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Horrible homophones causing me embarrassing moments …

In 2022, I accompanied my wife to an orthopaedic surgeon in Bangalore who specialises in knee replacement. He came across as a nice guy, very approachable. So, when he finished advising my wife, I asked if I could get his medical opinion on something that was causing me some concern. (In India, you can sometimes generate these ‘buy one get two’ deals.)

“Sure,” he said giving me his full attention.

“I get some knee pain too but only after a long cycling trip or some heavy exercise.”

“That’s sweet pain. Don’t worry about it,” he reassured me.

I’m full of sweet pain now having visited the gym a few times in the New Year. Every muscle is on fire and I feel as if a road roller has run me over. Hopefully, the body will repair itself soon because frankly there is no difference between real pain and sweet pain. Are you listening doctor?

I have avoided sweets since January 1. This variety of sweet pain is almost unbearable. I’m like a junky deprived of my daily fix. I look at my wife and drool like a hungry Labrador when I see her eating those plum puddings.

If any of you meet me this month and I’m not my usual self, you know why. I’m suffering from a double dose of sweet pain.

Happy New Year to all my friends and family. Let us hope 2025 will prove both Nostradamus and Baba Vanga wrong. They have prophesied apocalypse this year. On that cheerful note let me tell you about my New Year resolutions – sorry solutions.

Every year, I make New Year resolutions and every year I break them after a few months, sometimes weeks. The main problem is that it becomes an all or nothing endeavour. I will not eat chocolates, I will not consume alcohol, I will go to the gym 7 days a week, I will write a minimum of 500 words daily, and so on. In short, my resolutions are designed to fail and they invariably do. I know I shouldn’t be eating sweets because I have diabetes. Someone said to me the other day, ‘You will go blind if you eat so many sweets.’ The riposte that popped up in my head was, ‘Sweets would still taste delightful.’

But seriously, I need to get rid of that sweet tooth. The quality of my sleep is better if I don’t consume any alcohol. I am overweight and the case for sweating it out in the gym is very strong. I wish to improve my writing – so, as many writers tell me, I must write something every day, even if it’s crap. My resolutions, as you can see, are well intended. However, they simply don’t work.

The pattern is the same every year. I am resolute in achieving my goals. Weeks pass. Counter arguments to defeat my resolutions gradually line up like some superior army against an already weak and demoralised enemy. The eastern concept that everything is an illusion (ergo nothing matters) join forces with its unlikely bed fellows – the existentialist tenets of the west – freedom of choice and individual responsibility. The first casualty is usually the anti-sweet pledge. I pop one measly chocolate bar into my mouth and the rest of the resolutions come tumbling down like a house of cards. Excessive drinking becomes a routine (in my case one or two glasses of wine a day), I forget the way to the gym and the realisation that writing without being inspired is not something I am able to do! I am back to square one.

A wise friend of mine from Sheffield told me one year that his only New Year resolution was to drink more red wine. He did not say he intended to reduce his white wine consumption proportionately. I had just assumed that to be a given. Only last evening, did I realise that I could have been wrong all these years. His was a New Year solution not a resolution. I have, therefore, decided to decapitate the word, remove the ‘re’ from resolution. Like the mythical Phoenix, the solution has emerged from the ashes of broken self-promises: no New Year resolutions this year, just less of everything.

In life, one never forgets certain events. These serendipities form indelible impressions on the psyche. They leave a yearning, a desperate wish to repeat the experience, to relive the sudden elation of a moment long past. More often than not, it remains a yearning, futile hope rather than purposeful aspiration.

The first time I saw Istanbul was by a lucky accident. I had just begun my career as a marine engineer. It was 1980 and I was one of the two fifth engineers on a general cargo ship. A fifth engineer spends his time either sleeping or working in the engine room.

In the summer months, the engine room is an oven, the temperatures often exceeding 55 C or more near the engines and boilers. The cacophony of multiple running machinery is an aural assault on the hapless engine room crew. Faint smells of leaking exhaust gases and burning diesel adds to the misery.

While at sea, an engineer doesn’t usually have much locational awareness. I knew our destination but that was about it. My ship was on its way to the Black Sea port of Ilyichevsk in the then Soviet Union. I knew that we were in the strait of Bosphorus and would be passing under the bridge connecting the continents of Europe and Asia. Sadly, I was in the engine room at the time, under the waterline.

