Wrap your car

So I met this nice gent - who works as a graphics designer. The man told me that a lot of his customers wanted their cars wrapped. Sure, I can get behind that idea. Wrapping your car can, of course range from the utterly banal advertise your massage parlour on the side of your Oldsmobile to the eye-gouge inducing colours that some donks sport. What is a donk, you ask? Oh, you gentle sheltered one. Here, let me ruin your afternoon. Anyway, so back to the convo - my new friend tells me further that a lot of people want their cars wrapped in carbon fibre(or fiber, as you might spell it). Which makes no sense to me. Bare-naked carbon fibre (which would be an awesome name for an alt-rock band, and I have just laid claim to it) is not much to look at. It has this weave to it - and that is about it. So what gives? The man tells me that people frequently replace the bonnet of their cars (he called it the `hood', of course) with with a carbob fibre bonnet. To reduce weight, he sez. I can totally get behind that. Of course that comes with a few caveats - dented metal can be beaten back into shape. CFRP - well good luck with that. Also, the weight reductions involved only make sense on a track. In a track capable car. Like a 911. For a regular joe, you would have the same effect by leaving yo mama on the kerb. (see what I did there?)
So in essence, a gaggle of boy racers are showing off their fake carbon fibre panels to other boy racers and presumably claiming faster laptimes which will not happen.


But probing slightly deeper, there is a certain aesthetic inertia involved. Was a time when lacquered wood was the last word in automotive design. In fact, bring back the days of the de Havilland Mosquito, I say - oh wait, the Morgan Motor Company already exists. Then the designers of the world had a glorious fling with polished chrome. Nothing against it - I like seeing a bumper (that is a fender to you) I can straighten my hair in. The current trend is to use acres and acres of depressing-as-fuccall black plastic for the proles and brushed aluminium for the 1%. Except that people who decide such things have apparently decided that a uniform gunship grey is the must-have colour for your Jerry uber-sedan. The interior must remind one of the heady days of the early Industrial Revolution. Hence the naked carbon fibre trim (seriously, does anyone even like looking at that?). Whatevs. I am ranting and it is time to stop.

In conclusion, the word is that using tree products as structural material is making a leetil bit of a comeback. I would love to own a ride where the dash has bamboo accents.

Clickbaiting and lazy journalism

Read this article. Look carefully at the accompanying picture of the aircraft mentioned. Do you see propellers? Yes, you do. So why then, does the author of said article call it a "jet fighter"? Lazy journalism like this ticks me off - particularly when gaffes like this are made by a so called 'technology reporter'. 

Also, grinding my personal axe - the real victor of the Battle of Britain was the Hawker Hurricane - less flashy than the Spitfire, but responsible for 60% of the kills made by the RAF.

LGBT rights and that curious Indian sense of outrage

The newspapers tell me that the Supreme Court of India has struck a blow against LGBT rights today. My meagre understanding of the situation is as follows: Section 377 of the Indian Penal Code criminalizes homosexuality. This is, of course a remnant from the Colonial era. This law was ruled unconstitutional by the Delhi High Court in (I believe) 2009. I am not sure whether that ruling de-criminalized homosexuality in the entire country or merely in the Delhi/New Delhi region - but it was an important milestone in the struggle for LGBT rights. Well, after that decision (much applauded by the LGBT community - still largely afraid to venture out of the closet), the Supreme Court was petitioned to overturn the verdict of the lower court - and here we are after four years or so - it has done just that. Now we are back to square one - being gay in India could send you to jail for upto 10 years.

Let me point out something of interest in this morass. India is (obviously) a country with several distinct religious groups - often at odds with one another. In fact, the leaders of different religions in India almost never agree on a single thing. Almost. The news reports that the Vishwa Hindu Parishad, the Apostolic Churches Alliance, the Jamat-e-Islaami Hind and the Delhi Sikh Gurdwara Management Committee have all spoken out against LGBT rights. Isn't it wonderful that we have finally found at least one thing to unite these religions and their disparate views? I get all misty eyed thinking of that happy future when Hindu, Muslim, Christian and Sikh will stand shoulder to shoulder whilst throwing stones at gay people in public squares. Repeat after me -  A united India is a strong India!

But why this idiocy? Why this throwback to antiquated laws? Let us try to drill down and provide an answer. No mincing  words about this - a small fraction of the population has always been gay/bisexual. And we have always had transgendered people among us. Travel along a long distance train anywhere in India (via 2nd class, of course) and at some point a bunch of transgendered panhandlers will get on. In India, we call them hijiras. They may entertain you with song - you may give them some alms - they move on. Or you could hold tight to your wallet and not make eye contact - at which point, they sense your discomfort and embarrass you into giving them more than you otherwise would have. This is one of the few ways by which an average Indian might encounter people of alternative sexuality.

Look - here is the thing - we Indians are always very cognizant of societal rights. Individual rights - well, not so much. Our Constitution has some rigorously defined freedoms and rights guaranteed to the individual. In practice, however, these rights are frequently trivialized. The group comes first. The person, afterward. Note that this is not without its benefits - very real and tangible ones. Indian families tend to be cohesive and seniors are respected and cared for (the fact that a disproportionate share of the effort involved in keeping such a family unit humming is borne by the women is for another post). However, this leads to a situation in which the pressure to conform is rather intense. Indians make good cogs in the machinery of the world - but we have produced somewhat less numbers of Einsteins and H.H Holmes. 

