Another Public Service Announcement

How to save money on petrol/diesel

It makes no sense boo-hooing over the governments deregulation and subsequent increase in petroleum products. It’s only going to get more expensive in the days to come, given that:

A) The oil leak by BP (Barefaced Polluters) in the Gulf of Mexico does not seem to be nearing a solution.

B) America which has a reputation for guzzling gas, especially during the summer months increases its demand and processing prices alone go up by about 3 to 4 rupees a litre.

C) The government is never,never,never,never,never, EVER going to reduce excise and taxes on petroleum products, in fact they are probably already thinking of an additional petroleum “luxury” tax. Yes, it will soon BE a luxury to drive your car or bike on Indian roads, pot-holed as they may be.

On the plus side however, by declaring a ‘Bharat Bandh” the opposition has actually benefited Indian fuel consumerism in the same way the recession brought gas prices down globally.

But whether you're planning a road trip or just trying to avoid spending your paycheck on your daily commute, there's a lot you can do to save money on fuel. The best strategy is to simply drive less often, maybe carpooling or cycling instead, but even if that's not possible here is a list of things you CAN do to save both time and money.

1) Steady as you go.
Mileage lessens in most vehicles at high speeds. For cars once you're going faster than about 70 - 80 kmph; for every 10 kmph you drive over 80 kmph, you're essentially paying an extra 3 rupees per litre of petrol.

Try to maintain a constant speed on the highway. It can also help to use your car's overdrive gears, which save fuel and engine-wear.

2) Drive Smart in traffic
Aggressive driving — speeding, swerving, sudden acceleration and braking — is not only dangerous, it can lower your mileage 33 percent on highways and 5 percent on city streets. Revving your engine when in neutral is even more wasteful.

Anticipate when you need to reduce your speed or stop, slow down and change into the appropriate gear instead of slamming on the brakes. By coasting to a stop you save precious fuel and lessen wear on your tyres as well.

3) Don’t completely chill out
Air conditioning can be a big drain on fuel, so make sure you don't just leave it on absentmindedly, and especially don't have it going with your windows down, even if they just cracked open. You can improve your fuel efficiency in stop-and-go traffic by turning off the A/C and rolling down the windows instead, but in summer and given the dust and air pollution outside your car on Indian roads that's not really a very good idea.

When driving above 70 kmph, especially for long periods on highways, the opposite is true — open windows make the car less aerodynamic by letting in air, which increases air resistance and decreases fuel efficiency. On long road trips, using air conditioning could actually improve your mileage by up to 20 percent.

4) Don't just squat there
On top of pointlessly pumping out greenhouse gases without actually getting you anywhere, idling vehicles also contribute to ground-level ozone, airborne particulate matter and other near-surface air pollution. These emissions can aggravate asthma and even hinder breathing in otherwise healthy people, especially children and the elderly.

If you're just idling to warm up your vehicle in cold weather, it still only needs to run less than a minute. Anything beyond that is just wasting fuel.

5) Tune up
Repairing a vehicle that needs a tune-up or has failed an the pollution control test can improve its fuel efficiency by an average of 4 percent. More serious problems, like a faulty oxygen sensor, can reduce mileage by up to 40 percent.

And don't forget to get an oil change roughly every 5,000 kilometres or three months whichever comes first. (or you could look into importing and installing an Electro-Lube Oil Refiner, which reportedly eliminates the need for oil changes while boosting efficiency 3 to 4 percent).

6) Pump it up
Keeping your tyres properly inflated can improve fuel efficiency by about 3.3 percent. It's also safer and lengthens the lifespan of your tyres, since under-inflated tyres lose their tread quickly in addition to wasting fuel. Regular checkups for your tyres' alignment and balance aren't a bad idea, either.

7) Take a load off
While it mainly affects smaller cars, carrying extra weight means burning extra fuel, no matter how big your vehicle is. On average, you may be cutting your fuel efficiency by up to 2 percent for every 50 kilos extra you carry.

8) Be slick
Using the manufacturer's recommended grade of motor oil can boost mileage by 1 to 2 percent. Try to also use the regular unleaded fuel that's appropriate for your car, since high-octane grades cost several rupees more per litre.

Fill up at a trusted fuel bunk to be sure, but as long as your engine doesn't start knocking, you're probably OK. Switching from premium to regular fuel would save thousands of rupees every year.

