• FB seduction

    Have you encountered advertisements on FB for things you never knew existed, but having seen them, can’t live without? I have to exercise an extraordinary measure of self restraint not to part with my money. It’s like walking through a minefield.

    Just the other day, I succumbed to whisks which rotate as you press down on them. It does a great job at whisking eggs, whipping cream and I am sure much more. I had never felt the need to whisk or whip anything, animate or inanimate, until then. For a few days, I whisked and whipped anything that looked like it could benefit from a good whisking or whipping. Very quickly I realised that I didn’t really need it. I don’t like omelettes and my wife uses a food processor to extract industrial quantities of ghee from double cream. And so the rotary whisk rests in my kitchen, smug, enjoying early retirement – free boarding, no need to work. And there was a buy two get one free option. So I possessed three whisks until I gifted the extras to relatives.

    Today I said no to low temperature welding rods. It was most inviting. I could weld broken crockery, leaking utensils, anything that needs joining together or patching up. Fortunately, I remembered that broken crockery is never reused and goes straight into pots to help drain the water from its soil. There’s no history in recent times of utensils having leaked. So a firm NO to low temperature welding. I don’t need you.

    Then there’s a back and foot scrubber that sticks to the wall so you could exfoliate yourself like a moulting snake and scrub yourself raw in the shower. I nearly fell for this until better sense prevailed. I don’t work in a coal mine. There’s nothing to scrub. My skin is fine. It doesn’t need replacing. Thanks but no thanks.

    With this same logic I rejected a German multifunctional massage shower head with its own built in skin scrubber. What’s this obsession with scrubbing in these targeted adverts, I wonder. I’m beginning to take it personally.

    The worst was when I had to wrench myself away from a name embossing device. It was quite painful. I just had to tell the seller my name and anything else I want to appear on it, part with £36 and wait a few days. I would then receive this fascinating device which would generate my own customised insignia, my name immortalised in regal relief. I could emboss all the books in my library with my personal seal. I could add a touch of class to any letter I write.

    Then I was saved by a counter thought. I don’t have a physical library at home. I borrow electronic books from the public library or buy them on Kindle. In fact I’m getting rid of my own books because once I’ve read a book I never go back to it. They just become a collector’s item – collecting dust. Embossing them is neither necessary nor useful. In fact it would just increase the surface area and aid further dust accumulation. And I’ve forgotten the last time I wrote a letter. So, NO.

    I don’t know how many other ‘useful’ items will attempt to seduce me. Rational thinking usually comes either after I make the purchase or after my heart is torn into fragments by the act of self denial. So far I have remained unsullied.

  • Serendipity in the Bosphorus

    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. Those memories are often dredged up to dispel the dark moments one encounters.

    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 would be passing under the bridge connecting the continents of Europe and Asia. Sadly, I was in the engine room at the time.

    Had I not popped out of the engine room that evening for some quick relief 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.

    One of the three bridges across the Bosphorus connecting Europe and Asia

    And in the autumn of 2024, 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.

  • Wabi Sabi in Georgetown

    Georgetown, a UNESCO world heritage site in Penang island, at the northwest coast of the Malay peninsula, is a potpourri of cultures. Chinese, Malay, Indian, Siamese and the hybrid Peranakan traditions thrive in distinct but harmonious coexistence. The universality of the English language aids seamless communication within the population. European expatriates and tourists complete the backdrop.

    Imposing but grand buildings with colonnades of pillars dating back to the colonial period keep a constant watch on Malakka Strait. Ancient and ubiquitous Angasana trees offer respite from the tropical heat. The trill of birds cut through the jasmine scented air of tranquil gardens. In the busier part of town, eating places offer cuisine that titillates the tastebuds and makes one wish for a stomach of limitless capacity. And there is an abundance of cold beer to beat the sweltering heat.

    Past and present merge seamlessly, their dichotomy subsumed by the charm of the town. One experiences both the then and now in equal measures. Quaint.

    “It’s a pity some of these walls are so old and run down”, I remark to my cousin and travel companion as we explored the town and its street art including the famous wrought iron caricatures.

