Smile! It ain't easy!

I remember reading somewhere that when the Olympic Games came to China, one of the first things the organisers did was to 'teach' people how to smile.
It struck me as funny. Isn't it natural for people to smile?
I do.
I smile when I meet my friends, colleagues, the security guard at work, my mailman, the flower-seller on my street. Hell, I even smile at the istriwallah who loves to snarl a new and 'improved' price every time I take my clothes to him to iron.
Then I travelled abroad. And I realised I was in desperate need of some of China's 'how to smile' classes.
I remember my first day on foreign soil. I had decided to take a stroll along a pretty river-side path. While taking in the sights, I passed many of the locals who had come out for their evening constitution or to take their dogs for a run.
I observed them casually, and I walked on - not a glimmer of a smile on my face. I didn't think I had to smile at them. After all, I didn't know any of them. And I don't smile at strangers. I've been conditioned so.
I mean, think about it. Back home, if I randomly smiled at a stranger, I would either get a puzzled look as thanks for my efforts or maybe a vague mutter that hinted that I was a few marbles short of the full set.
So you can imagine my surprise when, a couple of strides into my poker-faced walk, I was hailed by a series of cheery "hellos" and "good days", with a few "great evening to be out" and "lovely weather we are having" thrown in.
Thinking back, I guess I shouldn't have been surprised. It's not like I haven't heard of how friendly foreigners are. Many of my friends had told me about it. But since they had either gone abroad on work or as tourists, I had assumed the friendliness they encountered had been a result of either work-place courtesy or the joy of a tourism-dependant country excited about all the moolah they were going to blow on their shores.
So it took me a little while to understand that courtesy was just the way of life on these foreign shores. I came across it every other minute.
I would walk into a store, unwittingly ignoring the person behind the counter, only to have him or her approach me with a beaming smile to enquire about my day and if I was having a good time.
I soon began to change. I greeted every shopkeeper I met, every shop assistant who came to help me, and smiled at EVERY SINGLE PERSON I met while out on my evening walks.
But I must admit, the 'smiling' didn't get any easier. I had to constantly be on my guard, and keep reminding myself to acknowledge other human beings. A moment of forgetfulness and I would lapse back into my poker-faced days!
And just as I was getting the hang of exercising my facial muscles, I came back home!
Needless to say, once on homeground, a few hard stares and dark mutters soon killed my budding smile. A fact I feel sad about.
Courtesy breeds courtesy. And in India, where we mistrust strangers, it's something we desperately need. My logic: if you smile at a person, you would think twice before being rude to the very same person.
How different would government offices be, if the employees smiled at everyone who walked in the door? How much safer would the roads be if people acknowledged others as human beings deserving of some courtesy?
It's not a cure-all; just something that will make each day a little better and a little brighter.
Maybe it's time one of us tracked down the telephone number of the people who taught the Chinese to smile!

Flying to Kiwiland? Check your shoes!

"Check your shoes before you step on to an airplane headed to New Zealand."
I heard the same cautionary line from one too many people when I announced I was heading to the land Down Down Under, and my curiosity was piqued. 
Why were my shoes of such critical importance? 
Then I learned that even a speck of soil on my soles would get me slapped with a fine of $400 once I landed in Kiwiland! 
Ridiculous, I thought.
I soon found out that the 'ridiculousness' didn't end there. 
My wooden bangles, my cane boxes, my funky seed earrings, my mum's homemade scones, none of these could be packed into my suitcases - for fear that they would introduce pests and diseases into the tiny island country. 
I never knew my wooden bangles could be WMDs that could decimate an entire flock of sheep. Oh, the horror!
And if I did try to sneak in any prohibited item, I was warned the MAF would get me.
MAF? The Men Against Fun? The Mean-spirited Action Force? The New Zealand version of the bogeyman?
Turns out, the expansion is a lot less threatening than the abbreviation. MAF is just the sinister-sounding version of the Ministry of Agriculture and Forestry - the department that protects the country's natural resources.
But don't assume their bark is worse than their bite. These government officials mean what they say. If a scrap of what they deem to be 'goods that pose a bio-security risk' is brought in undeclared, you could face anything from a $100,000 fine or five years in prison! Whoa!
So I needn't say that I practically sterilised all my stuff before boarding the flight, and that 18 hours later, I was shaking in my shoes when I approached a MAF guy to show him a tiny little wooden jewellery box my mum had presented me.
The relief I felt when he smiled me through was almost comical.
However, a few days into my stay in New Zealand, I realised why everyone was so anal about foreign particulates being introduced into this pristine land.