Sexual preferences stand at the very heart of personal freedoms. And regulating sexual behaviour is somehow part of the manifesto of every major religious organization. The old 'close your eyes and think of England' process works to create a strange sense of outrage when confronted with behaviour that veers from the norm. Outrage comes easily to Indians: anything that threatens the sanctity of "family", in fact anything that even slightly rocks the boat is easily demonized in our collective thoughts. From pointing fingers, it is but a short step to casting stones. Throw in a lifted pickup truck and the Stars 'n Bars and you are in Rush Limbaugh land. 

For being the people that gave the world the Kama Sutra, we Indians suffer from a strange kind of schizophrenia. For all this talk about gender equality and the many, many laws in place to protect women against dowry demands and so on - the fundamentals are somewhat misshapen. Why is our country so frequently in the news for horrific sexual crimes? Our gender ratio is horrifically lopsided. The only countries with even more skewed demographics are ones with populations far below one tenth that of India. And Pakistan. Pakistan is slightly worse off. Way to go, guys!

Facing the facts: our treatment of women is mostly awful. Yes, things change as you look toward the more prosperous, urban Indians - but we exchange ( a small amount of ) misogyny for (a great deal of ) truly perverse class snobbery. Our treatment of people of alternate sexuality  is appalling. We have worked hard to remove them from the societal mainstream. The recent judgment by the Supreme Court is a cop out - and act of cowardice. For the last couple of decades - people have been increasingly disillusioned with the lawmakers (recent developments like the AAP are of great interest - but time will tell..). The judicial system, especially the apex court has been a force for the public good. Ruling IPC/377 as constitutional just lobs the ball over to  the Parliament. The Supreme Court of India has shown that it bows to the wishes of a strident religious front. We don't really expect the Parliament to be any different. This is a sad day.

I am sorry Dave, I'm afraid you can't do that

So sez the magnet computer.

Thanksgiving travel

I flew in to Midway, as usual. Thanksgiving in the Midwest promised to be quite cold - except that San Antonio had been under a bit of a freeze for the last week so it didn't seem that big of a temperature drop. The rental agency gave me a a Buick Encore - which I believe is some kind of rebadged Opel. It is a dull, soporific compact SUV with its only saving grace being the short wheelbase and the somewhat responsive steering. The engine was anaemic and the transmission just plain lazy. I don't usually drive SUVs or trucks so the high seating position was new to me. Having said that, I simply do not understand why people keep continuing to buy these vehicles. I certainly felt like the high CG of the vehicle was making it unstable. Don't other people feel that way?

Anyway, I made it to Lafayette rather late - it was practically morning. The next day, we (the missus and meself) headed out to Ann Arbor, via Toledo. Nandi met us for lunch at Toledo. A good time was had. We got to AA by early evening. The kids (YS/YV) had us over for an old school Tamil dinner. YK and P were in attendance. It felt like happier old times.

I met the boss the next morning downtown. Showed the missus the diag, the M and a few of the sights of central campus. It was bloody ccccold. The line at Zingerman's deli stretched around the block and then some - this place is a veritable institution. We finally brunched at Angelo's - a good second choice, as it happens. The raisin bread is quite nice. 

Afterward, we went to Zingerman's shop on the outskirts of town. A reasonably well stocked bakery and an excellent creamery are side by side. The bakery yielded a chocolate covered goodie called a "rugelach". Which is not bad with tea. Is utterly unremarkable otherwise. The old Kathleen bakery at the corner of Padmashree/ No. 45 bus stop near home has better offerings. 

The next item we brought home (why?) was an espresso-something flavoured cake. When I was a kid, I had once bitten into a bar of Lifebouy brand bathing soap. Just out of curiosity. The cake was certainly better than that bar of soap. But not by very much. The cheese and salami collection at Zingy's though - is a thing to admire. Ann Arbor punches far above its weight class in things cultural and culinary. This is a good example.

The way back took us straight across the great state of Michigan (gawd, the roads!) - thankfully via the Interstate. We stopped at the big outlet mall near Michigan City - and found close to zero bargains. Not worth a visit - IMHO.

Anyway, here I am back in SA - and it is cold here too.

India's Mission to Mars

As I am writing this, a small unmanned craft called "Mangalyaan" is slicing its way through a highly elliptical orbit around Earth. This name: Mangalyaan - it translates to "Mars vehicle"... for the red planet is where it is headed.

The Indian Space Research Organization or ISRO is a somewhat malnourished scientific bureaucracy. It has been around for over 4 decades - which says something about the national leadership which wished it into existence. For obviously, a nation like India, bottom heavy with poverty, with food security still not a reality - there is always a question of priorities. And somehow, the national debate AND the international commentary cannot finish two sentences without mentioning the hundreds of millions of underfed children. 

Let us talk some numbers, shall we? The Mars project has a price tag of 75 million $, give or take. The NREGA (which is a rural employment social services project) will cost the Indian taxpayer about 6.6 billion $. So in terms of absolute expenditure,  this endeavour is more or less a drop in the bucket.

So what do we get for our money?

The development of some tech. People and governments tend to hoard knowledge and capabilities. It is probably worth noting that the most enthusiastic hoarders are almost never people who have had a hand in developing that knowledge - but are somehow custodians of the fruits of this knowledge. 

