Wipe, or wash?

It’s infuriating. And funny and sad, at the same time.

You’d imagine 5-star hotels, like the one I was in a couple of days ago, would be a little sensitive. But this particular one in Kolkata couldn’t care less about your ass (or mine, or anyone else’s for that matter). However, because I’m a little more caring, I won’t name the hotel, but since I have a sore bum, will provide discreet clues (like it’s in downtown Kolkata, close to Chowringhee and is situated on a street by the same name as the hotel) so that you can figure out for yourself.

They probably still live in the British Raj. Or, are so proud of their heritage that they fail to look around them. For even if they were to look into shanties and slums that abound in the City of Joy, much less peek into the fabulous bungalows of the Bhadralok in Ballygunge, they’d realize their folly. But no, a hotel chain their calibre won’t stoop that low, of course. Never matter if you feel sore or become a germs-carrier.

Their top brass won’t use their graying grey cells either. Or listen to plain logic that a child could offer them. Because they fear they will no longer be included in the Leading Hotels of The World. Who knows they may even lose respect in the developed world. Worse, they might even lose occupancy. Yet, they’re OK with that stuff remaining stuck in those remote crevices of yours all day long (and sometimes, God forbid, even through the night!)

Maybe I should’ve called the General Manager. Or, better still, written to their flamboyant owners, on the rolls of paper they so generously provide in each room! Unfortunately past experience tells me this would have had little effect; and least of all, on my backside.

Or, maybe I should console myself that this is the price of progress. After all, the hotel is only emulating best practices followed in the developed West! Even though they might seem a bit unclean to my underdeveloped, er developing, mind!!

How else does one come to terms with the fact that you will not be able to wash your bum after defecating? Just because the top-class hotel in a leading Indian city will not provide running water next to the potty, even in a fancy suite? Frankly, being 100% Indian, I find it so appalling that it cannot dawn upon fellow Indians that it’s not just foreigners who stay in hotels in India. Or that if they were to look up statistics, they would easily see that a majority of cultures actually wash and do not wipe. Maybe they should organize a conference about this matter and host it in their hotel, so that all concerned can experience the debate first hand. Unfortunately, till the time the asses learn that it is much more hygienic to wash with water rather than wipe with tissue paper, we will have to live with rashes on ours!

Fact is, I’ve been so disturbed by this sad but basic fault in somebody’s thinking that I’ve even forgotten what I’d gone to the hotel (or the city) for, in the first place. Nor have I been able to enjoy the good food that’s so lovingly laid out in the restaurant, for fear of putting pressure in the wrong places!

P.S. The picture, in case you're dying to know, is what you see from said hotel's backside.

How misleading can labels be? - a brush with Scientology

We all know that labels can be misleading. In fact, we’ve known that for quite sometime—ever since advertising began, one might say. Which is why when a label says ‘guaranteed to grow hair in 10 days’ we don’t really trust the bottle that says it, do we? Yet, we fall for it, nine out of ten cases. Why? And this is exclusively my belief—you don’t have to agree—it’s because inside each one of us believes in the innate goodness of man—and we therefore like to believe the claim—even though it’s clear to our rational head that there’s no hope in hell, of hair growing on a balding pate, no matter how much goodness or magic you squeeze into that little bottle.

Often—and this is where advertising fails us—the intrinsic product lets us down equally badly. Something that we learnt, much to our dismay, one more time, on our recent trip to Germany.

So here we were, walking out of a stunning old cathedral (‘kirch’ in Germany—which I suspect is some Nazi mutilation of ‘church’) in Hamburg, muttering how beautiful the stained glass work was and how they managed to make the churches sooooo tall in those days, etc, etc, and just as we crossed the street, blinking our eyes to get accustomed to the sudden light, what did we see? Another church across the road!

Had the sign on it not read ‘The Church of Scientology’, we would’ve politely given it a miss—after all how many churches can you see in a day! But wait a minute, this was different—wasn’t Scientology the buzzword we wanted to know more about—the apparent non-religious way of living made so famous by Tom Cruise and scores of other celebrities? Should we or shouldn’t we approach the apparent contradiction across the street, we wondered? Did we really want to waste our precious sightseeing hours on something we could always find out more about on the Internet? Especially since we were so hungry? Fifteen minutes, we finally reasoned, could do us, our stomachs, or our schedule no great harm, and so, like the chicken, we crossed the street.

As we walked into the ‘Church’, we couldn’t help but be drawn to what seemed like a mini-exhibition of books. All by the same author. But, more about that later.

‘Can I help you’, came a sweet voice from behind the pile of books, and we looked up to see a young lady at what seemed like the ‘Reception’, smiling at us. Very, un-‘Church’ like I remember telling myself, as we approached her and told her, in as casual a tone that we could muster, ‘Er, we wanted to um, know a little more about Scientology’.

‘What exactly would you like to know?’ her eyes twinkled.
‘Well, what really is it, and how it’s different from other, er, religions,’ we countered.
The smile widened, and I bet I saw a hint of ‘Aha’ in those eyes as she hesitated and then said, ‘If you give me a minute, I’ll have somebody answer your questions. Please wait here,’ and she walked off, to reappear exactly half a minute later with a gentleman, who wore a similar smile, but didn’t quite strike me as a priest or an evangelist, I have to say.