9) Put a lid on it
Fuel can evaporate from a vehicle's tank if it's able to find an opening, which is bad for your wallet and your lungs. Make sure your gas tank's cap is tightened securely after you fill up, and if the cap's thread is worn or it fits too loosely, you might want to buy a new one. Also don’t fill your tank right to the brim, not only is it hazardous, there is also the possibility of spillage with fuel sloshing around when the vehicle is in motion.

10) Join the aam aadmi
Carpool or, even better, don't take a car at all — walk, ride a cycle, or take mass transit. It saves you money, improves your personal health, and helps the planet by keeping greenhouse gases out of its atmosphere. Try to work from home as much as possible…. if you have that option.

Happy motoring… and remember be courteous on the road, the guy who cuts you off or keeps blowing his horn from behind, may be carrying a lot of emotional garbage.

Missing in Action

I think I might know where the missing ex- tourism minister is. I’m referring here to the recent hit-and-run who goes by the pseudonym of Mickey (the rat) Placebo that our police force (Motto: “We Do Have A Motto, But We Don’t Know Where It Is”) has apparently misplaced.

Given the excitement of the ongoing census, you might have missed all the news stories of this Ratol Runaway, which is getting a whole lot of media attention (as difficult as this is to believe) it has nothing to do with Ajmal Kasab.

The background is; Mickey was sweet on a girl, whom we shall call Dania Dorado. One day Dania “by accident” ate a whole tube of Ratol while brushing her teeth. She over-brushed to the point that she was overcome with the resultant euphoria, slipped on the wet floor, ricocheted off the door jamb, (causing multiple contusions to her body), and went comatose.

Mickey meanwhile was busy playing the Casino tables. His sleight-of-hand had just won him a bundle of cash, and he called Dania to give her the good news. But hearing the bad news instead he rushed to her side. Being the Boy Scout that he is, he decided to do his good deed for the day and spend some of his ill-gotten gain trying to revive the lady, so that she would be eternally grateful, fall into his manly arms and have meaningless sex. He flew her here, he flew her there, he flew her everywhere; but alack and alas she succumbed to the charms of the grim reaper instead.

However this interfered with the census taking, after all having people die AFTER having put in all their details defeats the very purpose of a census. It also means a lot of tedious paperwork. So the government ordered an investigation to set out to prove that said Dania was still alive.

This seemed like a good idea, since the Goa government- which is the fourth-largest financial entity in India after the Ambani Brothers, Mayavati and your local paanwala- had not conducted a reliable census with live people since the first Vasco Da Gama landing.

As you can imagine, the census is a huge job. The enumerators spent thousands and thousands of hours, going from door to door, and producing reams of paper to be kept in a government record room in a 150 metre long bread box containing billions of other pieces of paper and what are believed to be Dr. Jack de Sequeira original spectacles along with the original recipe for Chicken Xacuti.

The reason the government did not get around to ordering a census any sooner is that it has been extremely busy with it’s primary functions, which are (1)spending money; (2)publishing souvenirs on it’s fantasy accomplishments in the last 49 years (3) increasing prices.

When the enumerators finally finished, they released the census report which also contains these alarming findings:

- It turns out that both “Mickey” and “Francisco” is actually the same person, and he used to be a tailor.

- Although according to the Indian Constitution there are supposed to be thirty sitting judges along with the Chief Justice in the Supreme Court, an exhaustive search of the premises, including under all the desks, turned up only a dozen.

- In the last 6 months, the Task Force on Unique Identification Document, headed by Nilesh Nilekani, spent 200 crores, without any authorization or supporting documentation to rescue a monitor lizard and buy Congress party flags. In contrast the Goa government spent only 2 crores to get a feasibility study on the Vasco–Dona Paula sea link.

- Morjim in North Goa is missing. “We think Russia took it,” stated the enumerators, “but every time we called up St.Petersburg to ask about it, they just laughed and hung up.”

Now I have some good news and some bad news. The good news is that I made up the above census findings. The bad news is the real census findings are worse. I do not refer to the findings that the administration has no idea what happened to 24 kilos of “weed” missing from the police locker. That is totally understandable. Why else would so many foreign tourists stroll around garbage ridden streets, stay in overpriced hotel rooms, eat unpalatable restaurant food served by surly waiters, and hire rip-off taxis with negligent, ill-mannered drivers to drive on dangerous, narrow, ill-maintained roads, if not for the lure of good ganja.

Nor I am referring to the fact that the Chief Minister is off busily inaugurating public toilets and breaking coconuts on road-rollers, such that it leaves little time to attend to routine matters of law and order.

