The story so far...

It's half-way done...another 13 skeins of thread to go...hopefully, it will be done in 2 more weeks.

The Pony Express - Part 6

The wind chills outside. It is cloudy and dark, but it does not rain. The powdery white petals on the trees fly around in the breeze. The Valley Forge National Park - where the Continental Army spent the winter of 1778 during the American Revolutionary War – is coming alive in the spring. The meadows have turned lush green and the trees are covered in leaves of various shades of green. In a few weeks, the place could be ablaze in a multitude of colors. But today we are satisfied with the splash of green.

The National Memorial Arch towers over the landscape on the Southern side of the Park. The logo of the Freemasons’ Lodge – of which George Washington was a part of – dominates the structures around. For those who have seen the India Gate or the Arc de Triomphe, there is no novelty in the structure. It just serves as a reminder to the bravery of George Washington and his generals.

It's been two weeks here and Bangalore is now a distant, forgotten dream...Not for the so-called and much hyped up "comfortable life" in the USA, but because life goes on - forgotten and forgiven, harsh and ruthless. The sun would still be rising as people queue up for the shuttles, the endless hours spent cursing the traffic and listening to the oohing and aahing of the stupid radio jockeys, waiting hopefully for the masala dosa at the breakfast counter, the endless chatter at the coffee table at 10:00 O'Clock, those pleasant fifteen minutes after lunch when the eyes shut off for a short nap...and sitting on the sixth floor cafeteria, munching the egg sandwich, watching the fiery red sun set behind the chimneys of the nearby factories, is all a distant dream. Life in the USA is a little too smooth for comfort. But nobody else - neither in India nor in the USA - missed anything.

Last week saw “Family Day Celebrations” in the office. But unlike the silly song-and-dance extravaganza that we get to see back at home, the family day affair here seems to be more humane – just bring your kids to your workplace. The cafeteria was specifically set up for the day. The kids seem to have reserved seats. Somebody questioned the need for the bring-your-kid-to-office initiative. Joshy pointed out that this was a practice that was followed in almost all companies across the United States. I replied that perhaps it was intended at minimizing hiring and training costs – train your kids now and when they grow up, just recruit them. No pre-job training is required – maybe something similar to what Sonia Gandhi seems to be doing. Perhaps the best part of the whole day was the guy dressed up as a cow. He wore a red shirt that proclaimed “EAT MORE CHICKEN”. Did Vinay Shenoy land in the USA?

Finally I drove the car – to office, to shopping, and where else.

Pic of the Day:

The Pony Express - Part 5

It rained - albeit a slight drizzle. The sky was awfully cloudy. The weather forecasts had predicted showers on a Sunday, but knowing the accuracy of these back home, I never thought much of them. I was proved wrong. Perhaps this is what they call “April Showers”.

Philadelphia reminded me of San Francisco. We walked around for four hours around the Independence State Park. The city is covered in red – red brick structures dot the street sides of the Independence State Park. There are tourists everywhere. The omnipresent Chinese is ever clicking photographs featuring the whole family. They always inspire me, never hesitating to click a photograph. Philadelphia forms an integral part of the history of American Independence, and every icon associated with the image of independence is celebrated here. At the centre lies the Independence Plaza housing the famed Liberty Bell. Behind it, stands the Independence Hall. Take a walk around these places and you would find other icons of American Independence such as the house where Betsy Ross lived - she stitched the first ever American Flag, the grave of Benjamin Franklin and Franklin Court. Ben Franklin gets a little too much attention all around this place. The stars and stripes flutter from everywhere, quite contrary to our country where the common man does not have the right to fly the national flag.

