Hey you guys! Guess who is back!! and i am sure its with a bang! For one cos its Bangalore that i am back at now!!! Got here the day before, two days behind schedule, thanks to the lousy flu! I ended up waiting for over 9 hours in Bangkok for my connecting flight! Jesus! with the cold it was dreadful! But you wouldnt believe the entire congregation of amazingly good looking men I saw at the airport...loaded with charm, gucci shoes, armanis, thinkpads n some of them with no wedding rings! Unfortunately I had laryngitis and had lost most of my voice...what was left wouldnt have won me blind pig so I kept shut. I just spent my time wishing I worked for the Bangkok Airport Security department so I could spend my days groping these pieces of art! ''Excuse me sir, please would you step aside for a moment. I need to feel your posterior in the name of international security!!''

Now that i am back home, everyones asking me what my  next move is gonna be. I got a plan...I want to start a school...a montessori. I've worked at a British School before and did very well, and I am hoping I can pull it off. Need to work out the logistics, do my homework....

My folks are quite keen to find me a partner. Their hunt is on. Its kinda wierd- this arranged marriage thingy. Its not as bad as the west perceives it to be though. Its not bad at all. In fact I think its even better than falling in love. I get to pick who I would want to get to know...and I have all the liberty in the world to say no to him if I dont think it'd work. NO emotional bonding...no hurting...its almost like i am going shopping for men! look for the brand, look for the ISO 900 mark, check the prices, the expiry date, place of manufacture, date of manufacture, warranty period....I am back among my friends- I know I'll sail through whatever it is :)

I meant to start out thanking Brad and Ken but got side tracked (as usual)...But here goes, my amigos...a million thanks for all your support during the time I had to be away going thru things I had to go through. Your words made a difference to me and how I felt. Thank you again! I hope all is well with you guys. I hope to see more of you regularly now.

Dear Diary,

I know we havent spent time with eachother in days. Times have been rough. Days have been bad. I really wouldnt want to recount any of what I am going through right now. But like every thing, bad days have a life cycle too, and soon all this will be over. And then I'll be back.

I miss you,

Div

Dear Diary,

I know we havent spent time with eachother in days. Times have been rough. Days have been bad. I really wouldnt want to recount any of what I am going through right now. But like every thing, bad days have a life cycle too, and soon all this will be over. And then I'll be back.

I miss you,

Div

Agents. That's what they call themselves, these unassuming blood sucking monsters of humanity. Lina's father decided to trust one of these. So did a hundred others like him. Promises of great jobs in an alien land, cleared debts, paid bills, three meals day, stable roofs and joyous smiles. Who doesn't want these? The only hitch- money for the agent's fees and the travel. Not an issue, they'd soon be making enough and more. Loans sought, lands sold, jewellery pawned, lives leased. Armed with silent reveries, newfound optimism and cheap new clothes they board their flights to brilliant futures.

But something goes seriously wrong and life becomes her twisted self again. Bleeding from broken pieces of dreams still piercing their hearts and everyday lives, for these men, mostly from Gorakhpur, each day is about some form of attempted escape- from the authorities, from poverty, from dejection and abandonment. With no actual means of escape most of them who have been here for over two years have established their means of income through small businesses. Undeniably poor, most of them eke out a living selling garments, mosquito nets and goods on foot- in the capital and remote province alike. Few others have become hapless victims of local drug lords and kingpins. Many, like Lina's father have made homes with native Cambodian women. Few unions last. Mostly because the men are not consistent providers. Lina's father was lucky to have cross paths with the Sisters. They took him in, treated and fed him and his child. A generous Indian doctor made great efforts to arrange for him to be sent back home. Conditions applied. He had to come back for his daughter once things started going well for him. His family in India however offered to pay for his travel only if he agreed to leave his daughter behind and start a new family back home. He loved his girl too much to concede. The doctor sponsored his travel.

Several months passes since his departure and we heard from him once when he told the Sisters he was being forced to marry a local girl. Lina would never see her father again we thought. After a long wait, the Sisters called the father to tell him Lina was being put up for adoption. He couldn't take it. He had been trying to convince some of his family into helping him bring Lina home. It finally happened. The Sisters arranged for the papers for her departure and escorted her down to Mumbai where the child's father, accompanied by her aunt came to pick her up. Its been over two years, and the Missionaries make supervisory calls on Lina. Evidently she has found happiness. This time we all hope its for keeps.

That's her story so far. Wouldn't you want to hear another one- on a not so lucky kid? Come here, sit by me- I have hundreds more. I'll probably give you  Viesna- born with no limbs because her 16 year old mother consistently tried to abort her unwanted child. Would you care?

My Blog

I am glad she's my Lass,
And a fine one at that,
For no one is so good
At loving me back.

Maybe ol' Mike down the alley
With a black floppy ear.
He chased a cat upto Cali,
And that aint too near.

Beethoven is cool and almost my size,
He's got everything but a mistress who is nice.
She says he's a stud and has his own price,
That he shouldn't be caught feasting on my leftover rice.

Papa Ranger was here with Billy Kid in tow,
He wanted to shack up, but I said, ''Oh NO!''
With a flea infested ear and a cockatoo coo,
There aint no way I am keeping you two.

Thats when, My friends, I called Mama Stork,
And asked her to deliver me a sweet lil' bark.
I sat up all night, curious and all,
At dawn came in my own fur ball.

I looked in Her eyes and knew She was special,
I finally got a mate, and this time its official.
''Just fill out a form and give her a name'',
No matter what I call Her, I'll love Her the same.

I thought of Her as I closed my eyes,
She reminded me of everything nice.
Perriwinkles and butterflies, stalks of green clover,
Sunflower fields and a dog named Rover.

Railroads that go on for eternal miles,
Children with candies and warm glowing smiles.
The first ray of sunlight on a gurgling stream,
Strawberry pancakes with honey and cream.

I opened my eyes and knew I had it all.
For I have my Lassie, the finest of 'em all.

Lass, ol' girl, you kept me alive, and still do. Thank you for you, and all that WE have.. I will always love you. - Mol

My days with the Reuters Data Centre in Bangalore were far from interesting. But once I decided I'd quit- things began to spice up for me. I guess I decided to do more than just work around there. I wanted to voyeur into the decisions my bosses made.

May 19, 2005- Our little group of dedicated community workers were officially inaugerating REACH, and I was their spokesperson. I was talking to the entire staff about our objectives, our goals, our fund raisals, our partners, our beneficiaries...all the while being conscious of the mighty presence of KBE Nial Fitzgerald. He was a corporate king and I was a lowly peasent. I admired him for his acheivements and his connections left me awestruck. If I knew then what I know of this man and his policies now, my questions would've been very different. Here is why?

