If I were born in the seamier side of Fort Cochin with a name like Selwyn Da Costa, I would have pursued a career as a rock guitarist. (read elegy to False Alarm, in this blog) But with a name like Surendran Pandarathil, I was destined to the dustbin of irrelevance in later life. So blame it on your parents. My father was an NRI for many years and wasn’t clued in on fashionable names of the time in India. Back in the sixties distorted names like Riteeeysh were not much the rage since numerologists and other woozy con artists were yet to arrive at the scene. So my name was recorded as Surandran; an apparent spelling mistake committed by the Chinese / Malay clerk in records- no surname, or father’s name as appendage. No one bothered to correct it also.
When we came to India in the early seventies, my maternal grand uncle took me to the school near my village and corrected what he saw was an abomination of a spelling mistake in my name and rather cruelly added my family name for good measure in the school records. He belonged to a generation that wore family names like a badge of honour. He couldn't have imagined difficulties filling up various visa forms and other application forms. My family name sounded very close to an object of disgust in Malayalam. I would be teased endlessly about it. In school and college I was given nicknames by friends and adversaries that sounded variously like ‘beanpole’ and ‘chickenlegs’- not a very flattering reference to my thin emaciated looks that resulted in a permanently tarred and rather unsuccessful track record with the opposite sex.
The other issue was that my name without expansion of initials gave rather hazy clues on my ancestry. Although it was embarrassing initially, I rather started to enjoy being classified by many of the kerala subcastes as one of their own. I swear I could have run for elections disguised as belonging to any of the leading castes of the constituency and achieved a modicum of success in competitive caste politics. This had some interesting outcomes as one grew beyond marriageable age and one would hear leading questions as to one’s ancestry so as to hook you up with a similarly placed spinster. I loved to keep them guessing without giving any clue. One could masquerade as a goldsmith, toddy tapper, tiller, carpenter, harijan or whatever the occasion demanded. Growing up in Kerala in the 70s’ and 80s’ we were more influenced by Karl Marx than Groucho Marx and it was clearly amusing to watch others trying to slot you into the complex social hierarchy of our land.
I finally met up with Robin Jeffrey, the Canadian academic who wrote a book on the decline of Nayar dominance in Travancore, in Canberra, a fortnight ago. He brazenly asked me my ancestry. I candidly admitted that I am a Palghat Nair. I made an allowance for the white man who asked me the question; for if it was any one from Kerala, I would have kept them guessing. Robin said good for you that Shashi is contesting elections-Shashi being Shashi Tharoor, another Palghat Nair. I said I didn’t see how it is good for me for I have never even met him. Two Palghat Nairs only have to try a little hard to become close relatives. Try a little harder and you can make matches between unmarried souls or start a chit fund with family names attached to it. The family names invariably have an unromantic, rather longish, strange sounding ring to it- Tharoor being a nicer sounding one. The rules are simple. One carries only the mother’s family name. And when you marry, your wife doesn’t carry your family name. (Brinda Karat is breaking a major rule here). Your children don’t carry your name or your family name but their mother’s family name. My senior Punjabi civil servant friend once quizzed me on my full name and my son’s full name and asked me rather bluntly, ’Beta tera hi hai ?’ (Is your son really yours ?) And one is never addressed by the family name which is also a surname. I try to explain this to Australians who call me Mr Pandarathil, but they don’t seem to get it. I get calls and letters from credit card companies, cab services, tax office, library, immigration department and others addressing me as Pandarathil and I can’t do a damn thing about it. Here I am stuck with a name I can’t disown.
So it was that I read Sidin Vadukut’s blog on single south Indian males. It is really a hilarious piece. And I knew exactly how it feels.
http://www.whatay.com/2004/05/17/the-travails-of-single-south-indian-men-of-conser/#disqus_thread
I sent this link to all the female friends I have had the privilege of knowing in my rather unspectacular life. One college friend promptly wrote back. She said don’t blame your name for your failures with women. Look within and you shall know that the reasons run deeper than that. It did wonders to my self esteem….
I don’t believe in after life. If there be one I‘d rather be born Anglo Indian in Fort Cochin with a name that sounds somewhat like a Portugese marauder. Then maybe I‘ll pursue the true calling of my life, ie music. Maybe …..(a remote outside chance here) achieve success with women too…..
Friday, 17 April 2009
Monday, 13 April 2009
And the PM spoke Mandarin...