I’m sure if the police took some time out from their highway activities of ripping off unsuspecting tourists on the southern ends of the Mandovi and Zuari bridges, they’d quickly find Mickey and a lot of this so-called “lost” weed.

FIRST POLICEMAN: Ok I’ll just check behind the cushions of this politicos lounge sofa and…. Hey, here’s some! Looks like a total of, let me see, two, three, four….Wow! That’s six whole kilos of weed!

SECOND POLICEMAN: So THAT’S what happened to it! Hey! Is that a Supreme Court justice ?

So I’m confident that both Mickey and the weed are around somewhere. What has me concerned is the government might wake up one day and find fighter aircraft, battle tanks and naval ships missing, and what if we have a defense emergency and we need these missing items? Are our fighter pilots going to sit on the runway and make fighter plane noises with their mouths? After all if the government doesn’t know where it’s own tourism minister is, what ELSE doesn’t it know? For example I heard a tourist guide in Panaji pointing out a huge building to his group calling it “The Secretariat”, and after a while I saw another tourist guide point out a boob-shaped structure in Porvorim informing them that this was “The Secretariat”. This has to be a mistake. Why do we need TWO Secretariats when we have only the one useless government! Unless we’ve lost THAT, too.

So methinx that the Goan government should stop whatever it’s doing and concentrate on finding all the stuff it’s missing. I think a good place would be to start looking in the River Princess.

There’s a lot of stuff in there; it would not surprise me one bit if there was a fighter jet in there somewhere. So I say to the government: Go and get it! And while you’re there please remove Mickey Placebo, because he’s starting to smell.

It's Cricket My Dear Chap... please pass the gravy!

The Invitation read:

Dear IPL Visitor,
Welcome to India and Mumbai! Get ready for a fun IPL Final, because you're going to see some serious partying ``Bollywood Ishtyle'' -- people eating, drinking, singing, shouting, fighting, lathi charges, human sacrifice of an IPL Commissioner along with a handsome politician and his moll, fireworks and free-for-all groping on the field. And those are just our BCCI and Income Tax Officials.

But don't worry! You are perfectly safe. India has been hosting Major Spectacles along the lines of the fall of the Roman Empire for more years than I can remember, the Harshad Mehta Stock Market scam, the Satyam Computer Saga, the Bofors Gun running, the Mayavati Statue installations, the Bihar Fodder Scam, the Tehelka expose, the Raja 2G Spectrum Saga and so on….and in all that time no harm has ever come to a visitor who didn't do something stupid such as venture outside his bedroom. So have fun! Here are some tips to help you make the most of your visit:

GETTING AROUND
Mumbai has an extensive mass-transit system. Unfortunately, it doesn't go anywhere you need to go, and it sometimes has snakes on it. (I’m not kidding.)
Mumbai also has a modern taxi fleet, which consists of three modern taxis, but they're pretty busy. So your best bet is to rent a car. Keep in mind that Mumbai has the same traffic laws as the rest of the world; the difference is that nobody here obeys them. The main expressways are Eastern and Western Express Highways and the Sion Panvel Expressway; do not use these unless you are an experienced fighter pilot.

WHERE TO GO
The heart of the action during the IPL Final match is Nerul Navi Mumbai, which you should refer to as ``Dr.D.Y. Patel Stadium'', if you want to sound like you just got here from Jhumri Tilaiya. To get to Nerul , simply drive across the Vashi bridge, then turn around and drive back through Palm Beach Road, and try to find a quiet parking spot. Then you can walk back (not recommended) or attempt to hail one of the three taxis.

Mumbai is famous for its nightlife ``scene,'' featuring clubs where you can enjoy hideous bollywood music played at the volume of moon rockets back-firing while running up a bar tab the equivalent of two years' tuition to business school. Mumbai also boasts a vast array of obscure celebrities, so you just might spot a famous Director that you never heard of, or a Slumdog Extra, or even -- if you're lucky -- a Real Actor from Choti Bahu. Also you pretty much can't throw a rock over there without hitting a Thackerey.

And so on to ……

IPL WAS GREAT AND SO WAS THE GAME…
All in all I thought it was a terrific Cricket Tournament. The earlier match between the very same Chennai Super Kings and the Mumbai Indians, also witnessed the Maoists crashing through the east grandstands in Dantewada and take out the entire CRPF’s 62nd Battalion.