For someone who of his brief dalliance with Communism during his college days, had this to say, ''it was where the prettiest girls were", and who now supports Man U, likes opera and jazz, and has a deep penchant for antique furniture, expensive paintings and stamps, Niall Fitzgerald's Machiavellian tendencies aren't very surprising. He has donated to building cooperation and peace in Northern Ireland, and has run the London Marathon for charity and is one of the masterminds behind global corporate exploitation.

In its reports, Reuters describes him as Niall FitzGerald, KBE; Chairman of the Nominations Committee. He is a Member of the World Economic Forum's Foundation Board, a Fellow of the Royal Society for the encouragement of Arts, Manufactures & Commerce and the Association of Corporate Treasurers and a Non-executive director of the Nelson Mandela Legacy Trust (UK). He is also a member of various advisory bodies, including the President of South Africa's International Investment Advisory Council and the Shanghai Mayor's International Business Leaders Council. Former Chairman and Chief Executive Officer of Unilever PLC (1996-2004), former Non-executive director of Merck, Ericsson, Bank of Ireland and Prudential PLC. Former President of the Advertising Association, former Co-Chairman of The TransAtlantic Business Dialogue and former Chairman of The Conference Board, Inc. Age 60.

When he is not being the busy corporate executive or scheming behind the scenes at World Economic Forum, you can find him hitting the 18^th hole at the Wisley Golf Club in Surrey, having breakfast with Robin Cooke, driving around in his green Jaguar and shouldering a pivotal role in increasing world poverty and starvation.

Unilever Plc (Chairman and CEO September 01, 1996 to September 30, 2004)

Unilever, one of the largest producers of tea in the world, owns 18,000 hectares of tea plantations in Kenya, Tanzania and India. It controls 20% of the market, through its ownership of the brands Lipton's and Brooke Bond, and has major power over the tea price.

Almost all tea is grown on plantations, where workers (mostly women) are dependent on the plantation for jobs and completely powerless to improve their situation. Wages are generally extremely low and living conditions appalling. Meanwhile companies, like Unilever, which do the blending, packaging and marketing of the tea (in the consumer countries) cream off 30-50% of the retail price.

Unilever has huge market power. For example in the mid '80s, when the Indian tea price started to rise, Unilever and other corporations acted to bring it down by temporarily boycotting Indian tea. When the Indian government tried to set a minimum export price, the TNCs collectively withdrew from the market, forcing the government to retreat, and slash the price.

The very existence of plantations displaces food crops in producer countries. Food security is thus compromised, while control over land, assets and people is handed to Western transnationals such as Unilever.

Unilever was one of the companies which successfully lobbied the European Com-mission to begin legal proceedings at the World Trade Organisation to challenge US state Massachusetts' refusal to award public contracts to companies that do business with or in Burma (on grounds of Burma's appalling human rights record).

Unilever is also connected to various other shady organisations - including the notorious American group Monsanto. The two corporations led the biotechnology initiative under the Transatlantic Business Dialogue, intending that products approved once, could be accepted on both sides of the Atlantic.

His strategy at Unilever was to sell off any subsidiary businesses which are making less than average profits, and to "decentralise" control of subsidiaries, with the corporate HQ in Europe just monitoring profit levels - and making sure they are maximised. This heavy focus on profit means cost-cutting, and especially minimising workers' (from developing nations) pay.

The great irony, for someone who pushes for de-regulation of corporations and relaxation of export controls, is that FitzGerald's father was a Customs officer in Limerick. His father was "passionate about order, proper standards and getting the best out of yourself". Little did he know that his son would end up taking the best out of the world's poor, and keeping it for himself.

Courtesy Corporate Crimes

I love my single status. Always did. I've never felt the need to share my space with another. In fact it's a proposition I deeply dread. My dream has always been to wrap up a hard day's work at the local tavern over a few beers and drive home to spend a quiet night with Lassie over some canned food. Even at thirty-eight.

I am only twenty-six but I suspect with all my heart that I may not be able to hold up much longer. Especially on Wednesdays. You see, the mid-week crisis really affects me. Not to mention the now not so odd weekends where there is nothing I could possibly do by myself. So I punch in a few numbers on my phone and wait for the ringing on the other end of the line to subside. A whole two minutes pass me by. ‘She is probably changing the baby's diaper' I tell myself as I hang up. Instead, I pick up a book. I make sure it's the one on global starvation and how Enron profits from it. The one where J.D. Rafferty goes on his knees and asks Maryanne to marry him would just make me jump out of the window. But even international corporate crimes don't seize my attention for long. So I punch in a different set of numbers this time. I am greeted by a hushed and hurried ‘Hello'. Suddenly I am not sure if I should've called him and don't feel so relieved that he answered. ‘Div! You are not gonna believe this...' he continues in the now annoyingly muffled tone. ‘...Remember the pretty bird at work I told you about, well she and I are at, ahem, my place...' Yeowch! I squirm as I look away from the phone and hastily shut it off. DeepThroat is definitely not free to meet me this weekend. As I flop myself on the couch and flip the television on, I feel something else sink along with my heart.

Its the realisation that I may be all alone. I recognise the feeling. I've felt it before. I remember the first time I felt it. On that distant Friday. The girls and I decided to celebrate the end of a toiling week catching up and making the most of the happy hours at our regular haunt. A lotta people had managed to cheese us off, which meant that there was a lotta bitching to do. The husbands/partners trickled in slowly. We ordered more rounds of tequila than Mao Tse Toung ordered of fire at Tiananmen Square. By 1:00 am we were officially wasted. It took us another half an hour of rigorous examination to confirm if that yellow piece of plastic I was holding in my hands was actually a credit card that would pay for our swigs or a recent paint sample for my room. While they processed our bills, J called her husband to come pick her up. A was going to spend the night with N- they were already getting cozy. V was up steadying M for the trek to their car. S was busy making up a cover story for his wife's drippy behaviour that he'd use on his mom. And then there was me- trying to stand up fumbling for my phone rather unsuccessfully, trying to make my way through the blurry crowd, chalking my route to the nearest coffee shop for a long shot of espresso to wear off the effect. That's when it hit me first- the awakening into my loneliness. It's a sign, you can't miss it. The gang splits up, and when everyone is holding another's warm caring hand, you are clutching a cold set of keys in yours.