First a disclosure- Nothing that I am about to write has anything to do with my not-so-intimate knowledge of the goings on in Government as a lowly Indian Defence Ministry bureaucrat. No, nothing here is a result of my attending Secret meetings or reading classified documents. Y’know it helps to pretend that you are a very knowledgeable insider, especially when you are a highly placed official just freshly transplanted from the water supply department to Defence and know nothing about Defence. You can give these knowledgeable nods, bored and disapproving looks and talk about the time you were in
It is not polite behaviour to write about the politics of the host country. Especially a country so welcoming and which has been good to me so far. And Mandarin is not an easy language to learn. The Chinese characters can take a whole range of different meanings depending on the intonation, rise, and crescendo of every sound emanating from one’s lips. If I were in
Kevin Rudd, the Australian PM, has been a diplomat. He learnt Mandarin from the same University where I study ie the
The Chinese connection doesn’t end there. The newspapers are replete with stories of the Australian Defence Minister’s
There are murmurs of Chinese attempts to access/ tap the Australian PM’s laptop/phone while he was on a trip to
Now the task gets tougher. I shan’t write about
There are enough comparisons of the
In India, one could buy a postal order of Rs 10 (equivalent princely sum of 30 Aussie cents) and seek information on total Defence spending by the Government of India from the Office of the Defence Secretary or Finance Secretary (only if you are too lazy to glean this figure from Planning Commission and Finance Ministry documents on the cyberspace). You can expect a reply within the month (in spite of not-so-knowledgeable babus). Try to find out from the Chinese….
I rest my case
Sunday, 5 April 2009
Pazham Pori Purana
Recipe
Few ripe or near ripe bananas peeled–
Not any banana- but Nendhrapazham, to be specific- a typical Kerala plantain, ceremonial fruit for Onam and Vishu, Kerala’s prominent festivals, king of plantains.
Cut lengthwise -I know that sounds stupid- can a banana be cut lengthwise? Isn’t it meant to be cut in to small round pieces and fried in oil and eaten as Kerala banana chips, famously sold in every nook and corner of the country? Now come on, I haven’t even begun my recipe, don’t interrupt.
Mix white flour with water, a bit of milk, and salt and make a paste, not too thick.
Now put the cut pieces of bananas into the paste.
Heat coconut oil-enough to sink the banana pieces one or two at a time- in a pan
Take the pieces and fry them
Wait until each piece turns golden brown
Drain oil and serve hot.
The above is a clumsily attempted recipe of Pazham Pori, thus called in North Kerala (where I belong) , also known as Vazhakka Appam in South.
The stuff made at home is good. But the stuff sold in Railway Stations is great. Don’t know how they get it right. It must be the unhygienic surroundings, the sweat dribbling down the bare shoulders of the cook, the dust that flies as trains pass by and the tiny insects that fall in the heated oil. They look bigger, thicker and they dribble in oil… (Just as the Golgappas aka Pani Puris sold at the roadside stall is infinitely tastier than the one made at home or sold in the sterilized surroundings of a star hotel)
Unfortunately, the pazham pori is nowadays rarely available in hotels and restaurants in Kerala. Unless you happen to visit an infra-dig village eating joint and partake in snacking with the rural class. It is also not so easy to find in Railway stations in Kerala nowadays. They are sold between say 7.00 AM and 8.30 AM in mornings and 3.30 PM to 4.30 PM evenings. The entire freshly-made stock is sold off before you get panting, huffing and puffing there.
I remember an old visit to my village in Kerala. I arrived at Shornur Junction near my home by train from Goa, with the Missus, Chathu and loads of luggage. It was around 7 AM in the morning. The station had come to life. Vendors selling tea, newspapers and breakfast were yelling loudly,announcing their wares as they walk along the platform. My friend Hari had promised to send his car with a driver. The driver called up to say that he will take another ten minutes to get there.
I told the Missus, wait here, I will get some newspaper and come. My village doesn’t get the daily supply of English newspapers; only Malayalam ones are sold. I rushed to the canteen, bought a parcel of 5 steaming hot pazham poris and went back. I forgot all about newspapers. Missus is fuming; the driver has already arrived. Porters and taxi touts are pestering them. Chathu gets impatient. He has been maintaining that look... Why did you drag me away from my multiple screens, the TV screen, the play station console and the computer screen? Why did you take me away from my football gang in my colony in Delhi…Why do I have to meet strange relatives and chat with them?; All in all, our man never passes up the opportunity to make me feel guilty.
