Cup of Joe

Did you see the Dilbert comic-strip today?

It's pretty funny :-) ! I think I should also get oneof those coffee backpacks. One cup of coffee no longer seems to have any effect on me keeping awake in the afternoons at the work!

I don't even remember exactly when I learnt to drink strong coffee. When I was small, like all kids, me and my sis had to drink two (sometimes three) glasses of milk a day. No coffee or tea though - only Horlicks, Boost, Bournvita and the like. Coffee/tea were apparently not good for health. My sister had no issues with this - she simply detested coffee and tea and was quite content with the other beverage mixes - or at least as content as you can be when being forced to drink a tall glass of milk. Me, on the other hand, always had a strange attraction towards the smell of coffee.

So usually, mostly on weekends, my mom used to add a couple of drops of coffee to my milk with sugar. It gave a coffee-ish smell to the milk and I simply loved it! I still can remember me sitting, knees pulled upto my chest on a high stool (yeah, those were thedays when I could comfortably fit into such a small area) in a corner of the room as I drank it. I don't know why clambering onto the stool was important but it was a ritual for me!

Then, as I grew older, I started discovering the joys of tea. I still could tolerate only a very, very milky version of coffee. But tea - ah, that was something else! My dad is a tea lover too. During the weekends,mid-morning, dad would ask for a cup of chai. While giving dad his cup, mom would give me about two gulps of the tea in a tumbler. Dad and me would then drink our respective teas. Bliss!

As I grew older, my love for tea grew along with me.I still had to drink milk everyday but I could drink tea in the evenings. Tea was the first "dish" I learnt to make by myself. Given my addiction, it was easier to make tea myself than keep bugging mom for tea!However, during the "important" board-exam years,mom would make it for me if she found me studying late at night. But then, at some point, I was downing so many glasses of tea a day that my stomach started to hurt. Thus came the end of the endless-cups-of-tea era.Sigh!

Then, it was onto college. There, in the hostel, in the mornings, we used to get milk. Initially, I used to buy Horlicks, Boost or Bournvita to add to the milk and drink. But I noticed that the contents of thebottles got over pretty quick as every visitor to the room happily helped themselves to it. Really, the Horlicks "kudikka vendaam, appadiyey chaapuduvein"(no need to drink, I will eat it just like that) slogan never had better proof :-)!

In case you have never been in a typical hostel, hostel milk looks like white-colored water and is impossible to drink without some masking agent.Clearly, I needed something else to mix with the milk. So, I decided to switch over to the instant coffee powder that was provided by the hostel mess. I realized that more coffee powder made me feel more awake (ah, caffeine) and the strength of my coffees started increasing! I guess undergrad was where I learnt to drink the non-milky version of coffee. I was surprised at myself - I was actually enjoying drinking something which I always used to claim was too bitter!

That was until I came to the U.S. For the first time in my life, I drank black coffee. Basically my lab had run out of sugar and creamer and I was desperate for something warm to keep me awake through the night.Black coffee served the purpose well though rather bitterly.

However, as compensation, my apartment had a tea-loving roommate. So we used to take turns makingtea every morning and evening (if we were home). And then another cool thing happened. We got J as our roommate. If I thought I was a tea-addict, J must have probably had tea running through her veins!She loved to not only drink tea but also to MAKE tea!I tell you, it's bliss when you can look up from thebook you are reading and tell "J, lets have chai" and have a steaming mug of tea placed in your hand soon afterwards :-) !

But soon, it was time to get to the real world and work. For the first one year of my work-life, for some reason, I never drank coffee at work. It was just tea. I remember my colleague saying "Oh, you don't drink coffee? Then probably you don't smoke or drink either." - LOL :-) !

Then at some point, I can't remember why, I started drinking coffee at work in the mornings. And then added a cup in the afternoons too! Sigh! Nowadays, I proactively make fresh coffee to drink if I can't find some! Naturally, now I am finding that the normal dosage is not enough to keep me awake (even if it is mostly psychological for me anyways).

