Nothing else but...

I feel really bad about abandoning my digital child - this very blog. Nope, its not twitter, Facebook or Poken that has taken over my life, and it has nothing to do with a writer’s block either.
Most of all, I feel really bad because I have promised many, that I would keep this blog alive. 
But then again, I’m busy scrambling my gray matter these days – trying to remember what I learnt from the advertising greats like Jeremy Bullmore, Richard Fowler and Brian Searle-Tripp at Ogilvy, long, long time ago. I’m trying to put together a series of presentations so that I could train my team – unfortunately it is not such an easy task. The thing is, advertising has evolved to become the art of communication; the world is changing so fast today that even Facebook has become a “traditional” medium. I feel I am too ‘old’ to keep up with this marathon – sometimes all I want to do is to sit under a coconut tree on a beautiful Sri Lankan beach, sip a nice Old Reserve with Wild Elephant, put my legs up and enjoy the gorgeous sunset to the rhythm of the waves slashing against the white sands.
Instead, I spend most of my time in a land where restaurants have two entrances: one for the “Single men” and the other for the “families” and women. My time in this country has become such a regular affair that I cannot even call my blog “Life in Taprobane” anymore – it might as well be re-christened as “Life in-between Mecca and Medina” I suppose.
Not that I have a miserable life here - compared to most who live in Saudi Arabia.
I have access to alcohol - albeit a bottle costs nearly 300 US dollars. I see women in bikinis if I peep from my front window at home. I live in a heavily fortified “compound” that’s similar to what’s seen in the movie “the Kingdom.” Every time I come home, I stop at the first gate manned by private security as well as the Army. Various warnings including “No Photos” and “Turn off the Headlights” stare at my face until a security guard scans the vehicle and raises the barrier. I usually wave at the guy and zig-zag through a maze of concrete barricades along a barbed-wire fenced wall, to the main gate where a guard sitting behind a bullet-proof window recognises me and presses a few buttons to lower the steel barrier as I wait for the red light to turn green. There’s another gate that opens immediately after the barrier, then I weave through another concrete jungle, bump over the humps at every 50 yards and slowly get to my home sweet home where I have unrestricted internet access and a bottle of Vodka in the fridge.
Yes, the internet is censored to the public in the Kingdom and it is the “world outside the compound” that bothers me.
There is a notice on our office door proclaiming that “Women Work Here” – and it reminds me of the signs we often see at home: “Beware of the Dog.”
There are times that I find myself alone in an empty elevator, simple because some of the Saudi women refuse to enter because “there is a man inside.” I feel like a leper – but I know it is their loss, not mine. I KNOW they don’t get much opportunity to spend time with guys like me – so even a nano-second lost is a time gone to waste. For them. Besides, my breath could impregnate women – yes I have that gift – I guess that must be what those women are thinking.
The social barricades here are unimaginable and unbelievable, women who live in Sri Lanka have absolutely no idea how blessed are they to be born in such a beautiful country. According to the The World Economic Forum Gender Equality Survey, women in Sri Lanka are treated better than the Australians, Canadians and even the Americans. Sri Lanka ranks at the 16 place, Saudi Arabia of course somewhere at the very bottom, barely keeping up with Chad, Mali and Benin.
Women cannot drive in Saudi Arabia. Most women are at the mercy of their driver, even if they had to buy a Panadol for a headache (and, a woman needs a lot of those in this country!). They pay his salary, but the driver has the right to “pray” five times a day and the employer has to wait, no matter how important her needs are.
There are quite a few, well-educated Saudi women who are joining the mainstream employment. These are the progressive women who know how to remain ‘progressive’ within the cultural and social norms, but the society isn’t ready for this. We have a client who employees around ten to fifteen thousand people across the Kingdom, but their head office does not have a single toilet dedicated for women. But, on the surface, this organisation is one of the most modern, forward-thinking businesses in the country that encourages the young Saudi females to lead the change. This is a minor detail compared to the other frustrations women have to put-up everyday at their workplace. Saudi men DO NOT look at a woman’s eyes when they talk to her – even in meetings and I find that very irritating. If she is friendly, they mis-read her. If she keeps her distance, they think she is a bitch. Some of them completely ignore her, as if she doesn’t exist. The religious extremism is so deep-rooted in their minds, they act as if they don’t have mothers or sisters.
Saudi women are not allowed to be seen in public without a chaperone, they cannot travel without a male custodian, they are not allowed to represent themselves at a government office, in a police station or a Court without the male guardian. They cannot open a bank account for themselves on their own, even if they are employed and earning their own income. Rights of women, do not exist here.
The society segregates the men and the women, they are not allowed to mix and mingle. We don’t usually ask our Saudi colleagues about their fiancés or wives – asking about someone else’s wife is like having an affair with her it seems. But, however, the lingerie shops in the Kingdom are manned by men who are allowed to measure a woman’s cup-size and talk to her about her underwear at length  – because women are not allowed to work in shopping malls. Such is the beauty of this bowl of spaghetti of a country – they are all confused in their own religious laws and taboos.
The other day, while chit-chatting about life of a woman in this country, one of my Saudi female friends put it in proper perspective: for a Saudi man, a woman is nothing else but a pussy!
*2012 UPDATE: The government encourages Saudi women joining the retail trade and now there are women serving at lingerie shops, cosmetics stores, supermarkets and even some restaurants.

“I will die today, so Egypt can live tomorrow”

“I will die today, so Egypt can live tomorrow” read a placard held by one of the protesters in Tahrir Square as I sat in front of my computer for the second consecutive day. A stream of pictures – of people waving flags and chanting – flashed nonstop on the television screen a couple of meters away from my desk. I was keen on knowing how my Egyptian friends looked at the unfolding drama, through their Facebook status messages and twitter feeds.