On the banks of the Delaware, overlooking the Benjamin Franklin (again) Bridge is Penn’s Landing – the place where William Penn is supposed to have docked. The beautiful Columbus Boulevard lines the waterfront, and across the river, sprawls New Jersey. As you enter the waterfront, the barque Gazela catches the eye. A group of people were at work on the vessel. Built in 1901, Gazela was brought to Philadelphia in 1971, and is maintained by volunteers of the Philadelphia Ship Preservation Guild. Further up the waterfront stands a multi-tier amphitheater. Kids were enjoying the evening, chasing pigeons. We decided to end our walk here. Further along, beyond the Independence Seaport Museum, stands the huge baroque, Moshulu, used as a floating restaurant. The USS Becuna and the USS Olympia are also moored as part of the Museum.

The drive to and from Philly took more time than the four hours we spent in the city, as we kept taking wrong turns on the highways. We never had a GPS, and hence relied on Google Maps. Unfortunately, the directions we took from Google Maps pointed to some obscure shopping mall in the outskirts, leading to further confusion. But then the world is not flat (never mind Thomas Friedman), and you can always end up where you started. The irony was that, finally when we got hold of a map, we found that we never needed to take the highways.

Quote of the Day:
Me: “Do you think the FBI or the CIA would be spying on us now?”
Sandil: “No. They are not that intelligent”

Pic of the Day: Late for dinner...

The Pony Express - Part 4

Beware of Nesting Geese – proclaims a warning on the doors leading outside the offices of SAP America in Newtown square. Geese are aplenty out here, and amorous geese are considered dangerous to approach. Not surprising. Cackling geese can frequently be found in pairs everywhere outside. However, the other day, a lonely bird tried to force its entry into the office, and was thwarted in the attempt. It forgot the rule that it’s the goose that’s expected to lay the golden egg, and not the other way around.

This is perhaps the “All-American” country side, away from the hustle and bustle of the city of Philadelphia. We live, a couple of miles away from the office – a drive that takes us through narrow country roads lined with beautiful houses with lush green lawns and huge trees that are welcoming the spring. The apartment is small, but comfortable. This would be my home for the next couple of months. The office is nestled in a huge campus, which resembles more of a golf course, than a corporate headquarters.

It’s been four days now since I’ve been here, and still not a single photograph I have clicked – perhaps because I am in no big hurry myself. There is still about three months to go. There are so many of them out here…enough to form a cricket team…Ah…cricket! That will come later - in my subsequent posts.

Sandil was a bundle of nerves. Today, his fate in the USA would be determined – whether he would stay back to fly to San Antonio the following week, whether he would be bundled off in the next plane out of the USA or dispatched off to nearby Guantanamo Bay. Someone at the immigration had screwed up his passport, giving him time until 11th March 2008 (yes) to leave the United States of America. And now, he was an “illegal immigrant”. We needed to get to the airport in the morning to rectify the error. Some of our team mates suggested that we go later, since early in the morning, we would get have to sit in the heavy traffic. We decided to brave it out, and off we went in our newly rented Ford Fusion. Sure enough, we encountered “heavy traffic” – cars cruising along at 40 miles per hour. For people used to Marathalli Bridge, this was a race track.

“We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness” – words from the declaration of independence stare down at us from the ceiling of the arrival hall of Terminal A-West of the Philadelphia International Airport. It is part of “American Dream”, an impressive artwork by Rob Fisher, which also consists of an 8 foot by 10 foot glass representation of the Declaration of Independence, split into thirteen parts to represent the original thirteen colonies in America. Also etched into the glass railings are the signatures of 56 signers of the declaration. The hall is impressive, to say the least. On our way to the airport, I kept mentioning about the new Bangalore Airport. But Sandil seemed not as keen at hearing about “returning back” and “Bangalore Airport”, understandable due to his status as an “illegal immigrant”.

But then, all’s well that ends well.

Observation: The biggest nuisance in the United States of America is a school bus.

The Pony Express - Part 3

APRIL 14TH 2008: PHILADELPHIA:

The tale of three cities is complete...