    “Have you heard of Wabi Sabi?”, he asks. He is a committed Japanophile and derives inspiration for his creative work from the refined aesthetics of Japan and their art of graceful design.

    “Oh, yes! I don’t like it at all. It just hits me – feels like my brain is on fire,” I responded.

    He didn’t call me a Philistine but clarified that he wasn’t talking about wasabi, the horse radish purée that complements sushi, but Wabi Sabi – the Japanese concept of beauty in impermanence, the acceptance of the transient nature of everything and elegance in imperfection. A completely new idea for me, a far cry from Singapore where every building resembles a wedding cake.

    I studied the idea a little more and gave it serious thought. Somewhere along the way, this new concept altered the world around me. I began to see beauty despite the surface flaws, appreciate asymmetry, and respect the graceful aging of things. I started observing the patina on a wall as adding to its charm instead of wanting to give it a good scrub and a lick of paint. Above all, Wabi Sabi added a temporal elasticity to everything around and within me – both physical constructions and metaphysical abstractions like human relationships. It added a new dimension to my perception, a living continuum instead of a dead stillness. I changed a little.

  • Police state or Shangri-La?

    It was with trepidation that I landed in Singapore last year. I was going to spend a lot of time there using it as a hub to visit places in South East Asia. Would I get into trouble in a country which has an authoritarian government and is reputed to be a police state? Is my big mouth going to let me down? Such was my state of mind when I stepped off the plane that anyone with a lanyard around their neck gave me the jitters. Everyone else, I feared, were police officers in mufti! Paranoid if you want a one word summary of my mental state. And ignorant, I hear some of you remark.

    It took me a couple of days to realise that my fears were exaggerated. Yes, it’s a small island with near total CCTV surveillance. Its four pillars of democracy are not as robust as each other. But as long as I didn’t jaywalk or spit in public places or molest or litter or organise a political rally, no one was interested in me. As I don’t habitually indulge in any of the above, jaywalking excepted, I was fine. I would be spared judicial caning both metaphorical and, for the most heinous of crimes and overstaying one’s visa, literal! In any case, over 50s are exempt from caning, I have learned since.

    It was only after I was disabused of this starkly negative imagination of Singapore that I started looking around to appreciate its charm. The order, cleanliness, the tension free coexistence of three distinct races- Chinese, Malay and Indians, were remarkable. So were the discipline and civic sense of ordinary people. As to places of touristic interest, I’ll spare you the agony of my description and refer to the included photographs instead.

    My Indian-British conditioned mind did nonetheless lead me to a deeper question on the merits of Singaporean society. Some of us find it difficult to reconcile with the idea of the nanny state telling us how to behave. Apparently, in 1980, Lord Balfour, a British politician, had vehemently opposed mandatory seatbelt legislation calling it a nanny state intervention. He also worried about future legislation on lifejackets! (This piece of information from Wikipedia made me smile. During my tenure at the UK’s Marine Accident Investigation Branch, I had written an entire report arguing for the wearing of lifejackets on small boats to be made mandatory) While I make no argument in support of a nanny state, I am tempted to quote Lee Kuan Yew, the founding father of modern Singapore:

    QUOTE

    And I say without the slightest remorse, that we wouldn’t be here, we would not have made economic progress, if we had not intervened on very personal matters–who your neighbour is, how you live, the noise you make, how you spit, or what language you use.

    UNQUOTE

    I can’t disagree with Mr Lee considering how since its separation from Malaysia in 1965, Singapore was transformed into one of the wealthiest and most peaceful nations on earth.

    Confucius had said that all that is needed is a benevolent king who always acts in the best interest of his subjects. Singapore’s perfect king, the People’s Action Party, in power since the inception of the country, has enjoyed tremendous popularity and governs with a massive majority in parliament. Home ownership is close to 90%, indices of human development are what most developed countries can only dream about, per capita share of the GDP is third in the world, crime is minimal, justice almost instant. Yes, I can’t march down the streets waving a flag, declaring my allegiance to a cause – unless I’ve taken prior permission to do so.

    So, all things considered, would I live in Singapore? Absolutely, if they will have me. Would I bring up my children there? Well, in my book, a rounded education includes a bit of chaos, a touch of madness, and a sliver of defiance. So, no.

