Carry on up the Leela

Potential derrorists reconnoitering Bangalore's hotels must be quaking in their shoes at the new beefed-up security at the Leela Palace hotel. Now, instead of a couple of security guards in surprisingly crisp-looking black and white uniforms, there are about ten of them. Sorry, I mean "den of them" (Once you're in Barkha Dutt reporting mode, it's incredibly difficult to break the habit).

In addition, there is at least one guard with an antique-looking rifle. One of the newspapers here recently pointed out that many of the Bangalore police force's rifles date back to the sixties (that's nineteen sixties, not eighteen sixties) and this one looked to be of a similar vintage. The guard obviously regarded it as an antique piece because he had it casually resting on one shoulder as he lolled at the gate.

Access to the Leela Palace Hotel is no longer directly from Airport Road. You have to take a left at the Manipal Hospital crossroads and then taken another immediate left, driving along what is effectively a service road in front of the hotel. That's where you then have to wait while the den security guards do their stuff.

Shilpi and I had to get out of the car while the guards checked inside the front and back. I also had to open the bonnet and the back of the car. We were both then searched in a separate area; those airport-type buzzy devices waved over us. Strangely, the children were left in the car. Maybe the guards thought that a white foreigner with a family was an unlikely derrorist suspect but since when did any extremist conform to accepted norms?

We were waved on and I got the car valet parked. The valet asked me if I had anything valuable in the car and I was tempted to say, "Yes, there's a couple of pounds of semtex taped under the baby seat. Please be careful not to man-handle it, it cost me six thousand rupees at Mothercare."
The thing is - and hence the title of the post - that the whole response to the derrorist threat, is straight out of a Carry On... film: low-budget farce. The security guards bearing company names on their uniforms such as Alert Commandos are just boys. There's not even a single threatening moustache between them. Me, if I were a derrorist attempting to attack the Leela, I think I'd just bypass the whole queuing up routine and go straight through the front doors. I'd probably ignore the padlock and chains on what were once access points into the main Galleria. I'd probably also ignore the typed sign on those doors and the arrow pointing helpfully to the left which indicates, "Entrance this way." Instead, pausing momentarily to shoot the semi-comatose guard lounging with his Lee Enfield, I'd direct a blast of well-aimed fire from my semi-automatic weapon at the glass doors and then, with a Sid James cackle, or a Kenneth Williams wince, step through the shards and into the hotel.

Originally published on Blogger on 28th December 2008. Security at the Leela has become more relaxed in the eleven months since I wrote this. It is still, however, tighter than it was before the terrorist attacks on Mumbai in November 2008.

Christmas past

Well, another Christmas in India has come and gone. It's the 26th and business as usual. I remember coming into work on 26th December 2003 and thinking how odd it was to be working on what is Boxing Day in the UK. Five years on it doesn't seem strange at all; Christmas Day in India is just another festival day.

It's all very different from the UK and to be frank, I've never really enjoyed Christmas in India. In England at least, the build-up is relentless. It starts around July with the first charity Chritsmas card catalogues dropping through the door and then the hype slowly builds from there. By October (I'm trying to remember), most supermarkets will have Christmas merchandise in the shops and by the time Halloween has passed, it's full-on Yuletide build-up and you can't enter a shop without Slade's "So Here it is Merry Christmas" assaulting your eardrums. In fact the commerical hype is way overboard. Nevertheless, as the days darken and the lights come on early, there is a sense of building towards a festivity, something to look forward to, a time to share time with family and friends. Our Christmases at home were always family affairs - Christmas Day with our parents and siblings and then Boxing Day with grandparents. These days of course, my grandparents, sadly, are long dead and the three of us "kids" each live on different continents. Cynic that I am, the next time we'll all be together may well be for a funeral.

Britain is supposedly a Christian land, not that you'd notice that necessarily from the Christmas cards that are on sale. These days, political correctness gone mad means that as well as British TV giving airtime to Iran's nutcase president to air his "alternative" Christmas views, most British retailers and manufacturers are overly cautious about offending the sensibilities of non Christians in Britain. And so you get half-hearted cards that offer "Season's Greetings" instead of celebrating the birth of Christ which is what Christmas is all about. Ah well, come the day of Judgement. In Bangalore, I walked straight into a card shop and picked up three entirely suitable religious cards with no trouble at all. But then again, India is for the most part, a tolerant (and often polictically incorrect) society. Muslims, Christians and Hindus live, for the most part, in harmony. When the firebrands get it into their heads to stir up trouble, they do so with spectacular and ferocious fervour (witness the Hindu/Muslim clashes in Gujarat a few years back and the Hindu/Christian clashes in Orissa and Karnataka this year). But for the most part, people do live-and-let-live.