I'm kidding, of course. That was a P.Chidambaram "googly", similar to the Stock Exchange Fiddle in May 2006 when he was Finance Minister. In another “Sadim Touch” (the opposite of the Midas touch) this time as Home Minister he reduced to ashes (pun and irony intended) the fortunes of 76 families of the CRPF.

According to some he "commendably" offered to “resign” What? No jail time for someone responsible for homeland security and the massacre of 76 personnel?? Didn't he grandstand and say, “The buck stops here”, a la Harry Truman. But whereas Harry Truman alluded to ultimate responsibility; our politicians really opt out by resigning and "passing the buck" to some other poor sod to try to sort out the sorry mess... more like Pontuis Pilate or Nero the Roman Emperor who played the fiddle while Rome burnt.

But other than that, the 6th of April was a fantastic day at (you guessed it) the “Chidambaram Stadium” where Mr. P.C. was focused watching his peeps, the Chennai Super Kings defeat the Mumbai Indians, which at half-time nearly changed its name to ``Podu Podu Stadium'' and by the end of the game was going by ``Dhoni''. This brings us to……

the second and final match......

Sundays pregame scene outside the D.Y. stadium and betting stands was very festive; the moon was shining and the fans were happy (I am using ``happy'' in the sense of ``fairly stoned on moonshine already''). You could tell the Chennai Kings fans because every few feet they would shout "Askalakadi gumava Superkings na summava...." This is a system -- similar to the sonar system used by bats -- that enables Chennai cricket fans to identify each other by sound when they are “flying blind”or stoned.

RUMBA HAPPY SAAR
You could tell the Chennai Super Kings fans because a lot of them wore yellow lungis folded at "half-mast". The Mumbai Indians fans had their faces painted blue so they looked like characters from the movie Avatar who had been transported from the planet Pandora and developed a Vada Pau habit.

The Chennai Super Kings fans don't say "Balle Balle,'' but they do call themselves "Dravidians.'' There's a fascinating story behind this name, which is: Nobody knows. At least none of the Super Kings fans I surveyed did, although they hazarded various guesses, the most interesting of which was that a Dravidian is "a species of homo sapiens that eats Idli-Vada-Dosa'' This guess was hazarded by a man named Maha Lingam, who is the father of a Super Kings player, water boy Muthuram Lingam. Maha Lingam is Indian; I asked him if ``Lingam'' was a common name in India, and he said (I swear he said this): ``Yes Saar! There are many Lingams in India. The gestation period of a Lingam is only nine months.'' Maha Lingam seemed like a happy man, if you get my drift.

CELEB SPOTTING
There reportedly were many famous celebrities at the game, but the only one I encountered personally was the Harbhajan (Cop-a-Feel) Singh, with whom I conducted a “quickie” exclusive 11-second interview. He told me, exclusively, that he has, quote, "no idea'' what Lingam means, being a hands-on guy himself.

The opening show was spectacular. They wheeled out a really elaborate portable stage, then turned out the lights, so the stadium went dark. And then, in one of the evening's most dramatic moments, the spotlights came on to reveal, in the middle of a swirling cloud of smoke and laser lights…..
Rakhee Sawant’s Baby.
No, sorry, that was Shahid Kapoor; from a distance, he bears a certain resemblance especially when he broke into his version of the St. Vitus’ Dance. Although I thought Bipasha Basu shook her scrumptious booty way better than Shahid.

Then there was A.R.Rehman who is of course the celebrity composer for the legendary rock band called Belabour-it-to-Death-With–My-Oscar. He performed a medley of his greatest hits, which have been electrifying the world since they first came out during the Bombay Riots. The crowd went crazy, especially when Rehman, in the climactic finale of Vande Maataram, ejected his dentures all the way into the upper stands of the stadium.

ENCORE
Also there was a cricket game, which I thought was a clever, innovative and -- to be honest -- totally unexpected way to cap off the IPL season. So in conclusion, I think this was the best IPL ever, and I hope the UPA and the BCCI agree with me that they should definitely return the game to South Africa.

Speaking of returning: If you were at the game and seated in Box C Seat 24, be advised that Rehman would like his dentures back.

Ajji and The Meaning of Life

It was time to go and have my last words with her. She was dying. Decided SHE finally had enough of this asinine world, and not vice versa. Her room was in the middle of the house which was in the middle of a jungle of flora and fauna she called her garden. She was always working on her garden, with her dogs and cats sniffing or peeing around and she never did finish it. She was the first to admit that she loved plants and animals, and an occasional fox, but really did not know how to train either.

