Pleased to be of Service

Nana Patekar has reinvented himself, in an effort to keep pace with the funky new era in Indian cinema. He now flaunts snazzy t-shirts, chains and caps; in what looks like a love triangle involving Mallika Sherawat and an equally jazzy Anil Kapoor. As I watch them gyrate, I think of another time. I remember the scene from Khamoshi, where a newly born Manisha Koirala, refuses to cry. Nana Patekar and his wife, played by Seema Biswas are distraught. They are worried that their daughter is born mute and deaf like them. In his agitation Nana breaks a piece of cutlery, and the girl starts wailing. It is one of the many beautiful moments in the movie. And from an era in which Nana’s work moved me to adore his skills as an actor.
But as I think of that baby crying, I think of why babies cry when they are born. I imagine some are sad that the peace and comfort is lost. Some are suddenly struck by the fact that the world is upside down. Some are just startled by the expectations and the people around. Some are afraid of the light. I imagine I was as nonchalant then as I am today about the world. But I wasn’t. I cried. I must have wailed. But I cried because I was born with a burden. When a girl once asked me to paraphrase myself, I told her that I was born with guilt and spend my living days atoning for it. It is a great thing, guilt. It can break men. And break countries. Guilt that puts us at the center of everything that is wrong. Guilt that can drive us to inaction. To a caution and silence far greater than we must exercise. And then to some more guilt from the results. But living with that unknown and unnamed guilt can in many ways, make a good life. Guilt that does not let you hurt people. Guilt that let’s you put yourself in harm’s way, so others may be saved. Guilt that robs you of the contempt that others sometimes employ so easily when dealing with their fellow beings. Guilt that makes you a nice person, else the burden becomes unbearable.

Fishing

In the ample amounts of time I have on my hands, apart from contemplation, I have the luxury of fishing and consuming the fresh catch. Most people I know who fish, Westerners and affluent Indians lug along a giant fishing rod, exquisitely crafted bait, sturdy line and that’s all part of the fun. The little fishing I have done is with “glass wool” held by bare hands. Glass wool is a misnomer, as the line is usually nylon, and is the same line we used to cut other people’s lines when flying kites as boys. The “bait” was usually a worm we picked from the earth, or even pieces of fresh meat and chicken; attached to anything we could fashion into a hook – a cycle wheel spoke, a curtain hook, a giant earring. The pickings were slim, both in the flowing river in the town, where the bigger fish were driven away by the faeces seeking hyacinth – and the lakes besotted by detergent. And it took less than a dozen crazy attempts as a little boy to put me off the pastime. A more interesting and fun way of fishing, was what I did once, on a trek to the Liril falls. The little waterfall is tucked away in the backyard of Khandala. The original name is lost to the popularity of an ad for a lime flavored bath soap; which was incidentally how Preity Zinta shot to fame. The water that comes down from the hills around, slows down to an almost standstill; almost mocking the terrible force of the waterfall ahead that cuts rocks and can in it’s fiercest season kill. The vast amounts of water that the thirsty fall consumes means there are pockets of shallow water, which are more turbulent than the rest of the gathering. It is here that we jumped into the water, waist high. The fish are not big. And they are drawn in the current that is strong enough for them, but weak enough to leave us boys standing. And we snatch the fish with our hands. It is not easy at first. But soon we had a technique. As the current swirled around our outstretched legs, the fish would be running directly between them. And we would grab them in a sort of clapping motion that started a little below the water’s surface to avoid the splash. The fish were small. 4 inches at the most. And being fresh water fish were, hardly any meat, and a lot of bones. But as we put the sherry and hammour that we fish on the platform, into the microwave, I squirm. Mostly at my co-worker, and the owner of the catch refusing to add even a pinch of salt or any sort of condiments. I later realized that the water of the sea, which the fish was still dripping of, would suffice. But I also squirmed a little because I felt a terrible sense of guilt. That life was not right. That there wasn’t more mirth. And some of it to give away. Mirth like the day I ate the most delectable fish of my life – grilled over a sputtering fire in the forest, and flavored with joy in the absence of the salt we had forgotten. Fish, that I caught with my own bare hands.