Nevertheless, Christmas in India just doesn't seem like Christmas in the UK. I think for me that it has a lot to do with weather (it just can't be Christmas with the sun blazing down) but also because in India there is none of that over-hyped commercial build-up. Yesterday a lot of people were still working and there were still the street vendors pushing their heavy carts up the street and yelling out their normal sales-pitches.

We spent a nice day with family and friends and the children received lots of presents from Father Christmas (although he clean forgot to bring me my two maids). And yet earlier in the day, Niharika had woken up and wandered into our room and had been quite happily playing and chatting and hadn't even remembered it was Christmas Day. It was daddy who had to remind her that she should have a look at the Christmas tree downstairs to see if Father Christmas had been. I know she's only three and a half but I'm sure that when I was her age I was peering out of the window at night trying to catch a glimpse of Santa and his sleigh and then later, at three in the morning, waking up to see a bulging pillow case of presents, and yelling out excitedly, "He's been! He's been!".

If we spend too many more Christmas Days in hot countries and then subsequently move back to a colder and nominally Christian country, it will be interesting to see what my children make of their new environments. Maybe when she's older, Niharika will sit down to her blog - "Travels in my starchy British clothing" - and write, " I don't know, Christmas in Britain just deosn't feel right. It's bloody cold. Where's the warm Indian sun?"

Originally published on Blogger on 26th December 2008.

Come back!

Dear Father Christmas

Day five without our maids and we realise with a shock that when you make a mess and leave it there, it's still there when you come back later. Nobody's cleared it away, it's still there!

Actually, we have assistance in the house: one lady who comes in the morning between 8.30 and 12.30, and another who comes between 12.30 and 3.30. So we have some cover but it's not the same. I mean, there's a whole 17 hours when we have to fend for ourselves. Seventeen hours! OK, so the children are asleep for maybe nine of those but that still leaves eight hours for them to make a mess. Mark was one year old at the weekend. I think I had changed his nappy once in those previous twelve months. The tally's now gone up to four! I'd forgotten all about that little joy. And there was me thinking that babies these days were self-cleaning.

Father Christmas, you must understand that we don't have to cook (because shift number two cooks for our evening meal) and we don't have to wash up (because shift number one washes up our plates, pots and pans from the previous night) but there are still chores. Yesterday evening I even had to peel my own moosambies! Our live-in maids would not only peel them, they'd take ALL the pith off as well, every last scrap of it. And then of course they'd clear the peel away, tidy the kitchen, peg out the washing, bring it in when dry, bath the kids, clear away the toys, sweep the floors, tidy up... I can't understand why they left us.

But Father Christmas, they've gone! They went back to Meghalaya last Friday and we may never see them again. Malme says she will come back, and I hope she does, but in the meantime Father Christmas, please send us two more. My evening drinks with the lads have gone right out of the window. Wednesday and Friday nights used to be mine, now I have to share them with my wife and kids!

Father Christmas, I've been good all year (well maybe not good, but certainly not too bad) and this domesticity lark is killing me. Please Santa, send us two more maids or at least second us an elf or two before we go crazy.

Happy Christmas old man.

From

Spoilt Brit, Bangalore

Originally published on Blogger on 24th December 2008. Malme returned with another girl in mid February and peace and sanity was restored.

Worthy of the Greeks

Some businesses certainly choose their names well. There was Oblivion, a short-lived nightclub on 100 Feet Road in Indiranagar which sank into oblivion not too long after it opened, and there is Odyssey.

An odyssey is a long, eventful journey. Odyssey in Indiranagar sells books, toys, music and gifts. The store - also on 100 Feet Road - is newly opened and spread across three floors I think. There should be a fourth a floor in the basement but I don't think that that's functioning yet. We've been to Odyssey a number of times. The selection of merchandise - toys' section at least - is reasonable, but it's when you get to the cash desk on the ground floor that the place lives up to its name.

We were in Odyssey yesterday to pick up something for my son who is a year old today (and it doesn't seem a year ago that I was writing on here about all his trauma in the Manipal Hospital). We picked up a couple of items, one for Mark and one for Niharika so that she can open something too and not feel left out. I took them down to the ground floor cash desk along with two pots of bubbles and explained to the sales assistant that I was still shopping and that I'd be back soon to pay got the goods. I asked if they could gift-wrap the two main presents.