  • Nothing wrong with dying

    Why do we treat ‘dying’ like it’s a bad word? Instead of saying someone has died, we resort to all sorts of verbal acrobatics. Inane expressions like ‘passed away’ or ‘passed on’ or just ‘passed’ are in common usage. ‘Expired’ is a favourite in India. Life is not a driving test for someone to pass and neither is it a carton of milk to expire. Another word one hears occasionally is departed. As if it’s not a human being but a train!

    Officialese is no better. Look at accident investigation reports published by governments. Although the ambulance crew tried their utmost to resuscitate the casualty, he was declared life extinct on arrival at the hospital. And this while concise language is considered de rigueur. Why not just say he was dead on arrival?

    When there is a good, clean word for the process, why hide behind euphemisms? When A dies, why not just say A has died. What’s so difficult about that?

    WhatsApp takes it to another level of absurdity. On a death being announced there is a flurry of outpouring. Om Shanthi, says one. He then embellishes it with a few namastes and an assortment of horrible white or yellow flowers. May his soul rest in peace or simply RIP follows right behind. Does the soul, assuming there is such a thing, need our permission to rest? And who said it needs to rest? What if it wants to run? All its life within the living body it has been resting on its backside. Now that it is homeless, perhaps it wants to enjoy the newfound freedom and stretch its legs. And you’re forcing it to rest! How can it escape the bardo if it stays still?

    I am devastated by your loss, says another. He didn’t even know the deceased, but that’s not relevant. Within 10 minutes of posting this message, he forwards a silly joke! So much for the devastation.

    He is playing at the lotus feet of God – was the contribution of a grief stricken WhatsApp group poet. Does the person who comes up with such comments even realise what he/she is writing? Should we not think a bit before we speak? If God has lotus feet, how is s/he going to walk? What use is a God who cannot walk?

    She is dancing in the lap of God, says yet another. My dear friend, she was a 97 year old great grandmother – not a lap dancer!

    When I die, I don’t want anyone to say that I’ve passed or expired or departed. Just say G has died. If you find it difficult to say that, then maybe say G will not be boring us on Facebook anymore, ever – which is the same thing.

  • Music lessons

    I have never been formally instructed in music. Yet I constantly sing or whistle to myself. My ex-colleagues have long suffered this habit while we drove all over the United Kingdom on marine accident investigations. I once shared a flat with a friend in Southampton. When I was moving out, he said to me,

    “I will miss your 5 am singing!”

    As a young marine engineer, I lived with my parents in Mysore when I came home from the ships. One morning, as I observed the placid and sleepy world pass by from the comfort of an easy chair, someone opened the front gate. A man in the traditional South Indian garb of a spotlessly white dhoti and veshti across his bare upper body came through to the veranda. He had the characteristic marks of a scholar – three vertical lines in sandalwood paste on the forehead and an elegant kudumi at the back of his neatly tonsured head. He looked to be in his sixties and exuded an air of authority. Large brown eyes set in an instantly endearing face, commanded instant respect.

    “Namaskaram Sir, I’m a music teacher,” he announced, “If there are any children in the house, I give them some lessons?”

    I told him that I was the youngest of the household. At 26, I could not call myself a child. He was not dissuaded. He clearly read my mind or at least read the disappointment on my face.

    “Adults can learn music too. I’ll teach you if you like.”

    Now, I had never considered taking music lessons. My life being split between the sea and land, there was no opportunity to embark on such a learning project either. I replied,

    “Unfortunately, I work on ships. I have only 3 months before I rejoin.”

    “That’s plenty of time. Start tomorrow and you’ll be giving a concert before you leave.” He was persuasive and pulled all my strings. I always suspected there was a musician trapped somewhere inside me and here was my Guru come to let my talent loose.

    I didn’t need further encouragement. I agreed. He asked me to be ready the next day with a picture of Saraswati, a coconut and the other paraphernalia for conducting a Guru pooja. His fee of 3000 rupees was to be paid in advance. He could teach me instrumental or vocals. If I wanted to learn an instrument, I had to buy two violins- one for me and the other for him! At ten grand a piece, the violin option was expensive. I went for the cheaper alternative – singing. The Guru left with a smile, the morning sun eclipsed by the glow on his beaming face.