‘How much time do you have,’ he asked, his eyes crinkling.
‘Er, 10-15 minutes,’ we offered, in terribly Indian standard terms, quite impressed by this seeming professionalism.
‘In which case, we have a short film that I recommend you watch,’ the gentleman said, in his best German English, ‘which should hopefully answer all your questions, and if not, then I’ll be available right here,’ saying which, he ushered us into a mini theatre, signaling the projectionist to start the movie.

We sank into the plush chairs thankfully, little realizing how tired sightseeing had made us. At the same time, I must admit, a myriad images crossed my mind—big bang destruction (or was it construction) of the Universe, logical science fighting with dogmatic religion in ancient Greece, wise men in flowing robes with snowy white beards, pointing heavenwards even as they held heavy stone tablets, and I don’t know why, but Tom Cruise smiling benignly from a pulpit, holding on to Katie Holmes.

Fact is, we had little idea about Scientology, other than its star-status. Was it a religion with science at its base? Was it steeped in logic? Was it modern jargon about the same values that all other religions preached? It was with quite a bit of trepidation that the wife and I turned to the screen.

And then, it happened. The label, I mean: the misleading label story. For there are no words to describe the rubbish that unfolded on the screen, for the next 25 minutes.

In true 1960s style American rhetoric, the ‘Film’ exhorted you to follow the path shown by L Ron Hubbard. About half of the film (or so it seemed) was about the man himself: He, who had studied mankind and its problems so that you may be free from those (problems), he who’d devoted his life and riches to the service of others, He, who’d founded Scientology. He, who’d shown thousands the way to live. He, who’d incidentally made (masterminded is a better word, perhaps) this wonderful film! Shocked, we saw the other half of the film trying to substantiate (laboriously, I thought) that Scientology had in fact, been accepted as a religion in the USA. And finally, in true Christian tones, exhorted the viewer to not follow the teachings of L Ron Hubbard at his own peril!

25 minutes of footage about what we thought was a religion based upon science—or something even remotely resembling the scientific temperament—and not a single phrase explaining it—this is what it is, this is what we believe in, such and such are its principles, etc. Nothing at all, that our left-brain steeped in analytical education was crying out for—not a clue, in fact. Just egomaniacal, cultish devotion to Hubbard.

Shattered and dazed, we staggered out of the mini-theatre and were immediately joined by the young German ‘evangelist’. Ever-smiling, he ushered us to a table next to the mini-exhibition of books that we’d encountered upon our entry. A trifle impateiently, I asked him to explain what exactly Scientology was, as the film hadn’t helped. As expected, he proceeded to beat around the bush, referring repeatedly to Hubbard’s books—in fact repeatedly picking up copies and leafing through them to show us that there existed a large body of literature about it. Unfortunately, that didn’t quite satisfy us, and disgustedly, I asked him to describe, in one sentence what Scientology was. I even offered him a blank piece of paper and asked him to put it down any other way he could.

I must conclude that the interaction was nothing different from any you’d expect to have with any bigoted priest, pujari or maulvi—tautological, evasive and mildly threatening, all at the same time.

We walked out of the ‘Church of Scientology’ thoroughly disillusioned about both the product and the label, and cursing that we’d not only wasted our precious sightseeing time, but had also grown hungrier than before, headed for the nearest café to assuage a different kind of hunger.

P.S. I deliberately did not wiki scientology and L Ron Hubbard until AFTER writing this entry. What I read afterwards, though (see http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/L._Ron_Hubbard), sadly, only reaffirms my suspicions about the ‘religion’ of Scientology and its shady, controversial founder. Which of course, raises the vital question: Are Tom Cruise and John Travolta stupid? You’re welcome to arrive at your own answer, of course, but it might help to see http://www.thesmokinggun.com/archive/0624051hubbard1.html.

P.P.S. The picture in the beginning, of course has nothing to do with Scientology. It's the tunnel under Elbe in Hamburg, built many years ago to enable vendors from across the river to reach the Fish Market to sell their perishable produce. In many ways, a symbolic antithesis of Scientology, which creates tunnel vision of a different kind.

Mid-Life Crisis: An external take

Mid-life crisis happens. So we’re told. Suddenly, at a particular period in your forties, things begin to change: you begin to wonder if you’re in the right job (even profession), covet the neighbour’s wife (or any young thing that travels on two shapely legs), have too many tasks (and desires) unfulfilled, or inexplicably develop an urge to leave everything and move town. Apart from loss of hair and memory, addition of inches and kilos, and a myriad other tell-tale signs, that you’re so often reminded of, rather unpalatably by books, the media and your sons.

Most of mid-life blues, it seems are attributable to you: things happening inside you—hormonal changes, male-baldness syndrome, or plain going dotty. Understandably then, it is suggested that YOU must learn to handle it, cope with it, live it, et al. But it seems to me that not enough has been written about how mid-life crises might be a function of things happening OUTSIDE you, not INSIDE. About how other people, circumstances and events inexorably connive to push you into this unenviable life-stage.

