And since we've no place to go...

There are two seasons in central Europe, the white winter and the green winter. The difference being, in the green winter even the heating is turned off. Winter is the true native state here, summer a divine grace that may befall it, if God so pleases. As you may well note, my obdurate refusal to cheer up about it only darkens the already dour tapestry that is winter. Sprigs of trees, bare shrubs and bushes, shades of grey and pale, somber mornings that pass into dull noons and finally linger into the darkness of the afternoon. Premature endings to days that have barely begun.

And yet, it is still magical, the first sight of it! Those wondrous flocks of floating fluffs, drifting lazily through the star studded, sea of black skies. I still remember the first time I looked up into the falling sprinkles and felt their tingling land on my face, suspend in my hair, when everything obediently went silent as if in honour of this enchanting presence. Time itself slowed down, too bewitched, too spellbound to move on. Every last insignificant, overlooked detail got crowned by it's pristine white presence, as only nature with it's eye for detail is capable of. Highlighting the overlooked, making significant the insignificant, changing the face of all that it rested on. And when the sun comes out again, if God so pleases, the stars that travelled down will now shine and sparkle on the sheets of white that cover the earth. A little bit of heaven for you and me. A little bit of heaven for those who don't believe.

...Let it snow! Let it snow! Let it snow!

Sister mine.

I envied them, the giggly breed of sister clans. Doing each other's hair, sharing dolls and shoes and secrets. Eagerly practicing their motherly instincts on cute fluffy pets, bonding further with the experience. It often gave me the feeling of a stranger out in the rain, looking through the window at the warm happiness indoors. A merry fireplace that I was not part of. I have not one, not two, but three older brothers. Among the things we shared, were the mutilated remains of appendage-bare, plastic head and torso arrangements of dolls I owned. The pets they chose to nurture were the likes of Cobras (yes, the poisonous snake kind!). They were also partners in a blood pact for the many crimes they gleefully committed. As thick as thieves.
My parents were not going to have a fifth child, so with the minimum means available to me, I thought up my own ways to fill up my presumed obvious void. One of my early attempts was a young chick. Yes, I was taking the fluffy pet need to a new level! This one would double as a sister as well. I was still congratulating myself on the brilliance of my multi-purpose acquisition, when my little chick sister got lifted off by a big, fat crow during one of our (last) sisterly walks. Oh the cruelty of it! Supper for greedy Mr. Crow was sadly her last purpose! Already delirious with grief at the brutal loss of my new found soul mate, the collective efforts of my gallant bothers' gesture, of hunting down the crow and retrieving the limp remains of my sister had quite the opposite effect than they had intended. In an attempt to help in the only way they knew how, they had lead me to be beside myself with sorrow. Normally impatient with my emotional outbursts, this time I became the object of their tender concern and affection.
When I was quite over the heartbreak, I found myself another sister substitute. This one was a bitch (literally), and kind of fell into my lap. She was born to our own pet dog. Being evidently weak from birth and somewhat slow, we decided to keep her rather than give her away to some person that would find her cute enough as a pup, but might just shun her at some point for her mild retardation. Nearly immediately she became my personal pet and was introduced into my space. She seemed like a fair enough substitute for a while. We shared the same room, if not shoes. The secrets were rather one sided too, but nevertheless I had myself a canine, four legged sister. She actually can be described as my trusted shadow for the years that we spent together, so in that way the bond aspect had worked for me. Why belittle it with further inspection?
Along the years I grew out of my need for a sister. In that miniscule way, I matured. I never got inducted into the inner circle of my other siblings. As my parent's spy, my tattling and corrupted blackmailing repeatedly disqualified me. They did, however, self-appoint themselves to the protection of my honour. So, anything that was male, on two legs and had the cheek of showing any remote interest in me, had to meet their impossibly attainable standards or had to bear their indignant scorn. Should that not suffice, there was always the definite scare-tactic of the occasional exchange of punches and the sort. And yet I have had the good fortune to have found a fair share of soul mates for one lifetime.

A friend, in the prime of life, was served with a 'fight or perish' sentence three weeks ago for one of those diseases one doesn't wish upon the worst enemy. Dispersed over the globe though they might have been, the pack of sisters united in snap. All life, duty and responsibility outside of the sentence came to a stand still. Individual families were instantly put on hold. One being, one body, that's what they formed. To build a front together, to generate enough strength to compensate for the one that had none left. It's working. They will pull through because of each other.

I think back sheepishly at my quest for a sister substitute. The power of family, of siblings, of blood is not to imitate. It is the inner circle. I always belonged.

Autumn.

One last time, in the grandest of splendor,
ablaze in a riot of golden yellow trimmings,
deep reds and greens at the core.

A testimony of grandeur, a memory meant to last.
For when the gold and red is shed,
and all is bared, stripped naked and exposed.
Remember, this is not all. There will be more.

Jal.

Bearing the seeds of our proud origins, stimulating life from the times of Mohenjo-daro and Harappa all those centuries ago, Christened by the name it bears - we come from where the Indus flows. We are headed where the Ganges goes.

These great rivers, the Indus and the Ganges, of the abundantly fertile Indo-Gangetic planes carry the wealth of our civilization, transcending the boundaries that meddling politicians laid down. As the dust of separation settled, we had the geographical advantage to retain the Ganges, the largest river of the Indian subcontinent. It's might and divinity that we venerate for it's special cleansing powers actually even has some basis in science. An unusual ability to dissolve oxygen keeps the waters fresh for long periods of time. This, and the presence of Bacteriophage, viruses which kill bacteria, indeed empower it with an anti-bacterial, self-purifying nature. One that has helped a perpetually disease ridden nation like ours ward off water-bourn diseases like Dysentery and Cholera from turning into large-scale epidemics. While these rivers provide for life and preserve it, what do we, the devout, offer in return? Garlands of marigold and earthen lamps floating out in the setting sun as tokens of gratitude to the maker and keeper? Sadly, not only.

Our offerings to the most holy of all rivers also comprise of:
1.8 billion L (yes, that's a 'b'!) of untreated waste water. Every day. Downstream, in the holy city of Varanasi, the Ganges contains 60,000 faecal coliform bacteria per 100 millilitres, one hundred and twenty times the safe bathing — let alone drinking — limit. The reading goes some way to explain why 1,000 children die of diarrhoeal sickness a day in India. We are testing and trying the limits of her divinity, and we are winning. What are we proving?
Tanneries in the city of Kanpur, unscrupulously dump 30 million L of waste water contaminated with chemical byproducts and chromium. Every day.
Besides this systematic abuse, in seeking 'Moksha', Mother Ganga has been reduced to a liquid landfill to dump human and animal corpses. It is thought to save their souls and secure their passage to heaven. At whatever price.
We have obstructed and crippled her movement and flow. The Tehri dam, Jawaharlal Nehru's vision and hope of constructing 'temples of modern India' have only accentuated the 'troubles of modern India' in disrupting the underground sources of natural springs. Small towns and villages that were previously abundant in natural water resources are faced with severe shortage to the extent of now having to pump back the water that was channeled away from them.
The state and the fate of the Ganges is representative of numerous rivers in India.