By,
Archana B.
(http://archana.blogspot.com/)

Review of 'Seven Islands and a Metro'

Summary - An interesting movie, albeit one that might have benefited from with crisper editing. On the whole, I enjoyed the movie, though I felt some parts just dragged on for far too long. A must – see for all those who love Bombay, an added attraction is the use of Saadat Hasan Manto and Ismat Chughtai as narrators. The archaic language that Manto and Ismat speak in is charming. I have read some short stories by Manto before, gave me a thrill to recognise some of them in Manto’s dialogues. Though too many of his partition stories were used in the context of the Bombay riots - just one of those would have been far more effective.

The movie delves – err actually makes brief dips into - the lives of all who make up ‘Aamchi Mumbai’- the bar girls, mill workers, night-time tea sellers (the guys who wander around on cycles with a can of tea and plastic cups), construction site workers, kolis (fisherfolk), rich Jains, Christians, Parsis…..everyone.

It introduces one to the history of this city, the forces that have shaped it, how it is changing and why, and the turmoil that the change is causing. I loved the way they introduce the heterogeneity of the people who make up Bombay by combining the visuals of identity papers and the vocals in the background of various people answering an impersonal babu’s questions about their identity. Also loved the picturisation of the 7 islands of Bom Bahai metamorphosing into Bombay.

There were lots of small facts about the city that this movie brought to light. Though I have relished fried Boomla (Bombil in Marathi, Bombay Duck in English) for years, it was during the movie that I realised that they had really sharp teeth. Really enjoyed seeing how their jaws are used to hang them out to dry, and listening to the old Parsi lady and the not-so-old Maharashtrian woman describing the ‘right’ way to cook Boomla.

Another interesting fact about Bombay. In the 1980s, there were 2,32,000 mill workers in this city. Now there are only 30,000 !! I never realised the magnitude of this decrease. Suddenly I want to know what happened to those people, where did they go ? How many of them are currently unemployed ? How many are employed and in what capacity ? By how much has their income / living standard dropped, if at all ? Where do they live now ?

Through snippets of conversations with actual people, the movie takes a look at the social and economic forces that cause tension in the social fabric of the city. The kolis who are angry that no one visits the fish markets anymore as North Indian ‘lungiwalas’ go door-to-door selling fish. The rich vegetarian people who moved into a newly constructed building near a koliwada and now want to evict the original kolis because the smell of fish bothers them. The cemeteries that have been encroached upon by shanties. The pushing and jostling for precious inches of space that causes tempers to rise. The communal tension. The economic disparity. Enough reasons for serious concern about this wonderful city’s future.

I walked out of the theatre with the warm feeling like one gets when you meet a good friend after a long time and spend time going through his/her childhood snaps. Even though in the process of the conversation you may discover that your friend is currently unwell, and you may be concerned about that; when you go back home at night, the overriding feeling is one of happiness at having got back in touch with your friend again.

By,
Zenobia D. Driver

5 Tips on Networking at Seminars

The other day one of my friends called me up in a bit of a panic. She was attending a seminar on the Plastics Industry in India as a part of her new job. She was thoroughly enjoying dozing through the day in her chair at the back of the room. But she was dreading lunch hour when she was supposed to 'network' with people, which was officially the main purpose of attending the conference. Having worked in a long series of jobs not involving such public networking, she was, understandably, panicking.

Having spent more than six years in client facing roles, I have managed to pick up quite a few tips on attending such conferences and am glad to be able to share it with all my friends who may be stuck in seminars on the Plastics Industry in India in the future.

1. Be there. The main purpose of a seminar is to network and every veteran knows this. Come lunch hour, and before you can say 'Shall we have lunch?' you will see the cards flying thick and fast. To make use of this, all you need to do is look confident and position yourself in the busiest spot in the area (Not the food table. People are usually focused and aggressive around there). As my friend discovered, 'they are dropping cards like confetti'.