I was eager to know what was going to happen.

Then, there was the news of Mubarak’s address to the nation. But, alas, after a much-awaited speech, the Farewell Friday dawned with much anger and huge disappointment.

It was the third Friday, 18th consecutive day, for the thousands of protesters. As the day wearied away, I began to attend to other domestic affairs, losing interest in the on-going saga. I watched the Egyptians in Saudi Arabia, praising Mubarak and his 30-year regime on television.

The revolution seemed going nowhere.

I remember Hussain. My copywriter, a good 15 years ago, in Dubai. He had just joined the agency as my team-mate; it was his first time in the real world of advertising. We were pitching for KFC business. Sitting opposite in my office, he would occasionally pause to light his pipe and we would wander in to conversations that took me to the mysterious past of the Nile civilization. We would brag about our pasts and heritage, share our thoughts and agree on alien invasions – for one obvious reason: the intelligent people who built the pyramids or the flying machine that took Ravana to India, no longer existed. They were abducted: there was no other way to explain the common stupidity that prevailed in our countries. The chaos, the madness and the people’s optimism to rise beyond adversity, brought Egypt and my Paradise closer to each other. Hussain and I became very good friends. We had ancient civilizations to boast about and Western Empires to blame on everything that went wrong.

Sometimes, in the middle of a sentence that he was crafting, Hussain would stop to protest. “I cannot lie about this lump of lard. It’s unhealthy, horrible and shouldn’t be sold to kids. How dare you’d expect me to say that KFC is finger likin’ good..?” he would grumble.

Like many thousands of people who gathered at Tahrir Square today, my Egyptian friend was a God-fearing man. I had to brain-wash him and nurse him back to the deceitful and manipulative world of advertising, in many such occasions.

Then I remember the pretty ones from our network. Rezan and Yosr carried the evidence that Cleopatra or Nefertiti were, in fact, real people. They were gorgeous, beautiful people, inside and out.

Maya, Heba, Rania... my colleagues of yesteryear – they are very much like the Sri Lankans. They are happy people, who have learned to be optimistic amidst the constraints and restrictions. We faced common threats, we behaved in similar fashion in many ways. If their car bumped in to another – which is a common occurrence in jam-packed Cairo – they wouldn’t even bother getting the police involved. Their cops were as ‘good’ as ours.

In the last few days, leading to the events that brought down Hosni Mubarak, there was some unbelievable spirit of solidarity building up. The youth of the Arab World was with the people of Egypt. One of my dearest friends wrote “Viva La Revoluciona!!!” on her wall while another friend of mine sat sleepless throughout the nights, waiting for the change to happen. These were young Saudi women, supporting a cause. “I’m proud of my brothers and sisters of Egypt” read another message. There were many millions of similar sentiments expressed in Arabic, on Facebook, YouTube and every imaginable mode of communication.

Egypt, needed change.

And change has come to Egypt. In a most unprecedented manner, with minimum blood-shed, a revolution has taken place right before our eyes.

In the God-fearing, system-abiding, Arab World, this is much more significant than anywhere else.

“There are many lessons behind the days, long hours, and the events that took us all through what seemed like a never ending emotional roller coaster... FAITH!! We never have to loose FAITH in JUSTICE, we need to take all those lessons along to next stage :)” – wrote one of my Egyptian friends, on her wall as fireworks lit up the night sky in Tahrir Square.

The picture is ‘stolen’ from here: http://kalamu.posterous.com/

Corned Beef

There was some fashion do in Colombo last evening and my wife got a free ticket. Thousands of miles and some time zones away from Paradise, I was bored staring at a computer screen that had a dimmed screen with a message that read “User Not Online.” Of course I knew she was not online, but sometimes, you just want to click the dial button for the heck of it. I think it is very manly to keep trying such things – like pressing the elevator button that is already pressed, knowing that’s already pressed by the man standing right in front of you.

Men do weird stuff like that, while women would just shut the computer and walk away to do their nails, or something much more fascinating – like yapping about Monica Bellucci’s cleavage with their besties.

So I was bored. And homesick.

I was hungry.

I was too lazy to drive-through my usual last resort in nourishment – and sustenance – the place where a clown sits in the front bench. I’m sick of the big macs, the royales and the big tasty ones. I usually buy a whole meal, pour the cola down the kitchen sink, eat the fries and forget the burger: two sachets of ketchup mixed with one sachet of mayo makes an amazing dip for the fries. By the way, I haven’t seen them serving mayo at McDonalds in paradise - have you?

Anyhow. So I was hungry. Men come from a hunting and camping background – so I followed my instincts and decided to hunt for my prey, right within the perimeter of my kitchen. Mind you my humble abode is not a mansion with a huge kitchen that houses an army – its just a single bedroom joint where kitchen accommodates just one person. Not more, not less. While rummaging and foraging, I found an old can of corned beef, a quarter of a cabbage; and I knew there was some leftover rice in the fridge from the afternoon. So, I chopped-up some onions, garlic, and the cabbage that had been living in my fridge for a while. One more week and I would have had to adopt the cabbage or christen it with a suitable name.

Moments later, the lights were turned off, some candles were lit and yours truly was cooking a romantic meal for one, to the tune of Nina Simone and her Tomato Collection.

It was rather a quick one, but was much better than the pizzas, burgers and the localized Indian food available around the corner. I couldn’t say otherwise, for obvious reasons.

Enjoyed my meal all alone, while watching some silly movie that I didn’t even pay much attention to. It would have been fantastic if I had a bottle of wine and some female company, but sometimes, life doesn’t let you enjoy the luxuries every single day of your life.

So this morning, while chatting to my charming wife, I shared my culinary adventure with her.