We dump the entire luggage in the car and soon we are winding our way through country roads towards my village a few kilometers away. I open the parcel and start eating ravenously. I remembered that I haven’t brushed. Never mind. Anybody want a bite? No. Thank you. Conversation stops and I am busy eating. A mouth full of Pazham Poris can still make a man forget niceties and civil behaviour. It is hot, sweet, and tangy.
Ought to make it global cuisine. Wait for the day it is sold like pizzas, hamburgers, Danish Pastries and noodles in every corner of the globe.
Few ripe or near ripe bananas peeled–
Not any banana- but Nendhrapazham, to be specific- a typical Kerala plantain, ceremonial fruit for Onam and Vishu, Kerala’s prominent festivals, king of plantains.
Cut lengthwise -I know that sounds stupid- can a banana be cut lengthwise? Isn’t it meant to be cut in to small round pieces and fried in oil and eaten as Kerala banana chips, famously sold in every nook and corner of the country? Now come on, I haven’t even begun my recipe, don’t interrupt.
Mix white flour with water, a bit of milk, and salt and make a paste, not too thick.
Now put the cut pieces of bananas into the paste.
Heat coconut oil-enough to sink the banana pieces one or two at a time- in a pan
Take the pieces and fry them
Wait until each piece turns golden brown
Drain oil and serve hot.
The above is a clumsily attempted recipe of Pazham Pori, thus called in North Kerala (where I belong) , also known as Vazhakka Appam in South.
The stuff made at home is good. But the stuff sold in Railway Stations is great. Don’t know how they get it right. It must be the unhygienic surroundings, the sweat dribbling down the bare shoulders of the cook, the dust that flies as trains pass by and the tiny insects that fall in the heated oil. They look bigger, thicker and they dribble in oil… (Just as the Golgappas aka Pani Puris sold at the roadside stall is infinitely tastier than the one made at home or sold in the sterilized surroundings of a star hotel)
Unfortunately, the pazham pori is nowadays rarely available in hotels and restaurants in Kerala. Unless you happen to visit an infra-dig village eating joint and partake in snacking with the rural class. It is also not so easy to find in Railway stations in Kerala nowadays. They are sold between say 7.00 AM and 8.30 AM in mornings and 3.30 PM to 4.30 PM evenings. The entire freshly-made stock is sold off before you get panting, huffing and puffing there.
I remember an old visit to my village in Kerala. I arrived at Shornur Junction near my home by train from Goa, with the Missus, Chathu and loads of luggage. It was around 7 AM in the morning. The station had come to life. Vendors selling tea, newspapers and breakfast were yelling loudly,announcing their wares as they walk along the platform. My friend Hari had promised to send his car with a driver. The driver called up to say that he will take another ten minutes to get there.
I told the Missus, wait here, I will get some newspaper and come. My village doesn’t get the daily supply of English newspapers; only Malayalam ones are sold. I rushed to the canteen, bought a parcel of 5 steaming hot pazham poris and went back. I forgot all about newspapers. Missus is fuming; the driver has already arrived. Porters and taxi touts are pestering them. Chathu gets impatient. He has been maintaining that look... Why did you drag me away from my multiple screens, the TV screen, the play station console and the computer screen? Why did you take me away from my football gang in my colony in Delhi…Why do I have to meet strange relatives and chat with them?; All in all, our man never passes up the opportunity to make me feel guilty.
We dump the entire luggage in the car and soon we are winding our way through country roads towards my village a few kilometers away. I open the parcel and start eating ravenously. I remembered that I haven’t brushed. Never mind. Anybody want a bite? No. Thank you. Conversation stops and I am busy eating. A mouth full of Pazham Poris can still make a man forget niceties and civil behaviour. It is hot, sweet, and tangy.
Ought to make it global cuisine. Wait for the day it is sold like pizzas, hamburgers, Danish Pastries and noodles in every corner of the globe.
Sunday, 29 March 2009
Telecom revolution in the developed world
A link to an interesting article that appeared in the Australian recently is given below. The columnist’s exasperation with lousy service, incoherent call centre operators speaking in a strange accent (likely to be from my motherland- India) are behind this story.
http://www.theaustralian.news.com.au/story/0,,25236818-23375,00.html
I arrived as an international student to Australia two months ago. As a wide eyed third-world student, I never expected to have any problems subscribing to a telecom service. The telecom revolution is one thing which India has blundered along and got things right. Back home service in the telecom space is unrecognizable from what it was, say 5 years ago. There are several companies, Indian and foreign, with deep pockets offering a host of services. Basically there are two kinds of services. Prepaid & post paid. In postpaid you have the option of paying a larger monthly cap to talk more and talk cheaply. If you are the odd student or the driver or servant who has a mobile only to be reached, then you either have a prepaid mobile or a cheap post paid service so that your finicky Dad, uncle or employer can reach you 24/7. You don’t get to call anyone much. India prides itself in offering the cheapest mobile services in the world.