Kiwis love their country, and not in the blase 'this is our motherland so we love it' way that we Indians do. They plain adore it, and are proud to call themselves Kiwis.
They've tried to put their stamp on everything - from wines to clothing to the language. I came across vegetables proudly labelled "Grown in South Island" - and they were flying off the shelves, leaving imported goods languishing in the supermarket aisles.
Even the humble burger has not escaped the 'Kiwi' touch!
Turns out, McDonald's realised they could boost sales by tapping into the Kiwis' strong vein of patriotism, and so they introduced the KiwiBurger. The addition of poached eggs and beetroots had Kiwis walking tall with pride as they munched on their favourite fast food.
Most advertisements on television extol Kiwi virtues, most businesses tom-tom the fact that they are totally Kiwi run, and the locals try their best to buy Kiwi-produced goods.
And why not? They live in a beautiful country that's blessed them with everything they could ever need. 
And perhaps because they are such a 'young' country (one of the most recently discovered) and because they are small in size when compared to other countries, they don't want to be found lacking.
Some may call their obsession with all things Kiwi overcompensation, but I call it pride. We all need some of that when it comes to our homeland.
So I plan to clean my shoes thoroughly every time I board a flight to New Zealand. That's the least I can do to honour such a proud people and such a beautiful land.

We are Malayalis, not Madrasis!

First of all, let’s get the facts right – all Malayalis do not speak with a ‘Mallu’ accent.

Secondly, those of us who do speak with an accent, speak with a very distinctive one, thaang you very much – and we don’t appreciate it when people mix it up with someone else’s.

And thirdly, in these days of Lolakutty and the whole global village mania, it’s high time the “Northies” got their facts right.

What got me on this myth busting mission? The new Idea advertisement.

I don’t have issues with the ad – It is corny, sappy and spells out its message in so much detail that any kindergarten student will get it.

What I do have a problem with is how the Malayali is made to say ‘Ram, Ram’. Listen to it on YouTube and tell me if you’ve ever heard a Malayali speak like that. A Tamilian perhaps, but not a true blue Malayali.

It’s high time that everyone who is not a south Indian realised something – we are not all Madrasis, people.

And considering there is no Madras anymore, officially speaking, maybe those north of our four borders need to be sent back to school! Brush up on that geography!

I’d like to know how a Punjabi would feel if I said he was no different from a Bihari. If I said they spoke the same language, came from the same area and looked alike, too. There would be civil war – that’s what would happen.

Coming back to the ad, I’d like to know how the ad execs do their research? Do they just throw a dart at the map of South India, pick a state to mock, and then look to the office clown to come up with inspiring lines? Or do they have a research team that actually does what it is paid to do?

I highly doubt that. And my proof: Another television ad that talks about how you can get your local channels wherever you go.

It shows a Tamil speaking man setting off for a new job – and the local channels that follow him? Those that show Kathakali and Mohiniyattam!

There’s no excuse for such blatant errors. An accent may be confused by tone-deaf people, but facts like Kathakali is a dance form from Kerala? Any high school student will tell you that.

My advice to ad execs – if you can’t invest in a good research team, then do invest in a good computer with internet access. Google is the only way forward for you.

And to the rest of you, Malayalis say Ram the same way a Punjabi or a Lucknowi would.

What we may not say the same way is: Waatch it misterr. Next time will be yourr laast time!

Review: 'Dork' is dorky, but not fun

2 March 2010

11 a.m.

I SURRENDER! I GIVE UP! I GIVE IN TO TEMPTATION!

You may wonder what happened, Diary. Well, I'll tell you exactly what happened.

There's been a buzz in the air that's been getting louder the last few days. Tweeple have been tweeting about a new 'genius' in town. The lonely black sheep and stray strawberry cows have nearly disappeared from my Facebook homepage, only to be replaced by the antics of a Mr Einstein (all you people living vicariously through this man's experiences need to get a life).

