Why? How?
Someone please explain to me what it is that makes an industry structured around the core tenets of poor acting and embarrassingly cheesy choreography so popular?
No, in fact don’t bother, here comes my own Kangaroo court on the matter.
You honour the case for the prosecution……
Exhibit A:
Funding.
Until quite recently, Indian banks were forbidden to lend money to finance movie productions. From a monetary viewpoint the industry is exceptionally lightly regulated and this has historically allowed for funding to be received from questionable sources. Even during this millenium the Central Bureau of Investigation, India's national police agency, seized all prints of the film Chori Chori Chupke Chupke after the movie was seen to be funded by members of the Mumbai underworld.
Mumbai gangsters have produced films, patronized stars, and used muscle to get their way in cinematic deals.
In January of 2000, Mumbai mafia hitmen shot at Rakesh Roshan, film director and father of top star Hrithik Roshan. Roshan Snr had stood up to underworld involvement in the distribution of his films and of course the “Goondas” and moneymen didn’t like that.
To go clean you go abroad. Anil Ambani’s Reliance Big Entertainment recently announced a $825-million deal with Spielbergs LA-based production house “Dreamworks” to make six films a year for global audiences.
I fancy the chances of them being almost watchable.
Exhibit B
Piracy
Bollywood has a huge piracy problem. Then again, this is a country where respect for another persons property is often revealed to be an alien concept.
Even though a film seen may seen by over 500 million people, it could still quite easily return a loss. If everyone paid to see the film legally the industry would consistently make serious profits, but that’s not going to happen as any entrepreneurial pirate would quote simply slip a few rupees in the direction of the offended authority and a blind eye would inevitably be turned.
Corruption is once again the cancer eating away at this society.
There is little incentive to invest in better quality productions when your returns remain unprotected by a pathetically inept legal system.
Exhibit C
Masala
Bollywood films are nearly all musicals. Few movies are made without at least one song-and-dance number and boy do Indian audiences expect full value for their money.
Movies which follow this predictable formula are known as “masala movies”, after the spice mixture masala.
If it doesn’t have an overly melodramatic love interest, a charicature of evil, slapstick comedy and OTT thrills all thrown in to a spicy mélange of song and dance routines, then it ain’t gonna cut the mustard with the locals in small town Andhra Pradesh.
Like the Indian taste for masala, these movies have must everything heavily accentuated.
They frequently employ formulaic ingredients such as star-crossed lovers, corrupt politicians, twins separated at birth, conniving villains, angry parents, courtesans with hearts of gold, dramatic reversals of fortune, and convenient coincidences.
Exhibit D
Talent
In Bollywood, people often become superstars just by having a pretty face or a powerful lineage.
Bollywood is home to a series of dynastic families who hold court with producers, funders and fans alike. The Bachchans, The Khans, the Dutts and the Kapoors may provide funders with a better chance of a positive return, but their prodigy usually offer no guarantee of a talent in the thespian or dance spheres.
It is par for the course for movies to feature stars with so little rhythm that it makes pre-ecstacy honkies look like they had soul. Idolised lead actors who are often entering, if not already comfortably entrenched in middle age, gyrate and step to camp choreography whilst inevitably being styled like George Michael circa “faith”.
Dance routines which try and add some "pop" influence to traditional styles usually result in the execution of "drunk uncle at wedding" moves except the leads are supported by a huge cast of hoe-down extras mimicking their every step.
The change the light bulb, the cross-the-heart, the thriller zombie, the wiggly hands. These are all popular moves which I have tagged for my own reference. All equally naff in their own camp way, all equally common.
What disturbs me is that the locals truly think this looks good.
And as for the acting? Just think “Summer Holiday” starring Cliff Richard with less double decker buses.
Bad, bad, bad.
Summary for the prosecution:
I feel no more evidence is required than a quick scan of the following 1* IMDB review for “Fight Club”:
Not the much lauded US adaptation of the Chuck Palnuik novel, but the attempted Bollywood lift of that original idea.
“My God such a film. Copy the title FIGHT CLUB and half the script and add Bollywood nonsense and a film is ready. The film starts off interestingly but then you are thrown into some good fight scenes in the fight club and then to romance, comedy, and music as the boredom sets in”
Thankfully a younger generation of urban Indians, quite probably influenced by travel abroad, are waking up to the realisation that their film industry churns out utter crap.
They are now searching for movies which reflect real life and don't involve dance troupes choreographed before a backdrop of a waterfall or a Swiss meadow.
There is hope, oh yes, but just don’t expect change to happen too soon.
Saturday 22 August 2009
Friday 14 August 2009
One flu over the Makta Pot
Today is Dahi Handi, the national day of celebration of Janmashtami, and birth of the much worshipped Lord Krishna.
Take away the big 3 of Lord Brahma, Lord Vishnu, and Lord Shiva and Lord Krishna is right up there with the top boys of Hindu Gods.
Along with Ganesh the multi-limbed Elephant headed idol of millions he is a popular, well supported God but without the might of the aforementioned triumvirate. In football parlance he’s kind of an Everton of the Hindu world, always in with a shout of the UEFA cup and often a good each-way long shot for an FA cup final.
You see, Krishna was a bit of a problem child or so the story goes. He had a rather unusual love of butter and was constantly on the nick for his favourite dairy products. Dahi Handi is a reenactment of Krishna's much fabled efforts to steal butter from earthen pots.
These earthenware pots, known as Makta , contain prizes in cash or kind and are suspended from a high point perhaps 10m high. Teams of local youths, form a distinctly unsafe human pyramid by standing one on top of each others shoulder until they are high enough to reach and break the pot.
Of course, building a human pyramid would be to simple a task so onlookers throw water on the human pyramid to stop them breaking the pot.
Breaking of the pot is followed by prize distribution. Devotees believe that the broken pieces of earthen pot will keep away mice and negative powers from their homes.
What breaking the pot doesn’t claim to do is prevent the participants from contracting swine flu.
Now, this I quite ironic given that Schools, Malls, Cinemas, Gymnasiums etc are all closed through a panic bordering upon hysteria yet everyone is happy to gather en masse, in close proximity, clambering over each other in order to break the pots.
What I find particularly intriguing is the high incidence of dacoit impersonators who have appeared upon the streets since Wednesday. These individuals, and not only from the less educated classes I might add, walk about with their mouths covered by a loosely tied handkerchief, their fearful eyes twitching this way and that, alert to any signs of viral infection floating in the miasma.
And what, pray tell, is this going to do to protect you? You are breathing in the same air only now from beneath your handkie. Does a disrupted airflow prevent contagion? Not to my knowledge.
The TV News channels (and believe me, there are plenty enough of them) seem to have a singular aim to stir the hysteria with their over animated reporting, their lack of assessment of “facts” and opinion, and their willingness to allow the ill-informed public to present their thoughts to the wider world without any questioning of their beliefs.
Even the Hindi radio channels interject their annoying 10-song playlist with “blah blah unintelligible blah, Swine Flu hai, blah blah blah”.
People are cancelling plans for the forthcoming holiday weekend in fear of picking up the virus in the countryside. Why???
My MBA educated underlings have both cancelled weekend travel plans, though one of them had little fear in shipping his parents off to London earlier this week for a holiday in the Swine Flu Capital of Europe where the rate of infection is something like 300x higher than in Mumbai.
Captain, this is illogical.
I mean what ever happened to intelligent enquiry and rational calculation of risk?
Oh yes, I forgot, T.I.I.