It was past 9 in the evening, and the three of us were sitting around a table laden with drinks, prawn crackers and pistachios. I looked at him through my beer mug and he seemed such a proud father. I could tell that he loved the mother of his child, his wife- in that order but immensly nevertheless. It was a little more than two years ago that he asked me to marry him. A***** had been my best friend and confindante in Phnom Penh and he flew down to Bangalore in the dreary November of 2004 to ask me to spend the rest of my life with him. I had to decide overnight he said, coz early next morning he'd possibly get engaged to a girl his father found for him. ''You are so easy to talk to'', he said when I asked him for one good reason. The hidden shallow woman in me wanted more than just that.

It was only the week before that I had finished settling scores with myself. You see, I had loved him. He stirred me- intellectually, politically, culturally, spiritually. There had been those timeless moments in our friendship when our ideas made sweet love to eachother over cups of coffee, or wine and pasta...or while driving through narrow sun scorched streets of downtown Phnom Penh. We fit so perfectly in eachothers slot at such moments. I had worked on unloving him and I wasn't going to let him ruin it for me. ''I'll take up my company's offer in the Pacific Islands and we can travel all over'', he said trying to persuade me. He knew I loved to travel. He knew I loved to dance. He knew I liked white wine over red. He knew I was unrealistically idealistic and náive. He knew most of what there was of me to know. Back then. But he was short and I was shallow, and he had never ever called me pretty. Or alluring. Also, I loved R***. I'd loved him longer and harder. And I was going to tell him soon. I'd never been physically attracted to him, despite his tight ass and muscular legs that tore through the university hockey field ripping apart opponents thrice a week after classes. No sir, No. But his eyes-intense, compassionate and always brimming with life. They were like a pair of windows to his soul, and I never missed an opportunity to peep inside. And I always liked what I saw. And then there were times when he'd leave his windows open a minute longer knowing I was looking. I think it was because I always saw what was. And later we'd talk about it and life would seem so much more better. I knew we had something. So I said No to A*****. A month later on my birthday R**** said No to me.

A***** married the woman of his father's choice and has a beautiful nine-month old son today. R**** went through one failed relationship and a half. Both of them are still two of my closest friends and ''one of those days'' drinking buddies if time and geography permit. I still wonder what may have been. I am sure one of them does too. At least. Will I fall in love again? Well, I did, didn't I? Fell so bad it sent me hurling deep into the dark realms of pain, betrayal and worthlessness. I am sure I did all the right things at exactly the right times. Just failed to realise I was doing it to and for the wrong person. But yes, i'll fall in love again. I just know I will...its what I do best.

All characters, barring their names, referred to, and all images reproduced in my pages are definitely not fictitious and bear striking resemblance to people and situations in my life. If you have trouble accepting it, you should'nt probably be here.

I was gettin myself treated to a relaxing late night at home. Candles, soft music n vodka...thoughts wafted towards u know who...n here is what I came up with- for him. But does it really matter?

Dim lights and pot pourri, 

Heavenly fragnance set free. 

Flickering candles all around, 

Dancing to the sinuous sound. 

In solitude I strike a chord, 

Of serendipity and the Lord. 

Distilled waters caressing my soul, 

Thoughts of thee in me they shoal. 

Wished for thee to fill the niche, 

That lies empty beside me. 

Fill it with our talks and walks, 

Of shared lives and broken locks. 

A confidante you are to me, 

A partner beyond all revelry. 

Come drink with me the holy wine, 

Immaculate is this need of mine. 

Copyright ©2006 Divya Das

http://simplyme.shoutpost.com/

Somewhere amidst the rotting garbage and concrete rubble in the Tonle Bassac slum area of midtown Phnom Penh thrives a bustling 10'x8' edifice dedicated to the undying human spirit. An A4 sized print out screams AZIZI SCHOOL HOUSE at the entrance.  Everyday a keen battalion of young learners troop through the lone bright yellow door among the crumbling shanties. Most of them are among the city's most impoverished, with some resuming their duties as rag pickers after school. For them, it is a door way to happiness, acceptance, small opportunities and lasting friendships. The big yellow door also keeps them away from sex, drugs and violence.

The Tonle Bassac area, during the pre-pol pot times was a posh residential area overlooking the voluptuous Tonle Sap River. With heavily pruned front yards and landscaped gardens outlined by Victorian street lamps, rot-iron park benches and cobblestone pathways, the place, like most other places in Phnom Penh carried an exquisitely European look. Twenty years later, ravaged by the war, with not the slightest remnants of its original charm, the buildings house a huge colony of squatters. Refuges of their own political and cultural turmoil, these families decided to occupy the vacant houses once the war was over and the stakeholders had split their loot and were gone, leaving the entire country homeless and in mourning.

One of the biggest differences between the Oriental world and its Occidental counterpart is in the way they deal with disasters- natural or perpetuated. The United States bombed Hiroshima and Nagasaki, dropped millions of bombs over Laos, showered Vietnam with napalm, traded arms with the Khmer Rouge in Cambodia for secret air/naval bases and thus annihilating an entire civilization and all that it stood for. Millions killed, millions maimed, cities and villages razed to the ground, entire fields, its dams and irrigational facilities bombed continuously, waters poisoned, future generations exposed to harmful radiation and hidden mines. Which one of them paranoid of the weapons of mass destruction took matters in their hands and decided to bomb the rest of the world in the hope that it would smoke the killers out? None.

Instead all they did was get up, dust their behinds and get to rebuilding their lives, finding it in their hearts to forgive the evil doers. The largest extent they have gone was to close their economies. Hollywood blockbusters which still portray American troops bombing venomous communists in the backdrop of lush green paddy fields of Viet Nam or in the coppiced areas of north Cambodia are still popular in the Orient, as are Mac Donald hamburgers, Tommy Hilfiger, Brad Pitt, Backstreet Boys, New York city dreams and everything else western. Did they forget? No, they just decided to forgive, put it all in the past and get on with their lives.  Besides the ones who were truly affected are dead anyway. Like Chomsky wrote in his book, ‘Better dead than red'. Cambodia is full of such spirits. You'll find them everywhere- scavenging for bits of plastic, shreds of clothing, scraps of food and moments of happiness.

The squatters at Tonle Bassac aren't different and work hard for two square meals a day. The parents can't afford to send their children to school, so they generally hang about the neighbourhood and risk chances of getting into some serious trouble. That's where Azizi and its people come in. Drew, an NGO worker, decided to risk making a difference and leased out a tiny room in the heart of the slum. With a little help from his friends, Drew spruced the place up and began holding classes for the colony's wards. Curious eyes and little minds watched the little world of colour from the outside, and then slowly but steadily trickled in. Word spread. The funny foreigner was teaching English and singing songs. The volunteers had a room full of kids and more. They now had split the group into two sessions- one in the morning and one in the afternoon. More children meant more staff. Drew's network expanded to include James, the aussie who teaches English; Setare, who teaches photography among other things; Panyaa, who is in charge of women's issues; and Chan, who multitasks between being a mentor to the teenage boys, teaching English and art and crafts.