So I began asking around about this Robin 'Einstein' Varghese a.k.a. Robin Were Geese. My enquiries were met with surprise, disdain and plain hostility. It seems I had committed the worst crime in history. Being a Malayali, I had not read a fellow Malayali's book!

Oh, the horror!

Where was my sense of solidarity? So what if I hadn't read author Sidin Vadukut's blog? I should still have spent Rs 199 and bought his book to show that 'family' always sticks together.

So I forked out the cash (the exact change, mind you) and I picked up Dork: The Incredible Adventures of Robin 'Einstein' Varghese - a bright yellow paperback with an illustration that looked suspiciously like the author. Now where are my reading glasses?

11.05 a.m.

Well, it's been good and bad. The book starts out with a grammatical error in the very first sentence. Maybe Vadukut thought it would act like an evil eye. Let me see if it does its job.

11.45 a.m.

Well, I've finally met Robin 'Einstein' Varghese who's managed to land a Day Zero job with the consulting firm Dufresne Partners. With a glowing academic track record to back him (he came in 41st in his class), Varghese has thumbed his nose at "the greatest bank in the world" Goldman Sachs (who wants to work with a bunch of morons who think you are the court jester) to accept a job with the "second-grade firm" Dufresne (which, if you look at it holistically, stands "shoulders and head" above the rest, though it maybe near bankruptcy).

I'm just a few pages into the book, but it's been pretty interesting so far. The language is easy and the pace quite fast. Moreover, I'm all for delusional, self-absorbed heroes - it describes nearly all the men I've met. And the Malayalam swear words have me feeling all nostalgic.

Oh! And guess what? Dork is a series of diary entries. Seems Varghese is today's Doogie Howser and loves his laptop and MS Word! Now why does that seem familiar?

1 p.m.

Diary, I'd been warned not to read this book in public lest I embarrass myself by laughing out loud or by rolling on the floor, clutching my side, guffawing despite the stitch in my side. But I must admit that, except for the occasional chuckle (mostly at the Malayalam swear words), I haven't really done anything to embarrass myself. Che!

The humour seems to be restricted to liberally-used cuss words and Varghese overcoming every setback by deluding himself about how things are actually better the way they turned out. Truth be told, it's getting pretty repetitive. I've begun to predict how things will turn out, and most often than not, I'm spot on.

So far I've seen conniving co-workers, back-stabbing bosses, cut-throat competition, short cuts and deadlines, projects and pressure - the hallmarks of true blue corporate life. It's almost like that Madhur Bhandarkar film, but seen through the eyes of Cyrus Broacha!

The book is also chockfull of men. The few women who are introduced are mere objects to be lusted after or lampooned. Disappointed!

3.15 p.m.

Why does it seem like we are churning out only two kinds of books these days - those based on the 'real' (read poverty stricken, desperation laden) India or those based on the quirky life of the IITians and the IIM grads? Isn't one Chetan Bhagat enough?

I have several grouses with Dork: it doesn't have a single character that is level headed and rational; Vadukut is unable to sustain his humorous momentum for too long; there are a lot of slapstick situations, but very little of wit, satire or irony; the corporate jargon gets BORING after a few chapters and the jokes are too contextual, and the only time we see life outside of work is when Varghese pursues his other interest - love a.k.a. sex.

I'm planning to give this book to my friend, a teacher, and see if she gets anything out of it.

5 p.m.

I've finally finished it. Phew! What began as a quirky character soon degenerated into someone irritating and quite unreal. Drunken videos on Youtube, fellow Malayalis who are obsessed with "ass-licking" their way to the top or sending inspirational SMSes, and analysts who prepare 300-slide decks (read, presentations) for clients by copy pasting stuff off Wikipedia get very tiring, very soon. I think Dork would have made a fantastic short story instead.

And Vadukut seems to have hit a patch of writer's block at the end. He wraps up the book way too quickly and a little too unconvincingly. (However, I do appreciate the pot shots at the media - television journalists to be more exact.)

What I can't fathom is why Dork is the first book of a trilogy? I dread to think what else Varghese can get up to. Curiosity may make me want to follow his adventures, but I don't think I'll have the patience to indulge my curiosity.

Well, that's it for today, Diary. Good night.

Or rather good evening.

What would Varghese say? Hmmm. Bring on the booze and let's party? Yup!