This Is India
Take away the big 3 of Lord Brahma, Lord Vishnu, and Lord Shiva and Lord Krishna is right up there with the top boys of Hindu Gods.
Along with Ganesh the multi-limbed Elephant headed idol of millions he is a popular, well supported God but without the might of the aforementioned triumvirate. In football parlance he’s kind of an Everton of the Hindu world, always in with a shout of the UEFA cup and often a good each-way long shot for an FA cup final.
You see, Krishna was a bit of a problem child or so the story goes. He had a rather unusual love of butter and was constantly on the nick for his favourite dairy products. Dahi Handi is a reenactment of Krishna's much fabled efforts to steal butter from earthen pots.
These earthenware pots, known as Makta , contain prizes in cash or kind and are suspended from a high point perhaps 10m high. Teams of local youths, form a distinctly unsafe human pyramid by standing one on top of each others shoulder until they are high enough to reach and break the pot.
Of course, building a human pyramid would be to simple a task so onlookers throw water on the human pyramid to stop them breaking the pot.
Breaking of the pot is followed by prize distribution. Devotees believe that the broken pieces of earthen pot will keep away mice and negative powers from their homes.
What breaking the pot doesn’t claim to do is prevent the participants from contracting swine flu.
Now, this I quite ironic given that Schools, Malls, Cinemas, Gymnasiums etc are all closed through a panic bordering upon hysteria yet everyone is happy to gather en masse, in close proximity, clambering over each other in order to break the pots.
What I find particularly intriguing is the high incidence of dacoit impersonators who have appeared upon the streets since Wednesday. These individuals, and not only from the less educated classes I might add, walk about with their mouths covered by a loosely tied handkerchief, their fearful eyes twitching this way and that, alert to any signs of viral infection floating in the miasma.
And what, pray tell, is this going to do to protect you? You are breathing in the same air only now from beneath your handkie. Does a disrupted airflow prevent contagion? Not to my knowledge.
The TV News channels (and believe me, there are plenty enough of them) seem to have a singular aim to stir the hysteria with their over animated reporting, their lack of assessment of “facts” and opinion, and their willingness to allow the ill-informed public to present their thoughts to the wider world without any questioning of their beliefs.
Even the Hindi radio channels interject their annoying 10-song playlist with “blah blah unintelligible blah, Swine Flu hai, blah blah blah”.
People are cancelling plans for the forthcoming holiday weekend in fear of picking up the virus in the countryside. Why???
My MBA educated underlings have both cancelled weekend travel plans, though one of them had little fear in shipping his parents off to London earlier this week for a holiday in the Swine Flu Capital of Europe where the rate of infection is something like 300x higher than in Mumbai.
Captain, this is illogical.
I mean what ever happened to intelligent enquiry and rational calculation of risk?
Oh yes, I forgot, T.I.I.
This Is India
Tuesday 14 July 2009
Message of the day: Forward!
Kept in the original formatting, only the names are changed to protect those involved......
Sir,
In refference to the earlier conversation with Mr x and Mr y,
for going forward in that direction,please kindly guide me how should i go forward
for the future association between the two firms on set of consent.Hope you got
the forwarded information about us from Mr x
Warm Regards
z
Sir,
In refference to the earlier conversation with Mr x and Mr y,
for going forward in that direction,please kindly guide me how should i go forward
for the future association between the two firms on set of consent.Hope you got
the forwarded information about us from Mr x
Warm Regards
z
Monday 13 July 2009
Thinking outside the Box
OK, creating and implementing a suggestion box to my mind requires several key components to make it work.
Firstly, and most importantly, one needs a box.
Now I'm not saying any old box, it needs to be a box of a reasonable dimension and scale that anyone who wishes to post a suggestion will be able to identify said box and post their comments within.
Secondly, the box needs to be clearly marked "Suggestion Box" or with indications of a similar effect.
Thirdly, it will need to be sited in an easily identified location, somewhere which encourages use, yet still offering an element of privacy to the potential suggestee.
Finally, one must clearly communicate to ones Target Audience what the suggestion box represents, how it is is best utilised, and where of course it is to be found.
Four simple rules, one effective suggestion box, right?
Not in our company, oh no.
It has taken one of my staff 6 weeks of discussion groups, ideation sessions, design consultancy, fabricator evaluation, communal group approval, review, further approval, sign-off, construction, product evaluation, further "future leaders of the organisation" meetings, and still we have no box.
Not only that but when asked about the time he has been dedicating to this project eating into his core work hours, he looks at me as if I am some kind of idiot.
"Can you not see the importance of this box, Sir? Is it not obvious to your western eyes how the minutae has to be perfected?"
I have asked him numerous times to bring the project to a close, to resign responsibility and hand it to someone in our Creative Team (Christ, this is a full service advertising group which services major accounts such as Colgate, someone surely has more creative juice than my account exec??)
Even when the discussions are predominantly in Hindi to disguise the topic from me, the handy fact that Hinglish borrows the word "Box" happens to be a bit of a giveaway.
But does Boxcar Willy pick-up on this? No, of course not.
He denies he has been speaking about it.
His denial stretches as far as him fabricating a story about helping a friend with some logo design and printing of vinyls which uncannily happen to be of a similar colour scheme and dimension to the much fabled box.
No. No. No.
Do you take me for an idiot?
So to cover for your box-making endeavour (which however misplaced your efforts may be, still has some legitimate work connotation), you will go to the extremes of creating a cover story which puts you even deeper in the shit?!?!
Why?
To make matters worse, after giving a hangover fuelled Ramseyesque bollocking, he decides to have another meeting only hours later, meaning he has to leave our office and travel the few kilometres to our parent agencies office in order to sort out something which obviously could not possibly be achieved over the phone.
To be fair he did have the sense to suggest he would go during his lunch hour as to miss more work time directly after his bollocking would he had calculated be tantamount to signing his own death warrant,
Surprisingly though, what he didn't think was unacceptable was that upon his return 1hr 45 mins later it would be OK to sit downstairs and take his lunch.
When I asked him directly if he was "taking the piss" he appeared amazed at my audacity to disturb his dining.
How? Why? What?
Is this normal or am I just mad?
Anyway, the old suggestion box should be delivered any week soon.
It seems the idea of a rocket ship has been abandoned in favour of a plain blue cube. It does look the part from what I briefly saw, but lets wait to see whether all these meetings come up trumps withn points 2, 3 and 4.
Somehow, I doubt it.
Firstly, and most importantly, one needs a box.
Now I'm not saying any old box, it needs to be a box of a reasonable dimension and scale that anyone who wishes to post a suggestion will be able to identify said box and post their comments within.
Secondly, the box needs to be clearly marked "Suggestion Box" or with indications of a similar effect.
Thirdly, it will need to be sited in an easily identified location, somewhere which encourages use, yet still offering an element of privacy to the potential suggestee.
Finally, one must clearly communicate to ones Target Audience what the suggestion box represents, how it is is best utilised, and where of course it is to be found.
Four simple rules, one effective suggestion box, right?
Not in our company, oh no.
It has taken one of my staff 6 weeks of discussion groups, ideation sessions, design consultancy, fabricator evaluation, communal group approval, review, further approval, sign-off, construction, product evaluation, further "future leaders of the organisation" meetings, and still we have no box.
Not only that but when asked about the time he has been dedicating to this project eating into his core work hours, he looks at me as if I am some kind of idiot.
"Can you not see the importance of this box, Sir? Is it not obvious to your western eyes how the minutae has to be perfected?"