The children, who range anywhere between 3 and 16, are full of life and curiosity, and seem to speak better English than some government officials who I've had the displeasure of meeting. The classroom walls are covered with posters, maps, photographs of the kids, their drawings, paintings and art work of various shapes and hues. Brochures from various organizations and art galleries offering free tutorials and scholarships are passed around frequently, and invariably receive excited responses. Everytime. A few more of such months and the school like the rest of the colony will be demolished.

Evacuation is already underway. The government plans to auction off the land, which is in the primest of all prime s. I am sure the place will see a high-raised mall selling things for prices half the nation and its brothers can't afford to pay for. At least it's in keeping with the aesthetic look the officials are vying for to impress all the international delegations that arrive by the dozen every three days to fleece the poor, enrich the already rich, and walk away with a deal that'll profit their nations for another eight generations in the least. Ah! the joys of globalization and the free market!

The children are saddened by the news, but there isn't much anyone can do about it. On a gloomy afternoon, one of the students wished out loud that the school would magically sprout wings and they could all fly away- far away- to a place where they can still walk in through the yellow door to a room full of friends and mysteries of another world. They took out their crayons and papers and drew what they imagined would be if only they could indeed take flight. Drew, Setare and the rest of the gang, overwhelmed by the children, decided to compile their drawings, weave a story around them and publish what would be the first ever book completely authored and illustrated by street kids in Cambodia. The only hitch- finding a willing publisher. The first draft is still in progress but I know it is going to be one great book. The money that will come from the sales of the book can be used to fund more such activities in association with other organizations for children. Or if rakes in enough, the children can perhaps have their own school in their new . For now the bunch of dedicated volunteers and their little friends are left waiting for their homes, their classroom and their dreams to be torn down.

If you are a publisher or know one, or think you can be of any help, please write back to me at divyadevdas@gmail.com. I am just a tourist in Cambodia, a curious passerby willing to help. I will put you across to the ones who run the show.

When Jet Star Asia says, ''Now everyone can fly'', they aren't exaggerating. The mid-morning flight to Singapore from Phnom Penh was bursting at its seams. The low cost carrier follows a pay per eat policy. For two-thirds the price of any other airline no one complaints about the lack of compliments. Two hours and a steaming bowl of Tom Yum soup later I was in Singapore. I was glad i'd lost my regular stock of chewing gum the previous night. It can sure put you in a sticky situation here with the authorities unless they are prescription dental gums and you have a valid prescription to accompany.

A long forgotten and seldom remembered cousin picked us up at the airport. They wished to be our official hosts. Considering the amount of money we spent on gifts and such for the family so as not to feel obligated, the $130 per night hotel rooms in the city centre would've been a steal.

Singapore, in November, is a very hot place, and if you are going to be out in the afternoons, carry an umbrella along. If its not the ever generous sun, then its the rains. The city is efficiently linked by regular and punctual modes of public transport- the metro, the city buses, the trains and the innumerable taxi cabs. All roads, be it major express ways, freeways, exits main roads or back alleys, they are all marked at regular intervals. You couldn't possibly be lost for more than ten minutes even if you tried. As for the roads, they are a bliss to drive on, and traffic is normally smooth. The government imposes a huge tax on purchases of new cars to keep them from invading the roads. Speaking of which, following is a thought i'd like to share.

It was my second day in Singapore and by now I had recovered from the uncompromising structure and order of the city. I was buckled up in the back seat of a city cab with my eyes half closed and the warm afternoon winds beating heavily across my face. The only auditory stimulations were that of the rhythemic whirring of the wheels grazing the burning asphalt, accompanied by the painful recounts of tax hikes in recent years. The best way to get to know a place if you are the curious sorts is to get out into the streets and ask. Travelling through Singapore and Malaysia, cab drivers seemed to rule my list of sources of local information. ''The only people having a good time in Singapore are you tourists'' he rambled on, almost accusingly.

Then it hit me. The reason for the intuitive familiarity I felt in this strange land. The last two days had been like living ''Charlie and the chocolate factory''. Everything was broken down to the basics and effectively departmentalized. Things were getting done, but nobody knew who did them. Everything was done right, everything was being done all the time. Singapore was relentless, almost mechanical. The city was alligned, its people controlled, its functioning verified and authenticated, its corporations shrewd, its policies autocratic, its attitude intimidating, its roads safe at night, its population multiracial with a racist point of view and an autocrat at the helm. And I had to agree with my cabbie. Wasn't it true that I was just candy shopping at Charlie's factory? The one's who keepa the place running are the ones working two jobs, and working overtime at each of them; paying heavy taxes;  watching foreigners take away top jobs; worrying about their government's restrictive policies; hiding the hundreds of Indian and Bangladeshi construction labourers from the face of the cosmetically enhanced city, and wishing one day they'd be free to play rugby on the green fields they prune on tiptoes everyday.

Dec 25, 2006

The darned alarm on my phone woke us all up at 5:30. Reluctantly so too. After a failed attempt to go back to sleep Sheila and Marion fell out of bed and decided to go about their own ways. I figured I'd sleep in until they were all gone and I had the room to myself. Shiela left for her massage at 7:30, Marion for her walk around the city shortly afterwards. I waited until her footsteps were no longer heard, jumped out of bed and ran to the window. The sun was shining bright and warm. The day seemed just perfect. It was just right to be out and on my own doing what I am best at- wandering aimlessly, making friends and once in a while stumbling on wizened somethings that make me smile from within.

So after my shower and a short prayer to help me make the most of the entire day, I stepped out into the street. I hadn't prayed in a long while. I hadn't been out in the world alone in a long while too. Something told me doing both of them right now would help. As I stood there trying to take in, in my first few minutes, as much as I could of what the outside had to offer me, someone called out ''Hello, are you from India, where do you go today?'' from behind me. I turned around and faced a pair of Vietnamese men probably in their early 50's smiling down at me. ''Mr Hong, I am a tour operator'' he introduced himself to me. I stuck my hand out to shake his. I felt my long forgotten lonely alpha trekker instincts revive itself as I decided to trust this chap. Now when you are a traveller and a lone one at that, after a while you learn to categorise the rest of the world into 3 types of people: the good ones, the bad ones and the use and throw ones. The good ones are the ones you can trust, and not just their opinions on what's the best beer available locally. The bad ones are the ones that'll promise to show you the best spot to snap the sunset over the Angkor Wat and rip you off your wallet behind a bush. The use and throw ones are the ones you must be skeptical about because there is something very seedy about them. But at the same time they do know how to get you that one last train ticket to the mountains that ten other people are vying for. So be smart, get the ticket and lose the guy. It takes a little practice, a couple of misjudgments and at least one ride on the wrong side of a total con job to get your classifications right.

