives in the service of the country. This is one of the few useful things that they can do at this point of time.

I also pray that they do not use this attack to further communalize our country for their own vote bank politics.

Future Action:

It may seem insensitive to say this at this point, but as a country we should take advantage of the terrorists targeting Americans, British and Israeli citizens.
The US previously tried to restrain India when they spoke about retaliation after the parliament attacks.

This is the right opportunity to use this joint sentiment against these terrorists to take a stand and launch a forceful offensive against terrorist camps targeting India.
Use the Israeli intelligence and their expertise to stem the flow of terrorists into India and destroy their their training camps.

We need a single security network that is pan-country, not disjointed co-ordination between multiple agencies.

We need to make our country safe again. Where people do not flinch at a loud sound, where people do not have to think twice before leaving their houses to catch a train, shop for groceries or watch a movie. We need to feel safe. It is our right as citizens.

When Is It The Right Time To Die?

Deepti Lamba — Thu, 20 Nov 2008 11:51:19 EST

An acquaintance of the family died at the age of 70 a few years back and my uncle said over the phone - So sad. He went young.

Young?!

I blinked and bit my tongue.

My uncle was three years shy of turning 70 himself. For him the death was early but for me the departed was closer to Santa Claus's age group.

On my recent post two commentators also talked about their grandparents leading active lives well into their eighties but I cannot comprehend vying with a Banyan tree. Good for them but I want to pop it when I am in my mid sixties.

Come to think of it my ma just turned sixty this year and she is a very active lady. And the only one in the family who still drives on her own to work while all others have drivers. I don't want my ma to go nor my uncle to leave us but if I was given a choice I'd like to depart at 70.

There, I increased my lifespan by another five years. After all, if I get to be a rich lady with my health and teeth intact a saggy butt and few wrinkles wouldn't hold me back.

Yet the idea of being a dotty old person doesn't particularly fill me with joy either. Frankly, those who turn that old also aren't quite happy about their bodies wearing out.

They are still young people trapped in old bodies. While reading Jane Juska's book - A Round Heeled Woman where she shared old aged dating scene (or in less polite terms- her sex escapades amongst other things ) I realized that even till one's dying breath one can remain young.

Jane Juska, in my mind, became an epitome of old age. She broke away from the norms set for old people by society. She decided she wasn't going to die a lonely old woman. Obviously, she went through heartbreak (when it comes to love who doesn't?) but she forged ahead through the senior years with optimism, she saw different parts of America, fell in love with New York and most of all found strength within herself to stand by her conviction.

Self-evolution for Juska didn't come with age but through the experiences she went through. She bumbled, lost her dignity and then found herself again.

Jane Juska despite her advanced age became young in my mind. Someone I could identify with.

Frankly putting old people on pedestal is an old Indian tradition that should be done away with. Many of my friends are way older than me and it isn't as if we have to search for subjects to talk about.

Conversation flows naturally. Its the meeting of the hearts that is important and that's exactly what Jane and her young lover realized.

But sadly in India we venerate the old and sometimes this veneration leads to isolation and loneliness. They become gods with clay feet, breathing in some corner of the house, absentmindedly revered and conveniently forgotten.

Some grow to be wise, generous old souls with gentle hearts and some merely sugar coat their meanness with great expertise.

We continue to be ourselves despite the advancing years. Its like the maturing of the wine. Only the good grapes make great wine centuries past. So why venerate the passing years that not all individuals use to become wise hermits the young could turn to?

I wouldn't mind living on well into my seventies if I get to have the iron will of Jane Juska; to have that inquisitive, courageous heart and continue to believe that love can still be found no matter how old or young.

Maybe this is why my uncle seemed shocked on hearing of the acquaintance's death. Maybe he felt that old gentleman could still have achieved much more in his life. Maybe my uncle still feels there are new experiences awaiting him.

I can only speculate like I did when I was ten and wondered what I would be like when I get to be in my thirties. Now I speculate what I will be in my twilight years.

But one thing is for sure if health betrays me during my advancing years I would happily want to kick the bucket.