Since most national leaderships tend to be hoarders, it makes good sense for all nations to develop their capabilities. Sure - it is great when people share... but what is they don't? And what if, even worse - you end up growing used to the benefits of someone else's wisdom and labour - and then one day the mat gets pulled out from under your feet. The sudden realization that you are nothing more than a client state without anything to offer or sell is going to hurt. So, India needs space tech. But what are we eventually going to do with it?

Sci-fi scenarios aside, we are limited to chemical rockets and rather pedestrian Newtonian velocities. But lookee here - the asteroid belt has unimaginable gigatonnes of metals just floating around. The rings of Saturn have more water than all the oceans of Earth. And lurking out there in the Oort cloud are comets, some of which are probably made of CHON. That means food.

If we can imagine these things - the day will come when we can harvest these riches. But baby steps at first. Mangalyaan is a tiny baby step. But a necessary one.

A Tiered License System - a modest proposal to improve everyone's driving experience

I imagine that other people have come up with similar if not the same suggestion before, but here is my version of what a tiered drivers' license system would look like and how it might benefit us all:

1. A basic license, issued much as it is today - which allows you to drive economy & compact class cars.
2. Tradespeople, farmers and anyone who hauls cargo can apply for and obtain a truck license which allows you to operate, say an F150. The test for this should be stricter than the basic license.
3. If you wish to drive a vehicle with a larger footprint, such as an SUV or a minivan, that will need its own class of license. Obviously, you must demonstrate that you have the situational awareness to not back into your neighbour's poodle - without benefit of such nice things like a backup-cam. Also, that you are aware that if you are driving, say an Escalade, you should behave that much nicer on the road - the sheer mass of that behemoth can and will crumple many econoboxes like so many cans of Pepsi.
4. And finally, in the words of Jeremy Clarkson, you need "MOAR POWEEEEEER". Splendid. That will be a different tier of license - one that you are allowed to take only if you have driven compacts for two years or longer without any poodle murders. Vehicles in this category can be classified by a hp/kg or hp only metric. You cannot buy into this license because you can afford to. It will also be very easy to lose this license for bad driving. As they say in the comic books, "with great horsepower comes great responsibility".. well, something like that.

One attendant benefit of having this system (apart from the obvious ones) is that the line of qualified customers for high powered vehicles will shrink. Automakers will be forced to make smaller cars more fun. High displacement engines (which I am not against, by the way) will be in the hands of those who can and will use them safely. And tax revenues will increase.

There is something icky in the crystal screen

A civilization on the drop growing and maturing into enlightenment. Only to be vaporized by high-intensity X-radiation. For them, it will be cataclysmic. Perhaps they might evolve haiku before the end.

An acceptable cup of tea

Tea is a wildly divisive beverage. The reason, of course is that it is very, very, differentiated. Which, of course, makes it easy to be a tea snob. These people are worse, much worse than coffee snobs. (Beer snobs generally tend to be ok people, mostly on account of the snobbery being thoroughly defenestrated by the fifth pint. Wine snobs, ah, wine snobs deserve to be beaten to within an inch of their sorry lives, revived with a mouthful of Franzia, patched and Band-Aid-ed up and then beaten again. Rinse and repeat. These sods come up with expressions like "the slight hint of a smoky flavour as you might imagine emanating from the ruins of Atlanta after Willie Sherman was done tearing the Confederacy a new one". I tell you, Purgatory ain't good enough for wine snobs)

Anyhoo, back to tea. Where does it grow? India, China and Sri Lanka. Some other places. They don't matter. Tea can be black, green and sometimes a few other things. I don't claim to understand green tea. I have drunk it. Contrary to expectations, it did not confer any special powers like GrandMaster level Karate skills. There was some flavour, but I'll be damned if I can remember what it was. So much for green tea. As for the other, lesser types, if you like them, you might as well save yourself some trouble and make a random infusion from your potpourri bowl, or perhaps, cuttings from your hedge and spice it up with hair from the  neighbour's dog. I have nothing more to say to you. Go, drive your crossover to Whole-Joe's and buy some Kashi.

Soo, black tea. This can be drunk without milk. The only permitted additives are honey and a dash of lemon. Tea prepared thus should be drunk out of dainty bone-china cups. Said cups should be engraved with the family escutcheon. Heraldry might be involved. A plate of delicious crumpets and hideous digestive biscuits may make an appearance. Cucumber sandwiches might also be in evidence. Btw, for my American audience, what you call a "cookie" is a "biscuit". What you call a "biscuit" has no reason to exist. In fact, country buffets(the usual home for your "biscuits") have no reason to exist. Such tea should be served by wimmenfolk protected from the pitiless sun in the subcontinent by parasols. After tea, there will be another innings to play, so one should not overindulge, especially if one is next down to bat. 

Yes, it is possible to make a whole religion out of tea drinking. It shapes the national character; was probably drunk during Trafalgar and Jutland. But what exactly was drunk? Was it the finest first pickings from the best Darjeeling Makaibari estates? Or was it a large-leaf Assam? See, here lies the rub. The tonnage of Darjeeling sold outside India every year exceeds the actual tonnage of Darjeeling produced. So much for authenticity. This is a product as heavily counterfeited as, say, olive oil (counterfeiting which, you may not be aware is so profitable, that the Cosa Nostra has gotten into it. In fact, has been involved for generations.) And that is why most tea snobs are blowing smoke out of their collective arse. But what, then, is an honest bloke supposed to do?