When I went in to see her she was holding forth in the middle of her “Family Court” I remember when she would always use her head of snowy white hair to browbeat any dissenters into submission and carry out her orders. Her quotation of the day:“Kaii hoth nahi”( Nothing’s gonna happen) actually meant “Do what I tell you and no argument!” and her other dinner table epithet : “Khaa re/ga , chaan ahay” ( Eat up it’s good) meant, “Shaddup and eat quietly.”

The doctor did not have to tell us she was dying, we knew anyway. Everyone she knew came and met her, which is what she wanted at the end. She had stopped wearing her glasses, her dentures having been discarded years ago being unwieldy and uncomfortable.”Stupid things” she said.

Her friends and family called her “Akka”, but over the years with the increase of her tribe it became “Ajji”. People would always call to talk about their plants and animals who were acting crazy, or not growing, or drinking too much, or running away and ask:” What can I do?” They never called anyone else. She’d listen and then zap them with a 94-page lecture.

Which brings me to the question everyone who does not have a garden asks: “Just what the heck is the meaning of Life anyway?”

For millions of years man has been trying to find the meaning of life and this made him very lazy. Deepak Chopra’s wife yells at him: “Honey, don’t forget to take out the trash” or “Can you take me to the hospital I think I’m having a baby.” And he says: “Sorry I can’t right now darling, I’m trying to explain the meaning of Life.”

Over the ages mankind has come up with all sorts of explanations to the meaning of Life. Actually right up to when Wikipedia came into being, anything mankind came up with for anything was stupid. In fact I’ll bet that children would be able to finish high school in about a week if we stopped making them memorise all the rubbish about history, the sun and the planets and about the gods and goddesses and so on and so forth.

One definition that encompasses every living thing on this planet, which noted scientist and proctologist Albert Weisenheimer using sophisticated analytical tools has put forth is : Life is anything that dies when hit with a large hammer.

By this definition the lizard, the earthworm, the rose, the chicken, the potato and some politicians are forms of Life. But how does one equate a chicken which clearly has some value with a politician. And where does Life come from?

Charles Dickens extolled the Theory of Evolution. There was this slimy character called Uriah Heep … oops sorry that was a story about an orphan kid called Oliver Twist. The other story came from Charles Darwin who said that at one time the earth consisted primarily of slime and ooze, sort of like stuff that makes up our parliamentary system. Then some of the slime came into contact with some of the ooze. One said: “Let’s form Life” and the other said: “Sounds good to me. I’ll be the brain and you can be the other end” and then they crawled out on land and mated, and the ones that did not get eaten survived in what was labelled by Herb Spencer as “Survival of the Fittest.” and they went forth and polluted the earth.

Some religious people dispute the Theory of Evolution saying God made everything, and whole wars have supported the God theory so they went and built the Hadron Collider in a neutral country like Switzerland to try to find the God particle or any other particles,tools or black holes He left behind after His creation.

Life today consists of a) Plants b) Animals

Plants are sub-divided into Fruits, Vegetable and Vegans.

Animals are categorized differently:
1.Animals that can hurt you: tigers, elephants, snakes, Al- Queda, Maoists, drunk drivers, Raj Thackery.
2.Animals you can eat: chicken, sheep, fish, some species of snake.
3.Animals you can ride, and sometimes eat: horse, camel, bulls.
4.Animals that are loyal to humans: Dogs
5.Animals that humans are loyal to: Cats

Insects do not fall into any category; these are species which are there solely for our amusement by spraying them with insecticide: cockroaches, mosquitoes. Some environmentalists would not agree saying that birds live by feeding on insects. So who needs birds anyway?

So I go in to Ajji’s room as her life ebbs away, and I just know it’s my last words. I lie next to her and hold her, hoping she can’t hear the tears beginning to choke and say:”I love you Amma”, and she says: ”I love you too. I’ll talk to you after this is over. Life is nothing just a garden.” I walk out; I can hardly see the door.
Everyone thinks we had a more meaningful talk. But I know I didn’t need to. I’m glad I didn’t then. She and I have been speaking ever since. A trillion things and they don’t need words any more. She defined her departure on her terms. She defined HER Life, and touched everyone else’s.

Reunion Blues - Part II

In Retrospect.
I’m so hung-over; I still haven’t been able to get a firm handle on how I felt about the reunion. I suppose I’m just going to have to be content with saying it was a mixed bag. High school was such a difficult time for me. It was the most trying period in my life. All the while on the outside, appearing to be a normal teenager. I had my share of hormonal changes too. Luckily there is no photographic evidence of my indiscretions.