Philadelphia, The Cradle of Liberty, The Quaker City, and also, as its name translates, known rather embarrassingly as “The City of Brotherly Love” (Greek: philos – love and adelphos – brother) - the ancient capital of the United States of America. As we flew over the city at 4:00 PM, it looked much like any great European capital, with the mighty Delaware with its huge metallic bridges cleaving the city into two parts. Winter had given away to spring, and the ice and snow at the mouth of the great St. Lawrence River in Canada had started melting. The muddy waters of the St. Lawrence had greeted me when I opened my window during the flight. The earth was sheathed in a layer of snow, as if someone had sprinkled salt on the ground. The clouds were thick, resembling bales of cotton bundled up together and left to waste. This was a flight I would remember, in spite of “Enchantment” (I nearly wrote it as “Enhancement” – too much of work!) and “National Treasure: Book of Secrets”.

Philadelphia International Airport is one of the busiest International Airports in the world (as of 2008, it is the 10th busiest in terms of aircraft activity), a fact not lost on me, since it took me more than an hour to exit the airport after baggage claim and immigration clearance. As I waited at the entrance for the taxi, I noticed that most of the cab drivers were Asians. Not surprisingly, so was my taxi driver. And the taxi, it was a “Lincoln”. I gladly remembered that my previous car ride in the United States had also been in a Lincoln. “Hindi mein baat keejiye na? yahan pe bilkul sunne ko nahin milta” exclaimed the amicable Mr. Malik, from Lahore, Pakistan. What greeted me as I entered the cab was Lata Mangeshkar’s voice crooning one of the songs that I had unsuccessfully hunted for on the web: “Dil Ka Diya Jalaake Chala, Yeh Kaun Meri Tanhayee Mein…”

We drove through the countryside. Spring was breaking and the barren trees had started flowering. Colours of white and yellow dominated the roadsides, and the odd cherry blossom added to the revelry. It was almost six o clock when I settled down in my apartment. I switched on the television for relaxation and immediately found a Tele-Shopping Channel. And ironically, they were selling stones.

The Pony Express - Part 2

APRIL 14th 2008, FRANKFURT:
Today is a day of death. A couple of centuries ago, Abraham Lincoln was shot dead on this day, at the Ford Theatre. Seventy Seven years ago, a huge explosion aboard the “Fort Stikine” rocked the Bombay Docks, killing 1300 people and wounding 3000. And today marks the 96th Anniversary of the sinking of the unsinkable ship: The HMS Titanic.

I am superstitious. But I never believed in all the nonsense surrounding the number 13. This was my thirteenth visit to the Frankfurt Airport.

Frankfurt am Main as it is known (not many people are aware that there are three more places in Germany with the same name) is one of the biggest cities in Germany. A city more famous for its airport – one of the largest transit centres in Europe – than anything else. There is more to this beautiful city than the sprawling airport, but unfortunately, visitors to Germany never bother to explore the city. It perhaps serves as an example of human nature that we never bother to look into a person’s heart and are fooled by what is presented to us.

It was raining heavily when we landed in Frankfurt, with the outside temperature of 8 degrees. There was however no sign of the turbulence that had vexed me so much on the flight from Budapest. We were led to Terminal C from where the transit officer directed me to Terminal A. There seemed to be a few first timers in the Bangalore flight – evident from their comments comparing Frankfurt Airport to the upcoming Bangalore Airport. Hall C was a long and lonely corridor. A glance outside showed me how strong the incoming storm was. The place had grown dark like evening. At the end of the corridor was a signboard that announced Terminals A, B, C (I thought we were already in Terminal C), D and E with a directional arrow pointing up – which obviously meant we had to go up. Underneath this signboard was an escalator that went down. I can’t wait for the new Bangalore airport.

There were two security checks – one before entering the MagLev train connecting the terminals and one after exiting it at Terminal A. Strangely, they never asked me to remove my shoes. Some Indian families were facing familiar problems – pickles, masalas and other concoctions being confiscated. The ladies were adamant, not amused at being parted from their prized possessions. I was pushed along by the crowd.