    My mother had only seen him leave and asked me who he was. I informed her that he was to be my music teacher and we were embarking on a project to turn me into a professional Karnatic music vocalist in three months. Could she please get everything ready for the Guru pooja while I run up to the bank and withdraw his fee.

    “Are you mad?”, she asked, her hand on her partly open mouth in the typical Indian gesture for incredulity.

    She couldn’t believe my naïveté and quickly convinced me that I was being had. As a young woman, she had been formally instructed in South Indian classical music for over a decade. I couldn’t argue with her.

    “I’ll talk to him tomorrow,” she reassured me.

    The teacher arrived early the next morning. The conversation between him and my mother was along these lines:

    “Sir, did you tell my son he would be giving a vocal performance in three months?”

    “Hmm, ah .. but .. actually. Yes.”

    “You know, after seven years of vocal training, my Guru told me my swaram was just coming under control. How can you train my son to give a public concert in three months?”

    “Amma, your son was very keen. I have six children to feed.”

    Mother gave him a fresh coconut, a brand new veshti and one hundred and one rupees. He left, a nimbus cloud darkening his amicable face. I emerged from behind the fridge. To this day, I remain an everywhere musician without an audience – an uncut, unpolished diamond.

  • Breakfast at Josie’s

    Our son Siddharth came home on Saturday with girlfriend Megan. It was a belated Mother’s Day visit. Sunday also happened to be St Patrick’s day. This morning Sid decided we’re all going out for breakfast, for a Mother’s Day treat. We drove to our local Josie’s in Chandler’s Ford. The place was heaving and people were queuing up like young club goers on a Friday night. We were told there’s approximately an hour’s wait for a table. The next one was in Romsey which was also full. Sid then decided we should go to the one in Alresford, a twenty minutes drive away. By the time we reached, it was nearly noon time and travelling empty stomach in the backseat of a car driven by an impatient 24 year old, both my wife and I were beginning to feel a bit queasy. But at last we reached, parked up and walked in to Josie’s.

    “We are not yet officially open,” the host told us, “today is a soft launch for friends and family.” The phrase soft launch was new to me. But I wanted some food and the enhancement of my vocabulary did not stop my head from spinning. With envy, I eyed the friends and family tucking into stacks of pancakes with strawberries, eggs benedict and fresh orange juice. I couldn’t bear it and so moved back towards the road looking for another place to eat, expecting the rest of the family to follow. But they were still in deep discussion with the host. I went back in just as the host was leading them to a table. Apparently Sid had told him how he had come down from Bristol to see us – his parents, how today’s breakfast was a Mother’s Day treat and how we had driven twenty minutes to get here and so on. I don’t know where he got his tact and powers of persuasion from. Not from me! I take No for an answer much too readily.

    To just say the breakfast was delicious would be to undermine the other qualities that make a meal enjoyable. The atmosphere, the service and the general bonhomie were beyond excellent. We were repeatedly offered more hot drinks and made to feel at home. Just as we were congratulating each other on our lucky day to have gained access to an exclusive event, a lady came to our table and introduced herself.

    “Good morning, I am Josie,” she said.

    I wasn’t sure I had heard her right. A silent question raged through my mind. You mean you are THE Josie? The four of us looked at one another and instantly recognised that we were all asking the same silent question. The lady, dressed in green in honour of St Patrick’s day, certainly didn’t act the boss. She was jovial, friendly and one with her staff, serving food and chatting to customers.

    What she said next to us not only confirmed her proprietorship but also made our day.

    “Everything is on the house today. Please ask if you need anything.” Thank you Josie, for your generosity. You just got yourself four loyal customers. Thank you Siddharth, your Mother’s Day gift was very much appreciated by your mother (and father), thank you Sujata for being the primary reason for our adventure, thank you Megan for the affection you bestow on our son. And thank you St Patrick for blessing us with so much joy on your special day.