Ten minutes later, I returned to the cash desk and in that short space of time, they'd lost the bubbles. I know what must have happened. They sold my bubbles to somebody else. Not to worry, I'd picked up two more pots. One of the items had been wrapped, the other not been, so I waited while two assistants struggled to wrap up a bucket and spade. In the meantime, I presented my card for payment.

Again, typical India, you never know that when you hand over a card or money that you're actually going to be served. It's just as likely that somebody else will jump in ahead of you or that, the sales assistant will suddenly disappear somewhere, or that the counter will close down, or that the till will be struck by a meteor. All of these things (except the meteor bit) are so common that it just isn't funny. Yesterday was no exception and so I waited, and waited while the person in front moaned about whatever it was she was buying.

"Sorry sir, we can't take a card with a chip." The sales assistant's apology awoke me from my stupor.
"But I don't have anything else to pay you with," I said.
"Please be here sir, I'll try another machine upstairs."

Now that was my fault and I should have also remembered that it's very much an Indian trait to want to please, or rather not to want to displease. That's good, but if something can't be done, say so. The sales assistant did just that, but because I moaned, he made a pretence of saying that he'd try the card on another machine. So off he went, and five minutes later came back.

"Sorry sir, we can't take a card with a chip."
"No worries," I said, leave the items here, I'll go and get you some cash. And don't sell my bubbles!"

We left for the bomb site that is CMH Road these days. (Well it's always looked a bit of a bomb site ever since I've been here, but the new Metro work has made it a complete mess). I bought some cards, got some cash and returned to the shop, parking the car in a nearby street. This time I just took Niharika with me, leaving Shilpi and Mark in the car.

Back at Odyssey and they still had my bubbles and the other gift had been wrapped. It would have been perfect if they'd got my bill, or even remembered what the prices of the gifts were. But no. So what happened next? Well you can guess can't you? They had to unwrap the presents to get to the bar codes and re-scan them into the till.

And it was just at that point in time, when sales assistants 1-9 were running around like headless chickens, that Shilpi called to tell me that she'd set the car alarm off: bells, sirens and flashing lights going at full tilt. So back again. I scooped up Niharika, and tore round the corner to where the car was parked. Mark, who was obviously feeling left-out, had thrown up (baby vomit on the upholstery). Perhaps it was the car alarm which did it. I turned off the alarm, left Niharika there and returned to Odyssey for a third time.

And that's pretty much it. I waited another five minutes or so during which time I scribbled some choice comments in the visitors' book. Underneath the gentile compliments such as, "lovely ambiance" (now there's an extremely over-used word) I wrote in capital letters, "YOUR SERVICE IS APPALLING. GENERALLY A GOOD RANGE OF MERCHANDISE BUT YOUR SHOCKING CUSTOMER SERVICE IS A MAJOR DETERRENT." (Or something like that). And I left.

And if any senior Odyssey folk should happen to stumble upon this post whilst Googling for their store, do us all a favour will you and just make a couple of small changes. Instead of having just one cash counter on the ground floor, put some on the other floors as well. I'm also convinced that a lot of yesterday's fuss was due to too many cooks spoiling the broth. There were at least five sales assistants there yesterday falling over themselves to get it wrong. Please allocate one assistant to a till - two maximum - and if fussy Englishmen turn up and say that the debit/credit card they have is the only one they have, just train them to say, "Have you ever heard of cash, sir?"

Originally published on Blogger on 21st December 2008. Greeks and sirens from silevad.

Bob Fleming's folkin' classics

You know that winter has arrived when everybody in the office starts coughing and spluttering. At times it sounds as though we're working on a flamin' TB ward rather than in an office. Coughs, snorts, splutters, throat-clearings; you name it, we've got it. And so for anybody reading this who has a bit of a tickle in their throat; a little irritating irritation, here's a Fast Show Classic from Bob Fleming and his pals. Enjoy.

Originally published on Blogger on 18th December 2008. The coughers and splutterers are still with me plus, now that we've moved into a bigger office, a couple of snorters as well. Lovely.

Whilst on the subject of the Fast Show, treat yourself to this drinking game sketch as well.

Look out, there's a zebra about

I see that my countrymen are exporting road safety.