“What kind of a meal was that..?” was her prompt response, followed by a hearty laugh, and I am still wondering what’s wrong with eating corned beef and cabbage à la Sri Lankan style, with some rice.

I am not at all disheartened by the reaction from the Minister of Domestic Affairs, I’m going to sell the recipe to Harpo’s or Barefoot as some fusion food – all I need is a fancy name that sells itself. :)

Dear Anonymous...

Dear Anon (and not so anon),

I was feeling like sh*t today, and then I saw your comment appear on my iPhone. I’m sorry I have let you down - I feel horrible for not updating my blog in a while.

Not that I didn’t want to, but every time I sat down with my laptop to write something down, I hit a wall. There were many brilliant topics - they sounded brilliant in my head but looked like crap once I gathered them in words. Creative block, I assume. Had so much to say, simply didn’t know how.

Sometimes, words don’t come easy.

Hopefully, I will start writing again and keep this blog updated regularly. I have also promised my young (and gorgeous) prodigy, my señorita, that I will start writing again – so I have to keep her happy most of all.

Yes, it has been a while.

Yes, I missed you, terribly.

Yes, I missed reading your thoughts and blabber. Forgive me.

Once in a while I managed to randomly take a peek at your blogs – left a note here and there – but if I haven’t been fair or consistent, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be selective or choosy in reading your blogs or leaving behind any comments, it was a random act that perfectly suited the available 5-10-minute-slot in my hectic life.

So, I was busy. I travelled quite a bit. Went to Lebanon quite a few times for work – shot some beautiful commercials and partied like a pornstar. I was in and out of Sri Lanka – my paradise – almost a couple of times every month too. First, it was my little daughter who came back to live in Sri Lanka; you know how hard it is to find a suitable school and arrange everything in the middle of the year... Her relocation meant a lot of groundwork and sacrifice on a personal level, but then again, family comes first.

Then it was my dad.

Thank God – and thank you for all your wishes and prayers – he has recovered remarkably and now he is back on his feet again. It was just God’s way of asking him to slow down, it was also a moment for me to realize the value of life and appreciate the little things that we take for granted, everyday.

Dear Anon, thank you. Thank you for snapping me out of my miserable mood today and making me do something that I haven’t done in a while.

Hopefully, I will find my words and ways, again, and often.

Happy 2011 to you too.

I’m half Buddhist.

“Pap, I’m half Buddhist” declares my son. There’s nothing surprising about this opening statement from a 12 year old, but then he continues to claim that his other half is Christian. I would’ve expected him to announce that he is half-Muslim – considering that his birth mother is of that faith. I certainly didn’t expect this.

When we moved to Colombo five years ago, he learnt the ABC’s of Buddhism. He used to go to the temple with my sister, he was fascinated by the little rituals. He loved to light the oil lamps and joss sticks, he liked arranging the flowers on the offering table at the temple and he loved to sit around the Bo tree scribbling in the sand, watching people chanting aloud. An occasional firefly or a bug would draw his attention and distract him, but he was a well behaved kid once set foot in the temple premises.

Then he moved to Dubai to live with the mother and came back an atheist a year later.

So I wondered how did he become a Christian, out of the blue.

Apparently, every evening he follows his boarding-school mates to the Chapel where he gets a chance to pray. He says he likes to kneel down and ask God for all his wishes to come true.

And he loves the fact that he gets blessed at the end of the service. “Paap, the father keeps his hand on my head and says ‘God Bless You my son, Rafael!’ and it makes me feel good...” he says in a cheerful voice over the telephone as I enquire about his new-found life in the boarding school.

As long as the religion teaches morals and provides him with guidance in life, as long as it gives him hope and instils faith in him, I wouldn’t care too much about the label it carries.

When it comes to one’s faith, does the label really matter? Either way, I’m just glad that my son is in safe hands. ;)

Homework

My son gets some homework in English Writing.

The task is to write a dialogue.

The scene is home, his room is supposedly (supposed to be?) messy. The mother wants everything back in it’s place and the room tidied.

You know kids, they could never keep a tidy room. And the teacher thought this would be a good exercise, the perfect setting for a good, 10 minute dialogue.

And Rafael does his homework:

Mother: “Rafael... will you please tidy the room, NOW!”
Rafael: “Ok.”

He gets 2 out of 10!

Of Traffic and Get Well Soon’s...

Yes, this goes to Sach - the guy with “the worst cold a man has ever endured in the history of mankind” over there, in Japan. Sach, get well soon.

More than that, this goes to my good friend and former neighbour who now lies unconscious in a hospital bed in Medina, in an induced coma. He was travelling to Medina last Friday with three of his friends when a tyre blew in his vehicle, sending it rolling across the centre barrier to the oncoming traffic. Apparently, the tumbling vehicle rolled over five times and sent my friend D flying out of the window in the process, landing him on the asphalt hitting his head on the pavement.

Apparently, his skull is fractured, and there are some serious concerns that the doctors are not so sure of, yet. His parents have flown in from Lebanon and I cannot even go see him since the road to Medina is only open to Muslims.

I pray, and hope, that he recovers. Soon.

***

Saudi Arabia boasts of some of the worst drivers in the world. Looking at statistics in Saudi Arabia:

• more than 6,400 deaths every year from car accidents, which means, every 82 minutes one person dies of a road accident
• over 50,000 deaths, 300,000 injuries and losses of over 100 billion Saudi Riyal (= 26.6 billion US$) from car accidents in the past 10 years. Compare that to only 200 casualties from terrorist activities..!
• 4.3 million car accidents causing 86,000 deaths and 611,000 injuries in the past 19 years.