2. Time it. The best time to network is the pre-conference cocktail. People are at a loose end because the event has not yet started and if you just spend your time standing alone nursing a drink you will look like an alcoholic. On the other hand if you stand with someone else who is also nursing a drink, you will look like an industry professional. The same holds true for the pre-conference coffee in case of day-time seminars

3. Circulate. This is not as tough as it sounds. Just listen to one of the world's silliest jokes from a perfect stranger trying to make polite conversation, and your survival instincts will automatically kick in and you make a move.

4. Catch them alone. Every conference will have at least three or four people who have turned up by themselves in a genuine effort to follow the trends in the Plastics Industry and are uncomfortable with the socializing part. Yet secretly, in order not to be branded an alcoholic (refer point 2) or a gourmand (modification of point 2), they would like someone to talk to. You may or may not find them useful in the course of your professional life but at that point in time when your boss turns around to check on how you are doing, instead of looking like a lost kid you can confidently give that quick smile that says 'Later. I am busy talking to this guy who will single handedly give us USD 100 M of future busines' );

5. Stupid talk is OK. Most people are intimidated by the fact that when they actually do enter into a conversation with a stranger they may reveal the fact that they are not Nobel-prize material. Veterans will tell you that rarely do the conversations go beyond the score of the cricket match going on currently or the general inefficiency of the organiser in managing time. Then someone will crack a bad joke and everyone goes 'har har har' and exchanges cards and you move on (Point 3 above).

If nothing works and it is becoming obvious that the room has conspired to make you stand out like a miserable and boring loser then it is time to use your cell phone. Whip out your cell phone and have a brisk, solemn-looking conversation on it that signals to people around you that you are checking the London markets to see how freight prices have moved and whether it is time to hedge. You may not have collected visiting cards at the end of it but at least you look like you are too busy managing your current life to be bothered with getting to know a pathetic bunch of half-wits who clearly have no other business other than cracking jokes on cricket. Then put off phone with a sweeping click, smile smugly and exit into the bathroom where you can burst into tears undisturbed.

By Anita B.
( more posts by Anita on http://royalvilla.blogspot.com)

Happy Birthday !

Belated Happy Birthday Everyone !

Yes, this blog is now over a year old ! The first post on this blog was on August 22nd last year. All those of you who have contributed to the blog, thanks a ton. Those who have not - the rest of us want a birthday present - the most appropriate would be to write something and send it in.

Happy Birthday again !

Movie Review - 'House of Flying Daggers'

Its funny writing a review of a movie, nearly two years after it was released to much acclaim. It is a pity that HOFD took so much time to come to India. And it is an even bigger pity that it runs only for a couple of shows in Bangalore, the other slots being taken by an Indian Indiana Jones movie called “Naksha”.

HOFD has a gossamer storyline. It is the time of anarchy during the Tang dynasty, late ninth century. Various rebel groups are fighting the government and HOFD is one of the leading bunch of anarchists. A policeman, Jin, is sent to a brothel called Peony Pavilion in disguise to check out intelligence that a rebel is hiding there. There he runs into Mei, a blind courtesan, who is arrested after a dazzling dance sequence (the Echo Dance) on the presumption that she is the daughter of a leader of HOFD who was killed by the police. She is later helped to escape by Jin himself, who is acting as a mole to follow Mei to the HOFD. Jin and Mei are chased by soldiers and they fall in love after some elaborately staged fight (or dance) sequences across jungles, meadows, mountains and bamboo forests. Or are they just acting to be in love to meet their own motives. Some more surprises are in store and there is nicely spun tale of morality, love (there is even a love triangle) ending in a climax which is tragic and elemental. HOFD is a love story and please do not go expecting an action movie; the movie is not actually short of action sequences and indeed uses these to propel the love story forward.