Before I reached Australia, I was told to subscribe to a certain service provider who (a) gives away a mobile free and (b) gives free calls on mobiles on the same service. Since my relatives were on the same service it made sense to subscribe to their service. I walked into their outlet and expressed my desire to become a customer. I explained that I am in Australia only for slightly less than a year’s time and hence, I will pass the free mobile offer. But put me on to your service. They said fine, no problem. Bring your proof of address. Would my passport do for identification? I asked. I explained that I am in Australia only from last week and I can’t produce proof of address. He shrugged and said sorry.
I walked to another service provider’s showroom and asked for a prepaid card. They readily sold me one. I thought I could put the SIM card in my phone and bingo, could start talking. No such luck. I tried calling- my call was redirected to the service provider’s call centre. Strangest of things, it was an Indian accent that greeted me. I was first read out a disclaimer notice cum terms of service. This went on and on. It was all gobbledygook. I was as attentive as I would be while ticking the check box that says “ I accept” while installing free software in my laptop or while the pretty stewardess rattles off safety instructions about how to get put on thee life jacket in the unlikely event of the flight landing on water. (Just imagine last thoughts at the time of hurling down 30000 feet from the sky towards the sea! It wouldn’t be God, meaning of life, wife, kids etc but one would surely wish one had listened more attentively to the pretty stewardess). So finally I have accepted a service which has more complex terms than a prenuptial agreement with Elizabeth Taylor on her 13th marriage and am on a service which gives 150 minutes of some kind of prepaid messaging (which later turns out to be applicable only if the other party is also a proud owner of a prepaid phone!! fat chance!!!) some bonus money, (no idea what it means) and some talk time(of only thirty minutes). I made a few calls/ sent a few messages to give my coordinates and found out that the service has died out and it has become due for another $30 recharge. (Imagine! That's more than a thousand bucks in India: for that kind of money one could keep talking endlessly) I recharged again. I made a local call to talk on an international prepaid card. Again another $30 went bust. Again I recharged. This time I was careful. But it didn’t last long. On a holiday, I connected it to my laptop to check my mail. (On working days I access from the University, where we can browse for free-wifi) I must have been online for a few seconds. It said that my service needs to be recharged. I rang up to the service provider. The guy with an Indian accent explained all the components of the service package. I understood the accent and language perfectly, but again it made no sense to me. But I could pretty much figure out that for about 120$ per month you can’t talk too long on a prepaid card. It makes sense to decide that you are going to talk a lot and go for broke on a post paid plan- which again is quite complex if you read the fine print!!!.
I went back to the first service provider. I explained my problem about proof of address. Since most of the numbers I call are on this service, I hoped that my bills would be lower. I have spent close to $120 on a prepaid service and was shocked at how little I could use for that kind of money. They said that I could go to my Bank, show my passport and get a letter showing my address. That was a brain wave! I didn’t know that one could get a proof of address just like that. In India it could be quite a torment with several instances of terrorists finding houses for rent.The banks in India could be extra cautious in changing your address. I did as advised and am on a 30$ monthly cap. I still use the phone sparingly.
The next experience was in getting my home wired up with internet and landline. I remembered my phone experience and decided to do some research before plunging into a service. As usual, several options of services were bundled into groups which would give a few gigabytes of data download, some talk time etc. I went into a website which is some kind of a chat room for customers (in which many Trojans from the service providers are also present guiding distraught members and putting in a kind word for some service or the other). I zeroed in on my plan with a service provider. Options are - One could buy a modem from them (in which case they charge 400 $) or fix my own modem (then it is $150, although no services are provided; it is some kind of an installation charge, in which the entire installation will be done by the customer!!!). They explained that the wiring which exists at my premises belongs to Telstra (originally a government company) and to divert it to the service provider it costs some money and time (something like 15 to 30 days). I signed up. But I couldn’t wait so long since my University course assignment need internet access quite a lot. So I bought a wireless USB modem from my mobile service provider also ($129 for the modem and &29 per month for 5GB download of data per month).
