Please don't pee in the sugar bowl

There's a sign in the gents' loo at work which advises patrons to "Say 'No' to spitting into dustbins." It goes on, "Say 'No'. Say 'Chhheee!" and finally, "Say No. Take a stand." So there we have it, a pretty unequivocal message that we shouldn't spit into dustbins.

But I ask myself why, when there are urinals, toilets (and even sinks), would anybody want to go to the trouble of spitting into dustbins? And surely, while the company is at it, wouldn't it do equally well to advise people not to defecate in corridors, not to practice projectile vomiting, and not to expose their genitalia to colleagues (at least, not during work hours)? Well obviously, as disgusting as the habit sounds, spitting into dustbins must be enough of a problem to warrant a sign in the gents loos (whereas the other three unsavoury habits are apparently not).

Spitting in India appears to be something of a national pastime, at least amongst the working - or dare I say, lower - classes. Look at any BMT bus in Bangalore and the sides of it will be covered with spit. Wait next to a BMT bus too long and you stand a pretty good chance of being hit by somebody's phlegm or betel-nut jet. For some individuals, spitting seems to be almost as reflexive as blinking but I have to say that I'm surprised that enough company employees, the vast majority of whom are well-educated, have such disgusting habits that their employer feels the need to put up a sign in the Gents'.

But why have a sign that says, "Say no to spitting into dustbins"? Wouldn't it have been better to say, "Say no to spitting"? It's like that lovely sign in the Manipal Centre on Dickenson Road which greets you when you climb the stairs. "Please do not spit here" it says, stencilled in red paint as you reach the top of the short first flight. And I've always been tempted to get my own stencil, and go to the Manipal Centre when there's nobody around, and in the opposite corner of the stairwell, spray, "Spit here instead please."

Photo courtesy of Avinash's blog.

Remembrance

It's a shame India has forgotten its British Empire war dead. Thousands of Indian troops died in the First World War and I suppose, though I don't know for sure, thousands more during the Second World War.

There may have been a Remembrance Service in Delhi, but if there was, it certainly didn't get much coverage in the newspapers the following day. That may have been because a road was dug-up somewhere, a this-a-halli or that-a-palya got flooded by sewage, a VVIP dropped by to congest traffic and employ policeman, or Paris Hilton exposed an already over-exposed nipple.

In Britain, we've got better at Remembrance as the years have gone on. Now, with only three known surviving British First World War veterans in Britain, we not only have Remembrance Sunday, we mark the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month with a two minute silence as well. In offices and factories people down tools or pens and stand behind their desks or benches with their heads bowed. This is all as it should be.

And how touching to see those three veterans at the Cenotaph in Whitehall yesterday; fitting too that after so many years and so many millions of men, that these last three represented each of the services: 112 year old Henry Allingham (RAF), 110 year old Harry Patch (British Army) and 108 year old Bill Stone (Royal Navy).

India has its fair share of war memorials, plaques and cemeteries but, Commonwealth War Grave Commission cemeteries aside, scant attention appears to be paid to these. As I said earlier, that's a shame because an Indian life lost is no less important than any other life. That Sikh who died in the mud at Festubert or that Labourer who froze to death at Etaples was still some mother's son, a husband, a brother, a father.

We who follow in their footsteps, owe the generations that went before a debt of gratitude and it surely isn't too much, once a year at least, to bow our heads under an Indian sun and remember those who sacrificed their todays for our tomorrows.

Originally posted on Blogger on 12th November 2008. The three WW1 servicemen that I mentioned above, all died this year.

Image, courtesy of the National Army Museum, shows men of The Garhwal Rifles marching down the La Bassee Road in France, August 1915.

Singh is dead

Casting my mind forward, I wonder how the news will be greeted in the UK when it is announced that John Major, or Margaret Thatcher, or Tony Blair has been called to that great debating hall in the sky. Those three individuals probably have getting on for thirty years of combined British leadership under their belts (or in their iron handbags) but actually, I don't wonder at all what the British reaction will be.

The news will certainly be headline and on pages 3-94 of the national newspapers that day, there will be the usual mix of gushing tributes and considered opinion. In certain parts of the country I'm sure, there will also be toasts in pubs and also the words "good riddance" floating on the breeze.

But that's pretty much as far as it will go. There will be no day of National mourning and the shops and banks will stay open, and children will go to school.

Yesterday, former Indian Prime Minister Vishwanath Pratap Singh, died in hospital in Delhi after a long illness. He was 77. Mr Singh was Prime Minister of India for less than a year, between 2nd December 1989 and 10th November 1990. I know nothing about the man at all really, other than what I've read today on various websites, but he appears to have been generally liked (as much as any politican is "liked"). He will be remembered chiefly for implementing the recommendations of the Mandal Commission which saw a fixed quota of jobs in the public sector being reserved for the so-called Backward Classes; a move which, incidentally, may be popular with the Backward Classes but which continues to draw flak from other Classes.