I have asked him numerous times to bring the project to a close, to resign responsibility and hand it to someone in our Creative Team (Christ, this is a full service advertising group which services major accounts such as Colgate, someone surely has more creative juice than my account exec??)
Even when the discussions are predominantly in Hindi to disguise the topic from me, the handy fact that Hinglish borrows the word "Box" happens to be a bit of a giveaway.
But does Boxcar Willy pick-up on this? No, of course not.
He denies he has been speaking about it.
His denial stretches as far as him fabricating a story about helping a friend with some logo design and printing of vinyls which uncannily happen to be of a similar colour scheme and dimension to the much fabled box.
No. No. No.
Do you take me for an idiot?
So to cover for your box-making endeavour (which however misplaced your efforts may be, still has some legitimate work connotation), you will go to the extremes of creating a cover story which puts you even deeper in the shit?!?!
Why?
To make matters worse, after giving a hangover fuelled Ramseyesque bollocking, he decides to have another meeting only hours later, meaning he has to leave our office and travel the few kilometres to our parent agencies office in order to sort out something which obviously could not possibly be achieved over the phone.
To be fair he did have the sense to suggest he would go during his lunch hour as to miss more work time directly after his bollocking would he had calculated be tantamount to signing his own death warrant,
Surprisingly though, what he didn't think was unacceptable was that upon his return 1hr 45 mins later it would be OK to sit downstairs and take his lunch.
When I asked him directly if he was "taking the piss" he appeared amazed at my audacity to disturb his dining.
How? Why? What?
Is this normal or am I just mad?
Anyway, the old suggestion box should be delivered any week soon.
It seems the idea of a rocket ship has been abandoned in favour of a plain blue cube. It does look the part from what I briefly saw, but lets wait to see whether all these meetings come up trumps withn points 2, 3 and 4.
Somehow, I doubt it.
Friday 10 July 2009
Sex and the City metro system
It amazes me that not only small concerns, but large advertising corporations fail to do the basics such as answer their switchboard number, or even when it is answered have someone formally trained in the art of answering the phone with more than an abrupt “Hello?”.
This afternoon I was trying to source information about restrictions upon alcohol “surrogate” advertising on the DMRC (Delhi Metro) and failed with my attempts to get a call answer by either Big Street, or TDI, two of the main media contractors on the network.
At least my man at Times of India was available on his mobile, even if his take was the polar opposite form that provided to me earlier by a contact at Big Street.
He was quite clear (in Indian terms) that the contacts were awarded on the basis that certain categories of lewd or unhealthy products would be banned.
He believed alcohol and paan fell into this category, though thought condom brands might be OK, just so as long as they didn’t show the product or any images of people.
God it’s a different world!
I mean condom ads? Banned?
FFS, this is the country that gave the world the Karma Sutra.
Just look at the stats India..... you are breeding like freaking rabbits, yaah?
Someone somewhere is having unprotected sex as we speak. Your AIDS rate is rising rapidly and there are already 2.5 million of your citizens infected, yet still you would rather pretend that shagging isn't going on.
Are you stupid?
Actually, that was a rhetorical question.
This afternoon I was trying to source information about restrictions upon alcohol “surrogate” advertising on the DMRC (Delhi Metro) and failed with my attempts to get a call answer by either Big Street, or TDI, two of the main media contractors on the network.
At least my man at Times of India was available on his mobile, even if his take was the polar opposite form that provided to me earlier by a contact at Big Street.
He was quite clear (in Indian terms) that the contacts were awarded on the basis that certain categories of lewd or unhealthy products would be banned.
He believed alcohol and paan fell into this category, though thought condom brands might be OK, just so as long as they didn’t show the product or any images of people.
God it’s a different world!
I mean condom ads? Banned?
FFS, this is the country that gave the world the Karma Sutra.
Just look at the stats India..... you are breeding like freaking rabbits, yaah?
Someone somewhere is having unprotected sex as we speak. Your AIDS rate is rising rapidly and there are already 2.5 million of your citizens infected, yet still you would rather pretend that shagging isn't going on.
Are you stupid?
Actually, that was a rhetorical question.
Thursday 28 May 2009
I was interested to read an article in today’s Mumbai Mirror which served as a timely reminder as to how much of a pigs ear was made of the Wembley stadium construction, and how steps needed to be taken to ensure a repeat scenario did not occur with the construction of the Olympic Stadium.
In one of the Mumbai suburbs a “skywalk” is being constructed to allow pedestrians safe and easy passage to their destinations without running the gauntlet of the choked streets below.
Unfortunately the project hit a hitch when they discovered conduit pipes had been laid in the path of the foundations.
Now, this may have proved a difficult hurdle to overcome in London or other Western cities, but the local Indian contractor swiftly overcame the problem by contracting out the work to a separate agency, instructing them to build over the pipes at will whilst recompensing for any damage or indeed insults to the gods through the sacrificial slaughter of a goat.
Not only did they slaughter it, but they it there on the street. Very thoughtful indeed as probably quite a few people in the area would have been leaving home with the intention of buying mutton as a non-veg dinner treat fro the family.
Now if I am not mistaken, Multiplex, the company responsible for the timely delivery of the Wembley project were fined a serious amount of £’s for it's late completion.
Compare and contrast with the still unfinished Bandra-Worli Sea Link which though running over a year behind schedule will probably in the current market climate require no more compensation than a 3 goat, 8 chicken, and a partially atrophied water buffalo.
Now I’m no construction engineer, but when it comes to fines for tardiness, then “that’s the way to do it” as Mr Punch is oft quoted as saying.
In one of the Mumbai suburbs a “skywalk” is being constructed to allow pedestrians safe and easy passage to their destinations without running the gauntlet of the choked streets below.
Unfortunately the project hit a hitch when they discovered conduit pipes had been laid in the path of the foundations.
Now, this may have proved a difficult hurdle to overcome in London or other Western cities, but the local Indian contractor swiftly overcame the problem by contracting out the work to a separate agency, instructing them to build over the pipes at will whilst recompensing for any damage or indeed insults to the gods through the sacrificial slaughter of a goat.
Not only did they slaughter it, but they it there on the street. Very thoughtful indeed as probably quite a few people in the area would have been leaving home with the intention of buying mutton as a non-veg dinner treat fro the family.
Now if I am not mistaken, Multiplex, the company responsible for the timely delivery of the Wembley project were fined a serious amount of £’s for it's late completion.
Compare and contrast with the still unfinished Bandra-Worli Sea Link which though running over a year behind schedule will probably in the current market climate require no more compensation than a 3 goat, 8 chicken, and a partially atrophied water buffalo.
Now I’m no construction engineer, but when it comes to fines for tardiness, then “that’s the way to do it” as Mr Punch is oft quoted as saying.
Sunday 17 May 2009
IPL
Loving the IPL, loving it.
There have been so many nail biting finishes over the past week or so it's unreal.
My loyalties lie with the Chennai Super Kings.
Any franchise with the audacity to name itself after a cheap British cigarette gets my vote.
I was slight disappointed that the Mumbai were named "Indians" (like really? How did you come up with that one? A bit like playing the 'Milan Italians' or "Munich Germans" in the Champions League" huh?) so bland they don't deserve their fanbase.
Surely a more imaginative would have been the Mumbai B&H Menthols.
The Mohali based team have gone for the use of Roman numerals in their name "Punjab Kings XI". It seems to be doing alright but what a difference "Punjab King Edward XI" would have made, a classy cigar based alternative wlould have pulled in teh aspirational classes.