Eyes Spy

I have a confession to make. I am a spy. I have been for the last 18 months actively involved in industrial and political espionage. I was recruited by an independent espionage agency which runs it’s operations under the guise of the Big Blue, and a few other organizations. I was recruited at the age of twelve, and asked to acquire a proficiency in imitating the accents of many different ethnic and geographic groups. I was also asked to acquire foreign and domestic language skills. Hence the French and German. Hence the insistence on learning bits and pieces of Arabic. I was also asked to study the methods and means used by Frank Miller’s Batman character, also popular as the Dark Knight. In many sessions on the Freudian couch, I was also asked to deal with my emotions, as the “masked vigilante” would. I was among the many who have been told very clearly that a normal domestic life is not an option. I have worked this into my life, and go around telling people that I am unlikely to get married, because of my “personality”. Hence the profession of polygamy, open relationships, and short lived romantic escapes. When people continued to get married and realize that their spouses were also in the espionage business “conflict of interest” became a big issue in early 2005; second after mid-retirement consultancies as a common cause of both attrition and mortality. The higher ups decided to bootstrap mainstream media; result “Alias” and “Mr. and Mrs. Smith”
I was assigned the Big Blue cover when I was 15 and told to acquire a basic knowledge in geology, to aid my cause. However this was later considered a needless diversion, and I was asked to focus on gathering as much technological know-how as I could, in my pursuit of the ultimate gadget feast of a job. Hence the 3 cameras, a million recording and transmitting devices, the advanced computer that looks and works as slick as you like. I was asked to apply very selectively to other companies, in the University placements process; other than the Big Blue. There were some underhanded means used to get me selected, and I was eventually frisked away in a hurry. When I asked for a break, it was very unassumingly pointed out that the choice had been made.
How has this affected my life? I was initially trained in classy travel, slick friends and parties, and tourism based operations in Egypt. The military presence there, combined with the relative peace – and the equanimity with both Western, Middle Eastern and Eastern interests provided a good setting for an education in what we in the industry call “detached” operations. Since I went “live”, a couple of years ago, I have been to 6 countries, in various capacities. I have over the years cultivated the insomnia that is needed to live multiple lives, in one. I have an advanced knowledge of operating systems, mechanical structures, Taekwondo, differentiation, football. I can cook, sleep on hard floors, tolerate freezing cold and sweltering heat, survive without water for prolonged periods, keep my wits about me under the effect of alcohol, run 5 km straight on any given day, under any conditions. My trips home are usually short, and I am expected to spend a significant amount of time debriefing my liaison in HQ.
What spying have I done, you say? I have made 2 trips to China, 2 to the United States. In both cases after the initial field work; I was given longer and sharper assignments – the details of which I will not go into. But at least you can see a clearer case. Suffice to say, my employer is both professional and does not have any allegiances when it comes to the financial and political implications of our work. And this has been very much the case of it’s front organizations, including the Big Blue. I have to also admit, that I have never killed a man or fooled a security guard. Espionage in the real world is very different, and again, I will not go into the details.
Why am I coming out with this on my very public blog? Because I have decided to turn in my papers. I have decided to quit. And this is going to mean a major lifestyle change. I can sleep more. I intend to get married to a very pretty Chinese girl that I met during one of my missions in Beijing. I expect that the money I have amassed in my offshore accounts is going to be sufficient to support a simple farmer’s existence in South East Asia.
OK. I am joking, for anybody who actually fell for it. I thought this was very funny, though. In keeping with a nightmare I had last night. Am waiting for the next Bond film. And hoping that it can go back to some of that make-believe magic; without loosing that very human touch of the last iteration. I am not a spy. But I damn well could be.

Work

I usually don’t talk too much about my job on this blog. I am quite meticulous in putting my life into compartments and not letting things spill over. This is actually quite ironic, since I insist that work should never be so repulsive that you wait for the end of the day or week to have fun. I work “7x24x365″ as some people put it and am proud of it. More importantly it means that I also expect that I have fun and do all the things I want to, within that framework. And to a large extent all of that works out. So I am going to, for no particular reason try to break a little ice and make work, accessible to the rest of my life.
I am currently in the middle of a very interesting set of operations. I am working on an independent satellite platform, that houses a few wells, that produce gas. My part in the operations, to put it simply; is to acquire data of what is down there and in the process help the company that owns and operates these assets to make decisions. The platform is remote, in the middle of the sea, and is manned 24 hours. This is quite different from the operations that I am used to; a rig, with a large crew, continuous daisy chained operations; and accommodations right at the workplace, and a friendly galley crew. This time around though; we are put up on a nearby production platform, with an accommodation block that houses about 100 people, much like a rig would. Every day, in the evening around six, I and three other members of my crew set out to the well-head platform. We get onto a “Billy Pugh“, and are lowered down, by a crane, onto a boat about 100 ft below the deck. No amusement park can ever offer this amount of excitement. As I often tell people, two years after the first time I got into a helicopter; I still look forward to every trip on a chopper with sparkling boyish enthusiasm. I expect the boat rides to be just as exciting. On the boat, we motor along for forty minutes, about 6 miles out, to the platform; where we are raised with the same “Billy Pugh” up onto the helideck of the platform. Once on the platform we have a toolbox talk, and are handed over the operations from the day crew; who by this time have had just about enough.
Thus begins my 12 hour shift, which with the travel on either side extends to about 14-15. What I do during that time, I shall not go into yet. Suffice to say, there’s a little less pressure than my usual routine. I have a good time; despite having no connectivity at all; no phone line, no internet connection.