  • Pico de gallo

    They say half knowledge is dangerous. I say, not if it leads to a story. Last week I was in Campo de Gibraltar, a county of the province of Andalusia, Spain. I was there because my industry cannot accept I am retired, and neither can I. So, I take up occasional assignments and never miss an opportunity if it involves going to Spain. I have this misplaced self concept about being a semi fluent Spanish speaker! Nothing is further from the truth. But it is the self image – what you convince yourself about yourself – that matters. Secretly, I believe I could give Gabriel Garcia Márquez a run for his money, if only my grammar and vocabulary are improved.

    The Mexican restaurant where I had dinner one evening had a menu of some 50 dishes. Of these just two were suitable for vegetarians. A measly looking green leaf against each indicated they were meat-free. Appalling, this discrimination against vegetarians! But on the bright side, I had just two options to choose from and I went for the burrito.

    My order arrived just as I finished my beer. It was tasty but unlike a South Indian thali which has a multitude of mini dishes that one’s palate is constantly surprised with each bite, the burrito tastes the same beginning to middle to end. Bored with the monotony, I decided to brush up my Spanish.

    The description of the burrito in the menu began – ‘Con salteado de verduras y champiñones’ which I mentally translated to ‘With salted vegetables and mushrooms’. Wait. That can’t be right. Salted vegetables sounds so boring. My translation app quickly confirmed my suspicion – ‘salteado’ means sautéed and not salted. Confidence slightly shaken, I struggled along reading all of the ten items that made up the dish. I recognised some words like Guacamole and maiz while others had to be looked up. Then I stumbled on ‘pico de gallo’ which to my horror translates to ‘beak of rooster’! I was aghast. The green leaf on the menu was there in error or the Spaniards don’t understand the concept of vegetarianism. I felt like a pious Brahmin who was tricked into eating beef.

    Summoning the waitress, I protested in pidgin Spanish,

    “Me vegetarian. This burrito – it got chicken. No good, señorita.”

    What next – chicken feathers? I wanted to ask but didn’t know the word for feather.

    “I am so sorry sir,” she said, her face a deep crimson, “I will change it straight away.”

    She cast furtive glances at my dinner, scanning for the uninvited chicken. Then she picked up the plate and went into the kitchen at the other end of the restaurant.

    A couple of minutes later, she emerged – not with a replacement burrito but with my half eaten one. Looking neither embarrassed nor apologetic, her face said she had the answer. I guessed the chef was somehow involved in solving the conundrum. Pointing at my burrito, she asked gently but firmly,

    “Could you please show me the chicken?”

    Instead of rooting through the dish, I pointed to ‘pico de gallo’ in the description, tapping it with my forefinger for emphasis. The smile that lit up her face was that of a mother pardoning an errant child. What she then rattled off was beyond me but I got the gist – ‘pico de gallo’ is just the name of a Mexican salad containing tomatoes, jalapeno and other harmless vegetables. It has nothing to do with the body parts of a rooster.

    I finished the rest of the humble pie, sorry, burrito, and left the waitress a generous tip in compensation. The self confidence in my Spanish has taken a minor beating. Nothing that cannot be fixed with another trip to Spain. The cinema of my life continues.

  • The caves of Cheddar Gorge

    Clichés like ‘timeless’ and ‘time stands still’ are often used to describe places. The caves of Cheddar Gorge defy such triteness. Their near ethereal splendour can’t be measured in temporal units. They are today and yesterday and tomorrow. If you ignore their physical geology, you will experience the true essence of Time.

    The internals of the caves are carved into extraordinary shapes by the seeping water. They look like some post-modern sculpture, every nook and cranny uniquely formed and contoured, imbued with brilliant russet and pink and green. Time has neither stood still nor negated itself. It is everywhere, the dripping water of now, the stalagmites and stalactites of the past and present – a chain of events separated only by microseconds but strung together in millennia, and a future perhaps no different from the past – unpredictable, but with a trajectory well established. Time dilates and contracts at the same time, like some abstruse concept in quantum physics. An illusion of reality manifests in front of you, within your grasp one moment, and slipping out the next.

    You leave the caves of Cheddar Gorge, with a mind that is frantic in its effort to find its place in this vast continuum. You wonder if Time itself is the elusive God we argue about, the omnipresent and omnipotent, the everlasting, the merciful and the merciless.