The Rajasthan Royals? Uh hello, anyone home?
You live in a freaking desert you muppets, it's screaming "Camel" at you.
Calcutta, or Kolkata as they like to spell it now could have been the "Calcutta Capstan Non-Filters"
The "Delhi Dunhills" is a no brainer.
I wouldn't meddle with the Bangalore team as to be fair they are named after a cheap brand of whiskey, and the Deccan Chargers could simply tie up with Duracell for simplicity's sake.
Outside of the grand show it has undoubtedly been, it is also somewhat annoying to have aTV commercial break every other ball or so it seems.
There are so many sponsors involved. DLF sponsor the IPL itself, each team has a main sponsor and several secondary sponsors, some company or other bring you the Man of the match, and hell they even have companies sponsoring 4's, 6's, and wickets when they fall.
It must be squeaky bum time in the marketing department when a ball is weakly skied towards the boundary.
Will it carry all the way to be a Hyundai 6?
Will it fall short for an Airtel 4?
No wait, there's a man in the outfield and they are popping the champagne in the Havells box.
Oooh, he's dropped it.
This complete and uttter balls up was brought to you by Cardiff City FC, "Bigger than Barca"
There have been so many nail biting finishes over the past week or so it's unreal.
My loyalties lie with the Chennai Super Kings.
Any franchise with the audacity to name itself after a cheap British cigarette gets my vote.
I was slight disappointed that the Mumbai were named "Indians" (like really? How did you come up with that one? A bit like playing the 'Milan Italians' or "Munich Germans" in the Champions League" huh?) so bland they don't deserve their fanbase.
Surely a more imaginative would have been the Mumbai B&H Menthols.
The Mohali based team have gone for the use of Roman numerals in their name "Punjab Kings XI". It seems to be doing alright but what a difference "Punjab King Edward XI" would have made, a classy cigar based alternative wlould have pulled in teh aspirational classes.
The Rajasthan Royals? Uh hello, anyone home?
You live in a freaking desert you muppets, it's screaming "Camel" at you.
Calcutta, or Kolkata as they like to spell it now could have been the "Calcutta Capstan Non-Filters"
The "Delhi Dunhills" is a no brainer.
I wouldn't meddle with the Bangalore team as to be fair they are named after a cheap brand of whiskey, and the Deccan Chargers could simply tie up with Duracell for simplicity's sake.
Outside of the grand show it has undoubtedly been, it is also somewhat annoying to have aTV commercial break every other ball or so it seems.
There are so many sponsors involved. DLF sponsor the IPL itself, each team has a main sponsor and several secondary sponsors, some company or other bring you the Man of the match, and hell they even have companies sponsoring 4's, 6's, and wickets when they fall.
It must be squeaky bum time in the marketing department when a ball is weakly skied towards the boundary.
Will it carry all the way to be a Hyundai 6?
Will it fall short for an Airtel 4?
No wait, there's a man in the outfield and they are popping the champagne in the Havells box.
Oooh, he's dropped it.
This complete and uttter balls up was brought to you by Cardiff City FC, "Bigger than Barca"
Thursday 14 May 2009
Getting a straight answer
Since moving to my new office in early April, my Mac hasn’t been connected to the printer.
I was in the UK for a few weeks so suggested the IT boy fix it whilst I was absent.
Naturally that didn’t happen.
I pulled him up yesterday and this time demanded something was done about it as it was starting to impede me.
“Have you fixed it?” I enquired
Head – Wiggle.
"Is the printer connection fixed? Can I print out? Does it work?"
Wiggle.
"Is that a yes or a no?"
Wiggle.
"Thats not clear. Answer my question and speak"
Wiggle and smile.
"Am I able to print from my Mac?"
"Yes Sir"
.....1 min later
"You said the connection was working it isn't. Are you stupid?"
Wiggle.
I was in the UK for a few weeks so suggested the IT boy fix it whilst I was absent.
Naturally that didn’t happen.
I pulled him up yesterday and this time demanded something was done about it as it was starting to impede me.
“Have you fixed it?” I enquired
Head – Wiggle.
"Is the printer connection fixed? Can I print out? Does it work?"
Wiggle.
"Is that a yes or a no?"
Wiggle.
"Thats not clear. Answer my question and speak"
Wiggle and smile.
"Am I able to print from my Mac?"
"Yes Sir"
.....1 min later
"You said the connection was working it isn't. Are you stupid?"
Wiggle.
Sunday 10 May 2009
Fear not ye Malthusian prophets of doom
In the mid 1970’s India was plunged into a regressive period of centralised authoritarian rule and corrupt government when Indhira Ghandi, having been accused of electoral malpractice, imposed her continued rule on the nation.
It is recalled as a dark time in the history of the nation, a time when questionable policies were forced through and opposition was quashed through brute force.
By the mid 80’s this episode had apparently tailed to a settled conclusion, yet I have my doubts.
If this repression had finished, how come in that case that 70’s influenced soft rock and 80’s pop music remain the sounds of choice in every “pub” in India?
Surely it’s not coincidence that by the second summer of love the influx of western hits appears to dry up.
I challenge anyone to pick out a song post 1990. They just don’t exist.
Its as if they have all the “Now that’s what I call music!” Allbums up to about Now! 12 and play them on loop.
How else can the DJ’s justify the perennial popularity of Bryan Adams, Peter Cetera and Richard Marx?
Granted I do get to hear Floyds “Wish you were here” which as drunken sing-alongs go presses all the right buttons, but this is in no way compensation for having to put my ears through the repeated torment of tracks such as “Tarzan Boy” or Rick Astley’s “Never gonna give you up”.
In fact the Stock-Aitken-Waterman production axis has never been more popular than in current day India.
Mel & Kim, Dead or Alive, late-era Bananarama, and early work Big Fun. They all swing the dance floors of the coolest bars in India together with the stock tunes of Wham!, Spandau Ballet, The Cutting Crew, The Pet Shop Boys, Deacon Blue, and Jonny Hates Jazz.
I believe there is something comfortingly in the simplicity of the music which appeals to the taste of the Indian male.
It is almost impossible for a homegrown Indian to be what we in the west would consider to be cool.
They love camp movies, they hone their dance moves in line with the latest bollywood hit (over emphasised incredibly gay-looking and usually executed with a hint of chest hair showing beneath the jewellery), they hold hands with other men and would happily be seen grooving and singing along to the Communards “Small town boy”.
Yep, this camp love of the high tempo electro-pop says only one thing to people outside of India.
G.A.Y.
1.2 Billion people and increasing?
Don’t worry you Malthusian pessimists, I think I’ve discovered a natural solution to the population explosion, and they are dancing merrily to the hits of Erasure.
It is recalled as a dark time in the history of the nation, a time when questionable policies were forced through and opposition was quashed through brute force.
By the mid 80’s this episode had apparently tailed to a settled conclusion, yet I have my doubts.
If this repression had finished, how come in that case that 70’s influenced soft rock and 80’s pop music remain the sounds of choice in every “pub” in India?
Surely it’s not coincidence that by the second summer of love the influx of western hits appears to dry up.
I challenge anyone to pick out a song post 1990. They just don’t exist.
Its as if they have all the “Now that’s what I call music!” Allbums up to about Now! 12 and play them on loop.
How else can the DJ’s justify the perennial popularity of Bryan Adams, Peter Cetera and Richard Marx?