More over,

• 85% of accidents are caused by drivers violating to traffic rules
• 7% of injuries end with complete or partial disability
• and majority of hospital beds (up to 80% in some hospitals) are occupied by road accident victims, not people suffering from various medical conditions and illnesses.

Saudi traffic rules are supposed to be strict, but at the same time, they are somewhat weird. For example, the passenger in the front seat could be penalised for mistakes of the driver – for not advising him to abide by the law. Wearing the seat belt is a must, but only for the front seat occupants. And if a woman is seated at the front, the Police will never issue a ticket for her for not wearing the seat belt: women sometimes do not exist in the eyes of the ‘system.’

Using mobile phones while driving is ‘supposed to be’ prohibited, but no one cares. Not even the cops.

There are no female drivers in Saudi Arabia, women are not allowed to drive.

The eldest son of the family could get the driving licence at 16 under special permission in order to support the family if he has lost his father.

You can pretty much park anywhere during prayer time, just like the pavement opposite Odel.

In Retrospect...

So I am stepping in to my fifth year of blogging in a few days. Not a milestone, but just a moment to make a pause, take a look, and admire the journey so far.

Sometimes it helps to find a moment to appreciate the simple things in life.

I am blessed to be here. It feels like a friendship-circle, except, I haven’t met any of my fellow bloggers in real life. They sound like a bunch of really nice people, I’m sure they are. And yes, that includes you too.

Sabby wrote a pensive post on leaving the island and I commented saying that she would find some comfort right here, in the Lankanosphere. I know that, because I do. Without realising, everyone of you who write from home, or about home, keep us so close to home. A random picture, a little story, stuff on tuk-tuks or rice and curry, or even a post on a silly dog, keeps my memories of home alive. And for that, I thank you.

Life overseas wasn’t like that before kottu was born. Nineties were lonely here.

Having lived only three of the last twenty years in paradise, I know I have missed out a lot. I’ve missed out on the kind of stuff that Sach cleverly puts in to words in one of his recent posts.

I miss Sri Lanka. I miss the chaos, I miss the madness.

Most of all, I miss the “islander attitude” towards life and its wonderful people.

Sometimes we get caught in the rat-race, keep climbing the corporate ladder trying to beat our own shadow. We forget the simple joys in life: like drinking a kurumba by the roadside.

At 23, I held 24% shares of one of the most successful SMB’s in the island. I was lucky. But I walked out of that business empty handed, after signing a set of documents handing over everything for free.

I was relieved. I was happy that I had nothing to lose.

That afternoon, the mug of beer at the Echelon Pub tasted the best. With that beer, I landed my next job.

Ten years later, I was the head of creative in an international agency in Dubai. We ran regional brands for the Middle East and North Africa region.

When I was contemplating of leaving, my CEO offered me a blank piece of paper with his signature to list-down whatever I wished for, if I were to stay with them till my retirement. He was ready to offer me anything, even if I wanted a house in the south of France.

I gently pushed back the Mont Blanc and the paper to the other side of the big mahogany table. As he lit his next fine cigar, I told him that I wanted only three things in my life the day I would turn 55. A roof above my head, food on the table, and my grand-kids running around the house. I also told him that the first two wouldn’t be a problem, and the third would be just a matter of time.

A couple of months after that conversation, fate had me left with two kids – and no woman by my side. Life ahead of me was very clear at that moment: there’s absolutely nothing else that I would cherish more than my two kids. They were just three and five, but their entire life was in my hands.

So I walked out of the corporate world, moved back to Sri Lanka, and raised my kids as a single dad in Colombo. The change drove me crazy. It irritated me to know that I couldn’t do my grocery shopping at 1 O’clock in the morning.

But, that was the best period of my life. Life in Sri Lanka was magical, and beautiful.

Unfortunately, I had to leave the island again. C’est la vie.

Today, I work to live, not live to work. I’m happy. I have a wonderful woman by my side, and I’m in love.

I help people. Because I will never forget how horrible it is to feel helpless.

I travel. And I have realised that discovering the cultural wheel is far better than climbing the corporate ladder.

Come to think of it, the three years I spent in Sri Lanka has made me realise how wonderful, and magical, every little thing in life is. Hearing a bird chirp, or walking in the rain, sipping a beer while watching the Buba sunset, waking up to a good cup of tea in the hill country... or a simple rice and curry meal. Yes, you lot take all those for granted, but there are some of us who miss all those everyday joys in life.

You have absolutely no idea what you are missing, until you leave home that we call Sri Lanka.

The Lung Ching Episode

Inspired by a good pot of Pu Erh tea a few weeks ago and followed by Sigma Delta’s suggestion, I embarked on a journey to discover the teas of the world at teayana – the tea lounge in Jeddah. I have tried a few teas on the menu since, including a rare variety: the Lung Ching or the Dragon Well teas.

As the story goes, a Chinese village was facing a severe drought in 250 AD and a Tao monk advised the villagers to pray to the dragon living in a nearby well to end the dry spell. The villagers obliged, the rains followed – and the village of “Lung Ching” or “Dragon Well” entered the history of tea. A monastery bearing that name stills stands next to the well to this day.

During the Qing dynasty, Emperor Qian Long had the opportunity to taste Lung Ching tea at the Wugong Temple and he was so impressed that he had eighteen of the tea trees at the temple designated as Imperial Tea, reserved for the Emperor himself.

Lung Ching is amongst the rare, connoisseur green teas on offer at teayana. Other exotic teas in the menu include the Japanese Gyokuro, Chinese Hunan Oolong, Zheijang Yin Luo No, Tai Mu along, Formosa Jade Oolong from Taiwan and teayana’s own Jasmine Pearl tea.

“This is China’s most famous tea and simply the best of the Lung Ching variety. It has more than a thousand years of recorded history and was mentioned in the first ever tea book (Cha Ching) by Lu Yu during the Tang Dynasty.