First published on Sify.com

Jeffrey Archer: Return of the prodigal author

The son of a painter he may be, but Jeffrey Archer has led a life so colourful that if he ever pens his autobiography it may surpass his novels for sheer 'bestseller' worth. The man has lived large and lied 'large' and here's how.

He was a Member of Parliament and Deputy Chairman of the Conservative Party; he also became a life peer in 1992. But, at the same time, when he was running for Mayor of London he was charged with perjury and conspiracy to pervert the course of justice. And, like the hero of his latest novel, Danny Cartwright, he was sent to prison - the only difference being he was charged with a crime he did commit.

But nothing can ever pin Archer down. Like a true sportsman (which he is in real life), he was back on his feet and sprinting for the finish line. And, methinks, A Prisoner of Birth is only the 'bang' at the starting point.

The three Ws - where, why and who

Occasion: Author's introduction to his new book A Prisoner of Birth.

Cast: Jeffrey Archer, fans

Location: Landmark, Chennai (incidentally, the bookstore's first outlet in the country)

A 'Landmark' wait

A clearing amid regimental shelves of books. Rows of blue plastic chairs waiting expectantly. A cacophony of sound - scuffling feet; voices raised in query, irritation and excitement; the teller ringing up purchases of A Prisoner of Birth; and finally, polite applause.

I raise my head expecting to see Jeffrey Archer - the man whose books (well, Kane and Abel, at least) I used to carry around in college, both because they impressed me and because I wanted to create an impression - walk in. Instead, I see an elderly gentleman, pink in the face with embarrassment, duck his head and take a seat. The impatient audience had mistaken him for the author. Laughter ensues. And that set the mood for the evening.

When the real Sir Archer finally walks in, he immediately fills the room. The man knows how to work a crowd. He quickly gets through the expected speech - about his visit to six cities in 12 days, his pleasure at being in Chennai, and his joy at seeing a sizeable crowd - and gets to what he likes talking about, his work.

The author speaks

Archer doesn't believe in mincing words. And after innumerable such talks to the public, he can anticipate what is running through the audience's minds. So the first thing he does is drive a stake through the hearts of aspiring novelists - he describes his normal 'work' day. "I get up at 5.30 a.m. and start writing at 6 a.m. I work for two hours and then take a two hour break." He says he alternates between two-hour work sessions until 9 p.m.

"I do this for 50 days - and I have the first draft of a book. And what you write first can never be the final. You have to keep at it." For A Prisoner of Birth that meant 17 drafts and about 1,000 hours of work. Moral of the story: writing is not just a hobby to be taken up lightly; it is a full time job.

He then goes on to do what he does best: keep his fans hanging on to his every word and laughing at his every second sentence.

According to Archer, Mickey Mouse taught him one of the best lessons of life: "If you know you've got to the last question in a TV interview, keep on talking." When and why did he learn the lesson? Well, time for a flashback.

Archer had invested heavily in Aquablast, a Canadian company, which turned out to be a fraudulent investment scheme. Penniless and without a job (he resigned from the House of Commons as he was on the brink of bankruptcy), he decided to write a book. The plot: four suckers (just like Archer) who lose their money and think up devious plans to get every penny back. And so Not a Penny More, Not a Penny Less came about.

Like most 'innocent' first-timers, he thought that with a book in hand, it would only be a matter of days before some publisher snapped him up. However, he says, "Eighteen publishers turned me down - this is the one record I have that is even larger than J K Rowling's. Only 16 publishers turned down her book."

But finally he was published and, though he did not become an overnight celebrity, he continued churning out books. "The real breakthrough came with Kane and Abel," says Archer. Its success in the UK prompted the publishers to look to the US and auction the manuscript to the highest bidder. And, voila, Simon and Schuster snapped up the book for $3.2 million - an unheard-of figure back then.

However, the initial exhilaration of selling his book quickly died out when Archer realised he had an uphill task in the US - no one had heard of him. And if he had to make it to the best sellers' top 15 list, he had to become a household name, and fast. And since there was no Oprah Winfrey's Book Club back then, he had to settle for breakfast television.

The first was the Today Show with Dave Hartman, who didn't much care for novelists unless they had written about sex or the secrets to 'slim' health. But there was another hitch - he had to share a six-minute slot with two others: Billy Carter (the brother of the then US president) and Mickey Mouse. While the former expounded on his beer, the latter latched onto the last question and waxed eloquent on the 75th anniversary of Walt Disney, leaving Archer with no time to talk (well, expect to comment on his experience flying on the Concord).

