Leconte - Refreshing at first, but eventually annoying

Henri Leconte - former World No. 5 and French Open finalist in 1988 - was one of the commentators at the Australian Open last night. He was on during the match between Jo Wilfred Tsonga (Fra) and Nicloas Almagro (Esp).

I found his performance... Gallic, for lack of a better word.

A highly excited and emotional bit of commentating, with an unabashed bias towards the Frenchman. Some gems:

• "I'm sorry to bother you, but do you have any ball?.. Ello, ello, we are out of balls!"
• "AAAAHHHH" (in a high pitched voice), followed by "AAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH" (in a more manly one)
• "Come on Jooooooo, come on... YEAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!"
• And, for almost every point: "AHNBILEEVABULL!"

"NOOOOOOOOO!" Leconte screams in anguish as Almagro wins a point

It was nice to have someone so passionate in the commentary box, with such free flowing, off the cuff and breezy observations on the match. A welcome change, for a bit, from the hushed-voice snooze inducers some of the matches have seen. It was like having a Mexican football commentator in the box.

But the fact that he was practically yelling every time he spoke, coupled with his inability to be fair and objective to both players and use adjectives apart from AHNBILEEVABULL made him pretty annoying beyond a point.

Now that's a show

Last week, I watched The Manganiyar Seduction. It's a fascinating show featuring performers from three generations of the Manganiyar community of Rajasthan, performing from within a set of thirty six stacked cubicles. Each cubicle is curtained and as the piece progresses, each solo performer opens his curtain and joins in. An artiste's cublicle is lit at times that he is performing. And given that there are about forty performers, that makes for a delightful array of voices, instruments and lights that blend together very satisfyingly in a dazzling visual and aural spectacle.

No, this is not Bollywood Squares

A very special mention must be made of the 'conductor', who also manned the clappers. His animated engagement with each performer - and, in a delightful piece in the middle, the audience - as well as his incredible skill on the instrument had me floored and took the show to a whole new level.

The 'Seduction' in the show's name, by the way, comes both from the fact that the music is brilliant and draws one into the performace, and that the set is inspired by the red light district in Amsterdam.

The Manganiyars are a largely Muslim community from Rajasthan. They are hereditary professional musicians, who have traditionally performed for the local rulers and fat cats as a means of earning their livelihood. Interestingly, they pray to a Hindu god - Krishna - apart from following Islamic teachings. Their recent history and the story of how they rose from desert obscurity to national and international fame thanks to folklorist Komal Kothari, makes for interesting reading.

The Manganiyar Seduction was an incredible experience, and very uplifting. Definitely, definitely worth a watch if you can catch it in whichever part of the world you are.

Read more about the show here.

No, it's not kool

Aaargh.

I just got an email from someone that included the line "I'm kool with that."

Kool. Not Cool.

Is it really so difficult to just type it the right way? I admit 'k' is closer to 'o' and 'l' on the keyboard than 'c' is, but are you really not in a position to spare a digit of your left hand to press the 'c'?

This just made my blood boil.

It's not like kool is the new cool, unless it's the 80s or something. And it's not new slang/lingo, like pwned.

It's not even like it's a significant shortening to sms-language. I can, to some extent (a small one), understand someone typing 'u' instead of 'you'. It saves time, energy, space. I see that.

But not 'kool' for 'cool'. That's just dumb.

And annoying.

I'm becoming a grumpy old man.

A full Cup must be carried steadily

Starting September 2011 (20 months from now), New Zealand will host the Rugby World Cup.
Starting February 2011 (13 months from now), India, Sri Lanka and Bangladesh will host the Cricket World Cup.

20 rugby teams will feature in 48 matches, playing in 13 locations over a period of 44 days.
14 cricket teams will feature in 49 matches, playing in 13 locations over a period of 43 days.

The full draw and venues for the tournament were announced in March 2009.
The full draw and venues for the tournament were announced in October/November 2009.

A dedicated and detailed website has been launched.
The website, a page within the ICC's Yahoo website, features the latest news from recent cricket, but has limited information about the World Cup itself.

In New Zealand, a significant marketing campaign is being launched. Cathedral Square in Christchurch features a large billboard with a countdown to the World Cup.
Crickets chirping. No pun intended.

Merchandise is widely available across New Zealand and other countries.
No merchandise has been launched in South Asia yet.

Tickets went on sale (through travel agents) to a global audience on 1st January 2010.
Ticket information "will be announced to the public in due course", according to the website.

Hmmm.

A long drive

Rental car: $60 per day

Elvis album bought for the road from local store: $10

Fuel for the 387 km drive: $40

Driving 5.5 hours through the mountains and rain with 3 hours of sleep the previous night and nursing a massive hangover: priceless

Hey, 380!