Websling

I finally got around to getting a photo-blog going. Will try to post pictures regularly. You can check out a new and improved photography section now. Am also in the process of putting up some more things about work and this website, to add some coherence to the work section.

Firstly, I apologize for not having posted in a long time. Since the last time I have posted, I have been to 2 new places. And home for the longest vacation in 11 years.

America

First I went to Vegas, during the Thanksgiving weekend of 2007, and had a blast. Nandan and Neisha made some pretty interesting and geeky company. Like 3 little kids lost in an amusement park, which Vegas very much is, we tried to figure out how we could win. The obsession was compelling and all consuming. I was still trying to come to terms with my jet lag, while Nandan kept making mysterious amounts of money on slot machines. Neisha tried to champion the cause of a mathematical approach to Blackjack, with late night practise sessions in the hotel. This of course robbed me of the precious time needed to walk down to the Hooters. But it was well worth it. I of course was the only one to get on a real man’s betting table and decided to go for the smallest bet I could in the Bellagio. I did walk off with about $140 more than I’d gone in, and tipped the lucky lady handsomely and with somewhat of a flourish. The excitement was both intoxicating and undeniable. Of course, the call of the chips, is a dangerous thing. When Nandan and Neisha drove off on the last day, I decided to while away my time at a blackjack table at the Ceasar’s. I lost money. A whole $340. When I called my two departed companions, they could not believe it. I gather that it took them some time to come to terms with it. A little longer than me though. The Iranian taxi driver, who’d lived in Lebanon and knew a few Indians, was a very eager conversationist. When I told him how I’d lost a fair bit of money and wanted to get out of Vegas. He told me the story of a young man who came to Vegas, with $9 in his pocket and walked off with $23 million! I wonder why I did not tip him as generously as I am wont to. And the scorn extended to the slot machines that even infest the airport boarding gates. I had had enough. But I want some more now. In the month of training that followed, I fell into another hopeless spiral, that ended my run of happiness. I rode a bicycle in an ice storm that sent Tulsa into chaos. Drove around in the pleasant company of the prettiest and sincerest woman I had met in some time. Went line dancing. And got hammered at McNelly’s.

China

After the trip, work postponed any breaks I could take. I was heading nowhere and saw no break in sight. I hit a downward spiral and was on the verge of quitting a job that promised to be so much fun. As luck would have it, my love for China and it’s women, cultivated from Zhang Ziyi‘s stunning beauty, and tempered by my company in Tulsa; found it’s outlet in a work related trip to Beijing. I was of course traveling on a shoestring budget, because I had misplaced my debit card and couldn’t get it shipped in to me in time. In a dramatic stroke, I changed my tickets 3 hours before I was scheduled to fly out. And decided to continue the revelries, which started the first night at Sanlitun and took me to the Great Wall and Mutianyu, the Forbidden City; through a journey of some of the best food I have ever eaten, beer; and among some of the prettiest and cutest girls I had seen in some time. My friend and guide; Albert, an ethnically Chinese Malaysian, gave in ever so often to my insistence on learning and conversing in Chinese. He would sit and laugh at me, as I endured excited giggles from the waitresses, the girls at the shops, the girls in the metro and just about every girl who happened to overhear my attempts at an astonishingly beautiful language. As Albert put it once; “Man, I can see how you like all these girls, with cute faces and rhosee cheeks” and later “These girls love you la, with your curly hair, you are easy going, and you try to speak Chinese.” I got stared at everywhere I went, as the cute brown boy who looked astonishingly accessible, as I later learnt. The food was probably still the high point. I did not know how to order water and consequently had beer at every single meal. And the meals themselves were everything I could ask for. From fish in oil, Sichuan style, with the most dangerous peppers to “Hot Pot”, to street food, everything struck a chord. And in all that food and drink, I shed 3 kilograms of weight. As I stayed at a hostel, and realized that the only thing stopping the Chinese girls from making an approach was their lack of confidence in their English; I resolved to return to China, and make their job easier and my life better, by learning the nuances of a language and a culture that I find almost as close to my heart as my own.