Words like operatic and symphonic abound reviews of HOFD. For me personally, whose understanding of either operas or symphonies is next to zero, HOFD is a simply wonderful return to film making in its most pristine and unspoiled form. Films like “Crouching Tiger..”, “Hero” and now “HOFD” show the world and especially Hollywood a way of filmmaking which seem to have been forgotten. That cinema is primarily a visual (and aural) art form, in colour and texture. HOFD re-emphasises this in greater grandeur than ever before. The costumes are lavish and the art direction intricate (witness the floor design and the wall work in the Echo Dance. The action sequences are breathtaking and as (or more) wonderfully choreographed than the ones in Crouching Tiger or Hero (which to me was more mechanical than fluid). You are just dazzled by the way special effects have been integrated into the action.

Some of the sequences are truly memorable scene-of-the-decade ventures. ¬The Echo Dance in the beginning where Mei has to dance to the pat of a bean/ seed on a drum and the Bamboo Fight with its astonishing colours, sounds and movements are both sequences of unadulterated visceral glory. You want to tip your hat to the directors ability to imagine, leave aside execute, these scenes. Even some of the sensitive scenes are shot very well, like the scene were Jin gallops on a horse around a meadow sweeping flowers to give to the blind Mei and the panning shots of Mei and Jun in the meadows after a frantic love-making session. One can just go on.

The music and cinematography are the high points of the movie. Unlike the earlier named Chinese movies which had music by the brilliant Tan Dun, this has music by Shigeru Umebayashi who managed to reach the immense heights scaled by Tan Dun in both “Crouching” and “Hero”. Zhang Yimou, one of the greatest Chinese directors, has been called a “visual sensualist” by some. Movies of Zhang Yimou (himself a photographer) have always had brilliant composition and shot-taking. Colour for him is like dialogue to a Woody Allen movie. Here it is not as in-your-face as the colour- coded “Hero”, but simpler and still elegant and recalls all the visual splendour of Zhang’s earlier movies.

More interestingly, the career of director Zhang Yimou seem to echo the stage and growth of the Chinese economy. In his earlier classics like Red Sorghum, Raise the Red Lantern and Ju Dou made around the time of the student rebellion, he ran afoul of the government. However, the growing integration of Chine into the world economy seems to have made him return to more simple story-telling in movies like Hero and HOFD, though not in any way diluting his auteur status. I wonder what sociological conclusions to make from this, it is either mute indifference or an acceptance of the economic boom in China.

HOFD is “rich” in the way Hollywood movies were in the 50s when they were trying to battle television. The movie is a true feast to the senses, a riot of colour and music. I guess you may not catch it on the screen but a DVD rental is surely due. After seeing these movies, I wonder why we, with an equally strong mythology and folklore, don’t venture anywhere near what the Chinese have been doing.

By,
Guthikonda Vamshidhar
(http://guthikonda@blogspot.com)

Sounds

When I was in 8th grade (1988), my mum and dad finally relented and got me what passed for a hi-fi back in the day. It was a breathtaking experience to finally hear music the way it was meant to be heard, off an Aiwa deck, with a signal-to-noise ratio >75 dB (which was the best you could get in those days without selling vital organs), a Cosmic amp (local brand, dunno what happened to them), and 3-way bookshelf speakers made by goodness knows who. The sound of Herb Alpert's "African Flame" playing on that system in the night, with the windows wide open (reduces echos), and the lights dimmed (makes the dancing LEDs more psychedelic) used to bring a smile to anyone used to a 2W Hitachi cassette player made in 1978 ( i.e., me).

Along with the purchase, I persuaded the dad-man to buy me a tape of AC/DC's "Blow Up Your Video" - he didn't know who AC/DC was, though I doubt he thought it was anything to do with electricity. And starting with that tape, I learned the meaning of generation-gap. My mum and dad did not get why I liked AC/DC, and later, Pink Floyd, U2, and name-your-mainstream-rock-band. Their idea of good western music was Kenny G, Connie Francis, Cliff Richard, and Abba, though if they really were given a choice, they'd go with silence.

