WORLD A.I.D.S DAY

1st December is World AIDS Day and we owe it to ourselves and our families to be aware of the scourge and how it is affecting everyone we know

The best and only way to combat this is through AWARENESS.

IGNORANCE KILLS. EDUCATE YOURSELF.

Dear All,

I know i havent been blogging lately but after the incessant travel between August and now, my body finally put up its hands and decided to make me take some rest. I have severe tonsilitis and have been running a fever for the last 3 days.

To top it all i will be travelling to Delhi again this Saturday (29 Nov) for my sister's engagement and so will probably not be able to blog till i get back (19 Dec).

Till then have a very joyous EID and any other holiday that may fall in between.

Regards

Vishal

A wonderful song to keep you entertained.

ADVENTURES IN MALLU LAND

Hi All,

I am sorry I wasn’t able to blog for sometime. This year has been a whole lot of travel and 2 weeks back I was informed that I would be traveling to Calicut with some colleagues for a recruitment drive. So before I continue with my euro chronicles a short detour to give you a feel of what Mallu land was like.

Day 1

We landed at 4:55 am on a foggy morning in Calicut and the moment we step off the plane (groggy with sleep as well as too much free champagne) we are whisked away to a VIP waiting lounge while an 'boy' takes all 6 of our passports and baggage tags from us. The owner of the agency here is Sheikh ‘X’ (to stay clear of slander no names will be mentioned) who runs an orphanage of more than 10,000 boys.

He is apparently also the leader of the a major religious sect of India.

The airport staff treat him like some kind of god.

Once the 'boys' have collected our luggage and cleared immigration for us (fuck no wonder terrorists get in so easily) we walk out to the parking area where there is a Pajero (in frickin Mallu land) for the Sheikh and 6 gleaming black Innovas for each of us.

Apart from the driver we each also have a bodyguardish kinda rep from the agency sitting in the front.

If all that is not enough there are two Ambis behind for all his staff. And then to top it all we have a police escort complete with flashing lights etc.

Hazard lights on and with stunned and fascinated mallus looking on, the cavalcade of 10 cars moves off and I am so enjoying this that i have to do all i can to stop myself from waving regally to the "poor" on the roads as we pass them by.....

I can soooooooo do with all this power... Must have been atleast a Prince in my previous life.

Reach the hotel and sleep till 10am and then after a quick bath we have to meet up again in the lobby as we are going to be taken to see one of the orphanages. Same cavalcade again but this time just the 6 innovas and the police escort.

Still managing to keep in check my tendency to wave at the hoards of mallus as we pass them by.

Am dressed in my cargo pants and a decent polo-shirt as its just a visit but as we drive into the complex we are met by

a) A honour guard (of orphans dressed in a costume which is a cross between the army and scouts) complete with screams of "Attenshun" and "Standetease" in a loud but heavily accented voice.

b) A troupe of dancers holding faux daflis (don’t ask) and again dressed like a cross between Ram-Lila and Mammmoty

c) 6 of the tiniest orphans holding garlands bigger then themselves (the type you see Jayalalitha and other south politicos wear)

d) a host of gold bordered lungi wearing geriatrics (who happened to be the trustees)

e) a Stage with hoards of fake flowers

f) facing a sea of almost 7-8 thousand boys of various ages.

Never have i seen such multitudes of white lungi clad boys leave alone such numbers of orphans.

After some 3-4 (i was beginning to doze out) long and typically Indian speeches we are again invited to speak. During my turn i just managed to thank the Sheikh and pray for his long life as many of the young ones in the front of the crowd looked scarily close to fainting from fatigue and boredom.

Then it was turn for lunch in a massive hall where a huge table had been set up for almost 20 people. As the 6 of us and the trustees sat down we were served some salad and some yoghurt dish. In the middle of the table was 2 huge dishes covered with silver foil. Then, very dramatically, it was whisked away to reveal mounds and mounds of biryani with a complete half of a goat resting atop each.

Smelled divine and since i hadn’t had breakfast i was relishing the prospect of a yummy lunch....

That is till the minions served us the rice. Then the Sheikh began to tear into the meat with his bare hands (jootha i might add) and serve all of us. The others in our group looked perfectly at ease but i was so revolted by this that i quickly said it was my barta and settled for fruits instead. The gory roasted goat head complete with eyes wasn’t helping either.

Came back and while the rest went to sleep i feasted on prawns and a tall cool beer.

Ahhh and did i mention that on the way back to the hotel from the lunch i again managed to resist the temptation to wave, regally or otherwise, to the ever curious 'poor' along the route.

But I did manage some discreet (yet still royal) Namastes to some (very fascinated) locals.

Poor souls probably thought i was some visiting south east Asian dignitary........ or Prashant Tamang.

Tomorrow interviews begin at 8 am and we have to do 400 per day ... phew

Day 4

The last 3 days have been 1 whirlwind of a session. We have already interviewed 1100 candidates in the last 3 days and another 1000 more to go before Saturday.