Like Aamir Khan, but Fatter and Uglier
I think the toughest part of going to this reunion was the realization that some people had not moved on since high school. There were people there drinking shamefully; I was so shocked, I joined them.

It’s clear that many of them are still “partyin’ hard.” Get a grip, people. You’re 55 plus years old. One of the biggest party animals in our class suggested we climb to the top of the hill at midnight. My mouth dropped open when he said that, I almost said, “Dude. We’re old now. And you need to lay off the booze because you’ve got some serious junk in the trunk. Also I think you killed one too many brain cells and may only have one left. You might need that one.”

I don't know about you, but when I see misguided individuals spending large sums of money on booze (money that could be used to feed the hungry) and on self-abuse, my reaction, as a humanitarian, is: How can I cash in on this?

This next part is for SHY women only…

So I have an idea. It's a weight-loss concept. It's called "The Reunion Weight Loss Plan.'' I got this idea from my wife, who recently had her college reunion, ate basically nothing and swam and exercised for the entire month preceding it.

When I got to the reunion, it was clear that the SHY ladies also had worked very hard to get back to the size they were in high school. However some of the men had expanded to the actual size of the Montfort 1st field.

So Reunion Weight Loss Plan is not for guys. It’s meant to be effective for SHY women. The way it works is, you'd pay a fee, in return for which I will organize a reunion of your school EVERY WEEKEND. In addition to starving yourself, you'd enjoy lots of other perks:

1. You would get really, really good at doing The Limbo.

2. Your children would become self- sufficient and beg for food on the streets.

3. Your spouse would file for divorce.

The list is exhaustive!

For the record, I enjoyed my reunion, especially hearing people reminisce about the fun times they had in school. At one point, I was talking with one of classmates, who said: 'You see that big guy over there? I sat next to him at math class and every time we had an exam he would copy from my paper. "

''You're joking,'' I said. ''No,'' he said. ''At least you're not bitter,'' I said. Before he could make further comment I marched off to the bar, which is where men tend to gather at reunions.

But getting back to my point: I think the SHY Reunion Weight Loss Plan will be a huge hit. What I need now is start-up capital. So if you're a rich person, send me a cheque, OK? Do it soon!

……… Hands up you pervy men who read that para thinking it was something kinky.

The Sad Tale of Frustrated Testosterone
And then there were the bitter, single guys (there may have been some single women as well although I never found out) . One in particular whose name I remembered back in school was particularly bald, ugly and bitter now. Time hasn’t been kind to him. I walked into the hall and he was standing there and sees me and says in his most snotty tone “Your hair used to be (emphasize extreme distaste here) BROWN. Did you, like, dye it?” I debated whether it was worth choking the life out of him right there, but decided I might mess up my shoes. So I hit his angry bitterness where it hurts: “It got darker with my wife’s pregnancy.” And then I turned around and walked out. In broad daylight, my hair is still very dark, but under the dim lights there, I imagine it appeared quite a bit darker. I’ve never dyed my hair in my life. And I don’t have the time or energy to engage with someone who still acts like a bitchy teenager. Hard livin’ and too much time in the sun had not been kind to many people there.

A Lifetime Ago & Worlds Apart
I had thought that the reunion would be a great time to reconnect with people I had lost track of. What I realized once I got there though, was that it was really fun seeing some of the people I had been close to, but honestly, 41 years have passed. I’ve stayed in touch with the people that I really want to stay in touch with. And while it was great seeing some of them, it’s not like I’m going to pick up the phone and we’re going to pick up where we left off. There were a handful of ladies from SHY too that I really enjoyed seeing and catching up with, but the reality is that this week, we all go back to our lives as they are now. The past is gone. We knew each other a lifetime ago. And some of us knew each other really well and still know each other on that level that is so hard to achieve in adult friendships. But we can’t go back. We can only go forward. I had a hard time seeing the value in opening myself up again to stuff that’s long been buried. And I’m not the same person I was. Not even close. I find that with people who knew you so long ago, that when you re-connect, they often have a hard time seeing the person you’ve become. I’m a thinking kind of person. I expect that many people don’t even bother to think about these things nor observe. And I admit that even though 41 years have passed, I still strongly dislike some people I disliked back then…. And I’m not even going to bring up “Paunchy”. I thought I was guilty of just carrying around baggage until Addie leaned over and said “Was that guy a huge tool in school too?” Lol. Maybe some people don’t change. I just thought maybe I wasn’t looking hard enough.