I started shopping around for a modem which was wireless and could take in a voip(voice on internet protocol) telephone (without a separate box for it). I went to the big electronics dealers in Canberra and stated my requirement. There were puzzled looks all around. Somebody better informed is called- he confirms that I can’t get it there. This experience repeated in 3-4 shops. Then I finally decided to go back to the service provider ask them for advice as to which modem to buy. I gave several model numbers (gleaned from the internet). They said they would not be able to give their advice regarding compatibility model wise. They gave some generic advice which made little sense. They can guarantee only their supported modem (the 400$ one) I recollected seeing complaints in the chat room about their supported modem. Recalled someone complaining that no support is provided by service provider- complaints are only redirected to the modem manufacturer. So what if I buy their 400$ modem? Fine, they said no problem but you have to give shipping address. It will be delivered between 9Am to 5 PM in your residence. Since I spend the entire day at the university, could you dispatch it to some shop or post office in Canberra ? I will pick up from there. Sorry, no go. I gave up. It is too expensive anyway.
I started shopping for modems on internet. Finally identified a modem from the original manufacturer in China for $97, got it shipped to the University and installed it myself. Net savings $400- 150 -97= $153. The service is OK. We get 16GB download per month and a naked DSL phone (no nudity involved- it only means that it is not a traditional phone. This works on the broadband channel and is free for calls within Australia. And it is cheap for international calls too). This whole process took me more than 2 months. It would have taken me 3 days max in India.
Mobile operators bundle their service with a phone. So if you want a blackberry service, it is necessary that you have to have a minimum spend per month for a sufficiently long period. This is the story in the west also. India, with its fuzzy addresses and identities has shotgun service. Nothing is kept for later. No relationships are built. If you don’t like our service discontinue and go elsewhere. No disclaimers are read out. Service begins when money is put up. Here service begins after disclaimers and liabilities are read out to the prospective customer. Back home who cares about disclaimers? If you want to move courts for deficiency of service you are welcome to do that. Prepare to wait for 20 years for justice. It makes life a bit easier for service providers and a bit uncomplicated for customers. Service is not couched in vague sounding packages which ultimately do not mean much.
Heard a Bangladeshi student disenchanted with communication services asking a faculty member whether your country is really developed? He said things are much better back home. I understand that the famous Grameen Bank (micro credit pioneer) has a mobile service also which is cheap and popular!!
http://www.theaustralian.news.com.au/story/0,,25236818-23375,00.html
I arrived as an international student to Australia two months ago. As a wide eyed third-world student, I never expected to have any problems subscribing to a telecom service. The telecom revolution is one thing which India has blundered along and got things right. Back home service in the telecom space is unrecognizable from what it was, say 5 years ago. There are several companies, Indian and foreign, with deep pockets offering a host of services. Basically there are two kinds of services. Prepaid & post paid. In postpaid you have the option of paying a larger monthly cap to talk more and talk cheaply. If you are the odd student or the driver or servant who has a mobile only to be reached, then you either have a prepaid mobile or a cheap post paid service so that your finicky Dad, uncle or employer can reach you 24/7. You don’t get to call anyone much. India prides itself in offering the cheapest mobile services in the world.
Before I reached Australia, I was told to subscribe to a certain service provider who (a) gives away a mobile free and (b) gives free calls on mobiles on the same service. Since my relatives were on the same service it made sense to subscribe to their service. I walked into their outlet and expressed my desire to become a customer. I explained that I am in Australia only for slightly less than a year’s time and hence, I will pass the free mobile offer. But put me on to your service. They said fine, no problem. Bring your proof of address. Would my passport do for identification? I asked. I explained that I am in Australia only from last week and I can’t produce proof of address. He shrugged and said sorry.
I walked to another service provider’s showroom and asked for a prepaid card. They readily sold me one. I thought I could put the SIM card in my phone and bingo, could start talking. No such luck. I tried calling- my call was redirected to the service provider’s call centre. Strangest of things, it was an Indian accent that greeted me. I was first read out a disclaimer notice cum terms of service. This went on and on. It was all gobbledygook. I was as attentive as I would be while ticking the check box that says “ I accept” while installing free software in my laptop or while the pretty stewardess rattles off safety instructions about how to get put on thee life jacket in the unlikely event of the flight landing on water. (Just imagine last thoughts at the time of hurling down 30000 feet from the sky towards the sea! It wouldn’t be God, meaning of life, wife, kids etc but one would surely wish one had listened more attentively to the pretty stewardess). So finally I have accepted a service which has more complex terms than a prenuptial agreement with Elizabeth Taylor on her 13th marriage and am on a service which gives 150 minutes of some kind of prepaid messaging (which later turns out to be applicable only if the other party is also a proud owner of a prepaid phone!! fat chance!!!) some bonus money, (no idea what it means) and some talk time(of only thirty minutes). I made a few calls/ sent a few messages to give my coordinates and found out that the service has died out and it has become due for another $30 recharge. (Imagine! That's more than a thousand bucks in India: for that kind of money one could keep talking endlessly) I recharged again. I made a local call to talk on an international prepaid card. Again another $30 went bust. Again I recharged. This time I was careful. But it didn’t last long. On a holiday, I connected it to my laptop to check my mail. (On working days I access from the University, where we can browse for free-wifi) I must have been online for a few seconds. It said that my service needs to be recharged. I rang up to the service provider. The guy with an Indian accent explained all the components of the service package. I understood the accent and language perfectly, but again it made no sense to me. But I could pretty much figure out that for about 120$ per month you can’t talk too long on a prepaid card. It makes sense to decide that you are going to talk a lot and go for broke on a post paid plan- which again is quite complex if you read the fine print!!!.