Over the last several years, I have followed the development and launch of the Airbus A-380 (Official site) with great interest. Not from a technical point of view, but from a business/strategic point of view.

I've had a deep interest in the airline industry for several years now, probably stemming from my exposure to it as a child thanks to my father's career. And the A-380 is probably the biggest story in passenger aviation this decade. It's the ultimate superjumbo, with an all-economy configuration of ~850 passengers (most carriers operate it in a configuration allowing ~550). It's primary use is to connect high-traffic global hubs - JFK, LHR, CDG, DXB, SIN, HKG and the like. Several airports had to build infrastructure to accomodate it, and it's probably the coolest 'in' thing every airline is lusting for - they're certainly spending additional millions to have it customised and tailored for maximum customer luxury.

After years of nail-biting delays, it made its first commercial flight in Oct 2007. Singapore Airlines beat Emirates (the first company to put in an order, and the largest customer to date with nearly double the number of orders of the #2) to secure global bragging rights.

But why I am writing about all this now?

Ever since I first read about the A380 about five years ago, I've wanted to travel by one. Just for the heck of it. I doubt I'll ever really be able to afford travelling First Class on one, but even the Economy experience is supposed to be significantly better than in other airlines. After three missed chances on the SIN-SYD sector, I'll finally get my first shot on the SYD-LAX sector early next year. A 13+ hour flight - perfect to test it out.

I'm tremendously excited, almost irrationally and childishly so. Most Economy reviews I've read are positive, and I'm really looking forward to it.

I only hope Qantas doesn't change it at the last minute to a 747 because of low load factors, as they have done in the past. That would be a bummer.

If all goes well, next step: The Boeing Dreamliner, possibly in 2012.

Update (08 Jan 2010): Just found out EK is planning to use the A380 on the DXB-JED sector starting 01 Feb 2010. Interesting move, using the A380 for a journey of only about 1700km - the shortest A380 sector in the world. Possibly due to the low number of slots offered by the Saudi Aviation authorities to international airlines in spite of the large demand/traffic, especially during the Haj?

Ah, the Aussie way

Recently, a small incident brought home to me just how interesting the Aussie view of life is.

I was visiting a doctor for a medical exam (required for certain activities I was planning), and we got to chatting about what I was doing in Sydney. I explained to him that I had transferred from India for a while, and was thoroughly enjoying myself. He, in turn, told me his story of how he cam to Australia from Europe in the eighties as a student, and went on to make a life for himself here. He now considers himself fully immersed in the local society, and as Aussie as the next man.

In the course of the examination, we came to the entry on alcohol consumption.

The question read: On average, how many glasses of alcohol do you consume each week?

I had, after brief consideration, put down: 2-3

The doctor looked at the entry, and then looked up at me. His eyes went back to the sheet.

"Two to three glasses of alcohol a week?" he said, his brows furrowing.

"Uh... yes," I replied, worried thoughts running through my mind like particularly fleet-footed gazelles as I wondered if this would disqualify me from my planned activities.

"Three glasses, huh?" he said again, further compounding my worry.

I preemptively wiped a bead of sweat off my forehead.

And then, with a broad smile, he said, "You're an Aussie now, mate. That number should be at least 7 or 8 glasses a week!"

The creeping desensitisation

I like The Amazing Race. It's a great show that combines everything one could possibly want in a TV hour - action, adventure, color, travel, competition, occasional comedy and the triumph of human spirit.

I just watched a rerun of an episode where the teams travelled to Jaipur. I smiled at the teams coping with the frustration of immobile cows, disappearing taxi drivers, frisky monkeys and logjammed traffic (Ah, India. Incredible India, indeed. No place like it.) And then...

As the teams drove towards their destination, they passed through a part of the highway adjoined by slums. Cows, dogs and goats roamed freely, the filth was palpable and children were pottering around naked. At one point, some were shown eating leftovers from a pile of garbage. This caused a couple of contestants to break down somewhat inconsolably, and the tone of the show turned very somber for a bit. As the contestants struggled to check their tears, the whole thing gave me food for thought.

I, and possibly many other Indians like me, have become used to such scenes. We take it at face value, and the sheer horror-revulsion-pity-sorrow that a foreigner might feel might make less of an impact on us. We have internalised, accepted the stark in-your-face poverty that India confronts us with everywhere and maybe it ceases to move us as much now.

OK, I'm probably cloaking myself a bit by use of the term 'we'. I won't presume anything about the emotions and viewpoints of my friends or others at my station in life. It ceases to move me as much. After all these years, the poverty and squalor is just another part of the India I call home, and it doesn't hit me as hard any more. And as I thought about it, I found myself understanding why that was the case, but also deeply and unexpectedly uncomfortable about it.