Mr. Hong said he'd call me an Easy Rider when I expressed my intentions to explore the city. These Easy Riders, I am told, are famous in the region for driving old beaten up Russian-made motorbikes, speaking fairly fluent English, and driving their clients around the highlands, or even as far as Saigon or Hanoi. Great news! I thought! It was just my first day in Da Lat after about 16 hours of travel in the past day and half. I was in no mood to stay confined in the interiors of any motorized vehicle with more than two wheels. Accordingly, the previous evening I had booked myself with the Sinh Cafe folks on a trek to Mount Liangbang the following day and on a city tour the day after. Today, I figured, would be spent exploring the less commercialised places of lesser interest but of local daily life significance. But I would have to begin my day with a considerably long visit to the Valley of Love. I remember being completely floored by the scenic beauty of the valley and the beautiful lake it cradled in its bosom. Extreme serendipity. Mr. Hong was kind enough to make a phone call and hook me up with a friend of his who'd take me there for a reasonable fee. As I dusted off the remaining cobwebs shrouding my memories and fished out a series of born-again pictures, the urge to spend the entire day at the valley grew stronger and stronger.

After a refreshingly chill ride we were finally there. As I got off the moto, an old man wearing a similar red and blue jacket as my Easy Rider came running towards us. In his very limited English, the moto guy introduced me to his aging friend, another Easy Rider. This explained the uniform red and blue jackets. I was asurred of complete safety and reliability if I chose to use his services. I shook his hand and studied his face hard- I'd need some one to drop me back at the hotel later.

I went up the steps, paid for my entry, made a pre-meditated stop on my tracks just at the top of the steps, and closed my eyes tight to visualize what was around me. You see, when you look with your eyes, you see the obvious. Its when you look through your soul that you see what really is. I stood there with arms wide open, facing the clear blue skies, soaking in the essence of the entire valley- with its innumerable pine trees, the random gulmohars, the pretty patches of wild flowers laced with butterflies of heavenly hues and patterns, and the big green lake right at the heart of it all. I knew I was home. As I ambled along the cobblestone paths, smiling, sighing, rejoicing, healing, rejuvenating, assimilating, forgetting, forgiving, skimming pebbles by the lake, running my bare hands through the uncut grass and startling a mantis, dousing in the perfection of all creations and the accompanying serenity, frozen in a moment I never wanted to get out of, taking pictures of random brilliances in my head, I realized the moment of liberation and annihilation that I had given so much up for was truly here. I was now living my dream of obscurity, detachment and nothingness that would lead me into eternal oneness with the universe. I enjoy and revel in the awareness that I am but a speck of cosmic dust, irrelevant, illusional, in sync and timeless. It always makes me feel lighter that the winds, freer than the birds, smaller than a grain of sand, bigger than the biggest mountain, deeper than the deepest oceans, older than the stars and more alive than a new born's first breath of air. But most importantly takes my otherwise mundane existence and romanticizes it to the highest degrees. To believe for the briefest of moments that I am truly eclectic-and it is not one single mould that shapes me. That I am made of all those elements that the sun, the moon, the earth and the winds gathered through the ages. To insolently conjure up the biggest lie in my moment of truth that I am not responsible for me or my life and what happens to it. And this belief consoles me, however briefly, and makes me smile. And how!!

My melodramatic existence was elevated to a higher level when two local women decided to walk towards me most nonchalantly, strike a conversation, hold my hand, walk with me, steer me off my path and as I realized a little later, stalk me around the valley. As I frantically tried to lose them in one track after another and rather fruitlessly, I began picturing myself at the bottom of the lake, gagged, my hands and feet securely tied behind my back, my lungs punctured- bludgeoned to definite death, with curious and hungry fishes around me, perhaps and eel or two. No! I had bigger things to do...I had to get away from them.

A big band of Korean tourists saved my day. From ample experience in the past, I know most Orientals love being photographed. This gang had their cameras ready in hand. I waited for the group to line up for the picture and just as the photographer nestled the camera on his cringed cheek, I bolted across. The two women, who for sheer effect I choose to refer to as my captors hereon, swerved around and started in my direction, but had to involuntarily wait for the Koreans to snap their images, and boy did they click a few! I ran up the equestrian track, cut off at the lake and found myself a good spot to rest my tired feet and slow my racing heart. From up here I could also keep an eye on my captors who were now at a safe distance. I saw them settle for a central spot a few hundred feet below to wait for me. I thought I was being paranoid, but anyone could see from the way they paced about in different directions that they were looking for someone. And only the three of us knew that someone was me. After the initial jitters were gone, I decided to laugh it off for a while and resume my writing. I'd do that until my captors ran out of patience or until it got dangerously sunny.

I don't remember how long I'd been sitting there transforming my thoughts into scribbles of varying intensities, tones and lameness, but it was much shorter than I had thought. I looked up and scanned the entire valley- or at least what I could see of it from where I was. The women were gone. I decided it was time for another stroll, and a different perspective. I wished I'd carried my book along, but I never thought I'd find the inclination or the time to read during the trip. So after another reasonably long walk I found myself at the exit and took it. The old man I met a few hours ago yelled out from across the road, waving violently. I hollered and waved back. It was probably half past 12 in the afternoon and I didn't want to go back to the hotel just yet.

In keeping with my current mood I figured I'd go to a buddhist monastry around these parts. Time to find out if I truly was ready for Nirvana. What happened at the valley left me a little skeptical about my merits for salvation. Equilibrium was not something I had thought of while being chased around the valley by two deranged tourist trippers. So I let Mr. Quang, the Easy Rider convince me to visit two monastries, one in the city and one a little out of it for 80,000 dongs. Thats a little over 6$. I could've haggled for less but I chose not to take away that money from him. Uncle Quang, as I decided to call him, didn't look his part. He was probably in his late fifties, had an almost toothless, genuine smile and a pair of the most beseechingly soulful eyes. When he was excited you could see them sparkle. He seemed so wrong sitting on that moto under the scorching afternoon sun. He should've been at home playing with his little grandchildren or helping his wife with her gardening. But his son died in an accident three years ago, and his wife succumbed to her ailments a year ago. With grandchildren in school, he still had mouths to feed at home.