I went back to the first service provider. I explained my problem about proof of address. Since most of the numbers I call are on this service, I hoped that my bills would be lower. I have spent close to $120 on a prepaid service and was shocked at how little I could use for that kind of money. They said that I could go to my Bank, show my passport and get a letter showing my address. That was a brain wave! I didn’t know that one could get a proof of address just like that. In India it could be quite a torment with several instances of terrorists finding houses for rent.The banks in India could be extra cautious in changing your address. I did as advised and am on a 30$ monthly cap. I still use the phone sparingly.
The next experience was in getting my home wired up with internet and landline. I remembered my phone experience and decided to do some research before plunging into a service. As usual, several options of services were bundled into groups which would give a few gigabytes of data download, some talk time etc. I went into a website which is some kind of a chat room for customers (in which many Trojans from the service providers are also present guiding distraught members and putting in a kind word for some service or the other). I zeroed in on my plan with a service provider. Options are - One could buy a modem from them (in which case they charge 400 $) or fix my own modem (then it is $150, although no services are provided; it is some kind of an installation charge, in which the entire installation will be done by the customer!!!). They explained that the wiring which exists at my premises belongs to Telstra (originally a government company) and to divert it to the service provider it costs some money and time (something like 15 to 30 days). I signed up. But I couldn’t wait so long since my University course assignment need internet access quite a lot. So I bought a wireless USB modem from my mobile service provider also ($129 for the modem and &29 per month for 5GB download of data per month).
I started shopping around for a modem which was wireless and could take in a voip(voice on internet protocol) telephone (without a separate box for it). I went to the big electronics dealers in Canberra and stated my requirement. There were puzzled looks all around. Somebody better informed is called- he confirms that I can’t get it there. This experience repeated in 3-4 shops. Then I finally decided to go back to the service provider ask them for advice as to which modem to buy. I gave several model numbers (gleaned from the internet). They said they would not be able to give their advice regarding compatibility model wise. They gave some generic advice which made little sense. They can guarantee only their supported modem (the 400$ one) I recollected seeing complaints in the chat room about their supported modem. Recalled someone complaining that no support is provided by service provider- complaints are only redirected to the modem manufacturer. So what if I buy their 400$ modem? Fine, they said no problem but you have to give shipping address. It will be delivered between 9Am to 5 PM in your residence. Since I spend the entire day at the university, could you dispatch it to some shop or post office in Canberra ? I will pick up from there. Sorry, no go. I gave up. It is too expensive anyway.
I started shopping for modems on internet. Finally identified a modem from the original manufacturer in China for $97, got it shipped to the University and installed it myself. Net savings $400- 150 -97= $153. The service is OK. We get 16GB download per month and a naked DSL phone (no nudity involved- it only means that it is not a traditional phone. This works on the broadband channel and is free for calls within Australia. And it is cheap for international calls too). This whole process took me more than 2 months. It would have taken me 3 days max in India.
Mobile operators bundle their service with a phone. So if you want a blackberry service, it is necessary that you have to have a minimum spend per month for a sufficiently long period. This is the story in the west also. India, with its fuzzy addresses and identities has shotgun service. Nothing is kept for later. No relationships are built. If you don’t like our service discontinue and go elsewhere. No disclaimers are read out. Service begins when money is put up. Here service begins after disclaimers and liabilities are read out to the prospective customer. Back home who cares about disclaimers? If you want to move courts for deficiency of service you are welcome to do that. Prepare to wait for 20 years for justice. It makes life a bit easier for service providers and a bit uncomplicated for customers. Service is not couched in vague sounding packages which ultimately do not mean much.