In 1993, when I moved to IITB, I took with me ... the Hitachi casette player, which had been serviced back into shape. In 2003, 6 years after I left India, and 10 years after I moved to IITB, the hi-fi was a distant memory, having been left behind in India, where it had disintegrated and been sold to the local electronics shop, and replaced by my parents with a boombox which probably sounded good enough. In my grad-student apartment was an Aiwa boombox, I hardly ever played tapes (and I don't even know where that AC/DC tape is), and most of my music is on the computer. The occasional CD I purchased was quickly transferred to the computer so I could loop the songs into endless playlists.

When I started playing music to my first-born (who was a few months old in 2003), I started her off with Creedence Clearwater Revival, Scissor Sisters, Beastie Boys, and, of course, AC/DC. Occasionally, I'd put KL Saigal on, just to change the tempo (a lot). And Vishwa Mohan Bhatt. This way, I figured that as she grows up, she'll be used to having my music as background noise.

But now that Kid A has turned three, her musical tastes have started asserting themselves. CCR is out. Scissor Sisters and Beastie Boys are out because of the language, ditto AC/DC.

They Might Be Giants (and the album "No!") are in.

Randy Newman (and the Toy Story OST) is in.

The Jungle Book OST is in.

And there is a marked preference for Toy Story (1 and 2), which are played every other day on the DVD player, as is Winnie the Pooh.

She sings the Winnie the Pooh song, the Tigger Song, 'Fibber Island,' and 'You've Got a Friend in Me.'

All her songs are in my head, and I hum them at work.

When everyone is asleep, or when I have a free moment at work, I listen to some old favorites, or indie pop (my current favorites are the Southern Arts Society's 'Turbulent Heart' and the Sprites's George Romero. (The use of apostrophe-plus-s is correct because Sprites is a proper noun.) I enjoy the Kid A's talking, singing, dancing - she's growing up too fast for my liking.

But when I get it, I revel in the silence.

By,
Speck 42

Review of 'Nine Queens'

This is a difficult film to analyze as it has many layers of deception built into it. The basic premise of the story is very simple – Marcos (Ricardo Darin) and Juan (Gaston Pauls) are two small time swindlers in Buenos Aires (it's a Spanish movie) who run into each other 'accidentally' and decide to team up for a day. In turn they run into a swindler trying to meet a guest in a hotel where Marcos' beautiful sister Valeria (Letecia Bredice) 'happens' to work. The latter is a con artist who has faked a set of valuable postage stamps of the Weimar era known as the 'Nine Queens'. The guest is no saint either, he is the infamous Gandolfo (Ignasi Abadal) - a multi millionaire – who is 'about' to be deported from Argentina the next day.

The plot runs into its predictable series of twists and turns. The main charm of the story, though, is the fact that throughout the course of the movie and indeed till the very end one is not really sure as to who is the lamb and who is the wolf. The circumstances are too pat, the boyish newbie Juan has to cough up 50 grand (very conveniently his entire wealth) as his contribution to pull of the caper. Will the roguish Marcos swindle Juan? Or will Valeria, who hates Marcos, but is crooked enough to sleep with Gandolfo walk away with all the money? And what about Gandolfo? He has seen many a swindle in his life and indeed is a big con artist himself. The movie unfolds gradually and keeps unfolding till the very end.

The pace of the movie is very relaxed. The story is simple, so the director (Fabian Bielinsky, who has also written the movie), has ample time to flesh out the characters and develop the plot with all the side stories. Juan comes across as a loveable rogue, a bewildered, hopeless, no-gooder who is being pushed by circumstances into a trade that he seems to loathe. His father is in prison and needs 70 grand to bribe a judge to set him free. The most delightful vignette of the movie is when Juan goes to meet his father in prison. They are sitting across a table playing cards wherein his father is rapidly moving the cards and Juan has to guess the position of the ace, which he unfailingly does so. At the same time his father is exhorting Juan not to do any work that will land him in prison. The shot ends with Juan not being able to identify the ace's position and turning up all three cards to find that the ace has disappeared. His father concludes the game by saying "You wouldn't survive." This seems to be the overarching message of the movie, only one has to keep guessing who the "it" is. The other characters, too, are brilliantly sketched out. Marcos as the world weary, battle hardened, take no prisoners conman, Valeria as the beautiful, hardworking sister who nevertheless seizes her crooked chance when she gets one and Gandolfo as the playboy businessman are played to perfection by the respective actors.