So, what's plan B?
We increasingly rely on ground water for basic, household needs. In the last 50 years, 21 million wells have been dug, 30% of them in western India have been abandoned. The underground aquifers are drying out. We are already the largest users of ground water in the world, consuming 25% of the global total. We are successfully sucking the ground dry.

We had better have a plan C!
The prognosis is bleak. In the coming century, India risks to suffer the most from the lack of water and to a fair extent we have ourselves to blame. Modern middles-class India is plagued by avarice and a thirst for power and success, and I don't say this grudgingly. We are making the same mistakes that other countries did before us on their path to economic stardom, with perhaps one difference. The effects of our mistakes are catastrophically magnified by our numbers. Whilst there is undeniably a lot of pressure for India to develop its economic potential to raise incomes and living standards, these are proving to be inimical to the protection of it's environment and it doesn't come without limits or consequences. Arrogance and ignorance make us blissfully oblivious to the tangible ineffable consequences. For us the privileged ones, it should be easy enough to picture. How much longer will we let the water absentmindedly flow while we brush our teeth, or (have the maid) do the dishes? How much longer will we 'water jet' the outdoors clean?

...it was in autumn about a year ago in the milky grey water of the Ganges near the ancient city of Raja Karna in the northern state of Uttar Pradesh. Another splash confirmed the sighting of the Ganges River Dolphin. The shy, less famous and less graceful than it's marine cousins, almost blind, highly endangered beast is on course to suffer the fate of its favoured habitat. They are the apex species and indicative of the entire Ecosystem's health. The locals know, if you see a Dolphin you know the water is good enough to drink. They see one, there is hope. How far will it swim? Where is it headed?

Are you busy?

'..hard to change it. Hmm, I think so. Keep away, that's probably the best.'
Pause.
‘..with aggression.’
' It's going to be especially useful in my new job. Language skills like mine are rare.'
Silent listening.
'..to what end I say? I learnt English in school. Everyone does. Put in a lot of practice. It always comes in handy.'
Long pause.
'..yeah, five languages. Not common, if I say so myself. I seem to have a talent for them. Turkish was nearly solely 'by ear', thanks to my Turkish friends.'
Giggle.
'..you flatter me! Well there is Italian and Spanish too. Have learnt to control aggressions.'
Eyes dart around nervously.
'Five languages, surely gives me a head start.'

11:00 am on a Saturday morning on the Munich Metro heading to downtown. The middle-aged lady's cell phone conversation went on repetitively. She repeated every fifth sentence in almost the same order. She was talking so loud that one couldn't help but involuntarily eves-drop on the dull, unusually long (she never did hang up) one-sided monologue. All of this would have been in no way noteworthy. Loud lady on cell phone. But for one small detail. There was no cellular network on that Metro-line for at least another 6 stops to come. Obviously there was no-one on the other end. This increased my fascination about the conversation itself and the reason for the pretense. There was also that intermittent darting around of her eyes. As if in appeal....
But for us, the car was quite vacant at first. I kept my observation to myself and continued to note this odd behavior. Interestingly enough, my partner sitting beside me obviously noticed the lady on the phone as well, but didn’t doubt the reality of the conversation. Instead, puzzled he started to fish out all the cellular gadgets he had on him. He doubted them - his gadgets. THAT was odd, why the heck didn’t he have any reception?? The few people that trickled in after us all had the exact same reaction. She had herself surrounded by people with wrinkled brows and frowning faces, turning their cell phones on and off, looking around questioningly and then at each other and me, and back at her. Her conversation continued stoically. Her sentences repeated, her appeal fell on deaf ears. Whatever the message was, it was lost. Everybody that had noticed her was busy looking for an answer. Busy with why they didn’t have any reception. Busy with why their gadgets let them down. Busy with why they would need to wait 10 more minutes to use their cell phones again to surf the net and check mail and make calls, whilst hers already works. In a way, 10 less minutes of keeping busy, really.

Soren Kierkegaard said that ‘Busyness’ is a state of constant distraction that allows people to avoid difficulties and maintain self deceptions. We are in an age that makes it easier than ever before to remain busy in a Kierkegaard sense.

I think I saw a faint tinge of disappointment in her eyes before she got off. ‘..yeah five languages. Not common.’

Blink.

Every morning I ride out along the river. The path runs through a couple subways that house a bunch of homeless people huddled up in their blankets. Most of them are still asleep, through the rain and in the cold. I ride by unblinkingly.
The last lap of the route is through an affluent, well manicured quarter of the city. There today, I passed a man sitting on the pavement. He was dressed in a grey suit. His shoes and belt were matched in the same tan brown. On the parapet wall behind him was propped an Attaché case, also in the same tan brown. His good suit was streaked in patches with mud and dirt. He had a head of blond curls sunk between his folded legs. I and a couple other cyclists rode past him. Not unblinkingly.
I stopped and rode back to him to ask him if he needed help. A handsome face rose from between those soiled grey pants and looked at me, confused. The look turned into a stare. The stare went on, and on............and on.  It went on so long that I was half expecting it to end with a punch landing in my face! Instead it ended with his expression relaxing into a resigned kind of smirk. And a slow deliberate 'No.'. When I turned around I realised the other cyclists had stopped and waited. They carried on only when I did.

As I rode on I wondered how my mind sorts.
The homeless people that I pass by everyday need no help, they belong there.
A man in a good suit sitting on the pavement. Wrong.

Comme ci, comme ca.

Tuscany. Rolling hills, crispy sun and Italian charm. Every time I come back here, I love it more. The Italians have managed to strike the precarious balance between old world charm at modern day pace. In Tuscany that is teamed with natural beauty. Now tuft-like olive tree plantations  forming checkered patterns on sprawling beige slopes. Now flat sunflower fields sometimes dry, some yet blooming. Now vineyards of Sangiovese, ripening in the rays of the Tuscan sun. You can nearly feel it roll between your tongue, the wine they are destined to be. Even the bales of parched dry hay rolled up neatly add their touch to perfecting this picture. At day it enchants its visitors with these in the countryside, while its cities work their wonders with the cultural wealth acquired since the beginning of the European Renaissance. At night its hilltops lined by star spangled skies beckon again. A voluptuous woman lying there, baring her curves with an irresistible willingness .

This enchanting place of magical romance and beauty works on people. Inspirationally.