Heard a Bangladeshi student disenchanted with communication services asking a faculty member whether your country is really developed? He said things are much better back home. I understand that the famous Grameen Bank (micro credit pioneer) has a mobile service also which is cheap and popular!!
Tuesday, 24 March 2009
Politicians dancing
I can relate to the time when my music died. I think it is when ZZTop came on the scene. What a name , I thought, And I stopped listening to new bands looming in the horizon, some flickering brightly for some time and dying out, some going on to make a name. I can’t remember when. May be the late 80s or early 90s. I heard a young college graduate raving about ZZTop and I thought this is it. No more. I realize that many good bands did come out after ZZ Top. There are some which made an impression by sheer power of music or lyrics. But for me ZZTop was a defining moment. Before ZZ Top- a time when I listened to new and upcoming bands and after - when the music stuck in the grove and died. Completely.
So, I said to myself: don’t blame yourself for not hearing of Midnight Oil. It has a tall gentleman with a shaven pate mouthing lyrics like he had something round and fluffy stuffed inside his mouth. He is Peter Garett, the lead singer of the band. And presently the Honourable Minister for Environment in the Australian Federal Government- A government of Labour persuasion. I was surprised to learn that the Midnight oil has been on the scene since 1973. So it fails the ZZ Top test. How come I didn’t hear them? I would listen to Radio Australia on the short wave in my village in Palghat, Kerala in the early eighties. I remember the Air supply, REO speedwagon, Blondie, Police and Culture club. Around 2 PM everyday a programme called countdown with recent songs are played. On Saturdays and Sundays the Australian hits and international hits are played. I remember the voice of Jill Williams, the announcer, talking smoothly in her Australian twang- the words just escaping into the room.
This band was before ZZ Top and you hadn’t heard of it, I told myself. Peter Garett quit the band in 2002. He was a campaigner for Environment- fighting to save whales, against US bases, against unexplained wars and other bleeding-heart causes. He has retained his nothing-to-hide hairstyle and has completed a smooth transition from Rock music to politics. (Number of metallic rings pierced and tattoos embossed into private parts are not yet known to public). The Honourable Minister went on stage recently in the midst of his onerous responsibilities to raise funds for the victims of the Victorian Bushfire.
In a performance reminiscent of his glory days he strutted around stage, tall and strapping. In his day job he wears a suit. In this avatar, he wore golden shirt half open and loose trousers. And the money poured in for the Victorian bushfires. Vital statistics of the tragedy was amusing from the Indian perspective- an area of 250000 hectares were burnt down in bush fires. Loss of lives? 250. That describes what a vast and under populated continent this is. Minor fires in a small mohalla in the Indian hinterland can result in a much higher body count.
It is good to have Ministers with music in their hearts. I wish we had them back home. And some bureaucrats too. Just to loosen up the atmosphere a bit………..y’know
You can watch Peter Garett performing “Short memory” at this YouTube link
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hgukduYJZ44
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A few days back we woke up with a start. We had our day off. Chathu had to be packed to school. It was getting to be six AM and I was just about to wake up. There was a loud crash in the hall and the sound of glass breaking. A big mirror and two vases fell from a height and there were broken glass pieces all around the hall. For a moment I thought it was an earthquake. Then I wondered whether someone had thrown a stone to our house. A racist attack? Anyway the fall was mysterious triggering speculation from Chathu that there could be a ghost in the house. The Missus was shattered. She had gone to great lengths to keep the house clean and orderly. Now this… no one would even believe that something like this could happen just like that – without any external force or stimuli. Maybe the mirror was resting on the vases for a long time and we hadn’t noticed.
I sent a mail to my landlord explaining the situation. She was very cool and understanding about it. She and her husband came around to reassure us. They told us not to bother about replacing the mirror and the vases. But it still rankles us. We will be at peace only if we replace the whole thing. Our landlords had given us a place to live when things were looking bad. I wouldn’t like them to suffer even a small loss for their gesture.
***********************************************
Chathu came home last month saying that he is one of the toppers in Mathematics in class. Normally, this ought to be music to a parent’s ears. Instead I panicked. He was poor in the subject back home in India and he has worked hard on it. Still he is not good enough compared to the average Indian 9th standard CBSE student.