The exquisite, fat but narrow emerald green tea leaves have a shiny appearance after being carefully hand fried in a large wok. The tea leaves easily sink to the bottom of the cup during infusion and a pleasant aroma arises which is refreshingly light with a hint of fruit and nut combined. The aftertaste is almost instantaneous, filling your mouth with a sweetness reminiscent of grape fruit. It may be enjoyed plain from morning to late afternoon and is best without milk.”

reads The Book of Tea at teayana.

Overwhelmed by the stories, recommendations and an undeniable charm of the stories, I order a pot of Lung Ching.

The tea arrives with a mini-hourglass that would indicate the perfect brewing time. I watch the fine grains of coloured sand seep through like a tiny waterfall, as the hot water in the pot slowly begins to turn to the colour of the morning sun.

After three minutes, I am ready to taste the exotic, light golden colour tea brewed from “fried” tea leaves. Never in my wildest dreams that I imagined tea would be brewed from ‘fried’ leaves!

The last few grains of sand seep through the narrow neck in the hour-glass as I eagerly wait to taste the tea. I resist myself from snatching a sachet of sugar on impulse, sometimes it’s hard to let go of the nasty habits of drinking tea Sri Lankan style.

I hold the cup with both hands and enjoy the warmth for a moment. As I take a deep breath, the Lung Ching fragrance titillates my senses. The aroma is gentle and inviting. I take the first sip and let it penetrate my taste buds. I love the first sip, and struggle to find words to describe the taste.

Grass.

Yes, Lung Ching tastes like green tea with a hint of grass. But, in a very good way.

---

Camellia sinensis or the tea plant grows taller than 10 meters (33ft) typically, if left untrimmed. The No 1 “King Tree” found in the mountainous region of Pu Erh, China, is 2,700 years old, 25.6 metres (85 ft) tall, with a root diameter of 1.2 m (4 ft). These ancient tea trees are protected and the leaves are not allowed to be picked. Sri Lanka’s tallest tea tree can be found in Dambetenna Estate, Haputale and it is around 18 metres (60 ft) in height.

From Beijing to Dubai in 55 Frames

At 10.25am, we were heading towards the Plateau of Tibet. “Distance to Dubai: 2,790 miles” read the little touch-screen. I look out of the window and see the snow-capped mountains just below my feet. It feels like 800 feet above ground-level. We were flying north of the Himalayas, 36,000 feet above. Sache to the left and Almaty to the right, we were cruising through the middle.

The scene outside the window was magical. Snow covered mountains and clear skies; nothing else but the shades of blues and the whites.

Jammu and Kashmir lay further south on the map.

The terrain below is impossible and impassable. It looked like as if it had rained mountains. Mountain peaks as far as the eye could see. The view had been like this for a couple of hours, only the size and the colour of the mountain-tops changed.

A scene from Ice Age flashed before my eyes and I tried not to think of the unthinkable. Surviving a fall of a few hundred meters and being frozen to death is not my style. I don’t think I would make a good exhibit in some Discovery Museum in 2375 AD, either.

I hate the cold. I recall my memory and find consolation in the fact that no aircraft fell to its death in this region since the World War II.

I grin to myself and look at the time. We still have four hours to the destination. We are going to cruise above the clouds for a few more hours. We would take a left further ahead to fly over Pakistan, cross over to Iran and descend over Bandar Abbas to head towards the big city.

Nine hours of scenic beauty is what I’m going to enjoy this time. A few movies, two meals, and capture the view from the window with my mobile every so often – so I could put them together, quietly.

The Magic of Christmas Commercials

It was the early 80’s and we used to gather around and watch ITN every evening. Television was new and it was a fascination. There were no commercials, we saw Baccara perform “Yes sir, I can boogie” a few times a day in between programs. And there were fish swimming across the screen endlessly, if the break was too long. Television was ad-less, and Noeline Honter read the news.

Then came a few commercials. I remember the “Khairaz? Kotahena, Kotahena...” ad and the Anchor ad with Rosy Senanayake. She was Mrs World, but my eyes were set on Brooke Shileds. I watched Blue Lagoon at Rio quite a few times in uniform –like any good school boy from Colombo.

But most of all, amongst the handful of ads that ran, I remember the classic Coca-Cola ‘Hilltop’ Commercial.

Many years later, I found a career in advertising and my life was surrounded by commercials. But every time I think of a Christmas ad, “I’d like to buy the world a Coke...” echoes in my head. The tune is so catchy, often I find myself swinging my head like an Indian waiter in a London restaurant.

I guess I’m a sucker for “feel-good” commercials.

In my career as an ad-man, I had the good fortune of working with some world-class directors. Amongst them, is Eric Will, who directed this Christmas commercial for Orange.

The first time I saw it, I wanted to see it again. I knew there was little ‘something’ about the ad, but I couldn’t see it at once.

Then, I found the little magic of this commercial. Did you see it?

So, what is freedom?

Once upon a time in my life, every Thursday evening I used to leave the office before sunset, head off to the “Agency” and start the evening with a nice bottle of Montes Red with my booze-buddy, ES. Most of the time, it was the two of us bitching about the week gone by, and occasionally the rest of the clan would join us by the time we reach the bottom of the second bottle.

Between the end of the second bottle and Jack Daniels at Cyclone – where we ended up at wee hours in the morning – we would usually embark on conversations that took us from Romania and Turkey, to conquering the world. On the days that Ramsey was around, two of us would contemplate our retirement. Retiring to the beautiful island paradise that is Sri Lanka, and retiring to a lovely little beach resort somewhere on the beautiful coast along Unawatuna. An aspiring chef, pursuing his lifelong ambition and yours truly living on the beach for the love of the sea. Where did the wives and the kids fit in this grand scheme was not a concern – once you are well marinated in full-bodied grape juice from South America, life was a lot less complicated.