Take work. You’ve laboured a better part of your pre-mid-life at building an organization, a business. Now, without warning, it acquires a life and pace of its own. Other people seem to run it without exactly needing you (thanks very much but why don’t you take that much needed holiday, boss?). Not entirely by design, you realize you’re redundant. Now, I ask, is that really your own doing?

Or, take home. You’ve built a house, assiduously planning and architecting the different needs and whims of each of your children: a music-room here, an amphitheatre there. You’ve bought cars—one for each person, built wealth wisely, not just for your enjoyment but also future generations’. And then, out of the blue, it dawns on you all that’s of no great use, for the kids have grown up and must leave home to seek their own fortunes in distant lands. Is that also attributable to you?

Take your wife. You introduced her to the big city—helped her setup and run her business, taught her the abc of balance sheets, nuances of negotiating, motivational, or even, driving skills. Only to realize that she’s lately become her own person, and wants more from life than just looking after home and hubby.

Or take friends or cousins. You’ve been nice, helpful and considerate all your life. You’ve lent your precious notes, told lies at home, smoked and boozed at grave personal cost and what happens? At this point, all of them are busy—too busy—with their own priorities to think about their buddies.

Not convinced yet that YOUR mid-life crisis is not entirely of YOUR making? Step out into the street and you have a biker screech to a dangerous halt inches away, only to holler, ‘Careful, uncle!’ Or ask for a cardigan in a department store only to face an incredulous look, ‘Er, whassat, granpa?’

The more I think about it, the more I’m convinced: mid-life is not a crisis of your own making at all—it’s imposed upon you by externalities, mostly out of your control. And, why hasn’t this aspect been researched or written about? I suspect it’s because most marketers think this is hardly the most fashionable segment (45-60 year-olds) to investigate. Now what can you say to that attitude? Poor youngsters—little do they realize that this is already the hottest and most lucrative segment in the US, and looking at how we’re going, Indians will soon be, too!

Meanwhile, a word of advice to all fellow ‘greyers’: stop thinking your mid-life is YOUR problem: there’s enough evidence out there pointing to everyone else; in fact the whole damn world! So settle down comfortably into it and relax, there’s enough to worry about otherwise: what you’re going to wear on your neice’s birthday party, for instance!

Road Trippers

It’s been almost exactly 2 months since my birthday. And what have I got to show for those 60 days? Well, nothing much, I suppose, until you count the two road trips I’ve undertaken. So what’s so great about a couple of drives you might think? Well, nothing much, unless you count the distance—some 7000 km, done across just 20 days. Which translates into, hold your breath, some 350 km every day, with New Year’s and birthday celebrations thrown in for good measure.

So, what exactly did we do that had all our friends think we were crazy? Driving daily, a distance they normally drive in a week? Well, it depends on how you look at it. You could say driving all the way from Delhi to Goa to spend the New Year’s Eve on a crowded beach is painful, and then driving a car all the way to Bombay again, to be with your son on his birthday, is foolhardy. Especially when you’ve just turned 48!

Why did we do it? Is it because at that age one starts going potty in the head, and becomes completely oblivious to good sense? Or is it because as one advances in years, one become desperate to cram in quality time, especially when it concerns one’s children?

Yes, that was my reason for attempting the first of those trips. Saattvic coming home from Oxford for his winter break and wanting to hit the sunny beaches was certainly the foundation. But far more important was the chance to be together, all four of us, in a car. I reckoned that being thrown together for so many hours would create that much more togetherness, so what if some of those would be spent bickering and shouting at each other!

And, to be sure, that’s exactly what happened. The drive to Goa was warm enough, if you don’t count the couple of the early morning hours we spent getting out beyond Jaipur. And the condition of the roads on the Golden Quadrilateral was pleasantly illuminating, to say the least. But the camaraderie within the car was payment enough for the investment in stiff backs and necks. After a long time, it felt like a great family—just like the old days—non-stop yakking, eating, cursing at truckers who wouldn’t keep to their lanes and so on.

Goa itself was fifty-fifty, at its best if you consider the discovery of Palolem in the South, and its worst, counting the crowds gathered there from all over for the Season’s revelry. Add on the traffic-jams and an unbelievably crowded Baga beach on the 31st Dec, and I’d make that thirty-seventy! The only sad point: the heart-break at leaving behind Gautmik at Bombay on the return trip.

The genesis of the other trip was somewhat different. And the decision to embark upon it almost split-second once we decided to listen to our hearts and not our heads. For an 18th birthday deserves a special present, and that’s what we decided to give Gautmik, no matter if it sounded impossible. We drove his present to Bombay, where he’s studying and took him by surprise, completely. Leaving work, and driving over a 1000 km a day, heading straight for his college in town next morning were all worth it, if only to see his face when he saw us. And spending the entire day with him made it as special for us as, we hope it was, for him.

And now, after those two marathon driving trips if you ask me whether I’d do them again, ‘when I’m sixty-four’, I would emphatically nod and say yes: as long as my wife and sons are with me in a car—any car, on any road. After all, as the family joke goes, we were all truck drivers in our previous births!