We had to pick up our helmets from Uncle Quang's home and so we made a quick detour. As we passed through narrow alleys in downtown Da Lat, I wasn't the least bit apprehensive. The heavens told me I was safe, and my guts couldn't agree more. On both sides, several feet below us were fields- cabbages, cauliflowers, radish, carrots, yam, lettuce, sunflowers, dahlias, orchids, tulips, daffodils- Da Lat grows it all. We were clipping down paved paths no more wider than a feet and a half on rocky uneven grounds. Uncle Quang lchugged along beautifully, weaving his way through the ups and downs. It was almost poetic, the way he rode.

His house, set in the middle of his daughter's fields, like all other cultivator's homes was at a couple of feet below ground level, with no steps leading to it. Just a steep cemented ramp. It was a small house, but well kempt and warm. One of his grandsons, presumably in his early teens, welcomed us with an endearingly sheepish smile typical of most shy boys anywhere. There were pictures of his deceased son and wife. She looked classy in the photograph. Like all Oriental women born of high stature do. He must sure miss her a lot I thought. As if reading my mind, he turned to me and gazing back at his wife's picture, told me how horridly hollow his life was without her in it anymore. His voice quivered and my heart cried. With the moment behind us, we picked up our helmets and piled out of the house.

Our first stop was the Linh Phouc Monastry about 12 kilometers from the Valley of Love. Old and Chinese, it was very unlike any other pagoda I've been to. This one had lions and dragons and statues of the laughing Buddha all over. Extremely graphic and delightfully colorful. Hues of green, blue, red, yellow, black, purple and orange bringing mystical creatures and heavenly bodies to life amidst vegetable fields and jubliant schoolkids with bright eyes and pink cheeks. After long meanderings along the ancient corridors, we sped off towards the final part of the deal- the Chinse Pagoda.

The ride upto the Chinse Pagoda lasted a decent twenty minutes. The long winding roads that sliced all the way up and around the average sized mountain on top of which the temple was housed overlooked the entire city of Da Lat. The views were simply panoramic. I would probably not have felt, and as I would soon learn later, would never feel, such exhuberance if I were visiting these places with a dozen other mooney-eyed tourists in a tour bus with a cocky giude at the deck with an unreasonable timetable in hand. But I wouldn't worry about that for now. The half a dozen shops on the cobble stone avenue leading upto the pagoda were the only give away to the fact that Chinse was frequented by tourists. Apart from the nuns, the temple dog and the both of us, there wasn't a soul in sight. A few pictures, some footage, random greetings and a humble prayer later it was time to hit the afternoon roads again.

I decided to forgo a stop over at the Da Lat flower garden and head back into the city. In all the excitement i'd forgotten about food all day. It was three in the afternoon and my stomach was revolting. As we entered Da Lat square, Uncle Quang turned around, headed towards the lake, stopped his bike and ordered me to get off. Reluctantly I did. I was engulfed beyond comfort by sudden and increasingly progressive pangs of hunger. The Eiffel tower across the lake looked to me like a big juicy cob of roasted corn, What did he want to do at a time like this? Before I could ask, he motioned to one of the many photographers around the lake. These photographers are a different species altogether. Loaded with an unlimited supply of Fuji films and obsolete still cameras, they prowl the city streets and the tourist spots alike. For a reasonable sum, they'll follow you to just about anywhere you wish to go and click pictures of you, helping you with your poses and your smiles all the while.

''I want to take picture, give you souvenier from Da Lat'', explained Qncle Q. ''I buy for you'' he continued with definite reassurance. ''I see you, I like you, you good'' he went on as I stood there beaming like a little kid who'd just been given a dozen lollies for behaving at the super market. I was thrilled but not surprised. I had almost half expected this. Da Lat and its simple folk have always taken its guests right into their bosoms. The last time I was in Da Lat, my entire clan got adopted by a local family. When I went back home to Cambodia, my new family wrote me letters. Uncle Quang made me promise I'd write him too. He also wanted me to send him pictures of my family for he wanted to meet them, and for them to meet his. I found myself hoping to cross paths with this humble soul once more in life. At least.

The photographer hoped to have the pictures ready by the following evening. Uncle Q would meet me at the hotel with my present. So I set off in search of my first meal of the day. Thats when I discovered what would be my regular haunt fro the next three days. Friends Café was on the same street as Long Bính Guesthouse and served decent vegetarian food for breakfast, lunch and dinner. That was not all. Everything about the place was appealing- the , the ambiance, the food, the music, the swing I always hogged, the waitresses, the cold stone tables in the porch overlooking the traffic outside. I'd sit there on my favourite spot, sipping tea for hours, watching the world pass me, and feel incredibly surreal.

Reasonably fed I decided to walk the roads again. I'd begun to fall in love with my aimless strolls around Da Lat. Most folks do. Considering my preference for simplified life, this town seemed a perfect match. Da Lat is anybody's small town suburbia-pragmatic, safe, clean, homely, prosperous and self-sufficient in its own rights, and where almost everybody has either a frontyard or a backyard or sometimes both. The local post office has a middle aged woman with a forthcoming smile who sits at her desk knitting, her husband who plays solitaire on his computer all day, and stocks a decent suppy of stationaries and various knick knacks for sale. A pink-cheeked, robust woman in the market beckon you to her store and offer you a cup of herbal tea simply because you were passing by when she was brewing it. Its a town where everyone has their dignity in place. Its a town with no beggers. So far. Industrious, enterprising and sometimes bordering on shrewd, its people rarely are deceiving. Profit at the expense of another is still a bad idea with most them, While the number of foreign tourists Da Lat receives annually has increased steadily over the last few years, it still isn't very huge. That I think is a good thing. Its large enough to keep the internal tourism and related industries thriving, but not large enough for it to have grossly contaminated and decharacterised the true essense of Da Lat and its people. However, its only a matter of time before all of that changes. Until then I will always hunger for Da Lat.

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December 24, 2006

We started waking up at 5:00 am and by 6:40 am we were all showered, checked out and back on the roads, heading towards Table De La Saigon down the street for a quick breakfast. Their kitchen wasnt open, and after a long wait we hurried through our breakfast stuffing our bread and eggs down our throats so as not to miss our bus.

The journey to Da Lat would take us about 8 hours. At 2:00 pm, we were still in Bao Loc, with another 2 hours to go. I began to wish they hadn't stopped for a 20-minute coffee break or the one hour lunch. Talking about food, it can get a little frustrating if you are a vegetarian in Viet Nam. I get nothing other than boiled cabbage stalks and carrots in white sause to eat- breakfast, lunch and dinner. Viet Nam grows some fastastic coffee- the strongest of its kind. But my experience says dont ever let them brew it for you- especially if you are a south Indian who fanatically loves her morning cuppa soodu kaapi. But dont forget to buy reasonable amounts of good freshly ground Vietnamese mocha when you leave.