Time at the Agency was our moment of freedom. Our imagination took flights of fancy, we were free as birds, humming and brimming with ideas.

We were free. There were no balls-and-chains to tie us down. We’ve found our freedom and we were plotting and planning the impending, very long “island vacation.” We were dreaming of the beach-side joint where we sat and boasted about our globe-trotting days and how we managed to retire before grey-hair, to the most unsuspecting Turkish brunettes on holiday. Yes, we were planning to tap the Turkish market for local tourism.

Then, one day, just before we got the ball rolling, there was a huge Christmas wave that swept across the Indian Ocean, right from the island of Java to Madagascar. It was much bigger than our dream, and it washed away our plan, along with a few thousands of people who stood between.

The Asian Tsunami shattered our dream, and it added more pain to my already ruined married life. I moved back home to Sri Lanka, my paradise isle, soon afterwards.

I felt free, at last. I felt free, physically and mentally. The divorce contributed to the latter, and the former came with the territory.

I found freedom. I found independence. I was free from the stress and the hassles of life.

---

But then, what is freedom?

Is it liberty? Is it independence? Is it being “free-of” troubles and burdens? Is it just a wonderful philosophy that fails to manifest to our own satisfaction?

Whichever it is, freedom is relative, and it’s a topic that can go on forever.

---

In Saudi Arabia, the outsiders like us think the women are deprived of their freedom. In an already “closed” society, the women have no right even to step out of the door without the consent of the “one in charge” of the household. Even then, she would be in a ninja-suit, with a chaperone by her side who monitors every move she makes. Most Saudi men and the handful of Saudi women I know tend to find no fault with this system – even though some of them are educated in the West and are “exposed” to the other cultures and their ways of life.

Ignorance is bliss, they say.

While discovering this unique land, we were often welcomed and entertained by quite a few very hospitable Saudi nationals. Squatting in their meeting halls (majlis) we chatted at length on various topics and we discovered that their perception of freedom is very different from ours. Not surprisingly.

Once, we met a certain gentleman who likes to believe that he is a modern Saudi. He is someone who spends his summer holidays in Sharm Al Sheikh in Egypt or in Beirut, Lebanon.

We asked him if his wife also gets to take a summer break too.

“Insha allah, for sure...” he says with a big grin on his face.
“Great. You two must be enjoying your trips to Egypt and Lebanon..?”
“No way..!” he says.
We look at each other’s puzzled faces for a brief moment.
“So she doesn’t travel with you then?”
“That’s haram.” (= taboo) says our host with a definitive voice. Exposing their women to the evils of society such as night-clubs, music, women in bikinis is naturally “unsuitable” for their culture.
“Ok, so where does she go for her summer holiday?”
“Oh, I send her to her uncle in Riyadh”

The man spends his summer-break in Beirut (where the population boasts of eight females per every single male) and the woman is sent to her uncle, few miles down the road.

We promptly change the topic.

“I mean, unlike other traditional Saudi gentlemen, you seem to be a quite liberal” my friend says.
“Yep...” nods our host.
(We can talk to the guy about his wife – which is surprising. And we are impressed.)

“So your wife is more independent than the other women then?”
“Oh yes, she has all the freedom in the world...” he says.
“All the freedom in the world?” Vivid images of “free” Saudi women without their chaperones flash before my eyes for a nano second.
“She has all the freedom in the world... to do whatever I ask her to do..!”
comes the answer, and I hear triumphant drum-rolls in my head.

Like I said, freedom is very, very relative.

---

Image: “Liberty Leading the People” – Delacroix, Eugène Ferdinand Victor (1798–1863)

In love with Abha...

“This could easily be my paradise, my home” lying on the green grass in mid-afternoon, I thought to myself, as I brushed away the soft purple flowers that kept falling on me in the gentle breeze.

The sky was blue and the day was beautiful. Abha was basking in sunshine and looked gorgeous. I was in love with Abha.

I almost forgot that I haven’t seen any feminine contours in a while, they have disappeared under the shapeless black abayas in this land. I almost forgot that I’m with a dozen guys who’ve been on the road for a while. Scruffy, shabby and unshaven, we looked like a bunch of hooligans walking out of a Western movie set. One could’ve easily expected Clint Eastwood to be the next guy joining in the gang. A week of driving across the country, topped up with an agreement to stay unshaven did not constitute to anything pleasant in our image. (Remember the journey that started with the Yemeni tea? We are still on the road) We were a bunch of ugly guys, looking even more uglier by our own choice.

Abha could make any road-weary gentleman forget about his decency and do the most unusual, out of spontaneity; lying there, watching the blue skies above me, I thought to myself. I had an annual-grin that stretched from ear to ear, and I was happy. I was thinking, I was dreaming, and I was reminiscing. Life throws in little surprises at the most unexpected moments.

I was lying in a public park, in the most popular local tourist destination in Saudi Arabia – Abha. It felt like Nuwara Eliya this time of the year – 15 degrees centigrade. It felt like my post-A/L trip around the country with my buddies, only this time, I was staring at the sky, very much sober.

In a country where nothing but sand dunes stretch from one corner to the other, Abha is a beautiful oasis in the mountains that brings back memories of home. Sitting nearly 7,200 feet above sea level, the chilly evenings remind me of my growing-up years in Diyatalawa. Lying in the grass, I was picturing myself running around the Army Polo Grounds and collapsing on the green grass when I ran out of steam. Once down and rolled over with my back on the grass, arms and legs stretched in four directions, I never had the heart to stop watching the clouds race after one another. They would create strange formations while battling to gobble each other up. I would spot faces, animals, and fun shapes that kept appearing and disappearing against the blue backdrop – I could just lie there watching the sky forever. The marvel of nature never ceased to fascinate me. It was peace, it was serenity. It was one of those beautiful moments, simple pleasures, in life.