Well, you might drink chai.  You start our with a pedestrian blend of teas. We, well,  actually the paterfamilias potters down to the neighbourhood tea store. A good fifteen minutes of polite enquiries about everyone's health is exchanged. There might be some banter about the latest from Writers's Building (that would be the State Govt.) and views might be exchanged about the national cricket team. Then the shop owner bloke knocks the lid off a tiny hatch set into the side of these large-ish ply boxes. Each box comes from a different estate. Several such boxes might be tapped. Each yields up perhaps 200 gms of treasure. There will be commentary on flavour. A pot will prolly be brewed. Much wise head-nodding. And finally, a blend will emerge!

Finally, some of this blend wings its way across the wurlde to yours truly. And so we find ourselves with a saucepan of boiling water before us. Toss in a couple of cloves. Crushed, if possible. Is there any cardomom handy? Black cardomom? Shite, you must be rich! Well, strip it, toss in the seeds. Crush and toss in the shell as well. Powdered cinnamon? Yes, please. It also helps to have dried ginger flakes ziplocked away. Throw in some. And then, wait for this, a tiny, and I mean tiny, pinch of red pepper. Is it still boiling? Is the aroma beginning to acquire a whole personality? Alright then, time to add sugar. Wait half a minute, in goes the tea. Let it boil for another minute. When the whole concoction decides to Vesuvius out of the saucepan and into your life, calm it down with cold milk. Obviously, the amount of tea and milk is left entirely to taste. This takes a while to optimize. Now here comes the crucial part. Do not let the milk boil. Remove the saucepan before it comes to boil. Strain and serve.

Why don't people write decent thrillers anymore?

The ranks of writers of military thrillers has been somewhat desolate this last two decades or so. Ever since the great Alistair Maclean departed to the great beyond, presumably contemplating the Stygian blackness with a large tot of Bushmills', there has been nary a man to take his exalted place. 

We desis' have always had a soft corner for Maclean. And indeed, why not? He was of the old guard, his heroes were brave men of honour, there were few, if any femme fatales in his books, the villains were usually the elements and then the always well regarded Germans (in that order, mostly) and he was as English as only a Scotsman could be. What I am trying to get at, my dear reader - is that Maclean wrote the most wholesome books that one could write - if one's topic was depth charging an U-boat, or dive bombing Stukas or blowing destroyers out of the Agean Sea. His protagonists could be, and frequently were defeated by a respectable enemy - and his men have always been distinguished by tenacity and loyalty to their comrades, not to some flag. Their actions have been tempered by mercy to brave enemies ..- born not of expediency, but of common decency.

Sadly, such writing now seems passe. The time for fairly straightforward war/adventure novels appears to be gone. The likes of Desmond Bageley and Hammond Innes are nowhere to be seen. The protagonists of their novels were somehow more nuanced, more real and displayed very little of the zealot-like xenophobia which pervades, say, a Clancy novel. And of course, the new generation of techno-thriller writers are more like Tom Clancy. The only decent book this man has ever written is his first one, 'The Hunt for the Red October'. Everything else comes across as meticulously researched, immensely detailed bilge. For all the effort he puts into describing an underwater sonar array, he then lets himself down by the fairly one dimensional characters that inhabit his world. The good guys are always correct, righteous and moral. The bad guys may be blessed with some technical skill, and sometimes strong beliefs, but their faith is always in false gods. Clancy's novels, at their very core, are plotted with wondrous complexity, but are ultimately simplemindedly jingoistic.

Another entrant into this fold is our good Patrick Robinson. He writes techno-thrillers. Much of his writing is good, old fashioned acronym masturbation (what; you didn't know what "SOSUS" stands for?) His leading men are all cartoonishly heroic, none of them suffers the slightest bit of self doubt. Introspection is not a quality much valued in his universe.I have recently had the misfortune to read one of his thrillers: Scimitar SL2, it is called. What was rather surprising is that the plot revolves around a giant tsunami - generated by a volcano-quake. Now this book was published in mid 2004, months before the Indian Ocean tsunami that caused such horrific loss of life. Did this fellow grab a hold of a crystal ball?

Secondly, Mr. Robinson, an F15 is not a Tomcat. Ask the US Navy. They know. Thirdly, as the fulcrum of the plot is the ability of the USAF to switch off the GPS system, have you ever heard about the GLONASS system? I believe it was operational in 2004. And finally, the Hummer H2, which you describe as GM's masterpiece. I understand that you might be a fanboy. Nothing wrong about it(actually, there is... but I'll let that slide). Yes, the H2 is based on a civvy platform. Doesn't share much with the milspec Humvee. So there. GM's masterpiece indeed! FYI, that would be the Corvette.

So about the conservative cause

Rules must be obeyed. Agree? Except, of course, when they shouldn't be. Most of what we think of as advances have happened because some cocksure renegades decided to run some verboten experiments. Before Werener von Braun, there was Goddard. But these mavericks, these intellectual outliers, these geniuses can only survive in contrast to a general population who they prolly find dull and soporific. The price that society pays for every genius is prolly a serial killer - but that is a price that we cannot not pay. Somehow, we have to structure ourselves that the smart ones, the game changers can be identified early and nurtured - and that the violent ones can also be identified early and helped. And of course, Gawd help us if the two are the same. But this has to be done, for all of progress depends on the really smart ones. The rest of us usually work to fill in the blanks. So there we have it - society needs to make room for its geniuses. Our survival depends on it.