I'm in no position to pass comment on the late Mr Singh or his policies but I do find it a little irritating that as a result of his passing, schools and banks have closed. Before he was Prime Minister, Mr Singh was Finance Minister and I should think that wherever he is now, looking down on the people whose destinies he was in charge of for eleven months, he's smiling wryly to himself. It's the end of the month and whereas banks would normally be processing salary payments for the people of India, today they have a holiday and salary payments will be delayed. Thanks a lot Mr Singh.

It reminds me of the time when I used to commute backwards and forwards to London and would face the inevitable delays on the line. A points' failure here, a signal failure there; leaves on the line; the wrong kind of snow. I swore that if it ever got to the point where I contemplated suicide, it would be under the wheels of the 5.17 to Norwich on a Friday afternoon; maximum and massive inconvenience of my own making. By passing away when he has done, Mr Singh has effectively done the same thing.

And again it makes me wonder, seriously makes me wonder, how India has become as strong as it has - sheer hard work probably. But just think where India could be were it not for umpteen festival holidays, bandhs (that's "strikes" to you and me) and impromptu closures of services because a former politician has died. Why, the country could have probably filled all the pot-holed roads in India and still had a few minutes left over to tackle social deprivation.

Originally published on Blogger on 28th November 2008.

The parable of the maid and the tea

Once upon a time there was an Englishman: tall, handsome, with a finely chiselled jaw, dashing good looks [skip a bit - ed]... who moved from his home in England to settle in India. Being a simple soul he had never had any previous experience of either employing or dealing with servants and so it was that when he suddenly found them thrust upon him, he treated them the same as he treated everybody else: with courtesy, with a smile, and with a please and thank you. (Everybody that is except auto drivers, tax inspectors, policemen etc).

The Englishman's wife, however - beautiful, petite, as fresh as the morning dew, as happy as [skip again - ed] ... knew better than her husband because she was Indian and because she had had plenty of experience of dealing with servants. She knew that there was a fine line between being even-handed and "spoiling" a servant and having them "jump all over your head". She was not a bad person, far from it, but she knew that servants had to be kept in their place and that "please" and "thank you" were words you did not use else you sank to their level.

And so it was, soon after the two maidservants arrived, that the Englishman asked one of them if they could make him a cup of tea - please. There was an initial hiccup - see Make Your Own Tea here - but thereafter the Englishman got his tea every morning; without asking again. "Thank you", he would say, and - when returning the empty cup - "thank you" again, "that was a nice cup of tea."

His wife though - who still knew better - did not say thank you and did not say please, and every day she would have to remind her maidservant to make her a cup of tea. This made her mad - and even madder when she realised that the maidservant had indeed made a cup of tea - and given it to the driver.

And so the Englishman, who does not know how to treat servants, and who has come down to their level, writes this parable about his wife (who does not get her tea), and writes about himself - and how he gets his tea every morning (without asking). And gets biscuits too (without having ever asked). And gets them served on a china plate.

This parable is for my wife - whom I love dearly - and for anybody else of course; tea drinkers in particular. [Picture stolen from an old post on the Idea Champions blog. I'm hoping they''ll forgive me, as I've given them a link.]

Originally published on Blogger on 27th November 2008.

Turkish delight

We took a short trip to the Leela Palace yesterday for coffee and a stroll through the gardens, but completely mis-timed our visit. The place looked like a police training college; dozens of traffic cops and their khaki colleagues all falling over each other in their efforts to look calm, organised and prepared.

"Who's coming?" I asked a plain clothes policeman (who was very obviously plain clothes, and just as obviously police).

"Turkey Prime Minister" he replied.

We went for our stroll and then into the Oxford Book Store for coffee and cakes. Three quarters of an hour or so later we returned to get the car. The place was still swarming with police but I handed the ticket to the valet and he disappeared. No sooner had he done so than somebody shouted something, somebody else blew a whistle and all movement of traffic ceased. Shilpi and Niharika wandered into the main hotel lobby but I stood outside waiting to see what would happen next.

Of course, the first thing was that everybody was moved behind temporary barriers. Figuring that this was probably likely to happen, I'd already moved, but one woman, unaware of what was going on, strolled out into the area where the hotel manager and various other lackeys were waiting to receive their foreign guest.

"Madam, please move behind the barrier" a policeman asked her politely.

"What's all the fuss about?" the woman demanded.

"VVIP visit" said the policeman.

"Well I'm VVIP as well" the woman retorted, (and she might just as well have added, "and what are you going doing to do about that, sonny Jim?" because that was what her body language was saying).