Survival of the Creative Fittest

Suresh Naig — Fri, 14 Nov 2008 06:41:46 EST

It was just 4 years since I was married; the euphoria of love marriage had drained for my wife, which was replaced by other weighty and worldly things. Her warmth and compassion towards me had seen several ups and downs, putting even the Sensex to shame.

Whatever she had admired and loved in me during our courtship, she felt, had turned against her. She liked my openness and friendly nature, which had ensured a large friends’ circle for me. The same friends, whom she felt, I earned due to my humorous and witty nature, had become hindrances in her opinion, prying on our privacy.

She was very creative; even till date she continues to be one, she started focusing her creativity in turning my friends into foes. It was the age old tactics, which she adopted. Comparing my inadequacy with their positive side, so much so she had the knack in picking up only the positive side of each of my friends, and pitted it against my negative sides.

She had compared me with a friend of mine, who was very considerate in helping his wife in domestic chores, but he being a “Harry Potter” did not bother her. His name is Hari and who was fond of “pot”, the fact which she conveniently forgot, and never took it up for comparison. Or for that matter with another friend, who never missed an opportunity in gifting his wife, at times for as flimsy a reason as cooking palatable food, yet he being a “Birbal” didn’t bother her. My wife knew he had earned the nick name, for his unbridled love for ale, turning his tummy to the shape of a beer barrel, which was never taken up for comparison.

All her tactics failed to evoke the desired effect and it never impacted me, for two reasons. The day I decided to get married, I had resolved not to get provoked, a euphemism for thick skin. Another reason for her failure was, my creativity being a shade better than her. I told her, ‘if you want me to imbibe all good things from all my friends, soon you may feel that you are sleeping with a stranger than me. I am what I am, and others are what they are’. Still it failed to cut ice with her.

Eventually I told her to put all the things she didn’t like about me on a paper and I would do the same thing about her. She agreed readily, for she was confident that my paper would be blank, but I proved her wrong.

She could manage only two sheets of paper and 30 minutes, but I went with more than six sheets of paper, and well past an hour. I was enjoying her discomfort and anxiety to look into what I was writing, but I refused to show her. We had neatly put our papers into separate envelopes, pasted and as agreed, the waiting started. We had agreed earlier to open it only in bedroom in the night. I was not at all anxious to look into what she had written, as I knew it verbatim, having listened to it for long. I could also predict the reaction of my wife, on witnessing my scribbling.

And it was as I expected. Tears welling up in her eyes she started punching me, followed by a tight hug, whispering in my ear, ‘you dirty sweet scoundrel, I love you too, though you don’t deserve’.

All the six sheets of paper contained only one line, repeated like an imposition writing, as we did in our school. And it was,

“I love you, for what you are, and not you will”.

Relationships - Older And Wiser

IdeaSmith — Sun, 9 Nov 2008 05:41:23 EST

Tell me what it's like.

she says.

Does it get better with time?

I pause and wonder what to say.

Can I give her an honest answer?

That it won't..in some ways.

That heartbreak hurts as much at 30 as it does at 20.

That you never quite get used to the pain of letting go, no matter how often you've done it....though you might learn the lesson of numbness.

That love and cheating and tenderness and passion will continue to turn up unanticipated...and unwelcome, no matter how clear your vision stays.

That eventually dreams will become the last survival tactic for those who don't have God or Family or FairyTales anymore.

No, I decide, I can't tell her all of that. I can't paint the next decade in a pall of gloom before it's even arrived.

So I take a deep breath and say instead...

What does change is all the things in your head.

With the pain, there will be the aspirin of reality,
a little snapshot of the last time that grows clearer with time,
the knowledge that you survived that and so this you will too.

With time, other people's opinions
will start to matter less than your own
or at least you'll be able to pick and choose what you want to believe.

And if you're smart...and I know you are,
you'll have a Plan B or at the very least...an exit route.

So I end without lies, telling her the truth...but perhaps not all of it.

And I wish there were some lessons one didn't need to learn.