India

About three months after the fantastic trip to Beijing, I flew home to my own soil. One of the reason’s I like Shantaram‘s description of India, is because he starts off describing the first thing that happens when I go home. I long for the scent of the Voltas air conditioners that have been running for the last 30 years. It is the scent of a nation that pragmatically prizes happiness over the little nuisances. It is a scent that tells me I am in a country with colors so bright that, nothing can be pale in it’s presence. Sadly though, that scent no longer greets me, at the new half-renovated airports in India. Instead there are bright signboards, with immaculate symbols, and an organically growing slick new India. My usually pessimism notwithstanding, I was and am proud of what my country is doing and where it is going. I shall not speak of the longing and crisis that this feeling leads to. Not yet at least. Meanwhile, I journeyed to the Himalayas, passing through rude and imprudent Delhi, and a relatively low lying Manali. The first time, I threatened my well being was when we got onto the road from Manali to Leh. Passing through the highest roads in the world, I took deep breaths, to make up for the dwindling oxygen. As Chaitrali pranced like nothing was wrong, I was embarrassed. In retrospect, I realize that the fitter you are, the harder it is for you to come to terms with a lack of Oxygen, that gives you that fitness. But that does not help you deal with what it does to your pride. That of course was the first of my two major adventures. The second came when I went rafting down the Zanskar, up in the mountains. The chocolate brown water evoked my usual rails of humour. I laughed when two of the people on the other side, fell off into the freezing water. Not realizing it was the sign of an imbalance that would put my life in harms way. The rapid that they call the “Twin’s Coaster”, was supposed to be the crowning glory of the grade 3+ rapid. I remember that my last joke before disaster struck was that, the Nepali guides, in “Tintin goes to Tibet”, remarked that you must pass the rock by the left to appease the spirits. I have to admit it did not work. By some force of mathematics, we, ourselves had sorted the party into two rafts and ours turned out to be terribly imbalanced, both by distribution and by the callousness of our jolly captain. As we hit the rapid, and the raft hit air, it tipped to the other side and 3 of the 4 on the other side could not hold on. Following those splashes in the water, it is conjectured that the raft finally saw the weight on our side and all my companions deserted me for the chilling water. Chaitrali on the other side now promptly fell off, leaving me the last man in a boat that couldn’t take the imbalance, and turned its bottoms up. I meanwhile religiously followed my captain’s instructions, and kept my foot riveted inside the strap that kept me from going over the side. With my weight on the the strap now, my foot would not come loose. As I was hypnotized by red light streaming through the raft over me, the water screamed down my nose, and I blacked out. When I came to, I was on the surface but hardly a jolly fellow anymore. I know panic, and it’s inadequate to describe what was going on in my mind. I am a brave and adventurous fellow by most measures, but this broke my courage. I have no idea how I came free. My life vest was half way up my torso, which meant I drifted face down in the water. Through my hazy vision I recall noticing the captain trying to get the boat up. I ran through the next rapid in the water. Barely able to stay conscious, and shouting at whatever I could, I saw imminent death. I recall that the last time I had this feeling was for a fraction of a second, when I did a triple somersault after a hitting a tin can full of rocks with a bicycle in the dark and landing with my shoulder on a road divider, in the wee hours of cold November day in Bombay. But this was much longer. Bordering on a quarter of an hour. I was accosted by the rescue Kayak, who in the whole affair, used only the politest of English words that he had learned. It took me a full two minutes to recognize his request to grab the oar. The Oar and my grip on the Kayak hurt my thumb, and unlike brave people who turn out to be heroes, I wanted to let go, and give in to that pain. The next rapid conceded my request, and I let go just as soon as the words were out of the rescuer’s lips. I was later told that the cold dip that followed was a pothole that dragged me into it’s eddy. And I lost consciousness. Only to regain it next to the other raft, which was to pull me up. They needed 3 people, after I muttered that I was blacking out and could not move. I remember hazily passing up an oar, but that turned out to be the hallucination of man who had no pride left. Again. I remember the face. A young lady, who looked at me and said something. The memory of it was of the people being scared at what the experience had done to me. I was also later told that the only thing I kept saying, was that they should let my mother know that I love her. It wasn’t over yet though. I was put into some warm sand, assuming that my condition was the result of the cold water. But when I had the senses about me to tell them that I had inhaled water in copious amounts, there was little bit of scampering. As the Russian trio, tried to help me out and get to me to barf, I did a most astonishing thing. I half stood up and thanked them in Russian; spaceiba. Something only I could have done. I regained my consciousness half-way to the other bank. And a little bit of my pride as I scampered the 20 yards up the hill to the road, refusing assistance. I got into the jeep with Karthik; who was not half as done in as me, but was a broken man for it. I had hardly settled back to my senses, when I wanted to come back the next day and do it again. What monstrous heroism, of someone defeated by some cold water and pebbles. I will always be a wuss for not carrying on with the rafting, until I get back and tame those waters either in or outside a raft. And I will. The days after that, with the monasteries full of naughty kids, and the exquisite Pangong Tso, were lost to my photographic exercises, when I realized I had loaded my film wrong. For the rest of my India trip, I roamed about in Bangalore, Madras, Bombay and Poona. I’ve always been intrigued and proud of the friends and acquaintances I have scattered all over. I only wish they hadn’t gotten older while I wasn’t around. And I wish that for my entourage of pretty nieces, all sizes, shapes, accents and ages from 1 to 13. All gathered in a grand family exhibition. I was voted best “mama” by two of them, and that makes me only more jealous of my cousins. I found the only other person who shares my sense of erudite humor was my niece of 7. The disappointment and guilt at Gerry not enjoying her trip to my country passed quickly. A lot of people say a lot of things about my country and I do not correct, reprimand or join in. I find that it is difficult for people to appreciate the truth or lack of it, in such matters. The culture of a people can only be understood, with the patience and blind faith, that we sometimes devote to god. I will never defend my country from slander, because I do not need to. I know that it is great and more than anything else, unlike any other country in the world.