Every year, reports tracking social indicators call out how important it is for concerted action to lift India and ensure every Indian has a decent, human way of life. As per the 2009 Human Development Index stats released by the UNDP (Source) in October 2009, India ranks 134th (of 182) in the world on the Human Development Index and 88th (of 135) on the Human Poverty Index. There's much chest beating (not thumping) and learned discussions on news channels and electronic notice boards at Indian premier educational institutions. The nation is united in its agreement that something must be done at the absolute earliest... until the next big news story comes along.

I feel I have become (relatively) desensitised. I remember when I first came back to India for good over 12 years ago, my reactions were much stronger. I remember feeling deeply sorry about the state of affairs, and trying to do little bits to help. It wasn't much, and largely extended only so far as to give reasonably generously to beggars. And I remember feeling happy in the thought that I was doing some good, in my own childish way.

Now... I don't know. I don't think about it that much. Signs of poverty register in some recess of my brain, but fail to shock me. Although every such experience gives me a renewed realisation of how lucky I am and how I have been able to move forward in life, it isn't as gut-wrenching as it used to be years ago.

I'm sure we all give to charities, for multiple reasons:
- Some because we genuinely care and want to do anything possible to alleviate the suffering of others
- Some because we can afford it and because it is convenient
- Some simply because we have spare change to meet the tax-exempt INR 100000 limit

I spent some time thinking back to my donations over the years, and realise I fall in the second category. Not only is it convenient in terms of my being able to contribute with a reasonable hope that a fair proportion of the money will be used as intended, but it offers me the option of not putting in physical time. The longer I think about it, though, the more I realise it actually helps me assuage my guilt about not putting in sufficient physical time.

Where is this headed, what comes next, how will I take this forward? I don't know. All I know is that at this point in time I'm feeling a little angry, confused, sad, ashamed.

Rail Gaadi Chuk Chuk Chuk Chuk

I love train travel. There's a certain... earthiness, for lack of a better word, to it that no other mode of transport can capture (only driving comes close). I remember my trips to Bangalore, Delhi, Mumbai with friends, standing at the door as the world rushed past, my head stretched outwards and tongue lolling out like a happy dog.

There's the comfortable rumble of the train beneath one, the always-interesting mix of people and personalities to observe, the excitement and wonder of every station one stops at. The smells, the sounds, the whole damn experience is a lot of fun. In India, that is.

Recently, I took a train to Canberra. While the views of the landscape were beautiful, the train ride itself was a little disappointing because

1. Like trains in 'developed' countries tend to be, it was all closed in. No windows that could be opened to catch a whiff of the lovely morning smell, no open doors to hang merrily off, not even access to the outside world through the lavatory (as is so readily and efficiently provided by Indian Railways)
2. The stations were small, sanitised (for lack of a better word) and terribly boring
3. I slept for about half the journey

But this post isn't about the train ride. It's about what came before that.

Friday
1200: I book my tickets. The train is scheduled to depart at 0658 on Saturday morning. Easy, I tell myself. I'll have no trouble waking up and getting to this train. 7am is as civilised a time as it gets. Plus the station is only about 8 minutes' walk from my house.

1900: I head out for a night of the usual drunkenness and wild debauchery sedate tea parties and walks by the moonlit shore.

Saturday

0130: I return home dead tired but wide, wide awake. I potter around cleaning up the house (Seriously. And yes, I am absolutely sober.)

0200: I play a mixed playlist of Elvis and Sinatra. Humming along, I go through my basic workout regimen in an effort to burn energy and make myself feel sleepy.

0300: I fall asleep on the sofa watching an episode of Boston Legal (one of my favourite shows ever - but more on that later. In life I mean; not in this post.)

0600: Somewhere, in the vast wilderness of my subconscious mind, a little beeping sound is heard. It is promptly silenced - my subconscious doesn't inform me whether this was achieved by sheer force of mind or a violent movement of my hand.

0631: J calls me, and a brief conversation ensues

J: "Hey"
Me: "Bluggh?"
J: "We're just passing by your house on the way to the station."
Me: "Huh?"
J: "It's me, J. Are you at the station already? Or shall we wait downstairs for you?"

Suddenly, I'm wide awake. My eyes snap open. I glance at the clock and leap off my sofa. I have 27 minutes to make the train, and am struck by three immediate realisations

1. I have, as usual, put the alarm on snooze when it made a futile attempt to wake me
2. I haven't packed, having earlier scheduled that activity for 0615-0625 hrs
3. I am reeking of sweat and alcohol

You, dear reader, will appreciate that this was not a time for eloquence. If anything was to be said, it didn't call for Cicero/King/Kamaraj levels of oratory.