I was having a similar moment, a few decades later. In the most unexpected place, mid-afternoon. It was the same sky, no clouds, and there were pink flowers instead of the pine needles.

12 Simple Sins

Sach tags me on simple pleasures of life. So here I go, with my sins, in random order:

1. There’s nothing like a a lazy day in bed, snuggled up with the missus. Being a Leo has its own advantages, being a husband has its own privileges.
2. Post-dinner chats with my dad in the hill-country residence, sipping a good cuppa brewed from the local tea. Nothing beats the cold weather, hot-tea and an indulgence in enjoyable recollections of the past.
3. Spending time listening to my mom in the kitchen sitting in a little wooden bench, while watching her “order” around “achchie” telling her what to cook and how. (She does this every single day). Equally entertaining are the conversations with pans – my mother-in-law – who always finds a bright spark in every dark spot.
4. Champaign Thursday. Romantic, candle-lit dinner at home with the missus...
5. Watching the sunrise away from the hustle and bustle, from the middle of nowhere.
6. Reading bed time stories to my kids and occasionally falling asleep with them. God knows I miss them.
7. Feeding the crows from the balcony, early morning. That was before Prima bread went up in price and I moved out of the country.
8. Afternoon naps under the mango tree in Kataragama. Specially after a hefty meal of home-cooked Sri Lankan cuisine that usually consists of wewu-maalu, parippu and pol-sambol and other delicacies.
9. Music and the open road. The open road that usually leads to Bandarawela, Kataragama or Habarana; yes I love the long drives.
10. Stopping by a roadside joint for a cup of plain tea with a piece of jaggery; accompanied by a laveriya or a piece of kithul-piti.
11. Making fun of my nephews and nieces and teasing them about their “kabal” schools.
12. Occasional cartoon or a silly movie where I get to behave like a five-year old, all over again.

Now I’d like to pass the turn to Jerry and DeeCee to enlighten us with their pleasures in life.

Cheers!

It’s March, It’s the Big Match Season!

The Big Match is around the corner. I’m excited, as if I am in Grade 7. There is something magically attractive about this whole affair. It’s not the Stag Night or the final scoreboard that matters – it’s the whole feeling, it’s the whole package that makes one want to cross the seven seas to get there.

My flights are booked, tickets bought, transport arranged. It so happens that I arrive in Colombo on the first day of the match – giving me just enough time to enjoy the rush-hour traffic jam; leaving me with very little time for the ritualistic three S’s in the morning – shower, shave (and of course you know the first one), before dashing off to the grounds.

March, is a significant month in my calendar for two reasons. One, the match. Two, it’s the month of my unofficial anniversary. Things hit a new note between yours truly and the love of his life on the first day of the big-match a few years ago; and this year, the two shall meet one another for the first time: I have decided to take the Mrs to the match.

Apparently, the only sort of “pre-nup” we have is about the match it seems, as she recollects. I had wanted to ensure that I have safe passage to Colombo every March, no matter which corner of the world we would be living in. Yes, for the rest of my life. And she did agree.

I guess that was smart, and I was lucky, to have that sorted out before it ever became an issue to anyone. No woman in her rightful mind would deprive her man of the joy of this wonderful camaraderie of ‘Royal’ life. Aah, the long-lost friends, their adventures with the feminine kind, the wonderful stories, the memories of yesteryear... all cheered and toasted with an ample supply of food and drink – the match is a lot more than just a match.

Enough said. The big match is the Big Match. For everything else, there’s MasterCard.

Being Happy in Paradise...

So there we were. A regular weekday evening at my place, my two kids watching television while the grown-ups discussing life at large.

Like any good old Sri Lankan tête-à-tête, the conversation begins with politics. As we progress and discuss the new happenings, we swear at the idiots who ru(i)n the country. We curse them and their mothers for the misery they have brought upon us. Paradise ruined, in front of our very own eyes – almost within a short period that is slightly longer than the life cycle of an amoeba.

One says that the islanders of Paradise are amongst the happiest people on earth – even though there is misery, death and man-made disasters surrounding us everyday, dominating the news headlines.

From there, the conversations weaves in to discovering what “HAPPINESS” truly means to us.

The kids have their eyes glued to the television, but their ears are interested in the adult conversation. They are the new generation multi-tasking kids, who are capable of handling 5.4 tasks at any given time, according to Martin Lindstrom – the author of Brand Child.

Sitting in my lap, my little one throws-in her two cents: “Paap, paap, this home is my happinest” she quips, and promptly returns to her favourite programme on television.

A shocked silence amongst the adults prevails for a nano-second. My home is my happy-nest!

We are yet again amazed at the Kindergarten wisdom.

---

There she was, with her eyes glued to the television...

One thousand one hundred & one days in Taprobane

I’ve smoked. I’ve been drunk. From enjoying Arrack and Wild Elephant to talking about good manners in drinking, and ethics in advertising, I have had a good time spending life in Taprobane.

I’ve admired the beauty of Sri Lankan women. Talked about the typical Lankan wives and how romance blossoms in paradise – islander style. I have questioned the level of tolerance in Buddhism, and irritated a few war-mongers in their quest for dividing the land.

Life in Taprobane has been quite a journey, considering some of the most colourful crew at the time – Boycy, Curious Yellow, Hot Chocolate, Venus-Metamorphosed, Lazy Owl and Janapathi etc – have fallen off the band wagon. Their wit and wisdom is surely missed, may their virtual souls rest in peace.