The end of the movie is where I have a quibble. As mentioned before, the movie keeps peeling of one layer after another. The most apt ending, in my opinion, was the penultimate layer. (Hint: being an economist I believe the Argentinean peso is the ultimate con artist.) Unfortunately the director peels off one layer too many and leads to what I feel is a very tame ending to a delightful journey.

PS – I hope the last paragraph is tantalizing and irritates my readers a wee bit. That is the intention. I hope it will motivate more people to watch this charming movie. J

By,
Sachin Desai.

about Books. and Reading.

Some of my earliest memories are of going with Mummy to the Higginbothams in Bangalore, greedily exploring the shelves and choosing the book I wanted. Then returning to my grandparent's house to curl up in a corner and lose myself in the exploits of Noddy, Big Ears, Mr. Plod, Tess, and of course, Noddy's red-and-yellow car (Praap ! Praap!).

A year – or maybe two later, I remember waking up early one cold, foggy morning in Ambala to find that Daddy had returned from an outstation trip with 'The O'Sullivan Twins' – my first foray into the St. Clare's series. In due course of time, I moved on to other series by Enid Blyton – MaloryTowers, The Secret Seven, The Famous Five, The Five Find Outers etc. (p.s. was 'Brer Rabbit' also an Enid Blyton invention ?) My most constant and cherished friends in my early years were those books; I think I learnt more about good manners, integrity and character from Ms. Theobald, Mrs. Jenks, Mrs. Cornwallis and Ms. Peters than I ever did from any teacher in school.

For reading material more rooted in Indianness, one depended on Tinkle and Amar Chitra Katha comics and Target magazine. At that time, there were hardly any children's books by Indian authors. A lot of one's early knowledge of Indian history came from Amar Chitra Katha comics, parts of epics such as the Ramayana and Mahabharata, also tales about the buildingof the Taj Mahal, about Birbal, Vikramaditya, Tipu Sultan, Sher Shah Suri etc. One's idea of feminine beauty was also largely based on Amar Chitra Katha heroines – graceful, curvaceous figure, lovely big eyes, heart shaped face and long, lustrous tresses. Tinkle with Suppandi and Shikari Shambhu was entertainment interspersed with some general knowledge. Target was my all time favourite then as it featured lots of stories about children like me and my friends and I could easily identify with their adventures.

Once all my relatives knew that little Zenobia (yes, I was little once, a long long looong time ago) preferred books to dolls, visits from or to relatives meant more books as presents. There exists a snap of my familywith my uncles in which I can be seen clutching tightly my present – an abridged version of 'War of the Worlds'. Does anyone remember those small pocket versions of classics – I had 'War of the Worlds', 'Time Machine' and ‘Last of the Mohicans’.

My happiest vacations were in my maternal grandparents house where the attic was full of bundles of books, wrapped in newspaper, bound with twine and covered in dust; and my normally stern grandfather had given me carte blanche to unwrap and read anything. It was like participating in a 'lucky dip' each time I picked up and unwrapped a new bundle, one never knew what one would end up with. There were tons of old issues of Readers Digest – Grandpa had been a subscriber from the very beginning. Then there were the stacks of Readers Digest Condensed Versions – big fat tomes solemnly trying to live up to the dignified dark green / brown binding and the majestic gold lettering on the spine. There were old classics – all of Jane Austen's work, Wuthering Heights, Moby Dick etc – these were the ones I read, the rest were too weighty for me to even attempt ! To satisfy one's need for zippy thrillers, there were lots of Erle Stanley Gardner (Perry Mason detective novels, does anyone remember who played Kitty to his Karamchand ? ) and Agatha Christie novels.