All credit through, to the moustachioed one (the policeman, not the woman). He looked at her appealingly, motioned "wait five minutes" with his hand (an action which involves bringing the four fingers and thumb together in an opening and shutting beak-type movement) and gently ushered her towards where she should have been standing.

Me, I've seen her inflated, self-important type so many times before in Bangalore that I was really hoping the cop would take exception to her rudeness, straighten his moustache and then lathi charge her before beating her to a pulp on one of the Leela's exquisitely upholstered sofas. "Only in fairy stories" as the saying goes.

Anyway, a few minutes later, The Turkish PM and his wife did indeed arrive and the whole place erupted in chaos - policemen rushing forward, Turkish security men rushing forwards and backwards, and Leela hotel staff throwing garlands of flowers around the dignitaries' necks. To be honest, I don't think I've ever seen the Turkish PM before and I certainly wouldn't recognise him again. Shilpi took a photo of his retreating back, but having caused me to wait in the lobby for the best part of half an hour, taking the photo of an anonymous politician - Turkish or otherwise - appealed to me not in the slightest. Nonetheless, I wish him well in Bangalore and I'm sure that he and his wife have already sent a warm glow through certain parts of the city. Indeed, you could almost feel that warmth this morning as motorists sat fuming in their cars, waiting for his cavalcade to pass.

Originally published on Blogger on 24th November 2008.

Waiter, there's some foil in my beer.

If there's one thing that Indian men like, it's their drinks to be perfectly served. If somebody asks for a large whisky with two ice cubes and lukewarm water, that's exactly what he expects to be given. Try presenting him with water that's either too cold, or too warm and the drink will be unceremoniously returned. As for adding an extra ice cube, don't even think about it.

Last night, a friend of mine waited while the barman poured his bottle of Kingfisher into his glass. (Again, if your glass is empty, you don't pour the bottle into the glass yourself, you wait for the barman to do it for you. Me, I prefer DIY). In so doing, a tiny piece of foil from the bottle rim went into the glass with the beer. My friend pointed this out to the barman who then went off to fetch a long-handled spoon and fished the offending piece of foil out. Would you credit it, when his glass was re-filled shortly afterwards, exactly the same thing happened.

Once is forgivable, twice is careless. The barman was "blasted", told to be more careful and then, much to my amusement, instructed to pick all the remaining foil from around the bottle rim so that it wouldn't be third time unlucky. My friend then took a few more sips and went outside to take a call.

"So what do you think happened next?" I asked Shilpi when I was sitting down with her later that evening.
"You dropped some foil into his beer, didn't you?" she said.

My wife knows me well. Having done just that, I stood at the bar sniggering to myself as I watched the foil (which was a good deal larger than the two previous pieces put together) floating in the centre of his beer.

Unfortunately, my pal was some time on the phone and by the time he came back, the barman had either noticed the foil and whisked it out sharpish, or it had just floated off to the side of the glass and stuck there. In any event, I'm sorry to report, there was no dramatic climax.

Originally published on Blogger on 13th November 2008.

A visit to the bank

I had to transfer some cash from one account to another but forgot to take a pen with me to my local HSBC bank. No worries, There was an HSBC promotions' girl in the foyer clutching an armful of 2009 diaries and some forms.

"What are those for?" I asked.
"Personal detail updation" she replied. Great word that, "updation", only to be found in the Indian sub-continent. Why use "update" or "updating" when you can make an entirely new word by sticking an "ation" on the end?
"OK, I'll updation myself" I said, "but I need to borrow your pen please."

I filled out my paying-in slip and then turned to the form. I get plagued with calls from HSBC, invariably asking me if I would like to make regular monthly payments or whether I would like to transfer the balance from one credit card to another. The answer's always "NO" to both.

Here though, was an opportunity to update my details. So I dutifully gave my account number, and ticked the box that said, words to the effect, "Don't pester me with your pitiful marketing offers." I then updationed my phone number giving a fictitious one.

The question is, now that the bank has an incorrect phone number for me, will they revert to the one that is currently in their system and still plague me with bad pronunciations of my name? Logic would suggest they might but then this is a useless multi-national corporation we're talking about, so they may not.

I ticked a few more boxes and then finally was asked to complete the following sentence in no more than ten words: "For me, HSBC is the world's local bank because..."

I wrote, "it treats its customers like country bumpkins."

That's seven words. I gave the form back to the promotions' girl and she gave me a diary finished in best imitation leather (or plastic to you and me). So all in all, not a bad ten minutes' work. Now if only Airtel would do something similar.

Originally published on Blogger on 7th November 2008. The calls from HSBC persist. Pictured, Naina Lal Kidwai, CEO, HSBC India.