There was a report on the BBC website yesterday that the UK Government is set to spend £1.5m on improving road safety in developing countries. It was reported that in some parts of the developing world, road accidents are "a bigger cause of death than malaria". Well I can tell you for a fact that in developed Britain, road accidents are a also bigger cause of death than malaria, and Britain - allegedly -has one of the lowest road-death rates in the world.

So what exactly is the money going to be spent on and where is it going to be spent? The BBC was unclear about precisely which countries would be benefiting, but whoever gets the dosh will be delighted to hear that it's to be spent on zebra crossings and road markings (probably double yellow lines if I know the UK).

You see that's what happens when you have a well-meaning developed country trying to impose its culture - or regulations - on a developing country. Bangalore has plenty of zebra crossings but I've never seen a single car stop at one to let a pedestrian cross. Similarly, a lot of the roads here have road markings but that won't stop every driver in the city ignoring those markings if his way ahead is blocked.

The Minister for Development, Mr Gareth Thomas, said: "I want to see this funding make a real impact on reducing casualty numbers where it's needed most. It will help with implementing basic safety measures."

No it won't, it's going to increase casualty numbers. Hospitals in those countries which are to receive British money can expect to see a surge in admissions to their accident and emergency wards. At the same time, drivers everywhere will be holding their hands up and saying to traffic police, "But officer, I just didn't see him. I mean, the last thing you expect to come across is some idiot painting black and white lines in the middle of a road."

Image courtesy of Staebrook News.

Broken sleep

OK, if you have a violin, now's the time to get it out.

I'm fortunate in that I don't require much sleep - five hours is usually enough - and I'm normally up at the crack of dawn. This morning, staring somewhat blearily at my laptop at 5am having abandoned all hope of sleep, I made a note of the previous night's interruptions. Here they are:

1. People talking outside the house.
This was the first interruption of the night and that was probably at around 3am. I don't think the people had stopped outside but they were talking loudly enough, as they passed, to wake me up.
2. Coughing and spluttering.
My poor wife is having terrible trouble with her sinuses at the moment and my disturbed sleep as a result, is far less irritating than the congestion must be for her. Nevertheless, it still counts as disturbance factor number two.
3. Dogs barking.
Anyone living in a city in India will appreciate this one. These packs of dogs were not in the immediate vicinity but still close enough.
4. Baby crying.
My eleven-month old son woke up about 4am (possibly as a result of 1, 2 and 3 above), came into our bed and then decided to thrash around, emitting the odd Tourette's-like shriek.
5. Water tank filling.
Our neighbour's tank fills up at five in the morning and makes a hell of a racket. At this point in time I abandoned all hope of sleep, came downstairs and played heavy rock (loud) until I left for the office. I was at my desk this morning by 7.30am.

Alright, you can put your violins away now. Please! They're keeping me awake.

Originally published on Blogger on 5th December 2008. We've moved house since I wrote this, which means that 3. and 5. above, no longer apply. Thank goodness. Yawners courtesy of Waka Austin.

Blame it on the medical shop

PeopleSoft, that is. I'll explain.

Some while back, on a family holiday in Sri Lanka, we stopped at a medical shop in Colombo. We'd flown in from England, realised we'd forgotten the malaria tablets, and were now trying to buy the local equivalent. We were in luck. The shop had plenty in stock, and before you could say, "Wickramasinghe", there they were on the counter. And then they were given to another sales assistant who wrote down the price and handed the bill to the cashier who, on being given the money, handed the bill to somebody else who stamped it. The bill then came back to me and I went to a new fifth link in the chain who, examining my bill to satisfy himself that it had been stamped (even though he'd seen his colleague stamp it) handed me my malaria tablets. The best of it was that I think those tablets cost about ten Sri Lankan rupees which was the equivalent of five Indian rupees.

And my contention is that whoever came up with the PeopleSoft software, had been to that very same medical shop in Colombo and had their eureka moment.

I have never had the misfortune to work with such a cumbersome, user-unfriendly piece of software as PeopleSoft. In fact wasn't it PeopleSoft that came up with the motto, "If you've got a nut, we've got the sledgehammer to crack it"?

For those blessed individuals who have never worked with PeopleSoft and have no idea what it is, go and Google. Just type, "useless piece of shite" and you'll go straight to the PeopleSoft home page. For those of you who can't be bothered to do that - and I don't blame you in the slightest - PeopleSoft is essentially an HR tool that companies introduce for their employees if they want those employees to waste not only their time, but their colleagues' time as well. It's the on-line HR equivalent of going into a Sri Lankan chemist's and ordering ten rupees worth of malaria tablets.