So I went through his textbooks, class notes, compared with CBSE syllabus etc. My conclusions were amusing. The Aussie curriculum places a lot of emphasis on applications. While the Indian curriculum is mostly rote learning- without explaining why the hell do problems need to be solved. The Aussie curriculum is also less demanding in terms of complexity of sums to be solved. I am not competent to teach him the subject anymore: so he is on his own in pretty much every subject. Back home every kid is sweating it out to outrun everyone else. It is more relaxed here.
So I decided to take it easy. Maybe he will be a misfit when he gets back home. I am still hoping that this experience would be fulfilling. Maybe he will come back here and make a life someday. I would surely be glad if he does that.
So, I said to myself: don’t blame yourself for not hearing of Midnight Oil. It has a tall gentleman with a shaven pate mouthing lyrics like he had something round and fluffy stuffed inside his mouth. He is Peter Garett, the lead singer of the band. And presently the Honourable Minister for Environment in the Australian Federal Government- A government of Labour persuasion. I was surprised to learn that the Midnight oil has been on the scene since 1973. So it fails the ZZ Top test. How come I didn’t hear them? I would listen to Radio Australia on the short wave in my village in Palghat, Kerala in the early eighties. I remember the Air supply, REO speedwagon, Blondie, Police and Culture club. Around 2 PM everyday a programme called countdown with recent songs are played. On Saturdays and Sundays the Australian hits and international hits are played. I remember the voice of Jill Williams, the announcer, talking smoothly in her Australian twang- the words just escaping into the room.
This band was before ZZ Top and you hadn’t heard of it, I told myself. Peter Garett quit the band in 2002. He was a campaigner for Environment- fighting to save whales, against US bases, against unexplained wars and other bleeding-heart causes. He has retained his nothing-to-hide hairstyle and has completed a smooth transition from Rock music to politics. (Number of metallic rings pierced and tattoos embossed into private parts are not yet known to public). The Honourable Minister went on stage recently in the midst of his onerous responsibilities to raise funds for the victims of the Victorian Bushfire.
In a performance reminiscent of his glory days he strutted around stage, tall and strapping. In his day job he wears a suit. In this avatar, he wore golden shirt half open and loose trousers. And the money poured in for the Victorian bushfires. Vital statistics of the tragedy was amusing from the Indian perspective- an area of 250000 hectares were burnt down in bush fires. Loss of lives? 250. That describes what a vast and under populated continent this is. Minor fires in a small mohalla in the Indian hinterland can result in a much higher body count.
It is good to have Ministers with music in their hearts. I wish we had them back home. And some bureaucrats too. Just to loosen up the atmosphere a bit………..y’know
You can watch Peter Garett performing “Short memory” at this YouTube link
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hgukduYJZ44
***************************************************
A few days back we woke up with a start. We had our day off. Chathu had to be packed to school. It was getting to be six AM and I was just about to wake up. There was a loud crash in the hall and the sound of glass breaking. A big mirror and two vases fell from a height and there were broken glass pieces all around the hall. For a moment I thought it was an earthquake. Then I wondered whether someone had thrown a stone to our house. A racist attack? Anyway the fall was mysterious triggering speculation from Chathu that there could be a ghost in the house. The Missus was shattered. She had gone to great lengths to keep the house clean and orderly. Now this… no one would even believe that something like this could happen just like that – without any external force or stimuli. Maybe the mirror was resting on the vases for a long time and we hadn’t noticed.
I sent a mail to my landlord explaining the situation. She was very cool and understanding about it. She and her husband came around to reassure us. They told us not to bother about replacing the mirror and the vases. But it still rankles us. We will be at peace only if we replace the whole thing. Our landlords had given us a place to live when things were looking bad. I wouldn’t like them to suffer even a small loss for their gesture.
***********************************************
Chathu came home last month saying that he is one of the toppers in Mathematics in class. Normally, this ought to be music to a parent’s ears. Instead I panicked. He was poor in the subject back home in India and he has worked hard on it. Still he is not good enough compared to the average Indian 9th standard CBSE student.
So I went through his textbooks, class notes, compared with CBSE syllabus etc. My conclusions were amusing. The Aussie curriculum places a lot of emphasis on applications. While the Indian curriculum is mostly rote learning- without explaining why the hell do problems need to be solved. The Aussie curriculum is also less demanding in terms of complexity of sums to be solved. I am not competent to teach him the subject anymore: so he is on his own in pretty much every subject. Back home every kid is sweating it out to outrun everyone else. It is more relaxed here.
So I decided to take it easy. Maybe he will be a misfit when he gets back home. I am still hoping that this experience would be fulfilling. Maybe he will come back here and make a life someday. I would surely be glad if he does that.
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