Which brings us to the conservative agenda. Nowhere are the two anchors of conservatism tied together more deceptively than in the US of A. For some reason, economic conservatism appears to be linked to social conservatism. I say appears to be, for the relentless upward flow of capital is not being conservative. What it is is counter-thermodynamic, and very, very pernicious. But forgive me, for I have not the correct technical vocabulary to talk of such matters, just feelings about what is right and what is not.

I am more concerned by the social conservatism that appears to be lumped together with the economic package. This is a throwback to simple village-tribal societies which exist at the subsistence-farming level. Certainly, in that context, an immensely authoritative central figure is not a bad thing. Yes, you must obey the village elders, for they constitute the sum total of generational wisdom. But mankind as we are today is somewhat far from such a model of governance. What works, and works well for small communities in isolation is scarcely a viable structure for a globe girdling civilization with powers which would appear indistinguishable from witchcraft in the eyes of those early village elders.

Today, humans have the economic surplus needed to support investments in endeavours which may or may not have a tangible return. Some such investments are the immediately useful, such as the Three Gorges. Some others, less so- but serve as cheerleaders for much greater things to come. Case in point, our favourite new explorer - Curiosity. Indeed, we have the capacity to sit back and be entertained by the likes of reality TV stars. The question of survival is moot - barring another asteroid, or a bloody huge methane burp from under the Tundra - we will most likely make it. 

But in order to make it, we do need those smart ones. And to identify them, we need to loosen up as a society. The resilience that comes from a large and diverse population will help us survive where smaller and more homogeneous groups would not and did not. That is a lesson worth remembering. 

So the prescription: let people be.

Removie

So here I was living through the Long Dark Teatime of the Soul - when Removies popped into the mind. What are Removies, you ask? Simple - pick a film title, remove one letter, make up a caption for the new title. So.. here goes:

1. Wall (from Wall-E) - a docudrama about the reunification of Germany
2. Cap Fear - a terrifying tale about the truth behind Bodmin's (bonus points for Ukridge and Wodehouse) 
3. SumDog Millionaire - a canine with wicked math skillz brings untold riches to his master.
4. U Forgiven (from Unforgiven) - a man commits a heinous crime and his victim texts him to say that everything is cool.
5. Mad Ma (from Mad Max) - pissed off ex-suburban mom drives a muscle car in post apocalyptic Australia (largely indistinguishable from Australia)
6. Raveheart - all this rebellious Scottish youngster wants to do is party!
7. Fat Five - Enid Blyton's Famous Five finally get a big screen adaptation, except that they move to the States and subsist on a diet of burgers and soda - with sad, but predictable results, proving yet again that the colonies know shite all about running their own affairs.
8. Dawn of the DEA - when the cartels had too much power, the Man sent in the Feds!
9. The Princess Ride - this one, unfortunately is not for minors.
10. Carface - Chris Bangle makes a movie.
11. Kill ill - a documentary crew accompanies the brave people of Doctors without Borders on a humanitarian mission.
12. Oodfellas - Doctor Who must stop an interplanetary crime syndicate.
13. Even Samurai - a meditation on how much it sucked to not be rich and powerful in feudal Japan. Often compared to Kurosawa's 'Seven Samurai'.
14. Rear Widow - NC17, enough said.
15. Toy Tory - action figure of a British Conservative Prime Minister rounds up the other toys, imposes a poll tax and attacks Argentina.
16. Rainspotting - a NatGeo documentary about some wishful people living in the Kalahari.
17. Transformer - a PSA about power thievery by ConEd.
18. Transformers2: Revenge of the Allen - when octagonal screwdrivers attack!
19. Transformers3: The Dark Side of the Moo - a documentary about the fast food industry.
20. The Evil  DEA - this time the cartels make a movie.
21. Spider Ma! - a kid has arachnophobia.

Doha: the travelogue continues

So turns out that all these years of staying outside the vatan have made me.. umm.. somewhat racist. Allow me to explain. Frankfurt airport is full of sweaty white people. Most of them don't even speak my language (apart from that one awesome security bloke who turned out to be an old, chainsmoking Trekkie who turned out to be an expat WestCoaster who claimed to be from the Republic of California - go look at the Cali state flag.. but that is a different blogpost). Anyway, I found myself drifting through the swirling palefaced masses in Frankfurt completely unfazed. As if it were my (Gawd-help-us) comfort zone. This is the same me - which would have suffered minor panic attacks if set down in the middle of Dilli. You know what, I would still panic if I found myself in Dilli. So Frankfurt was so very normal to me.  Right down to the hick in front of me who couldn't quite work the Euro system. Said hick was also wearing a stylized Confederate flag shirt, so well... 

But then I ended up at Doha. As you, dear reader, have been following my travelogue with barely concealed impatience, you obviously know of the circumstances which brought me here. In comparison to Frankfurt, this place was alive. Western European airports are marvels of clinical efficiency, throughputting millions of jetlagged people with calm thoroughness. Now what does that put me in mind of? Nevermind, moving on. Doha terminal is this huge agglomeration of sweaty, tired humanity, complete with spilling baggage and squalling children. And somehow, this puts me in mind of Ashtami nights out near Ekdalia (that is a Durga Pujo reference to you Awbangalis). The point, of course being that being up close and personal with your fellow human being, such a basic, not-even-thought-of criteria of survival in our part of the planet, has been largely turned into a memory by the West. Even to me. 