Here I have to admit that we Nepalis are a really ‘dayalu jaat’. I would begin every day, firm in my resolve to be strict with the selection. Especially since I have to face the headache when they arrive in UAE for training. However with every sob, every tear & every sniffle I would say “What the hell” and pass him.

However the candidates would go out and tell all their waiting friends that the Nepali is a good guy so my room had a huge line backing up round the corner outside. It was then that I had to put my foot down and become strict. But its really hard when they begin their sob stories.

This morning there was a simple mallu boy who (and I kid you not here) looked like Bambi the deer. HUGE eyes and a mouth that could not utter a single word in English. I am not sure if he was nervous or just dumb but for 10 min he sat in front of me with those big eyes pleading for help. And every time I repeated that I would not be able to select him if he did not answer questions his eyes would fill just that little more with tears till finally it rolled out of his eyes and down his cheeks. And all this while he did not look away or up or down…. Just sat straight looking at me with those eyes which seemed to get bigger…. By that time I wasn’t sure if he was asking for help or trying to hypnotize me. Strange.

Yesterday evening was a show organized by the hotel in their amphitheatre. Kallariyapattu or the ancient art of warfare. Sounded impressive but it was just a bunch of oiled mallus leaping about with swords. Pretty boring but the German group here seemed to be mightily impressed. Reminded me of those Bongs who Gape & Gasp into the cold orange fog at Tiger Hill while looking at, what they presume is a ‘Sunrise’.

Yesterday evening at dinner was a trio of Mallus singing Ghazals. Being a connoisseur of ghazals myself, I was dreading the accented evening that was to follow but to my pleasant surprise, the singer sang with not a hint of a Mallu inflection in his voice. I was just beginning to think that he must have studied or lived in North India when he decided to say a few words in between songs.

The poor fellow was just being polite and hospitable but after he asked us to have a “lowely taime in Gerala” and “to enjoy the gogonut karry” Jagjit Singh somehow did not seem the same again.

And the famous Indian trait of going out of the way to please white skinned people wasn’t going to NOT manifest itself. A group of Russians who had downed quite a number of beers were clapping after every song and making quite a racket. Actually they were generally enjoying the quaintness of seeing 3 grown men sitting cross-legged in lungis singing strange songs.

However the lead singer was so pleased with the applause that he offered to take requests from them.

After much difficulty it was finally communicated to the Russians that they could request some songs.

Pretty amused, they said the first thing they could think of…. “Raj Kapoor, Raj Kapoor” they screamed repeatedly, getting more and more boisterous with every chant.

“Soury, Now (No) Rej Keppur” said the singer taken aback. (But seriously what was he expecting anyway?).

“Raj Kapoor! Raj Kapoor! Raj Kapoor!” the drunken Russians continued.

Now with other guests beginning to look disapprovingly at the singer for inciting this ruckus, he did the only thing he knew to do….

He announced that he would dedicate a special song for the ‘Fow-rein’ guests.

And obviously not aware of the difference between American & Russian or for that matter, even male & female, he hurriedly consulted with his team of musicians (tabla and harmonium of all things) and then to our horror, launched into the weirdest rendition of Celine Dion’s “My Heart Will Go On” that I have every heard or ever hope to hear.

The only consolation was that it shut the Russians up.

And like a bad tune, it kept ringing in my head the whole night.

I had to invoke Himesh and his rendition of "Tan Tannna nana Tandoori Nights" from Karzzzzz to take it away the next morning.

This afternoon we had only just sat down for lunch when 2 serious looking boys entered the restaurant to inform us that the Sheikh was on his way to meet us. Ofcourse that was my cue to begin wolfing down my food. Totally ignoring my colleagues’ inquiring glances I ate as fast as my mouth could chew so that by the time the Sheikh arrived I was sitting back in my seat with a bowl of ice cream in my hand and grinning like a Cheshire cat.

The Sheikh came with his retinue of orphans and sat at the head of the table.

His assistants (all in their early 20’s) meanwhile also sat down but not at the table.
They, for some reason, sat in a semi-circle behind him. It was not only odd but also blocked the aisles for the poor waiters.

When asked to join us for lunch he shook his head, said he has cholesterol and then went on to order a prawn biryani and a bottle of ‘cowk’.

His ‘boys’ meanwhile refused our offer insisting they had already eaten lunch. I however did not believe that as they were quite clearly eyeing the food and swallowing huge gulps of spit behind him. When his prawn biryani arrived he, as usual, dug in with his bare hands and then, as if to reward me for eating fast, also began to reach (bare handed and jhutha by now) into the other dishes that our group had ordered.

Silently I blessed the two boys who had informed us in advance.

And if all this wasn’t weird enough the Shaikh then began to hand fistfuls of mixed food to his ‘boys’ behind him. Not on plates or bowls but right from his bare hands onto theirs.