In our explorations we reached the quaint lanes of Volterra (yes the city of the Volturi vampires in Stephenie Meyer’s Twilight series!). There we came across an even quainter sight. In the middle of the pedestrian path, flanked by little shops with offerings of ceramics and Murano glass on either side, was this circular mat that didn’t quite make a circle. It had a radius of about 3 feet, had it been complete. On the mat was a curious collection of…well, junk really! Odd bits and ends raided from an assortment of rubbish, all wired and strapped together to form even stranger looking contraptions. One of them consisted of two rusty metal rods each with a kink half way to from knees for the creature it was supposed to be. Fitted with large green hand-crafted bird feet. Some further coiled apparatus, whose purpose was yet unclear, protruded mid way. Pulled over the top was an orange latex household glove and a little below were some bulging wobbly eyes and yet further below a twisted length of long metal bent into a hand. A smiling man stood on the mat, surrounded by the rest of his entourage which consisted of similar such specimens. One had a shower head, an air balloon inflated out from under it and two green latex gloves on either side of what was meant to be its head - which alternately doubled as hair or antennae. There was certainly a freedom of imagination allowed. The other, a telescopic papemaché sunflower head connected to old shoes. All these were wired with little motors and thin rubber tubes. Supplying energy from various simple sources. An over-sized black hat placed at one end provided an explanation to the sight. ‘Circus comme si comme sa’.

He waited for a handful of people to gather till he ‘performed’. And what a show it was! These contraptions crafted so carefully from junk came to life, one after another. Walking, blowing, chattering, clanking. Forming chain reactions, triggering each other into motion. Painful precision must have gone into the conception, and building of each of these pieces of art. Yes, not junk, art! A German, he spoke neither Italian nor French. An inventor, a physicist, an entertainer, a comedian. He travels through the Tuscan towns providing street entertainment to anyone who would care to stop and watch. He says he lets his environment inspire him. For the rest, he believes in himself. In what he does. In creating art from junk. What pride he took in his work, how much pleasure he got from the successful mechanics of his creaky creatures.

People may stop, some may even appreciate it. However it turns out, success is already his.

A few streets ahead, at the Piazza dei Priori as we walked through the Cathedral, we were drawn by the strumming of strings, floating through the afternoon humidity, cooling the air it touched. In pursuit of the music, we walked out into the wide enclosure formed by the white and black stone striped Cathedral walls. There on the stone steps, hooked to a car battery, played a guitarist. Eyes closed and swaying with the waves of his own music. He created a one-man orchestra, strumming the melody and drumming the rhythm on the surface of his guitar in perfect harmony. Beside him and his car battery powered speaker, stood a plastic bottle of water and a lit cigarette - The only reasons he took a break from his strumming, other than to charm the kids around. His music was therapeutic. Beautiful in a spiritual way. An improvisation with elements of classical Spanish guitar with the virtuosity of Flamenco technique.  His audience, anyone within earshot; his eyes remained closed to them. He was a Spanish musician, who had gone through a formal education as a classical guitarist in Germany. Now he tours with his guitar, selling his cd’s along the way. He is his own marketing concept. He is his product.

Enchanted as I may be with Tuscany, time and time again, what do I take home with me? Enough carbohydrates to stock up for my fictitious Tour de France? That may well count as an accomplishment, considering the weight gain in time available relation, no easy feat I can assure you! I am in awe and stay in that dumb struck, gaping mouth, awed state. And then I go home. End of Disneyland tour, the ride stops. This is where everyone gets off. Either I stand back in line for another ride, or head home. To the easy comfort of middle class routine.

Would it matter to the musician or the circus artist if they were in Tuscany or Timbuktu? They are their inspiration. To wait for the person or place that would finally inspire us, is to live in the guilt of perpetual procrastination. Guilty as charged!

Faded 'Love'.

My legal love affair. The cool morning mist does nothing to prevent the pearls of pleasurable sweat you cause me. The places you take me when I sit on top of you. Of flowing rivers and wide chestnut trees, of chirping birds and fragrant flowers . Your strong reliable frame, sturdy below me. Keeping pace to my rhythm, moving in sync to my body. Thrilling yet safe. You and I are so good together.

The bell still rings out shrill and loud. After all this time. Although the bright red heart that stood for 'Love' is all but faded and gone, still the rest of the words are clear and bold as ever. Only we know how it reads, what it means. 'I my bike'. Our secret kept.

History is written by the victors

So sing with me.

Chorus:
Don't cry for trounced Argentina
The truth is they played like crap
All through the ball game
Their sad performance
They'll mourn their existence

And as for fortune, and as for fame
The German's invited them in
Now the world has seen they have got what it takes

It's not an illusion
They are the force they promised to be
The talent was here all the time
I love them and you'll love them too!

Withdrawal.

Drooling frothy foam, drawing closer to home.
Snarling intermittently, (gasp) it's coming for me!
Beast or ogre, let this be over.
Go for your kill, have your fill.

Squinting through the blinding light,
was I here today? Will I stay the night?
Tomorrow isn't what yesterday predicted.
This is the truth, I am addicted.

Plunging head first, into the ravine.
Serpent infested, the water looks divine!
Chilling and hissing.
Now I'm reveling in what I was missing.

Another day gone by, only a lifetime ahead.
Inching closer to the sky?
Or plummeting further to the dead?

The evil egg.

The doted upon only child was diagnosed with a protein deficiency. The doctor said she needed some kind of animal protein. This would be fairly easy for the most of us, but for Gujarati Jains this was like a bad joke. Let me provide some background here. Gujarati's are an Indo-Aryan ethnic group that originate in the state of Gujarat, in India. They are traditionally staunch vegetarians and can be religiously either Hindu or Jain. I won't elaborate about Hinduism. Jainism, is an ancient religion of India that prescribes a life of extreme non-violence and peaceful co-operative co-existence. In food terms, that means they are not only vegetarians, but do not even consume root vegetables like potatoes, onions, garlic etc, since these are the source of life and would need to be killed to consume these foods. If truth be spoken, this maybe the main focus of many practicing Jains in modern India, the rest being a lot more work. So the food part of it is fanatically, obsessively observed. These intricate differences, incidentally, are the decisive factor why modern day Indians still refer to origins and castes while choosing a partner. Imagine the complex institue of marriage being further challenged by Garlic butter fights!!