Days consisted of sipping fragrant hot tea in the morning and reading; chilled rasna lime / rasna mango in the afternoons and reading some more; while a steady stream of snacks and meals found it's way to my stomach. Until it got hot one sat in a rocking chair under a tree or on the swing in the porch, later one moved to a spot close to the fan. Longish spells of reading were broken only by intervals of playing cards with or chatting to grandparents. Evenings were reserved for visits to the sea-side, back home for dinner and TV watching, and then to bed with a book.

And Oh ! the book inspired adventures. Like finding an old abandoned decrepit temple in a forest near our house in Tambaram and exploring it carefully during the day with friends for hidden treasure or unknown ghosts. Or starting our own Secret Seven Club to find out who the bicycle thief on campus was. Having meetings to analyse clues and discuss the progress of our investigation – we would have done a parliamentary committee proud with our lengthy deliberations. Of course all meetings included juice and snacks thoughtfully provided by a club member's mother. Apart from going through enough snacks to feed an army and keeping us occupied throughout the holidays, our club didn't achieve much, though maybe it honed our 'analytical ability and reasoning skills'. ;-)

Books got me into trouble quite often too. Once, when I was about ten years old, some neighbours saw me reading a book while walking by the side of the main road. They decided to tell my father the next time they met him, which unfortunately was at a party. I got a solid firing from my father in front of 25-30 people, to add to my misery he also threatened to cancel my library card. Another time I left an Archies comic that belonged to my grandfather's friend on top of the flush tank in the loo, and due to some thoughtless person using the shower to bathe, it got wet. That was another time I came close to having my borrowing privileges curtailed, I also got a lecture on carelessness vs. responsibility and treating books properly that I will never forget.

By,
Zenobia D. Driver

Is ‘Resilient’ the new ‘Metrosexual’ ?

Every once in a while, a new word appears from nowhere, and before you know it, everybody is using it like it has been around forever. The hottest new cliche is ‘Resilient’. Which means ‘an ability to recover from misfortune’. Since Tuesday, it must have used by every Tom, Dick, and Harry; from news anchors to celebs to activists to politicians.

Bombay laid claim to this title many years ago, when it was serial bombed in response to the Babri Masjid demolition. Since then many a small incident, like the Mulund/Ghatko blasts, the Gateway blasts and now the Terrible Tuesday blasts, and the moniker is firmly Mumbai's.

Even before the pyres were lit, everybody had been falling over each other to congratulate themselves about their resilience, and how they are able to get back to work without skipping a beat. But did we really ?

Take a look at how Bombay reacted. First, the phone companies were blasted for networks getting clogged. When calls started getting through, people ensured that they and their near ones were safe, and promptly started bitching about when the trains would get working.

The fact is, bombings are very finite acts. Either you are hit, or you are safe. And once you are safe you aren't really concerned because it ain’t happening again. It is very easy to talk tough, when the enemy has already left. The much bandied 'you can't keep me down' spirit was missing just a couple of days before when the Sena held the city to ransom. Not knowing what to expect, everybody stayed indoors. Don't want to ding my car, do I ? Going for a drive on Sunday required more balls than getting on to a local train on Wednesday morning. 3 million people travel by the western railway daily. Probability of getting hit could have been the definition of zero. On Sunday night at 8:00 pm dadar wore a deserted look. There was no spirit to be seen, unless it was being consumed indoors.

In 2004 when the metro was bombed in Madrid 190 people were killed. You know what the city did ? 2 million people went on strike in Madrid (population of 3.2 million), 1.5 Million went on strike in Barcelona (population 1.6 million) saying they were not resilient. They said they wouldn't take it in their stride. Overall it is estimated that 28% of Spain's entire population protested on the streets. They wanted answers, and they wanted action. Three days later they voted the incumbent national govt. out of power, saying they wanted somebody to do something.