Had I not popped out on deck that evening for some respite from the heat and noise, would I have fallen in love with Istanbul the way I did? Was it just for me that the sun was setting on the city, bathing its splendid mosques in golden orange, silhouetting the squawking seagulls against slender minarets? Did I not momentarily forget the heat and din when the cool sea breeze on my sweaty overalls comforted me in its delicate embrace? For a few ephemeral but precious moments, I stood frozen on the deck of the moving ship, absorbing the magnificent vista gliding past me. I became a part of Istanbul and Istanbul became a part of me.

And so, after more than four decades, I was fortunate to experience nearly identical emotions as the ferry plying between the two continents approached Eminönü, its final stop. The sunset, gulls, minarets – were all there as if the intervening years were illusory and nothing had changed. I was glad that despite the years, I hadn’t lost the capacity to be astounded and love-struck.

NB: apologies to those who read the earlier version. I have shortened it to remove all the unnecessary details. I had violated the Chekov’s gun principle (if you introduce a gun into the story it must go off before the story ends).

The Republic monument in Taksim square, Istanbul – the epicentre of political protests – is now cordoned off by the POLICE. India Gate in Delhi is closed for business too. History is being rewritten in Turkey. Nothing new there. Those miserable Moghuls are being gradually purged from our history too; what are they doing in our Hindu Rashtra anyway? Kemal Ataturk is not the favourite anymore. Mahatma Gandhi, don’t worry, you are not alone. School curriculum has been altered to refelect the new history of the Turkish Republic. NCERT തഥൈവ! Jai Sreeram. Name of the country changed from Turkish Republic to Turkiye. India? Welcome to Bharath. Contempt in some quarters towards women not properly covered. Bharathi naree don’t get caught up in love jehads. Voices automatically lowered when Erdogan is mentioned. In Bharath, the M word may be freely used, but only in unctuous eulogies. Fearless Turkish journalists are rotting in jail. Bharathi journalists have been tamed, others can go to jail. Antinational bastards. Serves them right. Why did they commit unlawful acts like criticising the government? Didn’t they know about UA(P)A?
Where am I? Turkiye? Bharath? I feel so homesick!

I don’t think I was cut out to be a photo journalist. Whenever I witness something completely out of the ordinary, I forget to take a photograph. Some 6 months ago we were on a coach to London from Southampton. We were speeding along the M25 (for those not familiar, it is a 188 km circular motorway around London) when all of a sudden, the traffic slowed down to walking pace. In the slow lane was a full grown swan, waddling along as if it owned the road! We stared at the elegant bird, open-mouthed. None of us clicked a picture.

Recently, on our way from Istanbul airport to our accommodation, a similar thing happened. The traffic was crawling along due to an incident on the motorway. Taking advantage of the slow pace was a man with a little cart selling bagels! That too in the fast lane. An extraordinary sight for us. I didn’t have the presence of mind to take a few pictures. Instead, I said something like, ‘Look look’ to my wife. The cab driver, thinking I wanted a bagel, pulled up close to the cart! I had a hard time communicating with him that my mouth was open in astonishment and not in hunger.

So, I’m afraid I had to bore you with a thousand words instead of a couple of photographs of the scene.

Some six months ago, I started growing a beard or more correctly, stopped shaving. My beard is of a rebellious nature and does not grow uniformly. It is mostly white whereas the hair on my head is preponderantly black. When friends started telling me that I have put on an extra 10 years with the added facial hair, I let them in on a secret: I was growing a beard for precisely that reason. It was a social experiment that I was planning. The litmus test would be conducted during a ride in the Metro in any Indian city. In the past, no one offered me a seat although the signs clearly announce that some seats are reserved for senior citizens. I was sure I now looked the part – every bit a senior citizen with a flowing white beard.

With great hopes, I boarded the Bangalore Metro and manoeuvred through the milling crowd to a seat reserved for senior citizens. It was occupied by two strapping young men and I hovered expectantly right in front of them. But, they just gave me a brief glance and continued canoodling their phones. Disappointed, I looked up at the sign. The Metro authorities had changed it. They now invoke their patrons to offer the seat to:
the elderly, disabled, women with babies and pregnant women. The words were illustrated with a woman holding a baby, someone leaning on a stick, a disabled person with crutches, and a heavily pregnant woman! No mention of senior citizens.

My social experiment has failed. I will not tempt fate by wielding a walking stick; neither will I invest in a pair of crutches. I couldn’t get pregnant and even if I could borrow a baby, I wouldn’t qualify as a man carrying a baby doesn’t.

I must find a good barber.