Ok, background provided. Are you getting why the need for animal protein for a Jain is a bad joke? But these were reasonable educated people, work had brought them to a modern thinking metropolitan like Bombay. They were good parents and now they had to provide their precious child with animal protein.
An egg, that was the solution! A neatly 'packaged' protein, it won't have to be handled, didn't have a raw messy, bloody form. They were told you could just drop the whole thing, as it is, into a pot of boiling water and it's done. So an egg was procured. A single egg to start with. It was brought home and then sat alone, in the never used circular slots in the door of the refrigerator. They didn't break the word to the elders in the family about the new addition to the pantry. That would have to be done gently. They were not ready to prepare it either, that would have to wait as well - till enough courage was mustered.
Ethnic groups, like everywhere in the world, tend to live in closely knit communities. India consists of such varying ethnicities internally, that the metropolitans, though consisting of few real foreigners, have similar communities. They are usually perfectly functioning social networks where people look out for each other, far from their cultural origins. Also a place where nothing goes unnoticed. It wasn't long before word trickled out about the egg amongst them. Other fellow Jains passed on muffled whispers about the 'impure' possession. Less and less neighbours came by on casual calls. Their friends found lame reasons not to dine at their home anymore. There was more, the elders in the house had caught on as well. There would be a lot of answering to do. As the good Jain family watched on, their popularity was fading fast, they were losing both family and friends. The egg was taking charge, silently and surely, taking control of their lives. Now every time the refrigerator door opened it stared back at them smugly. Sitting there, reigning coolly. While their world was turning upside down. If there ever was a doubt, this was proof of what such blasphemous behaviour brings upon. It was clear what had to be done. The protein deficiency was the devil in disguise. The egg it's evil accomplice. It had to go.

God bless the nice egg-eating colleague at work, there's no saving him anymore anyway! The evil egg was destroyed (and devoured) in egg hell, a sizzling hot pan!

Find your mojo. Dare to be more.

Few things unite the world like the ball. The fever, nail biting suspense and the spirit of the whole event have gripped even the ones most indifferent to football at the best of times, i.e me. Now I'm in. Hook, line and sinker!
And I'm glad I am. I'm not going to attempt making a recount or analysis of something I barely understand. The part I'm enjoying the most is how this event is serving to be a show case of daring defying expectation.

The so called stoney faced, expressionless North Koreans unapologetically cried their eyes out at the sound of their national anthem. Tears of pure unbridled joy. Probably the only 'real' team in the event, albeit for all the wrong reasons. Uncorrupted by all the commerce of profits and losses involved and insanely paid players. They were there to play football and took immense pride and pleasure in it. Resurfaced on this arena after 44 years, at the very best half a fight was probably expected of them. They gave the visibly self-confident Brazilians a run for their time. A swarm of red flies through the game, they fought tirelessly and passionately. But for a few chinese waving the North Korean flag, no other fans or supporters were apparent. What drove them? What is their mojo? Belonging to a cage of a country with a crazed ruler? Whatever it is, they have found it and they are using it.
Spain certainly had everything going for them, or so we believed. What happened to their mojo? Granted the Germans, as expected, sailed through against the Aussies to an almost effortless, hands down victory. What happened to them against the already defeated Serbians? Was it an overconfident underestimation of your supposedly weak opponent? What better advantage can an opponent be given? Sure enough the Serbs rose to the challenge and turned their reputation around, holding their ground against the mighty Germans. They dared to be more.
In spite of being knocked out (practically) senseless, the Aussies weren't wallowing in defeatism. Their bouncing right back and charging through the game, even with a reduced team, caught Ghana entirely off guard. They gave all they had, and then they gave more.

There's less than a month left of this unique atmosphere. Of peaceful international fighting. Of learning that the ball is round and everything is possible. As long as you dare.

Air.

Her eyelids were so heavy, she could barely keep them open. She stood at the entrance of the tube car grasping the pole tight with her boney hands, her brittle skin stretching over the clasping fist. A little more and it could just split. Her feet were unsteady while she stood, her feather weight too much to carry. She was clearly no drunk, just very sick, and travelling the tube. All her possessions were in the bag strung on her shoulders, a mammoth task for this feeble body, nearly buckling under the strain of it. She must have been about 60, she looked like 80. Nameless and faceless. A nice clear vacant radius of space was maintained, distancing her from the others. The people.
Peak rush hour at 8:00 in the morning, yet this space must be spared. Her lips kept twitching, sometimes curling up, forming a nauseous expression. The radius grew. She took her time getting off the car when the tube halted at the next station. The vacant space started filling up instantaneously. I waited till she was safely off before I alighted. She startled, eyes suddenly wide and alert when I touched her shoulder. Our eyes locked for a moment before I asked her if she was okay, if she needed any help. For a fleeting moment there, she actually looked fine. 20 years younger. Her face lit up, her nauseously curled lips straightened out into a smile. Just for a moment, before her eyes welled up with tears. The hospital was just around the corner, that's where she was headed. They were expecting her, they would take care of her she assured me, between profuse expressions of gratitude. Gratitude for what? For seeing her? For touching her?

Embarrassed and ashamed, I watched her totter on. Diminishing. No ones's sister, no one's mother, no one's daughter, no one's friend, no one's nothing. Air.

The moon is made of clouds.

Out of the mouth of babes comes the innocent, uncensored truth. Not vengefully, not intentionally. The simple truth, because it is. Isn't that just wonderful? Let's listen and learn.

A 4 years old's take on death:
My daughter returned home one day from Kindergarden, scared and confused, looking to me for reassurance. Her play-mate in Kindergarden had lost a grand parent and had been crying frequently about never being able to see her Grandma again. My little girl sat on the bathroom floor that evening, as we were going through the bed-time routine, and suddenly broke into sobs. Trying as best she could with her 4 years of experience and wisdom, to articulate the fear that the first encounter with death had triggered in her. 'Daddy should never die' she said (at this point I resist the 'Hey, what about Mummy??' reaction. Big of me, eh?). 'Because if daddy dies, I will have no Daddy and I don't want to have no daddy' she continued, between sniffles. At a loss for words, I take a moment to take stock of the situation. To come up with an explanation that would be as close to the truth as possible without upsetting her further. My very practical son who was playing the passive bystander till now, unexpectedly speaks. 'Why don't you and Daddy just die on the same day then? That way you won't have to live without him'. I gape on dumbfounded.
If in a diabolically benevolent way, he produced a cogent argument that I couldn't refute. My little girl sobbed on even louder and now her brother was confused as well about the continued fuss in spite of his fool-proof solution!

Accepting things you cannot change. Taught to me by a 4 year old:
It had been raining for 4 weeks on end, form April into May. Incessant, persistent, depressing rain. I was down to my last bit of cheerfulness, letting the lousy weather start to get the better of me. My 4 year olds must have been noting this, just as they note everything. One of these rainy miserable days, we arrive home, the three of us partially drenched and cold. I indulge myself in yet another rant about the weather and the rain and why it can't just stop!
Again, my wise 4 year old looks straight at me between his rain soaked black curls and says 'You know mummy, it rains in spring. That's how it is'. The part he left out was, 'The sooner you accept that, the better off we will all be'.

A 4 year old's understanding of emotions:
This was one of those times when the other parent was travelling on work. Four days into single parenting and juggling work, and I'm still determined, come what may, I shall not loose my cool. There was no one else the kids could turn to for refuge if I go ballistic on them. So I vowed to keep myself in close check, pull out all those hidden reserves of patience. That evening, while I busied myself with dinner, my daughter had painted her hand and finger nails with felt pens. Paper was apparently too boring. Then, she washed her hands (but not quite) so that the colours merely mixed with the water to form a kind of a green, blue slurry that trailed in several streaks down the white door that she had handled and was presently dripping the rest into her dinner, the rice that she was about to tuck into.
I sit there and look at her, giving her a long, dagger stare. I didn't say a word. She holds my gaze courageously, defiantly for a while and then says, 'Mummy, my heart is hurting'. I reply cooly, yet sternly 'Really baby, why is that?'. 'Because you broke it!'. She had seen through me, my cover was blown!