It was finally around 4pm, after a more than 8 hours of travelling that we finally arrived at Da Lat. As the roads went winding up, the familiar sights of tall pine trees with primroses kissing their feet brought back long forgotten smiles to my face and a sense of resigned peace to my heart.

We got off the bus and found ourselves a top deal at a budget hotel. Long Binh offered us a room for 3 for 7USD per night. With 3 queen sized beds,  a television, ample room to move around and a spacious and clean bath with running hot water it was an absolute steal. The rooms dont have air con or fans. Da Lat in December is a very chilly place and the arrangement suited us just fine. But later the next day when we had more occupants on the floor, we realized the walls were way too thin and the doors actually had see through glass with curtains drawn across them from the inside. That was  definitely uncomfortable thanks to some noisy neighbours. So maybe the next time the first thing I am going to be looking for is the thickness of the walls, and any openings in the wall or the doors that could conduct sound and light waves from either sides creating massive sleep disorders.

Once settled and washed, we decided to take a walk around the city centre. Da Lat was hosting the last day of a four-day Tea Culture expo and the Da Lat Square was brimming with people of all ages and sizes, covered in the fluffiest of woollens I've ever laid my eyes on. The Da Lat night market is a bustling place. Given the climatic and geographic conditions of the city vegetables, fruits and flowers are the biggest produces you'll find around here. A close second would be woollens. After a heavy dinner that we paid a bomb for, we let ourselves trickle into the crowds and meandered our way back to the hotel. From our hotel room we could see the Da Lat Square at a distance. It was christmas eve, and there were fireworks at the Square. The three of us sat on our beds, thankful for eachother, for today and exictedly waiting for what tomorrow held for the three of us.

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December 23, 2006

Its a six-hour journey from Phnom Penh to Ho Chi Minh City. Less if you are lucky at the border crossing, and more if you aren't. We got off on a late start with our 8:30 am departure by coach being rescheduled to 11:00 am because of an inaugral event around the Japanese Bridge presided over by the Prime Minister Hun Sen. I was going to Viet Nam for a week. The same places i'd been to four years ago- Saigon and Da Lat. I was buddying with an acquanitance and her friend for this trip. Each of us wanted different things from our vacation so it was decided that we'd split and get together as and when required. Shiela was afull time teacher in her late thirties and a mother of two. Marion was a 50 year old spinster, a former police woman and now an overworked missionary looking for some time out. I was a 26-year old free spirit, looking for adventure, romance and a good bottle of wine. When Shiela told me about her trip, I wasnt exactly aroused as I had walked those roads before. But I wanted to travel badly. Very badly. So after the initial hesitation, I jumped into the bandwagon.

The options for a bus ride to HCM City are aplenty. There are basically two kinds of coaches, the ones that operate on either sides of the border and the ones that operate intercountry. The former will require you to alight at the Cambodian border, lug your bags and clear your immigration on your own and get into another bus that will wait for you at the Viet Nam border. These kind of coaches are cheaper, about 5USD per person, but the trouble of lugging around your bags and trying to clear immigration where they could make you shell out a couple of bucks to pass you the forms isnt quite worth it. There are three big travel fishes that do direct intercountry travel- Mekong, Mai Linh and Sapaco. These guys wont require you to change coaches and will clear immigration procedures for you. These guys charge you anywhere between 1o to 12 USD per person one way. Mekong is the most preferred ride owing to its high end status. We got ourselves booked with Mai Linh at 11USD. An air-conditioned mini-bus with a mosquito or two, a bottle of mineral water each and a free meal at a highway eatery just near the border at Bavet. Not a bad deal at all.

The road is quite bumpy once you leave the comforts of Phnom Penh city. It gets progressively worse and dustier as you travel through Kandal Province towards the Neak Loueng ferry. If you've travelled through various Cambodian provinces, this phenomenon shouldnt surprise you in the least. About two hours into the journey and we were at the Neak Loueng barge. There were a lot of people and a lot of vehicles and we waited our turn to be ferried across. The aggressive hawkers kept us busy all the while and we were more than glad when we got to the shore and made out way towards Prey Veng Province. The roads further up were definitely smoother. An hour and a half later we made a pit stop at Bavet, outside Svey Rieng for a complimentary meal waiting for us at the roadside restaurant. The place served fried snake heads as a local delicousy. And this was just a start. I made an instantaneous and die-hard resolution to turn vegetarian. So I lunched on a bag of banana chips that I paid 22,000 Vietnamese dongs for. About a dollar and a quarter. The lady gave me my change in Cambodian Riels. Thats how things work in these border towns- both currencies flow freely in the market, along with the all pervading US dollar.

About 10 minutes from the joint is the Bavet crossing. Immigration clearance could oft be a painful wait. Especially if you pick a day that a dozen others have picked for the travel. It was close to an hour before our bus was cleared by both sides of the border. As the bus drove past the Moc Bai Border Crossing, I realised quite sleepily that we were now officially in Viet Nam. The changes in the scenery were quite evident. The rugged plantations of Svey Rieng and the notorious town of Bavet with its shady casinos made way to miles and miles of lush paddy fields. It didn't too long to notice tombstones errected on some of these fields. Apparently the dead are buried here so that they can guard the fields and bless the harvest. Couldnt help but not ignore the nourishment factor as well. And I thought these guys buried their dead! Who would've known? But one thing is for certain- rice in Viet Nam will never sound appetizing to me anymore.

The towns in southern Viet Nam arent very different from the ones back home in India. Except some of them are bigger. The architecture isnt very complex. The houses are either tiled, with a sloping roof, or flat terraced and mostly concrete. Some of the houses even have motifs of flowers and birds on their walls and statuettes of dogs on the wall posts by the gates. Structurally, most buildings in are in keeping with the general smallness of the Vietnamese people- narrow, compact and with low ceiling levels.

I have been on Viet soil for over an hour now. The place doesnt sem to be as communist as it claims to be, Haven't seen the sickle and hammer duo fluttering from any rooftops yet. As the bus grinds through Cu Chi, I notice the expansiveness of the town that I missed the first time I drove through here four years ago. There is definitely a lot of commercial activity going on here. It even has its own industrial city now. Its good to see investments happening. As we crawl westward from the border towards Ho Chi Minh City, Viet Nam unfolds itself before us initiating us into its everyday life. its roads bursting at the seams with thousands of motos every kilometer, its wayside cafes serving strong and equally sweet coffee, makeshift eateries with their blue plastic chairs and noodle soup, its hardworking people who earn so that they can splurge after work in an effort to reward themselves, the several dozen botiques that cater to some high-end shoppers and the night markets of Ben Than that remain open till around 1:00 am in the morning and offer you anything from poached pigeon's eggs to Viet Nam handicrafts for prices as low as your haggling skills can buy.