Granted I do get to hear Floyds “Wish you were here” which as drunken sing-alongs go presses all the right buttons, but this is in no way compensation for having to put my ears through the repeated torment of tracks such as “Tarzan Boy” or Rick Astley’s “Never gonna give you up”.
In fact the Stock-Aitken-Waterman production axis has never been more popular than in current day India.
Mel & Kim, Dead or Alive, late-era Bananarama, and early work Big Fun. They all swing the dance floors of the coolest bars in India together with the stock tunes of Wham!, Spandau Ballet, The Cutting Crew, The Pet Shop Boys, Deacon Blue, and Jonny Hates Jazz.
I believe there is something comfortingly in the simplicity of the music which appeals to the taste of the Indian male.
It is almost impossible for a homegrown Indian to be what we in the west would consider to be cool.
They love camp movies, they hone their dance moves in line with the latest bollywood hit (over emphasised incredibly gay-looking and usually executed with a hint of chest hair showing beneath the jewellery), they hold hands with other men and would happily be seen grooving and singing along to the Communards “Small town boy”.
Yep, this camp love of the high tempo electro-pop says only one thing to people outside of India.
G.A.Y.
1.2 Billion people and increasing?
Don’t worry you Malthusian pessimists, I think I’ve discovered a natural solution to the population explosion, and they are dancing merrily to the hits of Erasure.
Thursday 30 April 2009
The art of the piggy-back
I visited Calcutta for the first time a while ago, and apart from the fact it was as crowded and dirty as expected, it didn’t disappoint.
The regional HQ of West Bengal and former capital of Empire was not quite up to Mumbai’s exacting standards of people per sq inch and failed to display the level of rubble I now associate with Maharashtra’s jewel. Furthermore it had a visible presence of (admittedly open air) male “toilets” which wouldn’t even begin to compete with Mumbai’s public conveniences the general style of which usually double as walls, bushes and rail tracks.
Though in it’s favour it does have something Mumbai, Delhi and Bangalore all lack.
Hand drawn rickshaws.
The city has several unique offerings as far as transport is concerned. It is the only metro to possess a tram network, it was the first place on the sub-continent to inaugurate a metro system and it’s roads and gullies are plied not by the battered old fiats or Tata’s found in most Indian cities, but by a classy retro looking fleet of ambassadors.
But that’s neither here nor there. It’s the short distance human powered modes of cycle drawn and hand pulled rickshaw that I am interested in.
Most of the wallahs working the trade seemed to have little business, indeed I only saw two in action during my stay and both of them were pulling their rickshaws at a speed approaching crawling pace.
What lazier git would chose to make another human being pull more than their own body weight in order to earn just a few rupees when you could walk quicker?
OK, maybe during the humid build up to the monsoon and the ensuing floods which hit this region every summer I could see its advantage, but on this day it was about 27 degrees and dry.
And then I thought maybe these poor folk have come up with a pricing scheme to incentivise punters to travel. Maybe the reason they encourage these wiry little humanoids to run themselves into an early grave is simple.
It offers VFM.
4 rupees you reckon? Rude to say no really.
What would you get for 5p in the UK? You wouldn’t even get the cab door opened for you let alone the engine started.
Perhaps we should bring back the art of the piggy back?
Well, cycle rickshaws are allowed in Central London, so how about a pub to pub piggy back service for the rather inebriated?
Imagine the tips!
I could think of worse jobs….
The regional HQ of West Bengal and former capital of Empire was not quite up to Mumbai’s exacting standards of people per sq inch and failed to display the level of rubble I now associate with Maharashtra’s jewel. Furthermore it had a visible presence of (admittedly open air) male “toilets” which wouldn’t even begin to compete with Mumbai’s public conveniences the general style of which usually double as walls, bushes and rail tracks.
Though in it’s favour it does have something Mumbai, Delhi and Bangalore all lack.
Hand drawn rickshaws.
The city has several unique offerings as far as transport is concerned. It is the only metro to possess a tram network, it was the first place on the sub-continent to inaugurate a metro system and it’s roads and gullies are plied not by the battered old fiats or Tata’s found in most Indian cities, but by a classy retro looking fleet of ambassadors.
But that’s neither here nor there. It’s the short distance human powered modes of cycle drawn and hand pulled rickshaw that I am interested in.
Most of the wallahs working the trade seemed to have little business, indeed I only saw two in action during my stay and both of them were pulling their rickshaws at a speed approaching crawling pace.
What lazier git would chose to make another human being pull more than their own body weight in order to earn just a few rupees when you could walk quicker?
OK, maybe during the humid build up to the monsoon and the ensuing floods which hit this region every summer I could see its advantage, but on this day it was about 27 degrees and dry.
And then I thought maybe these poor folk have come up with a pricing scheme to incentivise punters to travel. Maybe the reason they encourage these wiry little humanoids to run themselves into an early grave is simple.
It offers VFM.
4 rupees you reckon? Rude to say no really.
What would you get for 5p in the UK? You wouldn’t even get the cab door opened for you let alone the engine started.
Perhaps we should bring back the art of the piggy back?
Well, cycle rickshaws are allowed in Central London, so how about a pub to pub piggy back service for the rather inebriated?
Imagine the tips!
I could think of worse jobs….
Monday 27 April 2009
My memories of home
So we are back in India following a 16 day hiatus in the UK. There were many things I had looked forward to doing once home, some of which proved to be a let down.
Take Real Ale for example.
It was not the delicious nectar of the gods I had built it up to be in the pub-dry desert of my mind, but an often somewhat acrid tasting sluice laced with the essence of a carnivores proudmost fart.
Even my beloved Deuchars IPA was no more than alright. I found that I had missed nicely priced wine much, much more.
My memory of crisps was trodden to crumbs by the reality of their greased processed nature. The new range of Walkers “wacky” flavours was a real let down. There was some solace in Kettle Chips though the Thai curry flavour was an over spiced disappointment on a par with Ray Kennedy’s afflicted spell with the Swans back in the early 80’s
Fish and Chips were not on my agenda, though a couple of Neath market rissoles provided a nice snack one teatime.
Even chocolate was not that desirable (perhaps an early feast on Easter eggs sated my appetite?) and I was all but spent on the ham/pork front by the time we left.
There were however a couple of pork based products that retained their standout appeal.
Firstly, a couple of absolute quality Sausage and Mash dishes (Lincoln at Mrs Mash on Ganton St, and a curling turd-like Cumberland beauty at The Lavender in Clapham Junction) reminded me that when we in the UK put our efforts into it we truly have some great national dishes.
As a dyed in the wool (not “died in the wool” like the Welsh farmer who had a heart attack on-the-job) boyo, I naturally had them with extra gravy (or jus as they pretentiously described it in Clapham).
Frankly, and I mean this from the clogged left ventricle of my 30 something year old heart, let no fundamentalist Muslim nor Jew come between me and a good old bag of Pork Scratchings.
The excessively salty hit and their heart attack in a bag texture is something that I will cherish until my next visit.
When I walked out of that Balham corner shop clutching two tantalising bags of “the bad stuff”, I had the addicts sense that I was about to do something really, really wrong, but that the sorry fatty inside me was as helpless as a smack-head with a small baggy of brown.
I knew the feeling. It was pointless fighting though.
I was about to think “Sod it, sod the world, sod you all, sod Allah, sod Jahwah, sod vegetarians the world over, I want my fix and ain’t no man, no god, nor animal rights activist going to stop me”
That rustle as the bag opens the softness of the underside, the jaw aching crunch of the outer skin, and then the melee of moistening pig fat and an oceans worth of salt sending the mouth into rapture is something that no other snack can match, ever.