The wide corridors of Terminal A are lined with a lot of duty free shops. The place is full of Indians eager to get on one or the other flights to the USA – Washington, San Francisco, Los Angeles and where else. Gate 51 was empty for the moment. I settled down there, near the window, as the sun broke through for a brief moment through the swirling storm clouds. In the distance, it was still raining heavily on the runway. A few characters had assembled together at this gate, to pass time till their next flight.

An Indian was fiddling with his Canon EOS Camera (not me), another was having a home-made breakfast of idli-sambar (I wonder how he got past the security check), and yet another was scribbling fast on a red diary (that’s me). A beautiful girl in a fashionable black and white outfit was engrossed in some German book. A Chinese couple was busily chattering in a foreign language, pointing animatedly at a map. Another young couple slept in each others’ arms, desperate to catch some rest before their next flight. A middle aged lady was sprawled across three or four chairs snoring heavily. Above her, towered a huge advertisement sign that proclaimed:

DEUTSCHE BAHN RUNS SAP.

It’s rude to take photographs unawares.

Observation: Indians are everywhere - be it on the fight to Skopje or on the flight from Vilnius.

The Pony Express - Part 1

APRIL 14th, 2008: BANGALORE:
The second hand of my watch ticked over to 12:00 AM. Happy New Year! This is one event I cannot escape with my dual or confused identity – for it’s the dawn of both the Tamil and Mallu New Year. This year there would not be any Vishu for me. No waking up before the sunrise for a glimpse of the Vishukkani (something that’s never been missed even during my Chennai days, when we used to switch on to Asianet to view the virtual Vishukkani), and fall asleep again. “Happy New Year, Sir!” I exclaimed to the startled old Tamilian couple who stood at the coffee kiosk with me. They gleefully wished me back. “It’s a strange way to spend your new year isn’t it? Travelling across the globe to various countries?” I quipped. It was indeed strange for me. Last year’s Budapest trip had changed my fortunes – for better or worse. I wondered what fate had in store for me the next year.

The first moments of the New Year was spent in the huge waiting hall of the (soon to be old) Bangalore Airport, under the auspices of its huge air conditioning ducts with vents sticking out like the tendrils of some mutant reptile creature from a Hollywood science fiction movie. This place is so old that one can still spot long fans hanging from the ceiling at every twenty-odd feet. I sat there for close to 3 hours swatting mosquitoes, reading, listening to songs and observing others. Perhaps someone else, like me, would be writing on me – I made quite an appearance sitting there with pieces of my baggage around me, clad in my favorite Singapore T-Shirt with a thick grey pullover wrapped around (in this climate), an I-pod sticking out in the front, reading short stories of Somerset Maugham.

The various pieces of luggage had been my first problem during the journey. I was charged for exceeding the baggage limit by 3 kg – guilty as charged! I did not bother to argue. Then came the shock. After checking my ticket, the check-in officer informed me that the rebooking charges had not been paid. I applied some quick thinking. In those few seconds I conjured up some ingenious swear words I could use on our travel desk counterparts. Thankfully, I didn’t get the opportunity to use them, as he waived it or decided to ignore it. The Lufthansa counter was conspicuous by the absence of a check-in queue. 10:00 PM was perhaps a bit too early for a 2:00 PM flight. Hence I was a little astounded when he informed me that the flight was fully booked and I would not get a window seat. I wonder why I don’t ever bother to do the e-check-in.

I had 3 hours to spend in the lounge. Somerset Maugham was not entirely the foremost of my priorities then. With no Pragati around to write about, I sat across the security check section and began observing people. There was a proliferation of babies with their grandparents, presumably travelling to the USA, some of them decked up in gaudy pattu sarees and veshtis, probably to celebrate the New Year. There was this plump girl going to Barcelona (I know because she was next to me at the check-in counter), who was continuously on the phone for those three unearthly hours. Where I had sat down seemed to be the reading corner. Everyone seemed to have a book for the occasion – from the obscure Bengali novel to R.L. Stine’s Goosebumps series to “Not Without my Sister” that Isabelle, the beautiful girl on the Air France flight was reading. The Swiss couple was engrossed in skimming through their photographs of India.