Here are samples of what our leaders said: In Mumbai, the top cop A.N."Pg3" Roy came out with a blinding pearl of wisdom, "These seem to be planned attacks"(source : ticker on NDTV). Planned as in not for fun? Not spontaneous? I bet the Mumbai police won't be able to set off 7 firecrackers in 7 different locations in a spread of 10 mins. The Chief Minister : "We want the world to know Mumbai is not worried about such events." Not worried ? He was right, we are resilient. When asked about intelligence failure, he said, "Let us not talk about such things today. We need time to conduct investigations." (source : front page article in Business Line, 13/07/06) Such things ? Yeah. When there are bar dancers to be hounded, why bother with terrorists.

So go on Bombay, go back to work. Pretend like nothing matters to you. After all what is 200 people out of 12 million getting blown to bits, as long as my 8:34 shows up on time the next day. Burning buses for a vandalising a statue is ok, but when it comes to bombing trains we don't mind, we need new ones anyway.

Tiger Memon is running businesses in Dubai. Miandad can track Dawood down to marry off his daughter. We don't care. The accused in the Ghatko/Mulund bombings were let off because of shoddy investigations. Does anybody remember? Or is resilience about amnesia as well? The Israelis are still arresting Nazis in Argentina, 60 years after the Holocaust. I guess they refuse to be resilient. Bloody morons. Learn to let go from Mumbai. A N Roy will get promoted. He is being praised. An enquiry will be launched. 500 muslims will be arrested. Then Medha Patkar, Shabana Azmi and Arundhati Roy will protest that minorities are being victimized.

So all my resilient Mumbaikars, I hope we get bombed again. So that we can again engage in self congratulatory forwarding of 'Dear Terrorist' emails.

By,
Nikhil Pednekar

Too Close for Comfort

A few days ago, on July 11th, there were 7 bomb blasts in Mumbai – all on the local trains. They were all set to go off around the same time in the first class men’s compartment on different trains. The death toll is currently 190 and rising…

This is not the first time something like this has happened. Since I moved to Mumbai in 2000, there have been other such incidents as well. But this time, it felt more real than ever before…

To start with, Jai was on the train before the one that had the bomb. He caught the train that left Churchgate at 5.40 p.m and the bomb was on the 5.44 p.m. train. In fact, he considered waiting for the next train since the 5.40 was pretty crowded but he was late for a meeting with our architect so he decided to brave the crowds anyway. That was how close it was - especially since Jai travels by the men’s first class compartment. It really made me think of the blasts as more than just another terrorist attack. It made me think of the men who died yesterday. They left home yesterday morning as if it was just another day. Families said goodbye to their fathers, brothers and sons, not knowing that this would be the last time that they would see them. And we could have been one of those families… that’s what makes these blasts seem so real to me.

My maid’s daughter still hasn’t come home. She had gone to Borivili for work yesterday and that was the last they heard of her. The chances are that she is okay since the casualties are mostly male. But she does not have a mobile phone and they have not been able to contact her. They have gone to Borivili to look for her – I hope they find her safe and sound. I tried putting myself in her shoes and it was just too scary. The thought that I might have no idea where or how Ayaan was in a situation like this is just beyond thinking about… that’s what makes these blasts seem so real to me.

We were away at the new house, but our current house is pretty close to the station. My mom and the maid actually heard the blasts. Ayaan and my mother were actually close enough to two of the blasts to hear them… that’s what makes these blasts seem so real to me.

We are all fine (thankfully) – just a little shaken. But in true Mumbai spirit, we are not letting it get us down. The trains are up and working and Jai insisted on going by train today – he refused to be cowed down by these acts of terror. I made it to office too and the traffic on the roads was almost as jammed as it usually is. Never say die, life as usual and all of that.

By,
Rohini Haldea