Britain, dead pig, and the greatness that is the humble Pork Scratching, I salute you.
Take Real Ale for example.
It was not the delicious nectar of the gods I had built it up to be in the pub-dry desert of my mind, but an often somewhat acrid tasting sluice laced with the essence of a carnivores proudmost fart.
Even my beloved Deuchars IPA was no more than alright. I found that I had missed nicely priced wine much, much more.
My memory of crisps was trodden to crumbs by the reality of their greased processed nature. The new range of Walkers “wacky” flavours was a real let down. There was some solace in Kettle Chips though the Thai curry flavour was an over spiced disappointment on a par with Ray Kennedy’s afflicted spell with the Swans back in the early 80’s
Fish and Chips were not on my agenda, though a couple of Neath market rissoles provided a nice snack one teatime.
Even chocolate was not that desirable (perhaps an early feast on Easter eggs sated my appetite?) and I was all but spent on the ham/pork front by the time we left.
There were however a couple of pork based products that retained their standout appeal.
Firstly, a couple of absolute quality Sausage and Mash dishes (Lincoln at Mrs Mash on Ganton St, and a curling turd-like Cumberland beauty at The Lavender in Clapham Junction) reminded me that when we in the UK put our efforts into it we truly have some great national dishes.
As a dyed in the wool (not “died in the wool” like the Welsh farmer who had a heart attack on-the-job) boyo, I naturally had them with extra gravy (or jus as they pretentiously described it in Clapham).
Frankly, and I mean this from the clogged left ventricle of my 30 something year old heart, let no fundamentalist Muslim nor Jew come between me and a good old bag of Pork Scratchings.
The excessively salty hit and their heart attack in a bag texture is something that I will cherish until my next visit.
When I walked out of that Balham corner shop clutching two tantalising bags of “the bad stuff”, I had the addicts sense that I was about to do something really, really wrong, but that the sorry fatty inside me was as helpless as a smack-head with a small baggy of brown.
I knew the feeling. It was pointless fighting though.
I was about to think “Sod it, sod the world, sod you all, sod Allah, sod Jahwah, sod vegetarians the world over, I want my fix and ain’t no man, no god, nor animal rights activist going to stop me”
That rustle as the bag opens the softness of the underside, the jaw aching crunch of the outer skin, and then the melee of moistening pig fat and an oceans worth of salt sending the mouth into rapture is something that no other snack can match, ever.
Britain, dead pig, and the greatness that is the humble Pork Scratching, I salute you.
Tuesday 17 February 2009
An auspicious day for a Nazi
Driving through the streets of a European city with a big fat swastika painted on the bonnet of your motor is generally a bit of a no-no in most people’s books.
If such an emblem was spotted, the driver would likely turn out to be a prominent member of the local national socialist movement whilst his fellow occupants could safely be assumed to be of the shaven headed, jack-booted, tattoo-on head type whom most sane people associate with right wing violence, flick-knives and third rate punk rock.
But this isn’t Europe it is India and this is exactly the kind of situation where the weird and wonderful subcontinent never lets you down.
Not only is sporting of swastikas approved as decoration inside homes, but it is actively encouraged to be formed as a centrepiece of display when one has taken possession of a new car.
This isn’t twisted socialism in action. No, this is religion.
Welcome to the world of Puja, the Hindu answer to the catholic Mass.
Now the Indians, being a superstitious bunch, will take the chance to bless anything they can at any possible opportunity and why not?
After all, if God (well technically “Gods” and a good few thousand of them in various avatars and incarnations at that) is on your side, then how could you fail?
So you need a bit of divine spindoctory to create a fated day for successful deal making? No problem.
Just grab yourself a string of marigold petals, light some joss sticks and swing them around a bit in a figure of 8. Dedicate the entire shenanigans to to Lakshmi the Hindu Goddess of cold hard cash, and Bob’s yer uncle.
The contract is virtually in the bag.
Don’t get me wrong, Lakshmi needs to be kept sweet, but Brahma, Vishnu and Shiva are the boys who really pull the strings around here and if you are in the know you can just keep that triumvirate onside and you will be full to the brim of positive auspiciousness.
Needless to say it was with great false enthusiasm and a sizeable dose of atheistic rooted scepticism that I agreed to partake in the Puja blessing of the new Honda Civic that sat was in the parking lot of our office block awaiting our gaze.
Apart from the fact I found it difficult to justify finger painting the pristine bodywork of a factory fresh piece of sleek Japanese engineering, I couldn’t really fathom out how dangling some chillies from the number plate would give us an against-the-odds advantage of avoiding disaster on the horn crazed dodgem track of Mumbai’s roads.
To be fair, the biscuit Sue had precariously balanced beneath the badge was poised in an act of almost miraculous wonder, whilst getting me to drive a couple of feet forward and then immediately reverse back to my starting position in order to ensure the good will of the Gods toward our automobile did seem to provide me with an aura of protected existence, but why the hell we had to crack a coconut with bare hands on a loose rubble and then pour the remaining milk over the bonnet was quite frankly beyond me.
Alas, my scepticism was misplaced.
We made the journey home in good time (just a tad on the wrong side of 1 hour 5 minutes) and didn’t even come so much as close to a collision wit another vehicle.
Quite remarkable!
I am planning a second Puja upon my return from Calcutta later this week.
This time I am going to call on all the gods in all their Avatar forms to put all their other worldly efforts into discouraging teams of beggars from scratching at the pristine paintwork.
For months I was pretty tolerant to their actions as we buzzed around the city in a burgundy Tata Indica which was beginning to show signs of premature ageing.
The shiny silver sheen of the Civic seems to act as a magnet to the 7pm shift at every junction we stop at, though the hawker with the slightly sinister cartoon animal masks seems less inclined to approach my window cock his head and then blow the party whistle with an uninvited shriek.
I guess you can’t have your cake and eat it.
If such an emblem was spotted, the driver would likely turn out to be a prominent member of the local national socialist movement whilst his fellow occupants could safely be assumed to be of the shaven headed, jack-booted, tattoo-on head type whom most sane people associate with right wing violence, flick-knives and third rate punk rock.
But this isn’t Europe it is India and this is exactly the kind of situation where the weird and wonderful subcontinent never lets you down.
Not only is sporting of swastikas approved as decoration inside homes, but it is actively encouraged to be formed as a centrepiece of display when one has taken possession of a new car.
This isn’t twisted socialism in action. No, this is religion.
Welcome to the world of Puja, the Hindu answer to the catholic Mass.
Now the Indians, being a superstitious bunch, will take the chance to bless anything they can at any possible opportunity and why not?
After all, if God (well technically “Gods” and a good few thousand of them in various avatars and incarnations at that) is on your side, then how could you fail?
So you need a bit of divine spindoctory to create a fated day for successful deal making? No problem.
Just grab yourself a string of marigold petals, light some joss sticks and swing them around a bit in a figure of 8. Dedicate the entire shenanigans to to Lakshmi the Hindu Goddess of cold hard cash, and Bob’s yer uncle.
The contract is virtually in the bag.
Don’t get me wrong, Lakshmi needs to be kept sweet, but Brahma, Vishnu and Shiva are the boys who really pull the strings around here and if you are in the know you can just keep that triumvirate onside and you will be full to the brim of positive auspiciousness.