Looking back, ’06 wasn’t a bad year, but ’07 was the worst. I had more posts in the early part of this month, than the whole bloody Year of Oh-Seven. My life was a roller-coaster as usual, and blogging was the last thing on my mind. Besides, too many late nights and excessive levels of alcohol in my system weren’t very conducive to writing either. Alcohol makes one talk, not write – and it showed.

Perhaps that year was jinxed because I started with a wise crack: “Life is trying things to see if they work” I posted, and nothing worked in my favour. Except for some very significant developments in my personal life, the blog was as good as dead.

There’s a whole lot of gibberish that I usually write, with some occasional wisdom. Wisdom, when I’m sober and sane. Not that there aren’t any brilliant thoughts that blink above my head when I’m drunk; they just come out sounding so stupid, no matter how intelligent I feel.

Smoking, drinking and social issues are my fave’s; either because I’ve been there, done that or I am being there, doing that. When I wrote a few posts on politics in the beginning, some wise woman told me to stay away for my own good. Since I have a natural tendency to respect the boobs, I left the affairs of the parliament in the very capable hands of some other idiots in the silly lankan blogsphere. My fingers itch to write political posts from time to time, but I scratch the itch myself and refrain from entertaining MR & the crew in my blog. No politics. Period. I would always remember the boob-advice.

Then again, every so often I hear some BS about Paradise, my blood boils, and I walk the line. I irritate a few people, my friends pretend they don’t know me – I lay low, and things get back to normal. And the blogging goes on.

Blogging is a funny business. And I have met a few good associates.

Amongst them, DeeCee set a record by sending me more than a dozen comments on different posts in just a matter of few hours. “Terminal Boredom!” – she said, no one has ever been that interested in, or enthusiastic about, my blog. Ever.

So, she became my biggest fan. Instantly, naturally, and officially.

Lady Divine wins the trophy for the most long-standing ardent female reader – she has been there in Taprobane for a while. Sittingnut wins the manly version of the said virtual award. In retrospect, I wonder how did these two, and many other avid enthusiasts put up with my crap for this long – especially considering the fact that my posts change their theme or genre like the weather at the World’s End.

Life in Taprobane celebrates 1,101 days in blogsphere. *lights fire works* (Kevun, kiribath, served.)

Thank yous anyways to all of you are here – you have been a bunch of good souls, really.

The Best Ever Wedding Present...

Good Morning Jeddaaa-aah..!

Its Friday morning, and its the weekend. I get woken up a distant sound ever so familiar. My phone ringing under the pillow. The rest of the world is awake, and it’s almost noon in Paradise.

A quick monologue, few sleepy nods follow. I throw the phone away, it hits a pillow, bumps off and settles in between the pillows.

“Spring rolls?” said Spikey’s mom at the dinner table, and he looks at me for a nano-second with his big, gleaming eyes. “Boing, boing, boing...” he goes bouncing his tiny hand along the table... I almost fall off the chair.

It’s Spikey’s first encounter with “spring” rolls that aren’t bouncy.

I trot along to the loo and sit on the throne. I’m too sleepy to take aim, such a hassle for a sleepy head.

I turn the kettle on, the TV, the decorder and switch the A/C off and collapse on the comfortable sofa. In that order, every time.

There’s some news on something interesting on FwanceVienQat(re). My eyes fail to focus. I switch to Rotana Hits instead and watch a some pretty Lebanese singer shake her well-endowed assets. She’s pretty. And the track sounds amazing, with a hint of Mediterranean influence. I detect a touch of Greekness in the song.

I remember Athena. The orange tree near the doorstep. Cyprus. Just like the video on screen. I forget her gay-brother’s name. He used to work with me, in the good old days.

My head is full of splashes of happy memories in the morning. The coffee in the making is going to ruin all that, and wake me up in a minute.

So, Where do you see yourself in 5 years?

Four years ago, I returned to Colombo and started working in a relatively close-knit company. The owner of the company knew if the tea-boy farted. The internal politics were that extreme.

On the first day of work, I summoned my team and asked them what were their aspirations in life. All but five had any idea of their tomorrow. One wanted to be a restaurant manager, one wanted to be a creative director, another wanted to be a happily married housewife. The other two also had ambitions of similar nature.

Fifteen out of twenty didn’t know what the heck they wanted in life. They were just drifters. Educated, and salaried. They were content with the way things were, they were happy going to work and coming home, day after day. They didn’t think of anything beyond.

I was shocked. I was shocked at their complacency, I was shocked that they didn’t have any goals set in their careers.

Perhaps, they never had to. According to a recent global survey, my Paradise is one of the happiest places on earth, where people live happily ever-after. Some of them must have been genuinely happy with their monotonous life, the others of course knew where to kiss, in order to get by.

People rarely got fired in that company. Most companies in Sri Lanka don’t fire people easily.

I was brought-in, to make a difference. As promised, I brought that company a refreshing change. I shook the dust off the old establishment and gave them a fresh outlook. I improved their creative product and gave them the confidence to compete. I shouted, and screamed, and persuaded them to excel in their work.

Barely a year later, I was fired.

Telling the owner to f–off a few days earlier must have expedited the outcome.

Nevertheless, it was the best thing that ever happened to me that year. It couldn’t have come at a worse time, but it made me realise my true potential.

It gave me wings.

In the previous Big Red Agency where I worked in Dubai for over 13 years, one would get fired for not having any initiative. Being complacent and aimless in their career was an open invitation to get fired. An average employee did not last longer than two to three years.

Things were that simple, and that difficult.

In Paradise, however, things happen the other way around. Float along aimlessly with the typical islander attitude, and you are as settled as a rock on the seashore.