Knock Three Times……

So as I sit here I am still trying to unwind, process and decompress. It’s only been a week since I got back from the reunion. As I’m looking up all the photographs that have been uploaded I think to myself “This place affected you immensely.” True, true, luv. So true……

Ultra-Precise Quantum-Logic Clock Puts Old Atomic Clock to Shame

Scientists have built a clock which is 100,000 times more precise than the existing international standard.

The quantum-logic clock, which detects the energy state of a single aluminum ion, keeps time to within a second every 3.7 billion years.

SAID CLOCK ALSO COMES WITH A WARRANTY OF 1 YEAR !!!!

Reunion Blues - Part I

I thought a school reunion could be fun – if I actually recognised anyone after 41 years…

When the invite to the reunion arrived, my first reaction was panic. “Am I really that old? Am I sixty already?” A quick calculation followed. “No, only fifty-seven. Phew! Sixty is miles away.” I slipped back into denial.

That I didn’t trash the e-invite was down to one line: “Those of you who are blissfully happy with your lives can buy the rest of us a drink”.

“Still”, I thought, flinging it in the e-folder I tuck everything I don’t want to deal with, “Why trek back down to Yercaud? I’m a busy man. Who’d turn up, anyway? What would we have to say to each other after 41 years?” Worst of all, would I remember anybody?

The invite would have stayed there and the date slipped by, had it not been for another e- invite. A few former schoolmates living abroad were meeting up here in my hometown for a holiday. Would I join them? This was easier to commit to. And it was a litmus test.

I recognised one out of five and that was only because I was expecting to see him and he hadn’t changed much. The others I had to look at for a whole minute before familiar features began to emerge from now unfamiliar faces. Hair made a huge difference. One guy had gone tres bald, leaving the rest of us in awe. But as the evening advanced, it became clear that he, like us, was the same person he’d always been.

The 41-year gap evaporated. We laughed at memories that might otherwise have been lost forever. We had, we realised, shared so much (far beyond 24-hours-a-day, 7-days-a-week for 7 years).

We had grown up together. How had we gone on to never see each other again? And not even give it a thought. Going home that night, I knew I would be going to the reunion.

A few of us met in a pub beforehand. The roars as we recognised each other had the regulars tut-tutting about not being able to hear the match. We didn’t care. Some bright spark had brought along copies of our last group photo. I looked at it and cringed. Was long hair really a fashion back then? God, how innocent I looked. How boring.

As more and more people arrived I realised how little I’d remembered. I kept cross referencing the men and women in front of me with the boys and girls in the photographs and asking “What’s your name again?”

Those I recalled easiest had been the funny ones. Some were “the image of themselves”, others had changed beyond recognition.

Roughly 23 out of 29 in my own class turned up, three of whom had returned from abroad for the event. The thing that struck me was how down-to-earth every one was. But then that shouldn’t have been a surprise. Ours was not a pretentious school – but it was good. It was run by a congregation of teaching brothers the Brothers of St. Gabriel, only 3 of which were present in school from back when we were their wards.

It had not produced blowy people who felt superior because of the school they attended. And yet there was a strong camaraderie between us.

As the days went by we caught up on each other’s lives. Many had had difficult times. Some had stayed single soon after leaving school. Others struggled with family problems. More had to deal with sickness and ill-health.

The majority had married and were busy raising families. Some had died. Something I believe in greatly was reinforced – people have such incredible strength.

A word I hadn’t used since school came rushing back to describe my former classmates – “sound”. That included those I’d never hung out with and might even have been a little afraid of. That night I realised that these had not been people to fear but to admire – unafraid as they were to let their personalities shine through in their haircuts and adaptation of uniform.

Which brings me to what people thought of me. In a word, reticent.

It was probably true. I had had one or two good friends. We had commonalties like being in the school band. And while we never stopped talking to each other, obviously we didn’t mix enough. One close friend had passed away and wasn’t at the reunion and I made up for all that non-mingling.

The last stragglers left a couple of days later. We hugged and swapped contact details. Someone joked that we should meet again in ten years when we’re heading for seventy. We were too shocked to laugh.

That was Sunday. A week later, I am back home sitting here writing my blogspot. I nearly cried when a gang of my newest buddies land and invite me out to dinner. It is a special moment. And to think that I had almost missed out on it completely.