And that was a rather frightening realization.

The travelogue, continued

So where were we? Ah, yes, landing at Doha. The city-state of Qatar is floating on a sea of oil. Much like Dubai. It is the perfect jumping point for the whole of Arabia, midway between India and Western Europe, an important Persian Gulf seaport, and so on. Quite naturally, it is the jumping off, and landing point for the many, many people who come to work in Greater Arabia. But, before that, a recap.

I was traveling to Kolkata via Doha because I had missed a flight, and sharing my adventures was a wonderful miscellany of brown people. We shall start off with my friend the unnamed geophysicist. The plane took off from Frankfurt. We had already bonded over dinner, so we found neighbouring seats. Qatar Air, like Emirates has this odd practice - the stewardesses have their headscarves on when the plane is on the ground. But once it reaches cruising altitude, they take the headgear off and you would never know that you were on an airline that is based in the MidEast. (Except that the plane was clean and new, the food was excellent, the service was fabulous, the cabin crew, as jetlagged and jaded as they might have been, smiled at all comers, including the inevitable passenger with the oversized carry-on).

Anyhoo, so my friend, after regaling me with stories of working in the oil biz, decided to get hammered. And get hammered he did. The booze kept coming, and he kept chugging it down. I went from smiling indulgently to being embarrassed for him to finally just praying that he does not puke his guts out.

Thankfully, he didn't, although he expressed his utter contempt for Shahrukh Khan rather vociferously en route to the terminal. I led him off the bus and into arrivals, where we were promptly selected for the "random" entry point security check. Apparently my mojo also works on  transit security in the MidEast. No matter. I steered the drunk oilman into the security line where he promptly refused to part with his shoes an' all, and decided, at that point to launch into his pet tirade about personal freedom and airports. 

I saw a grim faced security wallah rather pointedly snapping on gloves and decided that my own personal freedom was in imminent danger of being unceremoniously curtailed. So I turned to the oilman and hissed "Dilli vapas jana hai? to fir juta utariye". That worked, and a few minutes later I found myself in the midst of a huge stream of brown coloured humanity, being swept into the cavernous arrivals lounge. The chattering flow eventually deposited me in front of the transfer desk, where I turned around to see the rest of my cohort from Frankfurt, all tired and disheveled, several of them with bawling kids in tow.

The Guahati girl and the average Indian bloke

Sometime in late summer 2012, a girl was molested in the heart of Guahati - which is the capital city of the north-east Indian state of Assam. A viddy did the rounds - apparently there was a photojournalist nearby and he captured the entire shameful incident for posterity. Following the ground rules of the society of bloodsucking leeches, he did not stand up for the woman or do anything at all which would require testicular fortitude.

A couple of weeks later, and other news items have displaced this in the public consciousness: the Olympics, the Great Indian Load Shedding (contrary to what you may think, this has nothing to do with our national habit of mass defecation: this merely refers to the rolling blackouts that have plagued North India in late July, ya' know - population, summer, India, power thievery, a superannuated powergrid, yadda, yadda.) But I digress.

So, the Guahati incident. What are the things which we know?

1. Girl molested, video out there.
2. Cops and politicos say that she had been drinking and that she was not properly attired. Observe that such comments are now considered normal when such incidents happen. Such incidents are also quite normal. The video makes this one special.
3. Some people (NGOs?) capture stills of the faces of the offending men from said viddy and put them up all over the city of Guahati.
4. Furore.
5. Some arrests.

There is of course, much regretful shaking of heads and well, that is pretty much it. So let me try to articulate my feelings about this. GENTLEMEN AND LADIES, YA'ALL NEED TO GROW SOME BALLS.

Allow me to explain. Women are not chattel. They are not unpersons. You know what, forget it. This stuff is so basic that everyone should know this. It shames me to think of the many Indian blokes I know who have this deep rooted and sometimes quite well hidden hatred for girls. Eff-ed up, right? I mean, horny bastards on one side, future wife-beaters on the other. And all these fabulous medieval prejudices nicely coiffed up with an MBA (or a PhD, lets not discriminate) from some fancy school.

Takes a lot more guts to look a girl straight in the eye and risk your ego getting shot down. Much better trying to cop a feel as she tries to squeeze past in a crowded bus, amiright? And when its a (slight sloshed) girl dressed with (gasp) some leg showing, then (whee!) its like Diwali, Christmas and a winning lottery ticket rolled into one for our courageous Desi Boyz! C'mon ya'all, titty grabs an' everything - and we don't even have to pretend with flowers and chocolates. For shame, you sods. For shame.

I can't talk much sense into most Indian blokes. They have their heads shoved so very far up their own arseholes that they are deafened by the sound of their stomach gurgles. That is, they are not listening. So let me put this to the (unfortunate) women who will end up marrying my peers. Firstly, commiseration. Secondly, if you are to beget boy children, will you please, please try to bring them up to be decent men? To not be insecure douchetards who get their jollies from hurting women? Please, won't you try?