It was a good decision to visit Colombo on the last day. We did bask in some colonial luxury at the Galle Face Hotel, breathing the sea air and sipping beer. However, Colombo, like any other city, is not a place where I would want to spend too much time.

The train ride from Waikkal to Colombo was reminiscent of the Indian trains of the late 80s complete with the small cardboard tickets with embossed serial numbers. A one way ticket cost us only 120 Lankan rupees while the return cab ride cost 5200!

At Colombo station, the tourist office suggested we hire a tuk tuk for sightseeing. Promptly, there appeared a driver who claimed to speak English but quickly switched to Tamil which we understood, mostly. He had an eerie resemblance to the tourist office man. I don’t have the heart to describe everything we saw. The photographs give you a rough idea.

A man we met at the ATM, Shiva, offered to accompany us to the bus stand for the return journey. After discovering that traveling by bus would involve another taxi ride nearer our destination, we decided to take a cab all the way. Shiva used his Pickme app to call one, waiting until it arrived. He even asked us to call him after reaching our hotel!

So, let me close this series with a big thank you to all the lovely people of Sri Lanka, especially those who helped us, often going out of their way to do so. Thank you also to our faithful friend, the frog who followed us all the way from Jaffna. He was last seen in our bathroom.

I hope you have enjoyed reading it all as well as viewing the photographs. I didn’t get a lot of time to proof read or edit before posting. Apologies for errors and omissions.

Ayu Bhavan.

The photos taken in Negombo lagoon and Wenlankanni can speak for themselves. I’m taking a couple of days off!

My late father used to say after he turned 70 that it was time for him to stop reading to reflect on everything he had read. I feel the same now having worked hard these last few days absorbing a shedload of interesting history, religion and ancient architecture. My head feels full. I am glad that today is the last day of sightseeing.

We treated ourselves to a swim and a bit of lie-in on the poolside loungers. After a breakfast of coconut roti with sambal, eggs and fresh tropical fruits washed down with flavoursome Ceylon tea, we were ready for the UNESCO registered world heritage site of the tabletop rock mountain of Sigiriya built by King Kashyapa in the 5th century. Our driver had warned us that yesterday’s gruesome climb up to the rock cave temple at Dambolla was nothing compared to what lie in store for us at Sigiriya. My stented heart beat that much faster listening to him.

Looking up at the 180m high rock fortress with 2000 steps filled me with dread. Noting the average age of people attempting the climb made me sweat. I couldn’t find many of my vintage. Strange and morbid thoughts crossed my mind – How would I be carried down the narrow steps if I collapsed? Are there helicopters for medical evacuation? We had turned down several guides and were doing this on our own. So, no local knowledge or help either.

Then I remembered my own advice to a young student at Sheffield University in the mid 90s where I was a mature MSc student. He used to worry so much during exams that despite being very clever, he invariably failed. I had counselled him,
“What’s the worst that could happen to you?”
After he responded with various scenarios including failing the course, his father stopping funding, he being jobless for ever and so on, I said to him,
“No. The worst thing that could happen is you could die.”
I don’t know whether that advice worked but he stopped talking to me after that.

So now it was time for me to try my own medicine. Yes, I could die. So what, I said to myself without a lot of conviction. And it did feel like that a quarter of the way up as I panted like a dog and my head spun. Then it settled down. Halfway up at the plateau with the giant lion paws, I felt refreshed and the breathing became normal. The fear of death had disappeared and was replaced with the vigour of youth.

The caressing breeze and delightful panaromic views, the distant white statue of the Buddha standing out amidst the verdant hills, terraced gardens with ingeniously engineered water features and concealed interconnecting conduits, soothed my fears which seemed insignificant in the midst of all this grandeur.

We spent a lot of time at the summit admiring the ruins of palaces and gouged out reservoirs with breathtaking 360 degree views of the lush vegetation all around and the water gardens below. We were glad to have visited the dedicated museum before we embarked on the ascent. It gave us a better appreciation of what we saw. To add to the drama, a monkey snatched a slab of chocolate from Raju’s bag.

Going down was a lot easier than going up and we returned to the car, but not before grabbing a few beers – no, just joking. We did get some fresh musambi juice on the way down. By dusk, we arrived at our final stop in Sri Lanka – a beach resort north of Colombo where we said goodbye to our wonderful driver and companion for the trip, Buddhika Sadaruwan.

I look forward to some deep relaxation for the next two days. But, Raju is already talking about the lagoons of Negombo only a few kilometres from the resort! As a wise Indian mechanic on one of my ships said, “There is no rest for man or ox.”