We stayed at the backpackers haven in District 1. The rooms at Linh Guesthouse are quite basic and just enough for two. At 10$ per night for the 3 of us, extra bed, hot water, air con and a television no one was complaining. The bus ride had left us too tired to notice the crampiness in the room meant only for two. Some guesthouses will require you to leave your footwear at the reception. Once you get used to this, you'll actually find this practice hygenic, and thankful in a way.

After a filling dinner and a stroll along Ben Than and the Lover's Park, we were back at Linh's around 11 pm, just in time to crawl into bed and hope for a good night's sleep. We had to board the 7:30 am bus to Da Lat the next morning. Da Lat is a pretty hill station, a little more than 300 kilometers from HCMC in the Central Highland province of Lam Dong, and an approximate eight hour journey from HCMC. We had booked ourselves at the Sinh Cafe for roughly 4.6 USD the previous evening. With a few addresses and telephone numbers in my wallet, finding a place to bed we hoped wouldnt be a problem.

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Those Kohl-smeared eyes, those disarranged teeth, the exact snootiness, the deeply self-absorbed ego-centric true self beneath the pseudo-philanthropic exterior. She reminds me so much of vaishali. Its almost like Delhi clones its bitches. I met her mother at the Indian Association's annual elections and agreed to meet the daughter to find out if we were a social benefit to eachother. Kept my word, drove down to Tuol Kork and spent a good three hours wanting to blow my brains out. There was no chemistry at all. They had a cat at home and we didnt get along either. Once the nicities were swapped, I abhored everything else they had to talk about.

We varied in our opinions on what we considered to be essential in adding meaning to our respectful lives. For them it was planning vacations to neighbouring countries to shop for those perfect pair of shoes and that turquoise A-line skirt that Mrs. Robinson from 62 B recently became the owner of and never missed an opportunity to sashay down the street in- ah it fell so well!! After much deliberation, the woman decided they would take their shopping needs to neighbouring ''Hanochi''! It took me a long while to figure out that she either meant Ho Chi Minh or Hanoi in Vietnam.

Well well well...and to think she earns big US bucks a day substituting at an international school! After the fourth time I decided not to correct her anymore. It was obvious the darned woman didn't want to learn, and who am I to entrust knowledge on the unwilling?! Plus, I could use a couple of laughs myself. You know, when there is nobody to laugh with, you just have to find somone to laugh at. Its a very basic need. If ever he were asked to comment on it, A. Maslow would've perhaps classified as being ''imperative for survival''.  Anyway, the only reason I stayed as long as I did was because it would be downright rude to grab my shoes and run out of the kitchen door when no one was looking. Also, I hadn't spoken to anyone in about 48 hours. Not anyone other than my father that is. When one is desperately in need of some conversation, one doesnt care so much about how satisfactorily met his intellectual expectations from his or her partner are, as much as one would care about just being heard.

If you think I am being too fascist about the whole situation, it would serve you well to know that her best buddy is a filthy rich German boy 6 years younger, still in secondary school and responds to ''pooka''!? Just wondering if Ms. I love rich w***e asses has a 15 year old kiddy pal back home in India whom she lovingly calls ''Munna raja''?

Perhaps, just perhaps, if she dint remind me so strongly of the Mother of all bitches back home, I'd probably have given her a few tips on travelling to and around Vietnam. But she did and I am no saint.

My lifetime of evenings with friends, conversations and caffeine was finally revived today. I was meeting all three of them for the first time, save for Shikha whom I've briefly laid eyes on and shook hands with more than three years ago. She found me on Orkut, I was back in town, and we decided to do something about it. She'd invited two of her friends too. I welcomed the move with great gusto. More people meant wider perspective, vaster scopes for conversation, amplified sound effects, more rounds of drinks, and if they are male, single and interesting, a chance to rekindle the dying fires of my  jaded heart.

Harry walked in first. Tall, athletic, clean, big eyes, great smile, open demeanour, of Somalian origins, and most importantly with no wedding ring. I'd watch this guy and if he seemed worth it, I'd plan my next move. Half an hour later our topics having spanned from child pornography in Cambodia and the Government's apathy towards it, to racism, his schooling in Ooty, his siblings, bollywood, Zeenat Aman and eastern philosophy, I knew I had to come up with a really good plan. My heart raced at first at the thought, and then like an opera singer taking an A from a C minor, rose from the deepest realms of my guts, seizing and then transcending all senses known to man and God, and settling into a state of paralyzing oblivion. As I reached the peak of this almost paranormal experience, I heard him mention his W.I.F.E !!!

Everything, and I mean E.V.E.R.Y.T.H.I.N.G came to a complete standstill. My senses came crashing down, but not as hard as did my infant dreams and sublimal scheming. My most recent attempt, like its predecessors had been a complete failure, a non-ressuructing DOA. But, come to think about it, I don't think I liked the colour of his socks anyway! I mean, whoever would wanna be caught dead pairing white socks with a pair of blue jeans and white runners??!! Loser!

A very good friend of mine, whose name I forget, has this theory on how it gets increasingly difficult to find a good catch the older you get. This, according to her of course, is attributed solely to the distressing fact that these catches, already in a restricted age bracket, have allowed themselves, willingly or otherwise to be taken and held hostage by either their overindulgent mothers, women (younger than the woman in question and misery), other men, or the Taliban. But we'll leave the details and the ensuing debate for another day.

For now its time to steer right back into my evening. My grief didn't last very long as another black guy swooped in on our table. Shorter, leaner, bespectacled and a lot less handsome, his name was Abdul. He was an IT guy who taught computers and management at the University. As he plonked himself next to me I knew we'd get along. And got along we did. He was an animated conversationalist and always had a point. We spoke about Saddam and his hanging, the Arab's response to it, the Kurdish people, the Sunnis and the Shiates, the religious heads of Iran, Gaddafi and his women-in-white body guards, the bloody wars, the silly reasons, communalism  in India, sikhs in Kuwait and how he'd visited my profile on Orkut, found my picture mindblowing and called Shikha to find out if I was available. The last topic, despite leaving me stumped but nevertheless elated, would, for all egoistical purposes, be my pick of the day. It has inspired me to shed the old, ring in the new, stop chewing my nails off, get a french manuicure and go to the nearest Revlon store. It has given me a scratch of a reason to screw my current messy, just out of the bath and into the electric chair Harrison Ford look. I think I am ready for some attention now!!!