Needless to say it was with great false enthusiasm and a sizeable dose of atheistic rooted scepticism that I agreed to partake in the Puja blessing of the new Honda Civic that sat was in the parking lot of our office block awaiting our gaze.
Apart from the fact I found it difficult to justify finger painting the pristine bodywork of a factory fresh piece of sleek Japanese engineering, I couldn’t really fathom out how dangling some chillies from the number plate would give us an against-the-odds advantage of avoiding disaster on the horn crazed dodgem track of Mumbai’s roads.
To be fair, the biscuit Sue had precariously balanced beneath the badge was poised in an act of almost miraculous wonder, whilst getting me to drive a couple of feet forward and then immediately reverse back to my starting position in order to ensure the good will of the Gods toward our automobile did seem to provide me with an aura of protected existence, but why the hell we had to crack a coconut with bare hands on a loose rubble and then pour the remaining milk over the bonnet was quite frankly beyond me.
Alas, my scepticism was misplaced.
We made the journey home in good time (just a tad on the wrong side of 1 hour 5 minutes) and didn’t even come so much as close to a collision wit another vehicle.
Quite remarkable!
I am planning a second Puja upon my return from Calcutta later this week.
This time I am going to call on all the gods in all their Avatar forms to put all their other worldly efforts into discouraging teams of beggars from scratching at the pristine paintwork.
For months I was pretty tolerant to their actions as we buzzed around the city in a burgundy Tata Indica which was beginning to show signs of premature ageing.
The shiny silver sheen of the Civic seems to act as a magnet to the 7pm shift at every junction we stop at, though the hawker with the slightly sinister cartoon animal masks seems less inclined to approach my window cock his head and then blow the party whistle with an uninvited shriek.
I guess you can’t have your cake and eat it.
Addendum: The Mumbai Messiah
Ah well, just like the Christians, it looks like the Mumbaikers are going to have to wait.
The deadline for the final bid round of Metro line 2 passed last week and the winner was.....(drum roll)
Nobody!
A flat zero applications.
Nada.
Nil-point.
L'oeuf.
eh-uh (as per family fortunes)
What a freaking surprise.
Seems like the credit crunch is even stretching to the backsheesh......
The deadline for the final bid round of Metro line 2 passed last week and the winner was.....(drum roll)
Nobody!
A flat zero applications.
Nada.
Nil-point.
L'oeuf.
eh-uh (as per family fortunes)
What a freaking surprise.
Seems like the credit crunch is even stretching to the backsheesh......
Wednesday 21 January 2009
The Health & Safety Executive bid process
Composing my fog rant led me to thinking about Health & Safety within India, or moreover, the lack of it.
India has an unusual parliamentary system in so far as a cabinet minster will openly pay for a prime Governmental portfolio.
Elsewhere in the world this would rightly be seen as opening the door to corruption. After all, why pay for a position unless it offers good returns?
This enigmatic process seems to be accepted as par for the course, thus leading to a systematic trickle down effect through the layers of Government and business via payment of bribes or wheel greasing “backsheesh” as it is known colloquially.
The WIIFM factor (What’s in it for me?) is so ubiquitous you can almost hear it grinding the economic brakes as it paves a cowboy path to inefficiency.
Illegally sited hoardings for local activists are found at every other road junction with the untrustworthy faces of moustached, jowly politicians staring outwards towards the teeming masses almost threatening them to vote their way.
So, given this blatant corruption we are left with two feasible hypothesis(es) .....plural alert! plural alert!..... to explain the HSE situation:
1. The minister in question has paid so much for his post any company or corporation can buy their way around the legal framework.
2. The portfolio was so unattractive that no minister bid for it meaning there is no such thing as an Indian HSE
Either way, it fails to make living in India an appealing option for the risk-averse.
India has an unusual parliamentary system in so far as a cabinet minster will openly pay for a prime Governmental portfolio.
Elsewhere in the world this would rightly be seen as opening the door to corruption. After all, why pay for a position unless it offers good returns?
This enigmatic process seems to be accepted as par for the course, thus leading to a systematic trickle down effect through the layers of Government and business via payment of bribes or wheel greasing “backsheesh” as it is known colloquially.
The WIIFM factor (What’s in it for me?) is so ubiquitous you can almost hear it grinding the economic brakes as it paves a cowboy path to inefficiency.
Illegally sited hoardings for local activists are found at every other road junction with the untrustworthy faces of moustached, jowly politicians staring outwards towards the teeming masses almost threatening them to vote their way.
So, given this blatant corruption we are left with two feasible hypothesis(es) .....plural alert! plural alert!..... to explain the HSE situation:
1. The minister in question has paid so much for his post any company or corporation can buy their way around the legal framework.
2. The portfolio was so unattractive that no minister bid for it meaning there is no such thing as an Indian HSE
Either way, it fails to make living in India an appealing option for the risk-averse.
Tuesday 20 January 2009
Fog
With India being a country of virtual continental expanse, it should come as no surprise to discover that the weather at one extremity can be entirely different from that in a distant location.
In European terms, think journeying from Turkey to Finland and I guess you are somewhere in the ball park.
January in Mumbai has seen temperatures hovering around a pleasant 32 degrees in the day with humidity quite acceptable. Perfect pool weather really.
Winters in Delhi on the other hand can be chilled cold air sliding down from the Himalayas across the Gangetic plains.
The inevitable result of this is fog. Thick fog.
My flight to Delhi last week was delayed due to a heavy duvet of moisture which had settled over Northern India.
Wednesday, Thursday and Friday thankfully offered clearer skies and crisp, almost spring like weather.
On the Saturday Sue and I ventured from Delhi to Agra, a 4.5 hour road journey through the poor backlands of Uttar Pradesh to the feted ex-capital of Shah Jahans Moghul Empire.
Agra is was where Shah Jahan left his mark before shifting his capital to Delhi, but it retains more than it’s fair share of historical notage, nothing so more than being home to the Taj Mahal.
The marble monument to love is a mausoleum dedicated to his favourite wife and is billed as the most beautiful structure ever created by man. Don’t get me wrong, the North Bank at Vetch Field came a close second, but at the end of the day it’s toilet facilities were a bit, well, pissy.
Given the nature of the architectural behemoth and all the mythology of love surrounding it, we decided to push the boat out and stay at the Oberoi Hotel which at a mere 600M distance commanded spectacular views from its lofted position atop of a slight incline.
The hotel is the nearest of the top end options to the Taj Mahal itself and being surrounded by beautiful gardens with all rooms offering a Taj Mahal view, it is able to charge a significant mark up of £350pn for a room.
Now, this isn’t my usual price category and I would usually be searching for a figure with the “3” lopped off the front, but as I say, it did command unparalleled views of the Taj Mahal and it was a once in a lifetime opportunity to stay in a place offering such 5* splendour.
Imagine the excited knot in my stomach then when on the Sunday morning I rose around dawn to a faintly familiar light. It was like the light of a snowy winters morning.
I drew back the curtains and there it was…..
Fog.
Thick, smothering, all encapsulating fog.
Views of the Taj Mahal? This not so fine morning my £350 didn’t even get me a view of the garden.
The fog was so thick it was impossible to make out anything beyond the balcony. What a bummer.
We decided to have breakfast in bed (not inclusive) and wait for the fog to lift.
I checked every half hour and by 9.30 there it was, just about visible to the naked 20:20 eye.
My £350 view in all it’s glory.
Now this fog, thick though it may have been, wasn’t the thickest fog I had experienced during the week.
No, the title of “Fog of the Week” went to an unexpected cloud which descended upon our offices on the Monday lunchtime.