Thank god the ice cream was a citrussy home-made lemon sorbet or else the ‘boys’ would have been left holding the contents of my stomach in their hands too.

I tried to think of pleasant things and nod at the appropriate times but then the waiter brought a whole black-forest cake to our table. As the Shaik’s eyes began to twinkle and fingers began to twitch, I quickly and respectfully stood up, bowed low and said I had some important work in the business center and hurried out.

As i turned at the door, he was just reaching for the cake....

I heard he wants to take us out for dinner again on Saturday night to the “Tej Howtel”.

I am already practicing my “I don’t think I am feeling well” face in the mirror

Day 7

After 3 more days of interviews I am beginning to see mallus pleading in my sleep. Need to go back to the familiar comfort of Abu Dhabi.

Went for the highly recommended Ayurvedic massage in the hotel spa but inspite of it being pretty relaxing I didn’t quite care much for it.

For one the “gingelly’ oil which was used was too strong smelling, the hard wood massage table wasn’t comfortable either and add to it a chatty masseuse…. Oiled and rolled on that hard bed I felt like some kabab being prepared for roasting.

After the massage to wash off all that oil, I was given a paste of chickpea and moong daal. As I looked at myself in the bathroom mirror, smeared with the gooey stuff, I truly felt like a human shawarma. So much for a pleasant massage

Day 8

Finally on flight back to Abu Dhabi I randomly choose a movie to watch on the inflight AV system and what a treasure it was. WALL-E. A film by Pixar about 2 robots which has virtually no dialogue for the first 30 minutes and even after that it is just a few lines interspersed with plaintive cries of “Wall-E” and “Eve”.

Sounds boring naah? That’s why I didn’t bother to watch it when it released earlier this year inspite of it having glowing reviews.

Do yourselves a favour. Take a chance and watch it. You will get the sweetest reward.

The best scene? Wall-E and Eve dancing in space, with Eve leaving blue trails of her force field while Wall-E has an old fire extinguisher to help him.

Pure Magic.

Till next time

Photos of the above trip will be posted soon as I did not bring the camera to download the pics today.

Ciao and thanks for reading….


Vish

Dear All,

I was on a holiday in Europe in August but due to so many unavoidable circumstances I haven’t been able to post any blogs on that. I finally got the time so here goes…

But before that a big thank you to RAJ in Sweden who had written and kindly invited me to his house in Sweden. Couldnt make it this time.... maybe next time i'm in that part of the woods...

CHRONICLES of my EURO-TRIP 2008

His Master's Voice (Haupswatche square. Frankfurt)

Day 1: 14 August 2004

Abu Dhabi: The temp here has been nudging 52 degrees (yes Celsius) for the past week or so and the flight to Frankfurt is delayed. Abu Dhabi Airport has a huge skeleton (apparantly real) of a dinosour in the entrance which was bought for a huge sum but AD Tourism Authority and which is going to be auctioned off for charity later. Only UAE can do things like this.

Am waiting at the airport lounge and some people are shopping in the Duty Free shops looking teary eyed. I presume it’s because they are leaving someone behind and not because of the prices of the goods.

But they are in the minority.

Most seem happy to leave.

And most of the happy ones are labourers.

And they, quite inexplicably, are lugging huge tins of milk powder from the Duty Free.

Don’t understand why.

Frankfurt: Arrived at FRA Airport at 7pm local time to very bright sunlight which remained till 8:30 pm. Took a quick Skytrain to Terminal 1 where the hotel shuttle bus was supposed to be.

It wasn’t.

Found a hole in the wall for ‘Inquiries’.

Pressed a button and got a long sentence in German.

Told the “voice” that I was looking for the shuttle for the IBIS hotel.

The ‘Voice’ told me that the bus would be there in 7 ½ minutes.

“Thank You” I said, while muttering “smartass” under my breath.

And what do you know…
Exactly 7 ½ minutes later the bus arrived.

“Smartass” I muttered again.

This time to myself.

Tall, blonde & blue eyed, the bus driver said something in German. Told him I didn’t understand German. He asked me what I spoke?

“Nepali” I told him.

“Haan tum Nepali log bohut accha hai” he said.

Turns out he is Afghan. Small world!

IBIS Hotel: The staff in this small 3 star property show better customer service than some of the so called 7 stars back in the UAE
Wanted to go out for a short while but turns out the shops in Germany close by 8 pm.
OK then, UAE not so bad after all.

Day 2: 15 August 2004 Frankfurt:

Had a very heavy breakfast. (This, by the way, is the best thing to do while traveling. Heavy breakfast, light lunch). Took shuttle to Airport, left baggage in terminal and took the metro to the city center.

Got off in the main square, Haupswatsche, in the middle of a light drizzle, dressed in a flimsy polo shirt, in 18 degrees, in a city I’ve never been to before. ALONE!