  • Upper class travel

    There is a popular story in India about Sudha Murthy, the wife of the software billionaire Narayan Murthy and mother in law of ex British prime minister Rishi Sunak.

    The Murthys have retained their humility despite their immense wealth, endearing them to the Indian public. Once, Sudha was standing in line at the business class check-in for some international flight out of an Indian airport. As always, she was dressed in a plain, unassuming cotton saree. The person behind her is said to have told her,

    “Ma’m, the economy line is over there.”!

    So much for making assumptions and the symptoms of unconscious bias. But these things happen to everyone. It happened to me as well. My only excuse is that I was still a young lad of 19 at the time.

    I had gone to spend my Dusserah holidays with my sister in Kasaragod. Just like the students of today, the students of the 70s were also skint. We travelled third class and didn’t make a reservation just to save a few rupees. The journey lasting two nights and 3 days from Calcutta to Kasaragod in an unreserved third class compartment on an Indian train of the 70s was something else. If you were lucky, you could occupy the luggage rack and get some sleep. If not you perched with half a bum at the edge of a seat originally designed for three but usually occupied by six, sorry six and a half. If you got up you lost your seat. If you left your patch of luggage berth to use the toilet, someone else occupied it. The Railways went to great lengths to ensure the facilities were functional and devoid of any vestige of comfort. The seats were hard wood with no upholstery.

    So, imagine my delight when my brother in law surprised me by gifting me a first class ticket for the return journey to Calcutta. As I was boarding the empty compartment which proudly displayed my name among a printed list of privileged first class passengers, he advised me,

    “Don’t let all and sundry get into the first class.”

    First class and third class were like heaven and hell. As the inferior classes filled up, some people try to barge into the first class. My brother in law probably had this in mind when he advised me. But discretion is not an attribute associated with 19 year olds. I took his counsel to heart and decided to implement it without fear or favour.

    I was the only occupant in a coach that comprised some five or six spacious cabins with their own individual doors and plush cushioned interiors. Most cabins had four berths while some were coupés with two berths preferred by honeymooners and other amorous couples.

    The train arrived at Payyannur, approximately an hour later. I was walking the corridor determined to deny entry to anyone who tried. I noticed someone trying to open the rear door and promptly locked it from the inside using the heavy steel latches provided. A young gentleman with a very severe moustache looked quite puzzled and upset when he saw what I had done. He was accompanied by a whole bunch of soldiers in military green uniform and boots and all. Then he said with some urgency in his voice,

    “Please open the door.”

    The train was scheduled to stop there only for a short time. I simply shook my head. The conversation was monosyllabic.

    “No!”
    “No?” The soldiers joined their leader in a chorus of incredulity.
    “No.” I was firm.

    There was no time to argue. The gentleman and his platoon ran to the other end of the coach. They ran fast and in step. The sound of their boots on the concrete platform, loud and rhythmic, evoked visions of galloping wild stallions. I outran them but from the inside and locked the front door as well.

    “Open the bloody door,” the distressed passenger was red with all the running and uncontrolled fury. I couldn’t understand why he wouldn’t go to his own second or third class compartment. Nevertheless, I owed him an explanation, I thought. So I said,

    “Ayyoo, this is first class!”

    He replied,

    “Do you think only you can travel by first class? Open the door NOW!”

    The train was hooting, ready to depart. I let him in. He was a serving Captain travelling on a warrant issued by the Indian Army. He had more rights to first class travel than I did. He was traveling to Calcutta as well. We exchanged addresses before we parted.

    Only last week, my sister was traveling from London to Bangalore via Frankfurt. Her flight was late getting into Frankfurt and she was worried she was going to miss the connecting flight. She arrived at the departure gate and pushed through a large throng of people waiting at the counter.

    “Excuse me, excuse me,” she said as she inched her way frantically to the front of the crowd. Then someone in a wrinkled old kurta told her,

    “We’re all waiting for the same flight.”

    “But I am in business class,” my sister insisted.

    “We’re all business class,” said the kurta man! It transpired he was traveling with his wife, a famous Bollywood singer.

    So, the moral of the story is – I don’t know what it is, but I just love telling these funny stories! 😊