With remarkable clarity of thought and economy of vocabulary, I say: #$%^

0632: Rush, rush, rush. I brush my teeth fast but carefully (If there are any children reading this blog - and if there are, I apologize for any scarring I may have inadvertently caused - know this: never compromise on dental hygiene), almost taking my enamel off.

I rush into the shower, scrub vigorously (how the hell did wine get in my hair?) and bound out. Shake myself like a dog, towel hard until my skin begins to smoke. No time to shave, can't afford any further morning activities. Just a quick comb of my unruly wet hair.

0638: Mild panic. I rummage through the clothes thrown about on my bed, applying the two time-honoured bachelors'-code criteria

1. Does it have any visible stains?
2. Does it smell weird? If so, is said smell too strong to be masked by copious quantities of deo?

This helps whittle down the selection to 3 shirts and one pair of trousers. I cram them into the nearest bag I find. I also pack my laptop, 'cause I'll have to put in a few hours of work over the weekend.

I spray myself liberally with deo (sorry, ozone layer) and dump the can in the bag. Zip up, zip out.

0643: Cutting it close, very very close. I realise I've rushed out barefoot, and step back in to wear my shoes. Pop a mint into my mouth, and rush back out.

0646: The lift, infuriatingly, stops on three floors on the way down to pick up an assortment of people who all look like they are nursing hangovers and have just been thrown out of their respective partners' homes.

0649: I dash out of my building, laptop bag in one hand and a tote bag in the other.

0650: I call J as I jog towards the station, letting him know I'm on my way and telling him not to worry. To my chagrin, he doesn't sound particularly worried at the thought of my missing the train. This is what happens when you tell too many jokes, I admonish myself while trying to prevent the strap of the laptop case slipping off my shoulders and onto the path of an oncoming taxi that appears to have no intention of slowing down. I realise I am also in the path of said taxi and skittle across the road like a frightened horse.

0652: I reach the station, but realise I've never taken an intercity train and so have no idea if the platform is anywhere near the suburban train platforms I'm used to. Another quick conference with J, and with the aid of some helpful signage, I have line of sight of the trains. But there's still the small matter of getting through the gate.

0654:I don't have an electronic ticket. And the manual gate is blocked by an old lady who I'm sure I would find lovely and endearing at any other point in life except this one. She chats with the railway official about mince pies (what is it with Australians and pies?) while making her way slowly through the gate. I don't want to be impatient or pushy, so I choose not to hustle her aside or tap my feet in an aggravated manner but just see this through. It also gives me time to catch my breath.

0655:I shoot a beseeching look at the railway official and gasp the words, "Canberra. Train. Now. Five. Thanks." The last because he lets me through another gate and I'm on the final leg. As I pass the station clock, I notice it shows 06:55:53. Another quick call to J to identify the coach.

0656:I'm tired and panting but relieved as I sink into my seat. Run a quick mental checklist, and realised I haven't packed any toiletries. In a moment of deep philosphical understanding about life and the big cosmic picture, I say, "Screw it," and settle in as the train eases its way off the platform.


Now, I'm not a guy used to doing 200m sprints early in the morning. But I'm damn proud (and surprised) I made this train packed and clean. I have a history of close calls, most notably a couple of occasions where I have had to run after the departing train and haul myself onto it as it picked up steam. It's always good fun, gives one a great adrenalin rush and helps one starts the journey on a positive note (Ha ha! I made it! I'm the king of the world!).

Unless one doesn't make it, of course. But that's a whole other story altogether.

The good turtle soup, not merely the mock

Of late, I've been listening to a lot of Frank Sinatra. I've had a number of his songs for a while now, but until recently had listened to only a few popular favourites (Strangers in the Night, At Long Last Love, My Way...)

Recently, I decided to expand my Sinatra collection and collect a few more songs. And listen to all of them.

And boy, are they good.

I've been listening to nothing but Sinatra for the last three days (the only exception being the delightful Dean Martin rendition of You're Nobody Till Somebody Loves You) and am now firmly a fan. There's something about his voice... it holds me in the same way only a few other voices have held me in the past (Mukesh and Kishore come to mind).

Be it the sad, lovelorn songs, the swinging party pieces or the love ballads, the soaring voice and caressing lyrics envelop me completely every time. I find myself tapping my feet, snapping my fingers or doing a solo slow dance as I listen. Much to the bemusement of my colleagues, of course.

Here are my favourites to date, in alphabetical order:

At Long Last Love	Listen
Forget Domani	Listen
Fly Me To The Moon	Listen
Love And Marriage	Listen
Luck Be A Lady	Listen
My Kind of Town	Listen
One For My Baby	Listen
Saturday Night (is the Loneliest Night)
Strangers in the Night	Listen
The Girl From Ipanema	Listen
The Way You Look Tonight	Listen
You Make Me Feel So Young	Listen

Apologies for the external links - I'm too lazy to create streaming audio.