And for the next 6 hours walked around Frankfurt like i'd lived there all my life. Ate frankfurters in the main market, visited a church and sent up a silent prayer, drank beer in a park, fed pigeons (probably illegally)....
Also visited a mall (for those who want to know name of mall pls see pic below) and among apparel, food and furniture shops, there was a sex shop.
For Strap-On dildos and other x-citing stuff pls visit....Zeilgalerie

Now with Frankfurt Airport being the first (and probably only) airport in the world with an X-Rated cinema in it, I’d quite expected this, but the odd thing was seeing a couple, very seriously, measure a strap-on dildo.

And the best part? The guy was the one wearing the didlo.

Welcome to Europe I guess.

cycle rickshaws in Frankfurt

In Konstablerwache square there was some kind of show going on. Went to have a closer look. A stern lady asks me if I want to watch from the inner circle of spectators or the outer one. Logically I choose the closer one and next thing I know I am handed a form to sign and 50 Euros in cash.

Turns out it is an ad being shot and I have to be part of the crowd.
“What exactly do I have to do” I ask guardedly.

“When we say ACTION! you have to clap along with the rest of the ‘crowd’ ” she says merrily.

50 euros just for some clapping?? I’m game and happily sign on.

Turns out it’s an ad for the Royal Bank of Scotland. And as shootings go, its not as simple as it looks and crafty Germans don’t hand out 50 Euros just like that.

I ended up clapping on and off for the next 3 hours and while it wasn’t exactly my idea of fun, if any of you living in Europe see the ad for RBS do look out for me.

I’m the one looking cold and bewildered in a thin t-shirt with everyone else bundled up in woolens.

4:15pm. On the tarmac at Frankfurt airport waiting for the KLM flight to take off. Realize that KLM plays FM music on their planes. I wonder if we will continue to receive the signals while at 35k feet. And now sitting in a plane on a huge tarmac surrounded by over 70 other aircraft I cannot help but grin when the next song on the FM is Joni Mitchell’s Big Yellow Taxi….
‘paved paradise and put up a parking lot…..’ indeed.
Talk of Irony.

5.30pm Amsterdam’s Schipol Airport is HUGE. Very Bright and Very Airy and has 6 monster cans of Heineken on the roof. My kinda place.

7:00pm Boarding aircraft for Helsinki. A lone old lady in front of me is gently sobbing and struggling with a heavy carry-on. I offer and help her carry/drag it to the aircraft. The old lady mutters something in an unidentified EU language and hugs me. Reminds me of my late granny. Realize old people are the same everywhere. But still, I guess its best to grow old in Asia.

The flight to Helsinki is stunning. A dark royal-blue sky through the right windows with a full moon and a blazing red sky with the setting sun through the left. Local time 9:27pm.

Talk of long days.

Good Sign for me though.

Long days = Longer Sightseeing ahead.

Europe Here I Come.......... (to be continued)

HAPPY DIWALI

Dear All,

***

There's always something warm and bright, about this time of the year, when everything has a special glow, and hearts are full of cheer, that's why, this special greeting comes your way, to wish you all life's best, on Diwali and in the coming year, too.

As you celebrate this holy occasion, the most loving thoughts and wishes are for you...

***

May the beauty of Diwali fill your world and your heart and may the love that is always yours, bring you endless joy.

***

Have a wonderful Diwali.

***

I would also like to take this opportunity to thank all of you for your kind wishes, prayers and company during my dad's recent illness.

***

It meant a lot to us and my family and myself will always be grateful to you for that.

***

Once Again a Very Happy Diwali to You All

***

Regards,

***

Vishal & Family

Dear All,

HAPPY VIJAYA DASHAMI and DIWALI too.

I havent been blogging for quite sometime now and i will hopefully resume soon and explain the reason for that too.

Till then do enjoy the festive season and may this auspicious time bring lots of luck, joy & prosperity to all your lives and families.

Best Regards

Vish

BON VOYAGE to MOI

(14 aug - 07 sept)

I am leaving on a three week whirlwind trip to Europe and will be covering the following countries (says the man sooo modestly to readers who aren't the least bit interested)




Germany : The Frankfurt Airport is the 1st (and also the only airport i presume) with an X rated cinema in the premises. Dont think i will check it out though. Promise.



Finland: A collegemate of mine is there and he allegedly has a house on the beach with a sauna (which i'm told is the norm in finland) so lots of swimming in the arctic sea and recovering in the sauna later.



Italy: Rome, Vatican (will give the Pope the message from HM King Gyanendra), Florence, Pisa & Venice. The gondola rides in venice are apparantly 60 euros per person per hour so dont expect any pictures of me in them. Leaning against one maybe as also againt the tower of Pisa.



France: Paris (questions, questions....will the Mona Lisa be worth the hype, is baguette a whole meal, do the French drink wine for breakfast) Bordeaux/Champagne (but of course), Nice (very nice hopefully)



Monaco: Monte Carlo. Will try and do my best "The Name is Bond. James Bond!" impression outside the grand casino.