Stuck in Franfurt and other travails

The plane landed at Frankfurt and then spent a good 45 minutes chillin' on the apron. Of course, the airline was too cool to provide us with any connecting gate information. So upon deplaning, I ran like the blazes (not always a good strategy for a brown skinned bloke in Western Europe), got to my departure gate to see the flight pulling away. They had overbooked the flight as a matter of course, so it wasn't as if they were ever tempted to stick around for another two minutes for just one coach passenger. Oh wait, but it wasn't just one bloke in coach - it was more like 50 odd people. This was the line I found when I made it to the transfer desk. Most of us were desis, most of us returning to the Desh and most of us on United (bless their little hearts). They started giving people options:

1. Take the next flight back to the States, and then...
2. Here, follow this agent to the hotel booking desk, you have been chosen to receive a three night stay in Frankfurt, biergartens and nightlife not complimentary.
3. Of course, we can send you through Heathrow (rumour has it that Arrivals at Heathrow had a ginormous sign that said "Payekhana" in the good ol' Bengali script), and since you are a US citizen/greencard holder that is totally cool and you don't need brown people documents like a transit visa.
4. You, good sir are staying in this airport tonight. Since your three year old son appears to be sick, we will be sending him and the mom onwards to Chennai. But via Bangkok.

They took one look at my passport and told me to wait. More doors do open when you are in possession of a greencard. I got elbowed by a scrawny bloke and I was about to do some serious elbowing back when I spotted the anxious wife in tow, complete with infant. Had to back down. Bloke was going to UlanBator. The counter lady was delighted. Finally, someone she could route onwards with a minimum of fuss! (I should mention that Air India was on strike, leading to, umm.. complicashuns.) Anywhoo, by the time I got to the counter (again), the lady had been yelled at, had snot nosed kids dribble snot all over her desk and their sweaty, angry parents yell at her (again). So she sent me on to Doha, Qatar, with an effin' 14 hour layover and then Kolkata. I hid my grin as I asked for a mealvoucher and pheuncards. 14 hours in Doha would be fine. I fucken' hate overnighting at Mumbai or Dilli airports. They ship you to the domestic terminal which quite literally goes dark, apart from the one shitty fast food stall where the price gouging is done with a certain vindictiveness that I cannot account for. As I said, Doha was fine. My meal voucher got me some nice pork chops and a truly wonderful doppelbock. 

In the meantime, I had made some travel buddies. Most prominently, this one desi gentleman who was in the oil business and spends three weeks in the Gulf of Mexico and three in Mumbai. Hell of a life. Anyway, toasted his good health with the doppelbock and hopped on the Qatar Air flight to Doha.

The trip out

Ya' know, I had planned to write this, and several other blogs while in India. Leetil did I know that vacations can be so strenuous. So here I find myself writing up the collected experiences of a midsummer trip to India, where amongst other things, I got hitched.

But before all that, way before all that - the trip outbound. 

Drrr Kovalskyy and his family had very kindly agreed to drive me to Houston - a rather longish trip. The conversation veered to the study of English and its comparison with various European languages. And somehow, I found myself frantically googling Past Perfect Participles and Gerunds. I have managed to spend half my life steering clear of the nuances of grammar (having studied at CBSE schools helped), and being asked such perplexing questions were causing me to have Vietnam-like flashbacks. Of primary school, that is. 

I must mention Dr. Dan Streetmentioner who had compiled the most comprehensive and authoritative handbuch of grammar - one equipped to deal with the very complex situations arising out of time travel. There was, I believe, something called the "Future Semiconditionally Modified Subinverted Subjunctive Intentional". Grammar Nazis, or Gnazis (the 'G' is silent, just like the 'P' in Psmith) as I like to refer to them can rarely be reasoned with. Flamethrowers are recommended.

Anyway, we made Houston in excellent time and the plane toodled off. Shortly after take off, I found out, to my deep disgust, that United (and apparently most other US based carriers) have now begun charging for the booze on international flights. The shame of it all! Will airlines never learn? Here is a simple lesson. If you are an airline exec, please take it to heart:

1. Free booze makes people happy.

2. Free booze makes people sleep on flights.

3. A flight full of sleeping passengers, dreaming nice dreams is a good flight. People will not loiter around the walkways and the restroom.

4. So please serve free booze on international flights.

Ok, enough with the booze. When you fly long distance, I recommend the "Hindu meal". Hot veggie food, and it is always served before anyone else gets their meal. Alright, so after hopping over the pond, we finally made it to Frankfurt. Where the plane landed and then spent a cool 45 minutes chillin' on the tarmac. Of course they didn't bother giving us any gate info about connecting flights, 'cos that would have been too convenient. So I ran a brief obstacle race to my connecting Lufthansa flight to Mumbai which was pulling away from the gate even as I got there. 

Things were getting interesting.

Style/engineering

Citroën has always been a very different kind of automaker. Their styling has been like nothing else - its is a very love it or hate it thing. Even the best of those impeccably engineered autobahn cruisers has always looked businesslike. Serious. Prolly with no sense of humour. Have you ever tried telling an Audi a joke? No response, none at all. Even a lowly Civic-si whinnies in delight if you show it something slightly risque.

A Citroën though - something different. You have the sense, even when all you know of it is a medium res press photo, that this is something truly special. A Citroën is prolly female. The kind you wouldn't mind waiting hours for. The type who will let the wine breathe a bit. Who knows which live cheeses to look for - by smell. The one with the poster of Alain Delon on her wall. Which brings us to the new Citroën No.9. Shooting brakes are not a very practical design, but then if you wanted practicality, you would be looking at a Swedish wagon. While they didn't make the Metropolis - the No.9 is something to lust after. It reminds me of the art-deco lines of the Hispano Suiza Dubonnet Xenia. Will they ever bring this across the pond?