A 4 year old's take on Romance:
I was rushing back home one evening, as I am always rushing around, with my son in tow. It was dark, and the moon was full and smoky in it's celestial beauty. He gazes at it for a while with me coaxing him on. He then stops, looks up at me and says, 'The moon is made of clouds'. Just like that, simple and true. Not a question, but a fact. Shaking me out of my stupor, enlightening me.
Now I know too. The moon is made of clouds.

How does a bad day end?

I'll tell you how a bad day begins.
First I leave the house in the morning with stilettos and no coat. In denial of the spring that never came, of the cold, damp 10°C outside. I know you're probably thinking 'What hit her on the head?', how come I keep making the same mistakes? You see, I'm a slow learner but at least I'm consistent - you have to give me that! Maybe a coat is a necessity here, but I still view it as just a cumbersome accessory (and I also let myself get misleadingly inspired by a toughened friend who's chosen to entirely drop the coat in May).
How does a bad day progress badly?
I am a conscientious worker. I say this unabashedly. Today was one of those days at work, that in addition to doing my job and focusing on doing it well, I was given the very rewarding task of justifying why I do the job I do. Very motivating, makes you want to just drive on! In the middle of doing that, I skipped lunch, headed downtown to acquire an especially large bag of especially large clothes for an especially big, very special persons' birthday.
At the end of the work day, as is most often the case, I head for my kids. Everything has to run like clockwork from this point onwards. There's no room for any dilly-dallying. I am lugged with with lap-top-stuffed-into-hand-bag, oversized shopping bag with goods-for-special-person, no umbrella (which I forgot at work), no coat, totally impractical stilettos, bad weather, empty stomach and my undeterred quiet resolve. 10 minutes into the 35 minute commute, we get thrown out of the sub-way. There had been a fire on the line and the tube had been indefinitely shut-down. We were all instructed to resort to 'alternate' modes of transport. 'Alternate' modes of transportation did they say? Once spat out into the daylight, out of the sub-way gut of the city, we realize that the main roads and all the roads around leading to it are blocked because of this big Christian event - The Ecumenical Church day. No buses, no taxis or anything on wheels was accessible (yes it is rapidly abating now, that quiet resolve I mentioned earlier). Hordes of people were trudging stoically down the 3 km long road, using the only 'alternate' mode of transport - their feet. I had 20 minutes more till the child-care closes, 10 km to cover, and not the faintest clue how I was going to do it (Thank you for wishing me luck). So I did the only thing there was to do. I walked.
An hour later, not much closer to my destination and entirely bereft of calm, I was still walking. 
And then, she descended. My savior, my angel! She swooped down to my rescue, my kids already in her shelter and took me too under her wing.
Thank you for wishing me luck, for luck did come my way. 
How did a bad day end? Miraculously well.  

My India.

It makes me feel vaguely powerful. Being able to predict their questions before they are posed. I am one step ahead. I know from experience they can be any of six. That's India in a nut shell. India summed up in the frame of six stereotypical questions. How they read, here in order of preference (and descending order of tact):

Q1. - How does the caste system in India work?
This one is a timeless favourite. While there is some suspense left in the posing or not of the others, this one is as boringly predictable as they come. So much so, that I want to answer it even before I'm asked. The caste system has officially been illegal for over 50 years.

Q2. - How come I speak (tolerably good) English? Do I speak 'Indian'?
One may recall 'the fish on the bicycle' comparison in one of my first posts. Incidentally, the fact that the British had occupied India since the 16th Century might have something to do with it. My speaking English is one of the few pleasant side effects.

Q3. - (somewhat enviously) Is Gandhi as popular in India as he is outside of it?
What can I say? We had Gandhi. They had Hitler. How long does a political legend or villain last?

Q4. - What do I think about Bride burning (Sati)?

Sati was actually banned in 1829. 1829, for the love of God! Can't we talk about something a century more current?

Well if I must, the British did eventually pass the law banning Sati because that's what rulers get to do - make or break laws. But contrary to popular belief, they were not it's campaigners, for fear of bearing the wrath of the Indian Brahmins. Instead, they had actually chosen to tolerate this inhuman practise and look the other way for years on end. The initiative that finally lead to the law was driven by Rammhoan Roy (1772-1833), a Brahmin scholar.

Q5. - Why don't I wear the 'red spot'?

This one is actually a trap, I'm tempted to just go 'Oh, I forgot to!'. Knowing that answering this one with details like the significance of the 'red spot' or how I am Catholic in the first place and the 'red spot' being a hindu custom, would simply unleash a torrent of other questions. Like, 'Are there Christians in India?'.

Q6. - Did I have a very impoverished childhood?

In the defense of my hosts, India is new to the Germans. It is a country, unlike England and the US, that has had a low influx and thus very little experience with foreign cultures. The Indian sub-continent has practically only recently been discovered on the map, mainly because of the so-called 'Green-Card' that was introduced ten years ago to attract skilled IT professionals.

Now, I don't claim to be extensively knowledgeable about other cultures and countries either. I am, in fact, vastly ignorant. And am I as tactless about it? I sure hope not!

Lets quickly go through the some basic current facts about India. A population of 1.2 billion, the second most populous country and THE most populous democracy. There exist 22 officially recognised regional languages, several of which have their own script, of which I speak 2 (and a half maybe). I virtually cannot communicate in many parts of India. So do I speak 'Indian'? What's your guess?

Of the 9 religions that co-exist in India (4 of which originated there), Christians comprise of roughly 3%. That's 35 (odd) million. Probably comparable to the population of Christians in any European country. So what are the chances you can be Indian and Christian? Hope that one's answered.

My India comprised of a typical middle-class environment, normal and boring. Hardworking parents, striving to offer their kids all that they were deprived of. Immersing themselves to their neck in debt trying to do so. Moulding their kids futures was their sole and only purpose in life. Trying to ensure that the prerequisites were in place for their children to earn a good life and living. In that way, we may in fact be different. In how the Indian parent obsesses with the future and achievements of their children. So, did I have an impoverished childhood? No, I was definitely privileged.

The point is, while India may be all of the above, yet it is much much more. A 'typical Indian' does not exist, for that the country is too vast and the cultures and religions within it too varying and diverse. One might need to invest some effort and time to know and understand it, till such time why not desist pressing the whole of the sub-continent into a mould?

We will slowly be seen as more than the picture the media paints of us. The picture of the soiled, barely clothed child with the snotty nose. We are slowly gaining the confidence to deal as equals on the global platform, to dare to be taken seriously.