Belgium: Brussels. Will petition the EU to adopt Nepal since no one in Nepal seems to want to govern it.

Holland: Amsterdam. Any place where smoking cigarettes is banned in public cafes but marijuana is OK and where the Sex industry is the 3rd highest revenue earner CANNOT be bad or missed.

And while i was surfing the net for different things (not porn) i came across this little list prepared by some faceless person.

Interesting. Very Interesting.

Till I get Back.....

Ciao, Bientot & Tcuss

Luv & Peace

Vish

THINGS TO ALWAYS HAVE WHEN ABROAD

20 dollars in paper money (Cairo)
“What do you mean you don’t take coins for the visa fee? How am I supposed to pay it then?”



A good sense of humor (Seoul)
“Hey, I know it’s late. I just arrived and my friend isn’t coming and now I don’t have a place to stay. No, I don’t speak any Korean. Hm? Oh, I’ll manage.”

A good map (Barcelona)
“I swear, its only two more blocks down this narrow and dark alley. I know I said that 5 blocks ago.”

A cell phone (Frankfurt)
“Hey its me; I’m stranded in Frankfurt. Yes, again.”

A strong stomach (Vienna)
“Yes, I hear her coughing her lungs out as she makes our food. No, I don’t think its tuberculosis. I hope.”

A camera (London)
“Somebody’s doing what in their pants outside? No way!”

A clear reason for being where you are (Israel & the Palestinian Territories)
“Why did I come? Oh, you know, just to hang out… What do you mean you’re searching my bags again?”

Aspirin (Dublin)
“You know, maybe being a whiskey taste tester at the Jameson factory wasn’t so hot an idea…”

A sense of adventure. (Buenos Aires)
“No seatbelts in the cab, huh? Ok, no worries. Wow, did he really just turn right across 5 lanes of traffic?”

Your towel
“If you want to survive out here, you've got to know where your towel is.”

HARRY POTTER SPEAKS ON LIFE

HI Again,

As usual I have had a crazy weekend in Dubai with my sis and her friends and my own crazy friends among them… driving, shopping and then as we lay our tired bodies down to rest began the snoring competition of some of my friends which could even be heard through walls….. all this in between coordinating the hotel, eurail and sightseeing bookings for Europe…

So meanwhile I was sent this email by a friend of mine in Kathmandu (who does not otherwise do junk-forwards so I took time & effort to read it) and even though it is quite lengthy it is worth the read. It is the transcript of the Commencement Address at Harvard University delivered in June 2008 by Joanne Kathleen Rowling, more famously known as J K Rowling, the renowned author of the Harry Potter series. She often refers to her own past in the speech about the time when she was a single mother struggling for survival in 1993-'94. The turn-around in her life began when (the idea of) Harry Potter 'walked in fully formed' (sic) to her mind when she was at King's Cross Railway Station (London). Today, she is one of the richest and most celebrated authors in the world. This is the script of her address.

Do enjoy.

Ciao

Vish

President Faust, members of the Harvard Corporation and the Board of Overseers, members of the faculty, proud parents, and, above all, graduates. The first thing I would like to say is ‘thank you.’ Not only has Harvard given me an extraordinary honour, but the weeks of fear and nausea I’ve experienced at the thought of giving this commencement address have made me lose weight. A win-win situation! Now all I have to do is take deep breaths, squint at the red banners and fool myself into believing I am at the world’s best-educated Harry Potter convention.

Delivering a commencement address is a great responsibility; or so I thought until I cast my mind back to my own graduation. The commencement speaker that day was the distinguished British philosopher Baroness Mary Warnock. Reflecting on her speech has helped me enormously in writing this one, because it turns out that I can’t remember a single word she said. This liberating discovery enables me to proceed without any fear that I might inadvertently influence you to abandon promising careers in business, law or politics for the giddy delights of becoming a gay wizard. You see? If all you remember in years to come is the ‘gay wizard’ joke, I’ve still come out ahead of Baroness Mary Warnock. Achievable goals: the first step towards personal improvement.

Actually, I have wracked my mind and heart for what I ought to say to you today. I have asked myself what I wish I had known at my own graduation, and what important lessons I have learned in the 21 years that has expired between that day and this. I have come up with two answers. On this wonderful day when we are gathered together to celebrate your academic success, I have decided to talk to you about the benefits of failure. And as you stand on the threshold of what is sometimes called ‘real life’, I want to extol the crucial importance of imagination. These might seem quixotic or paradoxical choices, but please bear with me.