Across the floor, the wide-eyed cute little girl in pink was restless. She kept blabbering to her mother, who was finding it hard to keep herself awake. The girl would have none of it. From sweet-talking her mother to consciousness to showing her the pictures she’d make in her little book, she tried everything to keep her mother awake. She finally gave up and put away her green scribbles. She gradually leant her head against her mothers and went to sleep under the watchful eyes of all around who had witnessed her little spectacle. They disappeared on the Air India flight to Mumbai – just another set of strangers. But the evening sideshow was far from over. The best was yet to come in the form of the eight month old Anushka. Travelling with her mother and grandparents, she was one of those comic book babies, fully covered from head to foot, in a one-piece suit (again pink) with only her head visible. She reminded me of Jughead Jones’s sister, Jellybean. She was quite vociferous and seemed to possess great oratorial skills, as she had soon captured everyone’s attention with her baby goo goo. She seemed to be addicted to coffee as she kept jumping for the two cups of coffee her mother had got for her grandparents. I soon discovered another one of her hobbies – Somertset Maugham. Leaving the coffee aside, she sprang for my book, much to the chagrin of her ajji.

“Never mind!” I said and handed her the book.
“She’ll tear it” exclaimed Ajji.
“It doesn’t matter” I smiled. It would take some baby to tear THAT book.
Maugham, once again, was not entirely the foremost of my priorities then.

Observation: The worst seat you can get on a flight is next to the galley. Until dinner is served, our sensory organs are tormented by the sweet aroma of food.

Food for thought

The primary reason for best laid plans to go wrong on a long weekend is that you sleep till late morning. When I got up at 10:00 AM on Saturday morning I knew inwardly that my plans for shopping ahead of my trip to the USA would turn up to nothing. Hence, I found myself once again in the office, researching on how to drive in the USA. And not surprisingly, Moinu too turned up. In the whiff of the moment, we decided to head out for lunch. Moinu suggested 'Sinbad' in ITPL, but I felt it too gaudy for a routine Saturday lunch. Finally, after a round of negotiation, I agreed to his suggestion of Bhagini.

Bhaginis are a unique phenomenon. These are restaurants or restaurant look-alikes that seem to inhabit the suburb of West Bangalore. They can be frequently spotted in this locality, every few kilometers, especially on the Outer Ring Road. So when he said "Let's go to Bhagini", it left me wondering which one he was referring to. There was one just around the corner from our office. But we drove for some time, before he pulled up opposite to the Innovative Multiplex in Marathalli. My curiosity was answered when he pointed to a three or four storeyed building with a glass facade like one of those small scale software companies - Bhagini Palace.

Those who are familiar with these Bhaginis would instantly recognize one of their ilk, if they met them on the road. The prominent feature of any Bhagini is a gaudy, yet boring neon sign announcing its name. It seems to take up the whole space of the restaurant. As you step in, you are greeted with a fountain like structure that gushes out water. At night, the whole place is lit up with those little party lights, like a cheap tourist attraction. Inside a Bhagini, you are likely to find three different seating arrangements. One is the usual rectangular restaurant hall, that caters to some umpteen tables. There is also that long hall which runs from one end of the restaurant to the other, with tables next to each other and can be readily converted into one big table catering 50-odd software engineers ever on the look-out for cheap team lunch options to save company money. There there is the "upstairs" option - usually popular for evening get-togethers with liquor (As has been the case whenever i've been there).