Every monkey with an SLR

The muddied streams of the interwebs brought this demotivational up to the surface. And I was inclined to agree - yes, today every monkey with a few hundred bucks thinks he is a photographer. And surely, it isn't limited to just SLRs - these days, apps like Instagram can make wonderfully filtered and bokehed snaps out out whatever duckface you and your drunk mates posed with after the seventh round of tequila shots. All of which is utterly despicable.

Oh, wait, it isn't and I am being a colossally silly prat. Similarly uncomplimentary thoughts were undoubtedly aired by serious photographers who looked askance at the AsahiPentax's silly mirror-flippitty thingy way back in the fifties. I mean, serious photogs use 120 film and wonderfully machined Rolleiflex TLRs, or at the least your less exalted Mamiyas - built to take punishment like the battleship Yamato.

But the mirror- flipping shenanigans continued, and gasp - outsold every other respectable camera type almost into oblivion. Yeah, yeah, there continued to be a small group of enthusiasts (read middle aged rich white dudes with OCD) who clung to their Elmarits and Summicrons - but every photo that made it to the cover of Time came from a 35 mm SLR. And then digital happened.

The same noses were raised high in the air and angry proclamations were made that it would never, ever be the same. True enough, for a while semiconductors lagged behind film emulsions and serious magazines like Arizona Highways would accept only film (and prolly 120 film at that). Yet, times have a-changed, Kodak has gone belly up and Arizona Highways now has a Flickr photostream. Hah.

The latest wave of development is being driven by instant capture, instant processing and instant sharing. In the time it would take me to unlimber the pack and swap lenses, someone with a fancy Nokia 800 series has taken the picture and applied a Holga-ish filter on it and sent it winging off to Facebook where his three hundred pals have liked it. Yes, of course, much of what is being shot - prolly most of it will be crap. But crap to you and me - not to the person who snapped it - and her mates pulling duckfaces in it. And by that account - the click-n-share crowd has already got what it came here for - their memories. But in the midst of this giant digital trash heap - there are undoubtedly gems. You merely have to sift through it - and there are plenty of people and their fancy apps doing just that. So stop whining about how a beautiful medium has been plebianized.

Also remember the unending horror that came from sitting through your aunt's friend's family album? Yes - now picture that, magnified a millionfold. With duckfaces. Yes, the future does look somewhat rosier now. Perhaps even instagrammed.

So I ruined my co-worker's childhood

That is NOT what it sounds like. This is what happened - her brand new laptop is adorned with a purple snapcase. This, obviously, reminded me of the Phantom - you know, The Ghost Who Walks. This naturally led to a brief discussion of classic cartoons and after I was done explaining my views on some Disney and other classic creations - she told me that I had ruined the better part of her childhood. You snicker in mild disbelief? Well, then we must talk about them cartoons, right? Here goes:

1. Beauty and the Beast - Stockholm Syndrome
2. The Little Mermaid - where do we start with this - bestiality, perhaps? Also, once said mermaid has forsaken her kind and gone to live with the lung-breathers, do you really think that the mer-people are going to be okay with one-way sexual trafficking? And when they find out that nubile land-dweller princesses are not okay with the whole living underwater deal - it seems logical that the next CNN report will be on the ongoing war between us and the mer-people. Sure, we will depth charge the ever loving shite out of SOME mer-cities. But remember, 70% of the Earth's surface is water - and every new Hummer sold is giving up a wee bit of the land that remains. And also, that oceans are effin' deep. With lots of room to hide. To hide and rearm. And possibly awake the sleepin' pet Kraken. That should be fun. All because some arse couldn't find someone in his postal code to date and had to get the hots for a bloody fishchick.
3. Snow White - let us leave aside the central issue that beauty is apparently the ONLY qualification for being a central character in this universe (and many other fairy tale universes - but more on that later) - but Snow White is effin' dumb. Dumb like the lovechild of a Kardashian and a concussed troll. She could have lived a moderately happy life as a Dwarf housekeeper - but noooooo.. given half a chance, she has to walk straight into traps like poisoned combs and supertight corsets. Saving her gets to be a full time job for the Dwarves (seriously, when do they go about their daily jobs like mining Mithril, or whatev?) But what the hell is wrong with the Prince. He sees a dead chick in a glass coffin and has to have it/her. I mean - did your Mommy never teach you that necrophilia is a bad thing?
4. Cinderella - I leave it to your imagination to figure out what a society is like where a woman's worth is her beauty - easily measurable in how tiny and dainty her feet are. If you are unburdened with an imagination this NPR article about Chinese foot-binding should do the trick. Njoi!
5. Sleeping Beauty - Not necrophilia, but more like that scene in Kill Bill where the Bride sleeps in a coma for years while her body is used as a sexual plaything by all comers (My name is Buck. I am from Huntsville, Texas and I like to f**k). Yes, so Princess in a 100 year coma and a Prince has to go get the hots for her. Dude, that is gross. She prolly went to kindergarten with your great grandma. Also, for her, the wurlde has moved on - for generations worth. Will she ever be able to use a smartpheun?
6. Rapunzel - prolly created by Aveda's PR team

This is enough for now. But I must share my views on the Lion King - perhaps later.