Looking back at the 21-year-old that I was at graduation is a slightly uncomfortable experience for the 42-year-old that she has become. Half my lifetime ago, I was striking an uneasy balance between the ambition I had for myself, and what those closest to me expected of me. I was convinced that the only thing I wanted to do, ever, was to write novels. However, my parents, both of whom came from impoverished backgrounds and neither of whom had been to college, took the view that my overactive imagination was an amusing personal quirk that could never pay a mortgage, or secure a pension. They had hoped that I would take a vocational degree; I wanted to study English Literature. A compromise was reached that in retrospect satisfied nobody, and I went up to study Modern Languages. Hardly had my parents’ car rounded the corner at the end of the road than I ditched German and scuttled off down the Classics corridor. I cannot remember telling my parents that I was studying Classics; they might well have found out for the first time on graduation day. Of all subjects on this planet, I think they would have been hard put to name one less useful than Greek mythology when it came to securing the keys to an executive bathroom. I would like to make it clear, in parenthesis, that I do not blame my parents for their point of view. There is an expiry date on blaming your parents for steering you in the wrong direction; the moment you are old enough to take the wheel, responsibility lies with you. What is more, I cannot criticise my parents for hoping that I would never experience poverty. They had been poor themselves, and I have since been poor, and I quite agree with them that it is not an ennobling experience. Poverty entails fear, and stress, and sometimes depression; it means a thousand petty humiliations and hardships. Climbing out of poverty by your own efforts, that is indeed something on which to pride yourself, but poverty itself is romanticised only by fools. What I feared most for myself at your age was not poverty, but failure.

At your age, in spite of a distinct lack of motivation at university, where I had spent far too long in the coffee bar writing stories, and far too little time at lectures, I had a knack for passing examinations, and that, for years, had been the measure of success in my life and that of my peers. I am not dull enough to suppose that because you are young, gifted and well-educated you have never known hardship or heartbreak. Talent and intelligence never yet inoculated anyone against the caprice of the Fates, and I do not for a moment suppose that everyone here has enjoyed an existence of unruffled privilege and contentment. However, the fact that you are graduating from Harvard suggests that you are not very well-acquainted with failure. You might be driven by a fear of failure quite as much as a desire for success. Indeed, your conception of failure might not be too far from the average person’s idea of success, so high have you already flown academically.

Ultimately, we all have to decide for ourselves what constitutes failure, but the world is quite eager to give you a set of criteria if you let it. So I think it fair to say that by any conventional measure, a mere seven years after my graduation day, I had failed on an epic scale. An exceptionally short-lived marriage had imploded, and I was jobless, a lone parent, and as poor as it is possible to be in modern Britain, without being homeless. The fears my parents had had for me, and that I had had for myself, had both come to pass, and by every usual standard, I was the biggest failure I knew. Now, I am not going to stand here and tell you that failure is fun. That period of my life was a dark one, and I had no idea that there was going to be what the press has since represented as a kind of fairy tale resolution. I had no idea how far the tunnel extended, and for a long time, any light at the end of it was a hope rather than a reality. So why do I talk about the benefits of failure? Simply because failure meant a stripping away of the inessential! I stopped pretending to myself that I was anything other than what I was, and began to direct all my energy into finishing the only work that mattered to me. Had I really succeeded at anything else, I might never have found the determination to succeed in the one arena I believed I truly belonged. I was set free, because my greatest fear had already been realised, and I was still alive, and I still had a daughter whom I adored, and I had an old typewriter and a big idea. And so rock bottom became the solid foundation on which I rebuilt my life. You might never fail on the scale I did, but some failure in life is inevitable.

It is impossible to live without failing at something, unless you live so cautiously that you might as well not have lived at all - in which case, you fail by default. Failure gave me an inner security that I had never attained by passing examinations. Failure taught me things about myself that I could have learned no other way. I discovered that I had a strong will, and more discipline than I had suspected; I also found out that I had friends whose value was truly above rubies. The knowledge that you have emerged wiser and stronger from setbacks means that you are, ever after, secure in your ability to survive. You will never truly know yourself, or the strength of your relationships, until both have been tested by adversity. Such knowledge is a true gift, for all that it is painfully won, and it has been worth more to me than any qualification I ever earned.

Given a time machine or a Time Turner, I would tell my 21-year-old self that personal happiness lies in knowing that life is not a check-list of acquisition or achievement. Your qualifications, your CV, are not your life, though you will meet many people of my age and older who confuse the two. Life is difficult, and complicated, and beyond anyone’s total control, and the humility to know that will enable you to survive its vicissitudes. You might think that I chose my second theme, the importance of imagination, because of the part it played in rebuilding my life, but that is not wholly so. Though I will defend the value of bedtime stories to my last gasp, I have learned to value imagination in a much broader sense. Imagination is not only the uniquely human capacity to envision that which is not, and therefore the fount of all invention and innovation. In its arguably most transformative and revelatory capacity, it is the power that enables us to empathise with humans whose experiences we have never shared. One of the greatest formative experiences of my life preceded Harry Potter, though it informed much of what I subsequently wrote in those books. This revelation came in the form of one of my earliest day jobs. Though I was sloping off to write stories during my lunch hours, I paid the rent in my early 20s by working in the research department at Amnesty International’s headquarters in London. There in my little office I read hastily scribbled letters smuggled out of totalitarian regimes by men and women who were risking imprisonment to inform the outside world of what was happening to them. I saw photographs of those who had disappeared without trace, sent to Amnesty by their desperate families and friends. I read the testimony of torture victims and saw pictures of their injuries. I opened handwritten, eye-witness accounts of summary trials and executions, of kidnappings and rapes. Many of my co-workers were ex-political prisoners, people who had been displaced from their homes, or fled into exile, because they had the temerity to think independently of their government.