The result of such a 'successful' talk show: the book debuted at No 27 on the list. Another talk show, this time a radio show (where Archer was mistaken for Edmund Hillary - definitely not a good start to any interview) and the book inched its way to No 23. It finally took The Tonight Show host Johnny Carson (who said he had picked the book up and couldn't put it down until 4 a.m. the next morning) to catapult him to No 1 in under 10 days. The rest, as the cliche goes, is history.

After 30 minutes of talking (and he was quite particular about it - he kept checking his watch), Archer asks the audience to throw him their best questions. And, as expected, there are some good ones and some bad ones. A sample:

Are you inspired by Indian politics?

Ummm, no!

Will you ever write a book with an Indo-British plot line?

My next book is called Paths of Glory and it revolves around an Englishman who visits India. But that is the most that India will feature in my books. I won't trample on the toes of the brilliant writers you have here, just as I don't expect them to trample on Cambridge, London or my territory.

I read your book and I thought your characterisation of Big Al wasn't consistent. In fact, the ending...

Stop right there, sir. You cannot abuse the rights of the people who are gathered here who haven't read the book. Someone take the microphone away from him.

What is the inspiration for A Prisoner of Birth?

It is inspired by people I met when I was sent to Belmarsh prison. It is also inspired by Alexandre Dumas' The Count of Monte Cristo. My challenge while writing this book, however, was to find an even better way to make Danny Cartwright escape and an even better way to get his revenge.

What do you think about India?

The newspapers stump me. The first six pages and the last six pages are dedicated to Bollywood and sports or to be exact, Twenty20. And any news of 'lesser' importance is squeezed in somewhere in the middle.

What do you think of Twenty20?

It's fun, but it's not cricket! But something interesting did happen. I met Rahul Dravid and he introduced me to Anil Kumble. So I shake the man by the hand, but instead of talking to me, he hurriedly punches numbers on his mobile phone. 'Hello,' he says. 'I am here with Jeffrey Archer.' He then passes the phone to me with a 'Talk to my wife. She is your biggest fan. I shall talk to you after that'.

Have you ever had writer's block?

No, never. I don't even know what that is like. I already know what my next three books will be. And every day I come up with at least three of four plots.

Mr Archer, my question (the lady unfortunately interrupts another member of the audience)...

Shush woman!

And the irreverent humour, the crisp answers and the camaraderie continue.

The last word

Night has fallen by now and Archer gets ready to sign books (after warning people not to shove, trample or hurt anyone), a proposition that will definitely take over three hours considering the winding queues and the thronging crowds. But before he sits down, he exclaims: A Prisoner of Birth is the best that I have ever written, even better than Kane and Abel.

Now that piques my curiosity. I decide I won't wait around for an autograph after all, and instead hurry home to read my copy. I do a Johnny Carson, too (I sit up until 4 a.m. in the morning), not because the book is unputdownable, but because I really want to see if it is indeed better than K&A or if it is just personal bias and some smooth 'marketing' talk. Unfortunately, I think the latter is true.

Archer's latest is just an OK read. There is none of the larger-than-life figures who brave all odds to become nation builders and breakers; none of the excitement that makes you want to keep turning the pages; none of the vision or depth. All it has is a nice story, some interesting plot lines for revenge (something I feel Archer is tops at), and some decent courtroom scenes.

There are way too many unanswered questions, contrived situations and characters just waiting to help the protagonist out of a tight spot that I couldn't digest.

So Mr Archer, if it pleases you, I'll just sit back and wait for your next to thrill me.