India's planning commission has recently revised it's statistics to add 100 million to the ranks of the impoverished (who can't spend $10 on basic goods every month). Raising the proportion to 37%. My brother, a bit of a choleric, fumed at the negative publicity, west bashing east. Only our failings get dragged out in the spot light, he said.
That doesn't make it less of a fact. There is some truth in stereotyping after all.

Live again. Love again.

I heard his raspy breathing as the last of life ebbed out of him. He was gone. You had loved and now you had lost.
You were strong for him through all of it, strong enough for the both of you. Fielding off all the negativity, saving up every ounce of your strength to spend it on him. It's anyone's guess where or how you recharged your rapidly drained out cells. In the privacy of your pain. And then he was gone.

It's been a long painful journey, two years. You traveled it. You have arrived.

Last night I celebrated your Birthday with you. Your rebirth, in a way. I watched you laugh, dance. The spark in your eyes has returned, you are more beautiful because of it. We had waaaaaay too much to drink, there was so much to celebrate.

Happy Birthday my dearest friend, I am so proud of you. You live again, you will love again.

Ticket, please!

Standing across the tram tracks on the opposite side, was a rather odd group of four. They were discussing most intently, something that seemed to be of deep common interest. Two portly, middle aged Bavarian men, a young attractive lady and a little girl of about four, riding impatiently in circles around the trio.
I had just got off work. I drop my pen when the clock strikes four to head to my kids, the race with time follows. I welcomed what promised to be a wee bit of entertainment in transit.
She was reassuring them, smilingly 'The ticket must be here somewhere, It can't just disappear. We just have to search everything thoroughly'. The men, obviously the ticket controllers, equally good-naturedly ushered her to the metal seats at the stop and held on to her belongings while she poured the contents out from her purse, scouring through each bit of paper chaos. She kept insisting, amid the increasing pile on her lap, most calmly that all the older tickets were right there, the current must be in there too, somewhere. One of the men watched over the little girl calling out to her not to ride too close to the tracks or too far off from her mother. At one point he even reached out for her little pink fairy rucksack and went through all the trinket trailing zippers, making sure the ticket wasn't mistakenly put in there.

I'm sure anyone who has lived in the proximity of a city has commuted by public transport, and is well aware that commuters are frequently, and randomly checked by ticket controllers. It's one of those things, depending on how well or badly your wallet or handbag is organised, could result in a minor stress situation. Invariably I'm fumbling through the contents of mine when I'm caught, as much to avoid the embarrassment of getting pulled up as the €40 fine attached to it.

Here unfolding before me was the similar situation between 3 total strangers and a child, yet neither authority nor stress seemed to be playing a part. Was it because the lady was so pleasant and not to mention lovely and attractive? Even so, there truly is no dearth of attractive, easily flustered, nasty women. She did remain monumentally unfazed and cheerful through out, and maybe because of it, drew the same reactions from what would have been her oppressors (ok, couldn't resist that exaggeration). I have certainly never come across a nice ticket controller. I seem to infuriate them with each extended second I may need to locate my ticket, while I get that condescending 'Give up the act' look!
She, seemed to be bringing out the best in them. I wonder how she does that?! I would have liked to learn, just then my tram rolled in. The race with time followed.

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

It's finally starting to settle, the ash and the dust. The European skies are gradually starting  to open up again to the much missed giant metal birds. Their assumed might, so easily undermined by something as unassuming as ash. After a six day long flight ban that brought all air travel, sans exceptions, to a grinding halt, airlines can only barely begin to clear the backlog.
I myself transitioned into a single working parent indefinitely, not sure when the other parent would finally make it back home from the other end of the world, by whatever uncertain means. Through all the chaos and disruption and immense frustration of hundreds of thousands of passengers, I couldn't help but smile. Not out of schadenfreude. I am, I admit, amused at the matchless power of nature and our utter helplessness towards it.

Earthquakes and Tsunami's and yes, even Volcanic eruptions itself are forces that can wipe out huge areas almost instantaneously, causing equally huge losses. Them, one reckons with. Ash on the other hand, seems rather harmless, don't you think? Airlines are looking at losses of up to $2 Billion for a six day ban. How did we get here? When did it become normal to actually commute to work by air? Commute by air I say, the chronic idiocy of it!! How many of us live so far away from our workplace that we would need a plane to get to work and back. Or travel across the globe for one meeting, rather than pick up the phone? Or holiday in exotic locations thousands of miles away, before discovering our own territories? Why people??

I'm at a loss for answers. Have a good flight my friends!

So, what's the score?

It can't be changed, that's just the way it is. The ones we love the most, are the ones we hurt the most. What brings about this almost naturally schizophrenic behaviour? Maybe it is nature's rule and we just don't know it. That would explain a lot.

So what are we measuring here? Endurance? Depth? Density? Intensity? And what do our results tell us? How are our caring suckers scoring? The ones that do pass our tests are sadly the ones that will continue to be grueled so long, till they finally succumb and get flung onto the pile of other victims. The remains of the people who have loved us.

So how big is your pile? What's your score?

Happy Easter, heathen.

It's turned into a kind of Easter tradition now. We pack our things, kids and all, and drive down to this quaint apartment in the town of Lindau with our favorite friends. The good thing about Easter as opposed to Christmas is, that there's less hype, less pressure attached to it. A more 'humble' festival, if you may. Much less is expected of Easter, and it seems to be quite content in being merely second most favorite holiday. Quite like the quiet resignation of the middle child. You are special, just not the most special. Unwittingly however, we for one, do seem to have a much more relaxingly happy time with each other, than we do on any other holiday. This may have a lot to do with our expectations not being set to the moon. (Why not make a note of this wisdom?)

Anyway, the tradition does go further and the kinky part about it, actually started quite by chance. I was brought up to be a god fearing Catholic. In India, belonging to a religion is like being one or the other sex, you must belong to one and you must know which one it is. Then you practice it with fervor, so as not to be left out. Being in Europe for so long has dulled that Indian effect some, but by no means diminished it. I am a god fearing something now, for want of a better option, that something is a half-baked Catholic.

So, come Christian festival, I seek the contact to the church and mass. Our first Easter in Lindau, no one took me seriously. I was in the company of 3 (+2) other Germans. They were confused, if anything, by the mention of mass at Easter. I earned their worried looks, like I would need help if I continued to show these symptoms. So I gathered that I'd have to figure out the organisational details on my own, and yet never got around to doing it! On Easter morning, I wake up with a start, realizing I still hadn't figured out my Easter service and for all I know, it might be being performed while I'm busy startling here. So I jump out of bed in a rush, pat my hair down, throw on a spaghetti-strapped summer dress (they're the quickest to put on when in a hurry!), forget to change my flip-flops, jump into the car, forget my coat (it was 4°C that morning), stop at the first steeple, charge out, get hold of the first nice old lady with church bag in hand and interrogate her, between chattering teeth, about the service timings. I realize only then, by the look on her face what a sight I must have been. The perfect deranged destitute, an Indian one at that, looking for a church! My purpose was served nevertheless. I had about a half hour to wake, dress and motivate my 3 year old twins and self to Easter service. Which I do, also managing to quickly prepare my Easter basket with my decapitated Easter lamb cake (traditions, traditions!), an assortment of the Easter eggs that we had coloured the previous night, to get blessed by the priest atEaster mass. The proper Catholic way.