That being the case, it definitely came as a surprise that Bhagini Palace did not follow the design standards used for the rest of the Bhaginis. I confessed to Moinu immediately that it was the first time I was visiting this place. The interior had more of a Shanthi Sagar look - immaculately (or trying to be) dressed waiters trying their best to accommodate the crowd on those cushion chairs with ornate metal. Each table had four folded banana leaves - in preparation for the meal to be served on them. Bhagini serves mainly Andhra cuisine. Their menu card does lay claim that they are adept at serving any cuisine, but i have not really been brave enugh to try them out. As far as time goes, i remember eating only one dish from these places - the regular Andhra meal. My memories of Andhra meals date back to the time I spent in Chennai, where we used to eat that delicious dinner of Andhra meals - The paruppupodi and the dal curry being my favourites - from the T-Nagar Mess - a place which if I described would make the girls who inhabit the software industry cringe with shock and shriek "how unhygienic!"

Now coming back to the Bhagini, there are a few characteristic traits to this place. By default all the orders are considered to be for Andhra meals, unless specified otherwise. Perhaps this would explain the existence of banana leaves. The next is that more than one waiter is eager to take your order (though the eagerness stops there). The species that inhabits the Bhagini the most is the one that infests this planet by hoards and has become a threat to the planet's very existence - the Software Engineer. Rarely a moment goes by when you don't hear a conversation from a nearby table, that doesnot contains words such as "issue", "object" and "hierarchy". The place sometimes gives you a feel that it is a breeding ground for the species where they multiply without control - akin to one of those In-Gen Labs in Jurassic Park.

The fourth, and foremost feature about the place is the long processing time. From the time you give the order to the umpteenth waiter who surrounds you to the time when you catch hold of a stray waiter and negotiate with him to serve your meal, governments could rise and fall in Djibouti. "Perhaps it is because of the Omelette we ordered" claimed Moinu as we waited for ages. The Omelette came, but still there was no sign of the food. It took so long that I have forgotten what we discussed (neither girls nor office politics - those are two topics i can never forget). "And people complain about us exceeding MPT in Message Processing!" growled Moinu finally. And we weren't the only ones complaining. "Meals? Sir, it would take minimum half an hour for us to serve!" said the beaming headwaiter to a family who had just walked in. It was not surprising that they chose to disappear immediately.

The food when it came was nothing to complain for, perhaps because I was already hungry. As the famous saying goes in Malayalam, "gathi ketta puli pullum thinnum" (A hungry tiger would even resort to eating grass). It never came down to eating grass though, as I finally got to gobble up my paruppupodi and dal curry mix - enough quantity to fulfil the hunger of a dozen Ethiopian kids. It had been quite some time since i'd had Andhra food, not to mention from Bhagini. As they claim in their website, "They are ready to give good quality of tastee dishes and bar items with good service. By the way they requires good satisfaction of routine of customers. There are 75 workers and staff working in the restaurant. The speciality of the restaurant is available all kinds of drinks."

Stanley Kubrick fans would swear by the name of "The Shining" - perhaps the best horror movie ever made in Hollywood - based on Stephen King's book of the same name, about a hotel which houses an unspoken evil. One of these Bhaginis would serve well as a backdrop if some smartass Bollywood producer took it upon himself to make an Indian copy of the movie.

Of tourists and ponies

American Tourister - that's what i had planned to call my sojourn in the USA - An opportunist in the Land of Opportunities. There is no doubt that I am an opportunist. We all are - how much ever we deny it. But then the word "Tourister" has a strange inevitability to it, for I am not a tourist.

Today, I got my ticket, after a lot of deliberations about when to leave and how to leave. Finally I put in my money on Lufthansa, the least due to the fact that they are my customers. I do not carry any misplaced loyalties to my customers outside the office. It was merely a choice based out of experience and sheer laziness.

The third of April marks the anniversary of the foundation of the famous Pony Express, the precursor of the US Postage system, where mail was transported across the country on horse and rider relay teams. It had captured the imagination of a country. My imagination has to wait a few more days.

A week later I would be off, facing new challenges in the so-called Land of Opportunities. A week further, I would perhaps be roaming in the streets of the historic city of Philadelphia. Another week further - to the people of this city, to those who see me everyday today - I would be history.

For...we remember others only in the hour of our need.