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!