We get there just in time, and stroll in with ease, feigning a no-sweat-getting-here-on-time stance. We walk down the center isle. I notice the old lady from before in one the pews and smile gushingly. I seat my kids in the pew ahead of her, staying close to a familiar face, while I proudly continue to the altar with my Easter basket in hand. Wait a minute, there are no other baskets at the altar, is everyone with a basket late for mass? I place my lone basket insistingly, confidently at the altar and return to the kids.

Yes, something seemed very wrong, because something was. It was an Evangelical church, an Evangelical community and of course an Evangelical service. They don't have the heathen Easter basket tradition. After the service when the priest wished me and my children on the way out, he looked sympathetically, deep into my eyes, clutching my hand and basket handle tight between both of his, and said to me 'I wish you all the best, the very best'.

The experience was so special and unique that every Easter, I go back there. To that very same church and attend the very same service. Never forgetting my Easter basket, the only one at the altar always. It will never get blessed.

Listen to your heart.

This will be a brief excursion into the past.
It's been five months since I've been in Munich. I'm giving Germany another go. It's September, and I'm wondering what the winters' will be like while I shiver right through this so-called summer. It will get colder, they promise, nodding at my hopelessness. How could my imagination be stretched that far? Cold, as I knew it, was 25°C. My mind or body knew nothing of what was to come.

Our first few encounters were casual, were there any give away signs of the turn ahead? We talked a lot, laughed, then laughed some more. The laughing, that was special. Something was happening here, undeniably. That's my strength though, denying the undeniable. So I denied it. It was easier this way than to untangle all the tangled strings attached ahead, attached to accepting. A German-Indian association of this kind can only spell trouble. How would you begin tackling the whole rigmarole of who's going to sacrifice what, in which country/home, for whom? Would you and Germany be a package deal? The more I think of it, the more I'm convinced, denial is a good strategy.

We liked to climb, indoor rock climbing was our favorite alibi activity to do something together without having to define it as a date. One does possibly build up an appetite after such activity, a detail we may have overlooked. So we end one such rock climbing evening, dining together. Having been longing for sea food, all those months away from home, I order something with shrimps. Did I reckon with this lone shrimp eating experience to be so defining of the rest of my adult life to date? You tell me?? What are the chances? I reacted brutally and aggressively to the shrimps that night, my first allergic reaction to shrimps in all of my shrimp-eating life! I had to leave the restaurant as my stomach started to churn and my face started to sprout into the kind of over sized swellings that would make Gollum squirm! By the time you came to check on me, suspicious by my delay, I was ashen and ready to drop. And drop, I did. Right into your arms, not quite the way you imagined it I'm sure!

Later at the emergency room and through the night I spent being sick, under your caring (horrified) watch. There was no denial possible anymore. Not even for me. The first winter of my life was warmed with young love. Listen to your heart.

-Nauseous(ly) yours!

Ja, mei!

Exactly 10 years since I've known you. The image of this 27 year old, very unusual, young man that has come to be my friend, is still vivid. How refreshingly idealistic you were, in your attitude towards the environment most of all. Way ahead of me and my times in your respect and regard for it. Still remember wondering how crazed you must be to never use the elevator or an escalator. Bounding up every flight of stairs, still getting to the top before I did, one crazy German! The possibility of ever owning anything as wasteful as a car seemed as distant to you as the end of the world through global warming seemed to me.

10 years later, are you older and wiser now? And does maturity manifest itself as indifference?

Several years ago I read (what was to ignorant me) a shocking article about the Atlantic bluefish tuna. Since commercial fishing habits began in the 1950's, its population has dropped by up to 97%. In 12 years it could be extinct. 12 years. It takes 30 years for one of these fish to reach its maximum size and weight of 450 kg. They could be extinct in less than half of that. I'm sure at this point anyone would spontaneously point out that the fate of the Tuna is not any different to that of countless other endangered creatures and other dwindling natural resources. So another one will bite the dust. So what? At least the rest of them don't end up in a can!

Well, in my small insignificant way as a consumer, I vowed never to let my lips touch another delicious piece of Tuna again. Will there be less tuna cans in the store, stocked up high, lest they run out? Maybe not, nevertheless I'll do my bit.

My beloved matured, converted environmentalist, what did you bring home for dinner last night? A Tuna fish pizza. "Why Tuna fish?" I asked. "We don't eat Tuna any more!"
"Ja, mei!" was your response!

Live to fight another day?

'He who fights and runs away, lives to fight another day.'
One can never be entirely sure how sayings and proverbs came into being or how they are really meant. In any case, what we can be certain about is that they aren't meant for selective application. More and more we have conveniently turned this one into 'He who runs away, lives to fight another day', thereby distorting the fundamental message within. Reflecting the self centered, egotistical folk we have turned out to be. Most of us that is, with the exception of a (very) select few.

It was late, very late. Well past 1:00 in the night. Munich is known to be an extremely safe city, I believed that, feeling very safe indeed as I walked to the sub-way. A young couple walked in front of me on the same dimly lit street. The man a slightly built, moderately tall person, his companion similarly slight in built, of course in a more feminine way. But for our footsteps, not another sound was heard. Suddenly, breaking the peace of night, were thumping footsteps and loud cries from male voices. Black silhouettes whizzed past barely 5 meters from the couple, from all of us. Were there 2, more? The first thought that came to my mind is, naturally, one of self preservation. There was a definite exchange of punches, more yowling. Someone was in pain. Drunk teenagers on the loose, I tried to tell myself. An explanation nicely agreeable with my conscience. Dismissing the probability of someone being in trouble, maybe even in dire need of help.
Whilst I was negotiating my behavior with my conscience, the young man in front of me exchanges a few quick words with his companion and sprints off to the group calling back to his companion that more help may be needed (or something to that effect). There was not another soul around, should the situation go really foul. As he reaches the group, in the hope of singlehandedly helping, the police (thankfully) come rushing to the scene as well. It became quickly apparent that they weren't drunk teenagers, a serious situation after all. Phew, close call for him! Folly or bravado? Must we put a label on it? Let it then be 'Hero', for selfless, and yes, irrational compassion towards a stranger.

So Hero, I salute you!

My dad is a dancing God!