I'm going to cut a very long story short, but suffice to say that four of my team who put in their customary backbreaking day's hard slog under the usual trying conditions of artificial lighting, aggressive air-conditioning and banal chit-chat, suddenly found that because their attendance had not been marked on-line, their day's work had been recorded by PeopleSoft as leave, and that consequently their holiday entitlement had been docked by one day. And since this occurred, e-mails have been flying backwards and forwards to various Indian cities. People in Gurgaon are on the case. People in Mumbai are on the case. The software support team - presumably employed in the first place to help clean up the PeopleSoft mess - are all looking at their screens with furrowed brows. I half expect to see the story reported in tomorrow's Times of India.

And while we're all having great fun with PeopleSoft, the originators, having sold PeopleSoft to Oracle for about $10.3 billion in 2004, must be lying back smirking on some gorgeously sandy sun-kissed island. I hope they get bitten by mosquitoes and all the medical shops are closed.

Asian tiger mosquito courtesy of flushrush.

You want to put some oil on that

"You want to put some oil on that."

That at least, is what a car mechanic in the UK might say if you turned up at his workshop complaining that your car had developed a squeak.

Actually, it wasn’t so much of a squeak, more of a grating sound under the bonnet; a rasping noise when I drove the car away from the house on Friday morning. It didn’t last long, but on the journey to work I heard it again, intermittently. When I reached the office, my driver was there and I told him what I’d heard.

“Have a listen, Hegde” I said, “when you’re driving the car. See if you can hear it too.”

We have a good arrangement, my driver and I. I drive myself to the office where he picks up the car and then drives it home. He cleans the car, drops my daughter to school, picks her up a couple of hours later and then spends the rest of the time sitting outside the house. In the evening he drives back to my office and then I drive home, dropping him off at a bus stop on the way home. Sometimes I wonder who’s the driver and who’s the driven. Maybe I should just cut out the middle man.

Anyway, in the evening, driving back towards home, he reminded me about the squeak.

“I found what it was” he said. “There was a rat under the bonnet.”

At which point in time I know that my Indian readers will say, “Well of course it was a rat. Any dumb fool could have told you that.” It had been raining and I suppose the rat had just hopped up on the wheel and then shuffled up under the bonnet. The Scorpio is quite a big car and there’s plenty of room under the hood. You could probably squeeze in half a dozen rats there. This is India after all.

“Did you get it?” I asked.

“The rat’s gone.” He replied.

But it hadn’t gone. Driving back, we both heard the same noise again.

“Get it for me please, Hegde, will you?” I asked. I was heading off to the pub and Hegde was going to wait for me. “I don’t care what you do, but just get rid of it for me please will you?”

Some hours later, driving back home, I asked him again whether he had got the rat.

“Rat’s gone” he repeated.

But it was still there. I heard it again on Saturday and so on Sunday morning, armed with a long stick, I went out to the car and cautiously raised the bonnet. Not a sausage. Not even a rat. My neighbour came out and looked at me.

“Rat in your bonnet?” He asked. “I have the same thing. Don’t worry, you’ll get used to it.”

But I don’t want to get used to it and more to the point I don’t want Ratty chewing up cables and wires. Actually, I’ve not heard anything more since Saturday, but I wouldn’t bank on the creature not reappearing (there you go, some nice double negatives dropped into a sentence).

Still, at least now I know why most Indian motorists don’t indicate. It’s because they’ve got rats under their bonnets which have chewed up their indicator cables. And there was me thinking it was because most drivers in this country don't have the first idea about road courtesy or basic driving skills.

Originally published on Blogger on 3rd December 2008. Rat picture from the Brookswville Show.

Children's Nehru Day

When we were little, my brother and sister and I would moan to my parents, "But why isn't there a Children's Day?" Mother's Day we were familiar with (bunches of daffodils or Cadbury's Black Magic for mum), and Father's Day too (socks and Old Spice for dad). But what about Children's Day?

And my mother always had the same answer. "Every day is Children's Day."