Visitors to our office included those who had come to give information, or to try and find out what had happened to those they had been forced to leave behind. I shall never forget the African torture victim, a young man no older than I was at the time, who had become mentally ill after all he had endured in his homeland. He trembled uncontrollably as he spoke into a video camera about the brutality inflicted upon him. He was a foot taller than I was, and seemed as fragile as a child. I was given the job of escorting him to the Underground Station afterwards, and this man whose life had been shattered by cruelty took my hand with exquisite courtesy, and wished me future happiness. And as long as I live I shall remember walking along an empty corridor and suddenly hearing, from behind a closed door, a scream of pain and horror such as I have never heard since. The door opened, and the researcher poked out her head and told me to run and make a hot drink for the young man sitting with her. She had just given him the news that in retaliation for his own outspokenness against his country’s regime, his mother had been seized and executed.

Every day of my working week in my early 20s I was reminded how incredibly fortunate I was, to live in a country with a democratically elected government, where legal representation and a public trial were the rights of everyone. Every day, I saw more evidence about the evils humankind will inflict on their fellow humans, to gain or maintain power. I began to have nightmares, literal nightmares, about some of the things I saw, heard and read. And yet I also learned more about human goodness at Amnesty International than I had ever known before. Amnesty mobilises thousands of people who have never been tortured or imprisoned for their beliefs to act on behalf of those who have. The power of human empathy, leading to collective action, saves lives, and frees prisoners. Ordinary people, whose personal well-being and security are assured, join together in huge numbers to save people they do not know, and will never meet. My small participation in that process was one of the most humbling and inspiring experiences of my life.

Unlike any other creature on this planet, humans can learn and understand, without having experienced. They can think themselves into other people’s minds; imagine themselves into other people’s places. Of course, this is a power, like my brand of fictional magic that is morally neutral. One might use such an ability to manipulate, or control, just as much as to understand or sympathise. And many prefer not to exercise their imaginations at all. They choose to remain comfortably within the bounds of their own experience, never troubling to wonder how it would feel to have been born other than they are. They can refuse to hear screams or to peer inside cages; they can close their minds and hearts to any suffering that does not touch them personally; they can refuse to know. I might be tempted to envy people who can live that way, except that I do not think they have any fewer nightmares than I do. Choosing to live in narrow spaces can lead to a form of mental agoraphobia, and that brings its own terrors. I think the wilfully unimaginative see more monsters. They are often more afraid. What is more, those who choose not to empathise may enable real monsters. For without ever committing an act of outright evil ourselves, we collude with it, through our own apathy.

One of the many things I learned at the end of that Classics corridor down which I ventured at the age of 18, in search of something I could not then define, was this, written by the Greek author Plutarch: What we achieve inwardly will change outer reality. That is an astonishing statement and yet proven a thousand times every day of our lives. It expresses, in part, our inescapable connection with the outside world, the fact that we touch other people’s lives simply by existing. But how much more are you, Harvard graduates of 2008, likely to touch other people’s lives? Your intelligence, your capacity for hard work, the education you have earned and received, give you unique status, and unique responsibilities. Even your nationality sets you apart. The great majority of you belong to the world’s only remaining superpower. The way you vote, the way you live, the way you protest, the pressure you bring to bear on your government, has an impact way beyond your borders.

That is your privilege, and your burden.

If you choose to use your status and influence to raise your voice on behalf of those who have no voice; if you choose to identify not only with the powerful, but with the powerless; if you retain the ability to imagine yourself into the lives of those who do not have your advantages, then it will not only be your proud families who celebrate your existence, but thousands and millions of people whose reality you have helped transform for the better. We do not need magic to change the world, we carry all the power we need inside ourselves already: we have the power to imagine better.

I am nearly finished. I have one last hope for you, which is something that I already had at 21.

The friends with whom I sat on graduation day have been my friends for life. They are my children’s godparents, the people to whom I’ve been able to turn in times of trouble, friends who have been kind enough not to sue me when I’ve used their names for Death Eaters. At our graduation we were bound by enormous affection, by our shared experience of a time that could never come again, and, of course, by the knowledge that we held certain photographic evidence that would be exceptionally valuable if any of us ran for Prime Minister.

So today, I can wish you nothing better than similar friendships. And tomorrow, I hope that even if you remember not a single word of mine, you remember those of Seneca, another of those old Romans I met when I fled down the Classics corridor, in retreat from career ladders, in search of ancient wisdom: As is a tale, so is life: not how long it is, but how good it is, is what matters. I wish you all very good lives.