Jokes aside, my dad is a dancing God. Every child admires and worships their parents with some fluctuating intensity as they grow. There are innumerable ways we ape them, simultaneously trying to filter out the less appealing traits of course. I was no exception, much the contrary. Beside wanting to measure up intellectually, spiritually and all other possibly vitreous ways there could be, I wanted as badly to dance like him one day. To dance with him. My father a successful corporate executive, somewhat ill-humored, who despite his humble origins pushed himself through the layers with sheer drive and grit, playing fairly and teaching us the value of merit and integrity, is a god on the dance floor! I seek today, after all that he has already taught me, the lesson that is still pending.

Having pointedly involved myself with the matter of dance off late, I am slowly starting to realize what it might mean to him, to people like him who derive so much from rhythm and music. 'Is it just a good workout?', I was once asked. Is dance hot because it's erotic? I would say neither of these quite fit. It is happiness, first and foremost, and rating it any less would be such a shame. The act of expressing your feelings through your body is thrillingly liberating, exhilarating. To dance like my dad is to shed your inhibitions (which God knows he could barely do elsewhere) and submit to this simple, effective form of therapy. What you feel is what you dance and what you dance is what you feel.

Yesterday at dance class, I got spun around upside down. My friends looked for me on the dance floor and found feet in the place of where my head should have been. Needless to say, a fair measure of trust must exist towards your dance partner, especially if you're planning to defy the laws of gravity and such.
So people, try and give the evaluating, analyzing area of your brain a break every once in while. Let your feet connect with the rhythm of music every once in a while. You'd be surprised, once you let it work, how damn good it feels.

n Numbers

We live in a new age of technology, advanced beyond telephones and fax machines to a digital society and internet friends. But i'm not going to attempt tackling the bigger challenge. What I wonder about, is the effective availability of a person in the end.
I recently requested a contact number from a friend, to call him, should need be. Five phones numbers and six e-mail addresses later I still wasn't quite sure how to reach him. In case of any eventuality, I was told, I should have all the options. Fax numbers, phone numbers - at work, business mobile, private mobile, at home, all-purpose mobile etc.. All this for one of me to reach one of him?

Are the numbers of ways and means to access a person (lets call this 'n') directly proportional to their availability? A wise friend pointed out, the number of communication gadgets one owns, is in fact inversely proportional to ones availability. Logically, the amount of time spent on gadget management is that much lost in every other activity, socializing included. So 'n' can't be either infinite, in which case you're one lonely, tech savvy soul, nor can 'n' be 0, in which case you're inaccessible and end up lonely as well. So what is the optimal n? Any answers anyone?

What would you do without hands?

Last night I saw a man without hands.
I had had a lousy day yesterday. A long, exasperating day at work. My partner and I were out at dinner in the city, chatting about being glad that the work day had come to an end, then went on to argue about something mundane. That's when I saw him, the man without hands. I asked my partner what he would do without hands. Prompt came a thoughtless 'I don't know'.

Both sleeves hanging loosely, swaying with the evening breeze. Otherwise, no different from any other passer by. Talking amicably with his companion. Stopping at shops and gazing through windows, yes smiling. Even laughing. Yet, how different he is to every other passer by. He has no hands. No touch. No feel. How does he dress himself? How does he eat? Do anything??
Consider the first 5 things you do when you wake up in the morning. Head for the bathroom, open the bathroom cabinet, get your brush out, squeeze toothpaste onto it, brush your teeth. How fortunate I am. How fortunate we with hands are.

I had a bad day at work, I was grouchy. Tomorrow is another day, that doesn't help my mood today. This man has no hands, he's still smiling. He will have no hands tomorrow, or ever. He's still smiling now.
Why is it we are only as happy as there are other people that are more miserable. If I was, by comparison, the most unfortunate person around, how would that affect my attitude? Would I also be the most unhappy person? Or would it still be someone who has hands, but had a bad day at work?

Tolerance towards smokers over kids?

Sunday evening out in Munich at a cozy restaurant. The kind that one takes the trouble to reserve a table at, and confirm, before hand. On arriving, I make a bee line to the bright, inviting tables set in the winter garden area. Before I settle down the waiter points out that its a smokers only area of the restaurant (that incidentally isn't sealed off from the rest of the place).
We, being non-smokers, grudgingly move back to the less privileged areas, punished for not smoking. We settle for another table, felling all but second best.

Meanwhile, a bunch of kids frolic around playfully. It only being early evening yet, most of the place is vacant and the 4 year olds choose an isle with unoccupied tables on either side.
No sooner had they started than they promptly got frowned upon, and eventually told off by the waiter and staff. Surely their parents must know that it is disturbing to the other diners to have a bunch of noisy 4 year olds goof around.

Clearly not as disturbing as having diners breathe in passive smoke with their dinner. Isn't that obvious?

First German Assignment

Spring is absconding. More wickedly, it seems to be teasing us.
So anyway, to get this narrative going, let’s travel back 10 years to the beginning.
Imagine you would be an ex-Stasi official in your mid 40’s, now living in the middle of what you believed to be the wrong side. Contributing towards your continual process of disillusionment, is an early twenty something Indian engineer of the ‘weaker’ sex, presented as a competent, qualified, consultant? Seriously?? Granted, whilst not entirely ugly and not entirely unpleasant. Still, seriously, a consultant??
Would you allow yourself to trust in something more than you have been programmed for? Would you shed your inhibitions towards the unknown or seemingly strange? I think not.
Turns out that the collaboration evolves into an entirely ugly and an entirely unpleasant experience. Wrought by a twisted play of ownership by the client over what was perceived to be the hired-hand, and a sick evaluation of price versus commodity (which in this case was the consultant. And oh yeah, no points for guessing that the consultant in question was me.)
The equation results in Mr. ex-Stasi feeling cheated for receiving less that his money’s worth, if only by the virtue of age. To express his discontent, among other things, I was also asked several times a day to confirm my age. As if the hours in the day would help in some way to add to the missing years. I was allowed to arrive and leave from my place of work only with my ex-Stasi boss as an escort…in the end I received 1/9th of what my company earned on me. So, it was at least (not)worth it.
If I may sound bitter through any of this, it doesn't reflect my state of mind. I’m Simply not sugar coating a memory that wasn’t sweet.
Well, before I confirm the popular notion of the hostile Germans, I gave this a few more shots. Any theory remains unproven until repetitive pattern occurrences make it a fact.

Let bygones be bygones?

I herewith go public with my experiences, that range from novel to bizarre to downright absurd, as a native English speaking Indian in Germany (one must note, that in Germany this combination is akin to a fish on a bicycle – just WRONG!) and more.

Ten years down the line, having finally got my act together, how far in back in time am I allowed to go to narrate? Given the entertainment potential, conventional rules may be relaxed.

While I cheer and revere and grunt and groan about the German culture, I can’t help but note subtle ways in which I have unwittingly adapted to be more German than I would care to admit. Which is why my sentences are now so loooooong and winding, why I take forever to get to the point!