My, how good that used to make us feel! It didn't seem like it at the time but you know, looking back now, she was right. When I was little I don't think I had any real responsibilities at all; not even wiping up dishes or pulling the sheets up over my bed. Even when we progressed from childhood into adolescence, the tasks weren't onerous. Washing and wiping up was a duty which my brother somehow seemed to consistently avoid by rushing to the loo as soon as dinner had finished, and emerging some while later just as the last utensil was being packed into a drawer. (I'm sure his memory of that time is that I did exactly the same, but this is my blog and not his, so I'll be liberal with my recollections.) Cleaning the windows was another of my tasks, whilst my sister had to tidy my father's study once in a while. We made our beds and polished our shoes but that was pretty much it. Every day was children's day.

But now there really is a Children's Day and today is it. Niharika's school has some function or the other and even Google has included brats on it's home page.

I suppose - although the day may be intended to raise awareness of those poor children who really don't get the opportunity to have a childhood and either live in poverty or are supporting families, or suffering abuse - that it has already become just another commercial excuse and that even now, as I write, children all over the world are beaming back at their doting parents and saying, "take me shopping". These days there always seems to be some Awareness Day or the other. We've just had Remembrance Sunday and I think 1st December is World AIDS Day isn't it? Then there are the more bizarre ones like World Smile Day (which I recall from when I was younger, and my sister and I smiling at a dour man who we used to pass every day on our way to school) and Walk A Dog to School Day (both these days falling in October, for those who are curious).

In fact, I would certainly endorse a Grumpy Old English Git Day if only there was still a date in the diary available. Drop Foil in your Beer Day was on Wednesday and tomorrow, if I felt so inclined, I could put a pair of Y-fronts on my head, walk down the road and declare it National Wear Your Pants on Your Head Day (even though it does clash with Wear Your Clothes Inside-Out Day). In any event, I don't know why I'm making such a fuss. As my mother will tell me, next time I speak to her, "Every day is Grumpy Old English Git Day".

Originally published on Blogger on 14th November 2008.

Today, almost one year on, my daughter's school is celebrating Children's Day one day early and I see that whilst Children's day is universally celebrated on the 20th November, in India - no surprises here - it's been "preponed" or "brought forward" to the 14th November in order to coincide with Nehru's birthday. I also see that Children's Day was first celebrated in 1954 - so my parents obviously kept quiet about that one. Nehru photograph from schema root.

Spot the difference

The motoring supplement of The Sunday Times in Great Britain, used to run a weekly feature where readers were presented with a photograph of a section of British road. They were asked to study the photograph carefully and then suggest why they should be particularly careful if they happened to find themselves driving along it.

Go on then. Click on the image above and see if you can spot any tell-tale potential hazards.

Are you done? OK, here's what I can see.

1. There's a steep climb coming up and not only that, it involves sharp bends. Beware of vehicles that are coming down the hill too fast and which might career into your path. This will be a particular problem in the autumn and winter when the fallen leaves make the road slippery or when snow and ice turn the road into a ski-slope.

2. There's a house on the right hand side which has a partially concealed driveway. A vehicle emerging from that driveway could cause an on-coming vehicle to swerve into your path.

3. You might be so busy reading the road signs, and hoping that a vehicle doesn't dart out of the partially concealed driveway on your right that you completely miss 96 year old Mrs Jenkins who lives in the house on the left. Yes, that's her driveway just going out of shot and she is about to step in front of your car.

Actually all of those answers are way to easy, and the Smart Alec who used to write that column for the Sunday Times would have pointed out that what we should have been looking out for is the adverse camber, or the Little Tiddington Rambler's Association just out of shot around the corner (note the sweet wrappers on the grass) or the evidence of subsidence and the likelihood of there being a great gaping abyss also, just out of shot.

In any event, for some reason I was thinking of that column this morning as I drove through a fairly typical Indian street at 7.15am, and I was wondering what the Sunday Times journalist would have written about my street.


Let me help him out.

1. Bikes overtaking on the inside and outside and some also heading straight at you. Ditto cycles.

2. Buses, cars, auto-rickshaws, bikes and cycles which pull out without any indication and which also pull in without any indication.

3. Pedestrians walking in the road or standing in the road who are completely oblivious to the traffic that is shooting by.

4. Dogs and cows, oxen, handcart-vendors ditto.

5. Potholes, industrial debris. Adverse camber? You should be so lucky.

6. The Little Tiddington Rambler's Association on an exchange visit to India and now hopelessly and helplessly lost (just out of shot).

UK photo courtesy of Transport Cafe. Indian photo courtesy of Bicycling around the world.

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.