Schoolboy Sportsmanship

On the morning side of the mountain....... come January 2010, my Alma Mater, is getting ready, possibly for the hugest reunion of baby boomers ever organized. And....on the twilight side of the hill....... not to be left out, within mirror-flashing distance (remember Rekha), the alumni ladies of similar bent (Sacred Heart Convent) are gung–hoing alongside.

And look at the programme line-up; it’s a stroll down memory lane as everyone becomes a tourist of his own youth. There’s even a cricket match in the offing where Alain Jason will seek once again to recapture his youth to see if he can still stand tall behind the wicket and remain hidden.

I first got involved in organized sports when I joined school at a tender age, when because of boarding school law I had to be a member of one of three houses. We played cricket, hockey and football and assorted blood-thirsty activities on those playing fields. Some, where one had to hit, catch, throw, or kick balls of different sizes. Most of us juniors could do none of those things.

Oh, there were the occasional exceptions like the fast-developing Iraqis with huge amounts of adolescent hormones, and thick moustaches sprouting from their bodies, who could throw a ball upwards of Mach 3 speeds , but with no idea whatsoever where it would go. When playing cricket these kind of guys always got to bowl, which presented a real problem for us kids. The wicket-keeper got to wear large gloves and protective ankle and knee pads, and the umpire got to hide behind the opposite wicket. But all we batters had was a cracked piece of wood that sometimes slipped out of our sweaty palms.

I hated to bat. I used to pray that it would start raining, or that there would be an earthquake to stop the game before my turn came. I became very close to God. But most often He would let me down and I would have to bat. The team captain would be yelling idiot advice in the background like, “Cover your wicket.”It was easy for him to say: he was out of harm’s way.

I on the other hand made no effort to cover the wicket. My only occupation was avoiding death. I would stand there holding my breath and when the prematurely large Iraqi let go of the ball, I would swing out blindly with the bat in the hopes of hitting the ball so that it would not smash into my body.

Usually I was clean bowled, which was good, because I could then go back to the safety of the pavilion, and encourage the team captain to send out another terrified kid to cover the wicket.

I much preferred fielding, especially in the 3^rd man position. If the batter got a hit and the ball got past the wicket keeper, all of the three slips and the gully, you could pretend to run like a maniac, so that by the time the ball landed you could be several feet away and safe.

Thus I learned about the adage of “Sportsmanship” which says: Never participate in anything that can do you bodily harm. Football and hockey were other great examples where players are urged to run into each other at high speeds and take the ball away from their opponent by kicking them or hitting them on their shins with a stick.

So instead I indulged in minor vandalism such as raiding the garden and sticking chewing gum on the head of the kid lining up in front of me at the refectory. But when I got to high school, I discovered that you had to be good at some sport in order to be called on stage during the annual awards and get a silver cup or medal with your name engraved on it.

Everyone in school attached a lot of importance to those silver cups and medals. You could be an imbecile of astonishing magnitude, but if you had a silver cup or a medal, you were bound to succeed in life.

Oh, the school administration made it sound as if academic achievements were important too. They’d have Annual Days, where they’d call the studious kids up on stage and present them with more books on philosophy and national history. But the kid who walked up with the logarithm tables dangling from his belt to receive his math achievement award did not impress the rest. No, to make in my school you had to get a silver cup or a medal, which meant you had to go out for a sport.

So I went in for the long jump, because all it took was having to run about 30 feet and land in a bed of soft sand.

I spent a happy 6 months, leaping into soft sand and dreaming of my silver cup. Then one day there was the school sports and I entered my name. That proved to be my downfall, because it turns out that they measure how far you jump and only the three longest jumpers get points. I was not one of the three. I was not one of the ten. In fact they could have pulled lame patients out of a hospital, and they would have probably jumped farther than I did.

So that was the end of my involvement with sports. Fortunately, there were other avenues to being popular in school, which involved jumping over the wall to go to the nearest dhaba to eat dosas, getting caught, and caned at morning assembly in full view of hundreds of admiring boys. Thus achieving social acceptance.

After high school, I discovered that silver cups and medals become less important than academics. Think about it, if you attend a corporate cocktail dinner junket and subtly try to flash your silver cup, people will think you’re a moron; whereas if you subtly try to flash your Cornell credentials, people will still think you’re a moron, but an educated one.

I often wonder what I would do if I had a silver cup. Maybe use it for drinking beer.