Thank you very much.

J K Rowling

OF THE MUSLIM, BY THE MUSLIM, FOR THE MUSLIMS

Hi All Again,




Been some time but since i am planning a short sojourn to Finland, Germany, France, Italy and possibly (Amsterdam & Belgium) with a college-mate who is currently based in Helsinki, I have been crazy busy with the visas, tickets etc..



Was surfing the net and this is an excerpt from a blog called “Malice and Mediocrity” by a blogger nicknamed Kaya who as far as I’ve deduced from the writings is female and of possible Pakistani origin.



Her views on Muslims is accurate, refreshing and wonderfully erudite and would certainly be termed “racist” if not for the fact that the author is a muslim herself.



Do enjoy.



Ciao



Vish


THE DESI MUSLIM


"In my country we have 3 types of Muslims. I am not talking in terms of Sunni/Shiaa and God only knows about how many sects that have sprung up. I am talking about generic garden variety Muslims.



First on the list is the "DEFAULT" musallmaan.



This type considers himself a Muslim, because he has a Muslim name, and because he was born in a Muslim home. He is a Muslim by default. Generally consisting of uneducated lower classes. He cannot read the Quran, but will know how to squeeze out every penny as he spins his heart breaking tale, at whichever spot your car happens to have stopped. She will be the one cleaning your homes in the role of the "maasi" (cleaning woman). She will never have said a namaaz in her life, but at EID, and every other function in your home she will be first in queue, for her rights to charity.



Second on the list is our "DESI CULTURAL" Muslim.



Found customarily and habitually in our "aunty" crowd. These are the ladies who will know at which ceremony which gift has to be given to whom. The minute they hear the adhaan (call to prayer) they will immediately stop for 2 seconds to take a break from whomever their vicious tongues are tearing apart at the moment, and roll their eyes shut to mutter a few duas, and then will resume their gossip.



These are the women you will regularly find at the death/wedding/birth occasions, where they will insist certain traditions have to be followed. Should you demur at anything this will immediately be followed with sentences that begin with , "in our time...." and a lot of eye rolling and beseeching to the heavens for deliverance.



When they come to a house where a death has taken place, everyone becomes an authority on how to prepare the body for burial, and their viciousness is particularly directed towards the new grieving widow. They will sob and howl , in between their counting of chickpeas/kidney beans or Quran. They will watch the widow with hawk like eyes, and tell her all about things which she can't possibly be in any frame of mind to comprehend. They will gleefully tell her about the colours/jewellery she can no longer wear. Much of these are nothing but rituals of Hinduism, and therefore the name "cultural-muslim". Such is our sub continent legacy.



Should it be a man, then the main worry on their minds is how soon they can marry the poor bastard off, to their ageing/divorced/widowed daughters/nieces/neighbours. Because Allah knows a woman can live by the company of the children to sustain her, as she has no other needs in life, but a man cannot- HEAVEN FORBID- live alone by himself(Chi Chi, Touba touba - more eye rolling) , and the children will need a mother figure after all.



The cultural Muslim will know every custom with every corresponding occasion. Many will pray but only towards the latter end of their lives when they know fully well that death can come calling very soon. Mostly its the twice a year/ or friday afternooners.



They want their daughters in law to be obedient brainless and follow them around like slaves. Their daughters will be vicious little skanks who interfere in everything esp in the life of her married brother. Their own men are often spineless, and if he dares to rear his head, he is taken care of without further ado. Most often a groom is sought in the family and will continue to reside in the home of his wife, as what is known as "ghar jamaii", or INHOUSE HUSBAND.



Islam for these women is purely for viewing pleasure. And for the Men: Feudal Lord.



Third in line are the FANATICAL MUSLIMS.



The ones with their black attires doing the whole gloves and slits for viewing things.For these women mascara and lipstick are but tools of the devil. Heaven forbid they should wax or look presentable even if it for their own men. Bathing for some reason is a totally Alien concept as is deodorant.

They take the Holy Book literally, and beyond that.



Their MEN are the ones thumping the pulpit every Friday sermon, and insisting their 3 wives and 14 children has nothing to do with bodily pleasures. Any woman who dares to do anything other than stay at home, cook clean and reproduce is nothing less than a whore.

They have straggly beards heavily hennaed, will wear the pants above their ankles, and a turban that is often green. I am aware of the sunnah of the beard, henna and turban, please I don't want to be bombarded with ISLAMOPHOBIC endearments.

But try to have a discussion with any one of these men and before you know , you have questioned his knowledge, therefore his authority and since HE is his own appointed MINI ME God, therefore he is rightfully ordained to have you stoned to death.Islam is not about all the things that the Taliban has made Islam known for.

There are those who are there who do not fit in these categories, those who read, who understand, and are well versed in many things.Those who are willing to adapt to change and accept change, because to survive that is what we have to do. For people to understand and accept us that is what we must do.

Ameen"