Someone from the Mumbia Corporation had given licence to a likely ill-educated local to approach any buildings in the area without prior warning and spray toxic insecticide inside and out.
Sat as I was on the mezzanine level I had to feel my way through the choking fumes, part blinded by the sting of the gas.
All but two of my work colleagues found it very funny. Nobody seemed to be considering the fact that this was likely causing damage to eyes, skin and respiratory system.
As soon as they could tolerate the fumes they went back inside and continued their lunches.
Sue, a wise young lady from our design team and myself decided to stay outside in the relatively fresh Mumbai air in order to give our bronchi and bronchioles at least a fighting chance.
T.I.I. as the phrase goes.
This is India.
In European terms, think journeying from Turkey to Finland and I guess you are somewhere in the ball park.
January in Mumbai has seen temperatures hovering around a pleasant 32 degrees in the day with humidity quite acceptable. Perfect pool weather really.
Winters in Delhi on the other hand can be chilled cold air sliding down from the Himalayas across the Gangetic plains.
The inevitable result of this is fog. Thick fog.
My flight to Delhi last week was delayed due to a heavy duvet of moisture which had settled over Northern India.
Wednesday, Thursday and Friday thankfully offered clearer skies and crisp, almost spring like weather.
On the Saturday Sue and I ventured from Delhi to Agra, a 4.5 hour road journey through the poor backlands of Uttar Pradesh to the feted ex-capital of Shah Jahans Moghul Empire.
Agra is was where Shah Jahan left his mark before shifting his capital to Delhi, but it retains more than it’s fair share of historical notage, nothing so more than being home to the Taj Mahal.
The marble monument to love is a mausoleum dedicated to his favourite wife and is billed as the most beautiful structure ever created by man. Don’t get me wrong, the North Bank at Vetch Field came a close second, but at the end of the day it’s toilet facilities were a bit, well, pissy.
Given the nature of the architectural behemoth and all the mythology of love surrounding it, we decided to push the boat out and stay at the Oberoi Hotel which at a mere 600M distance commanded spectacular views from its lofted position atop of a slight incline.
The hotel is the nearest of the top end options to the Taj Mahal itself and being surrounded by beautiful gardens with all rooms offering a Taj Mahal view, it is able to charge a significant mark up of £350pn for a room.
Now, this isn’t my usual price category and I would usually be searching for a figure with the “3” lopped off the front, but as I say, it did command unparalleled views of the Taj Mahal and it was a once in a lifetime opportunity to stay in a place offering such 5* splendour.
Imagine the excited knot in my stomach then when on the Sunday morning I rose around dawn to a faintly familiar light. It was like the light of a snowy winters morning.
I drew back the curtains and there it was…..
Fog.
Thick, smothering, all encapsulating fog.
Views of the Taj Mahal? This not so fine morning my £350 didn’t even get me a view of the garden.
The fog was so thick it was impossible to make out anything beyond the balcony. What a bummer.
We decided to have breakfast in bed (not inclusive) and wait for the fog to lift.
I checked every half hour and by 9.30 there it was, just about visible to the naked 20:20 eye.
My £350 view in all it’s glory.
Now this fog, thick though it may have been, wasn’t the thickest fog I had experienced during the week.
No, the title of “Fog of the Week” went to an unexpected cloud which descended upon our offices on the Monday lunchtime.
Someone from the Mumbia Corporation had given licence to a likely ill-educated local to approach any buildings in the area without prior warning and spray toxic insecticide inside and out.
Sat as I was on the mezzanine level I had to feel my way through the choking fumes, part blinded by the sting of the gas.
All but two of my work colleagues found it very funny. Nobody seemed to be considering the fact that this was likely causing damage to eyes, skin and respiratory system.
As soon as they could tolerate the fumes they went back inside and continued their lunches.
Sue, a wise young lady from our design team and myself decided to stay outside in the relatively fresh Mumbai air in order to give our bronchi and bronchioles at least a fighting chance.
T.I.I. as the phrase goes.
This is India.
Thursday 8 January 2009
Transcript from an Indian phone call
The following is a composite transcript of numerous calls I have received, the core content of which I am sure is familiar to any ex-pat in India.
The phone rings and the ex-pat answers (my part is italicised for ease of explanation)
Hello. (phone voice)
Hello.
Hello! (welcoming voice)
Hello.
Hello? (questioning voice)
Hello.
Helloooo (haunting voice)
Hello.
Haylo! (comedy high pitched voice)
Hello.
Heeeelaaah. (sinister voice)
Hello
Aaaargh! Look Dude, you called me. Agreed?
Ergo, you must have an idea of who I am whereas I have absolutely no idea of who you are.
So, are you going to tell me who is calling or are we going to continue this pointless conversation ad infinitum hmmm?
Hello.
Click, crash……… (Sound of disengaged blackberry being thrown across room in frustration)
The phone rings and the ex-pat answers (my part is italicised for ease of explanation)
Hello. (phone voice)
Hello.
Hello! (welcoming voice)
Hello.
Hello? (questioning voice)
Hello.
Helloooo (haunting voice)
Hello.
Haylo! (comedy high pitched voice)
Hello.
Heeeelaaah. (sinister voice)
Hello
Aaaargh! Look Dude, you called me. Agreed?
Ergo, you must have an idea of who I am whereas I have absolutely no idea of who you are.
So, are you going to tell me who is calling or are we going to continue this pointless conversation ad infinitum hmmm?
Hello.
Click, crash……… (Sound of disengaged blackberry being thrown across room in frustration)
Efficiency
Q. How many Indians does it take to change a light bulb?
A. I don’t know.
Though I am sure if one needed changing and I were to phone the office manager to report the situation, then she would pass my message to the relevant executive, who would then start the assessment process by ordering the handyman to inspect said inoperational bulb.
Once the report had been filed, the second stage assessment would then hopefully result in a confirmation message to procurement to proceed with the purchase of a light bulb.
Once the bulb had been purchased and the receipts thrice carbon copied, an instruction to install would be issued to the handyman, who would then likely arrive with his Junior and have the whole process overseen by a senior level company executive.
It is highly likely that at this stage the present party would realise the purchased bulb does not match the socket fitting.
The process would then be repeated.
Please note, this systematic process applies equally to making a cup of tea, getting a glass of water, or even purchasing a cellphone.
Indeed, it took 2x drivers, 1x CFO, 1x HR Executive, an Office Manager and myself to procure a Blackberry handset from the Vodafone shop.
Efficiency is most certainly not in the Indian lexicon.
A. I don’t know.
Though I am sure if one needed changing and I were to phone the office manager to report the situation, then she would pass my message to the relevant executive, who would then start the assessment process by ordering the handyman to inspect said inoperational bulb.
Once the report had been filed, the second stage assessment would then hopefully result in a confirmation message to procurement to proceed with the purchase of a light bulb.
Once the bulb had been purchased and the receipts thrice carbon copied, an instruction to install would be issued to the handyman, who would then likely arrive with his Junior and have the whole process overseen by a senior level company executive.
It is highly likely that at this stage the present party would realise the purchased bulb does not match the socket fitting.
The process would then be repeated.
Please note, this systematic process applies equally to making a cup of tea, getting a glass of water, or even purchasing a cellphone.
Indeed, it took 2x drivers, 1x CFO, 1x HR Executive, an Office Manager and myself to procure a Blackberry handset from the Vodafone shop.
Efficiency is most certainly not in the Indian lexicon.
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