First published on Sify.com

Running scared, but nowhere to run

I’m coughing and sniffling even as I’m writing this. And I can see people glancing at me covertly, wondering if they need to cover their faces with their N95 masks (did the makers get into a copyright tussle with Nokia over the name, I wonder?), make a run for it, or trust in the Fates and believe that what I have is just common cold and not the dreaded Swine Flu.
Paranoia is the operative word right now. In the last couple of weeks, I’ve not been able to go anywhere or do anything without someone asking me to be careful, stay away from pigs (huh?!), not eat pork (double huh?!), and avoid crowded places.
My inbox has been flooded with forwards asking me to wash my hands often, get enough sleep, drink enough water, boost my immune system and keep myself informed.
Ok, so the advice is easy enough to follow, especially the last one—there is so much information on the H1N1 on the internet that I’ll need a weekend to get through it all. But in case I have contracted the virus, it’s not as easy to find out. The hospitals are overflowing with people—and hadn’t I been warned to stay away from crowded places?
Jokes aside, the situation I see around me has left me confused and concerned. I know the government has promised to do everything it can to solve the problem, but I don’t believe it. To me, most often than not, the government is all talk and no action. And I have a perfect example to illustrate the point.
I had recently been to Europe and, while in the continent, I had visited many of the H1N1 hotspots like Germany, Spain, Austria and the UK. So you would think that when I flew back to India, the screening at the airport would be strict and efficient? Well, it was anything but that.
I landed at Mumbai International airport at 3.40 a.m. and entered the terminal only to be greeted by a melee of people. It looked like the passengers from at least four different flights had been assembled in one dark, hot and stuffy hall. (Can you think of a better way of ensuring people get infected?)
A lady sat at the entrance with a scanner in her hand. But she had her eyes closed and her head cupped in her other hand. How she thought she would know if an infected person walked by, I have no clue. Any beep the scanner made would be drowned by the thunderous noise all about.
We were then given forms to fill—detailing where we had been and if we had come into contact with anyone with the flu. These were to be handed in to a doctor who would stamp it and let us exit the airport only if he or she were completely certain that we were not infected.
So, my form duly filled, I walked up to a long counter behind which were seated about 10 doctors. A lady who seemed sunk in ennui took it from me and stamped it without even bothering to scan the contents, let alone quiz me on whether I was exhibiting any symptoms. I could have sprouted pigs ears and a little curly tail, and still walked out of the airport without any problem.
So if this is how the government is stopping the virus from spreading, then forgive me if I place my hopes somewhere else—though I’m not too clear at the moment where that ‘somewhere’ is.
Meanwhile, there is only one thing that is entertaining me amidst all this mess—the SMSs that are flying around fast and thick. Here’s one I received hardly a minute ago: “Please do not discard your old brassieres. Cut out the cups and use them as masks to protect against Swine Flu. Issued in public interest by Baba Ramdev.”
That has set me laughing, and as a result, coughing. And I do believe my colleagues have had enough of speculating whether I am a carrier or not, and are planning to drop me out of the window so as to save themselves from an infection. So I’ll sign off and skedaddle. Keep safe and, yes, do avoid crowded places.

Death of innocence

On the night of November 26, I was woken by the shrill buzz of my mobile. My parents wanted to know if I was ok. I was stumped. Why wouldn’t I be ok in the safety of my own room?

Then I turned on the TV and realised that none of us were safe. Anywhere. Not when people could saunter into our homes, our hotels, our lives and start ripping everything apart with a hail of bullets.

I spent a sleepless night (the first of three) watching as terror ripped through Mumbai, painting the city in the red of fire and the black of smoke—the staccato of bullets, the screams of the dying and the confusion of the masses, the only sounds to be heard.

But what kept flashing through my mind was that I had spent seven hours at the Taj Mahal Hotel and the Gateway of India just the previous day. We were shooting for the Indian Idol Rubaroo episode, and after a tiring Mumbai darshan, we had landed at the promenade.

The contestants were glad to be off the bus and out in the sunlight, the sea breeze ruffling their hair. Those who hadn’t seen the hotel or the Gateway were doing the ‘touristy’ bit—gawking at the magnificent facades, wishing they had cameras so they could pose in front of them, trying to scare the pigeons so they would all take flight en masse.

We also hired a boat and went out into the bay for a spot of partying. It was great, watching the red sun go down behind the Taj, setting its dome on ‘fire’ with its scarlet rays. It was great watching the lights of the nearby boats come on one by one, until we were surrounded by dark water and pinpricks of disembodied lights.

Little did we realise that enemy would come by the very same sea, on a boat like the ones around us. Little did we realise that the ‘scarlet’ dome would soon be engulfed by a ravaging fire that would not gild it, but destroy it.

As I watched the Taj burn and the bodies being carried out, I not only mourned the dead but also the death of innocence.