Books, Movies, Music and Games

I have been catching up on a lot of reading. Currently engrossed with the middle of “Shantaram”, and a couple of others at a much slower pace: Ramachandra Guha‘s “India after Gandhi“, and “Gödel-Escher-Bach“. I would also recommend Joseph Stiglitz‘s “Making Globalization Work“, for those who are interested in developmental economics. The best book I have read in the recent times of course is Osamu Tezuka‘s “M-W“. I am also terribly cross that I did not lap up more of his work at one of the bookstores in Bombay, but with 40 kilograms of luggage, I think it’s hardly a loss. I am also looking forward to being enlightened by Edward Tufte‘s discourse on visual representation. Another book that I finished recently, and I would recommend you stay of from is Kavita Daswani‘s “For Matrimonial Purposes“, although Gerry was sweet in making me read this and rummage through the complications of my own position in life. I am also terribly excited about my growing collection of Batman graphic novels, some real classics. And I know I can’t get enough. Have been running through some very interesting movies I picked up in Bond-like shopping in Beijing, including a box-set of Woody Allen‘s flims. Just got my hands on a copy of “Nirgendwo in Afrika“, so I don’t have to miss the beautiful film, like so many lost in time. I almost had my hands around a Bergmann collection, but that will have to wait. I was moved by the “Bridges of Madison County” a couple of months ago, and am going to avoid romance on celluloid for a bit. But of course, the best thing that’s happened in the last few months is “The Dark Knight“. A movie that I have been looking forward to. Christopher Nolan is a genius. The email I sent to Marvel and D.C after the spate of appalling superhero films, was that the only saving grace was Nolan’s treatment of “Batman Begins“. With the exception of Ms. Gyllenhal not being as charming as Ms. Homes, the movie is one of the best I have seen. And a salute to the genius of Heath Ledger, that possibly consumed his life. Been listening to some refreshingly urban sounds and lyrics from Katie Nash, been disappointed with Coldplay and am still quite happy with the Foo Fighters and the Fray. Picked up some Kailash Kher and a few Indian films. And the music is quite refreshing. Jaane Tu, was a refreshing entertainer, with very few straps. And I am looking forward to Bachna ae Haseeno and Singh is King, hoping I won’t miss them. The starkest of all the things I have discovered however is “God of War” and “River Raid” on the PSP. The first is visually stunning, tantalizing and engrossing in gameplay, and possibly the best game I have ever put my hands on. I am also unable to get over my childhood awe of the other game. Which is according to me the greatest of the haloed console games of those times.

End-Note

I have to admit, that despite how exciting it sounds, I am not traveling as much as I would like to. I am more than a little disappointed with the people, at work and the women in my life. And I don’t see an end in both regards. I turned 24 and made up my mind to do two things: talk less and throw less jabs while doing that. Although Simon would attest to my doing both a little ineffectively, but far better than is easy; I see it going nowhere. I am in love with my job. I have everything that a man could ask for, but like the king who needed the happy shirt, I need to find the answer to a few questions that are pushing me to the brink of a mid-life crisis. I continue to be isolated in my careless disdain for the worldly ways. I continue to be mesmerized by my pursuit of anything I want. But in the people I deal with, I find myself looking at the last hurdles to happiness.