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. :)

Very Merry Christmas!

So it is Christmas. The first, since the guns have gone silent in the North.

Part of our country still lives in limboland, not knowing how or where they would be, tomorrow. Homeless, refugees, IDP’s, war-victims – call them whatever you may. It is sad to see some people still live in tents, five years after the tsunami. Like they say, here in Paradise, change comes very slowly. Sometimes, painfully slowly. How long would it be before we hear the Christmas carols from homes beyond IDP Shelters, is still anyone’s guess.

Reality around us quite sad and sombre.

The world beyond our little island is infested with floods, natural disasters and other calamities. There is a volcano waiting to exhale in the Philippines.

There were floods in the middle of the desert in Saudi Arabia and Oman, the penguins are bracing for a smaller Arctic, and the Chinese have bought Volvo and Saab. What is going on in our little planet, I wonder.

Then, under the blue skies of Paradise, I discover that a bad week or a lousy couple of decades cannot take away the legendary Sri Lankan smile. This Christmas, I notice an aura of happiness, contentment and relief around us.

Amidst disaster and general misfortune, we find a reason to smile. We are known for our smile, and the optimism behind. We are known to forget the yesterday easily. We are known for our ability to look beyond petty issues like global warming and worry about more important matters such as who should be the next President. Or who would win the game of cricket tonight. Or would there be enough parking at Odel.

Be it politics, cricket, shopping or life-at-large, we live in eternal hope. When hope fails, we move on with a big smile and a bigger level of optimism. All in all, there is hope in Paradise. Abundant.

We, the islanders of Paradise, are a happy bunch. Or a funny bunch, rather. And I like being one.

Let’s hope for a better tomorrow for all of us.

Merry Christmas everyone!

Computers for Baboons

So there I was. Counting the minutes at the Gate 7 at the Colombo International Airport since 5 O’clock in the morning. I had arrived early, the Emirates flight carrying my kiddos were due at 8.30 am. Nope, I’m not bonkers to drive to the airport that early, it just so happened that I arrived in the island the same morning.

After what felt like an eternity – and a few random conversations with some strangers on transit – the kids arrive sound and safe as I flipped the pages of Who moved my Cheese for the umpteenth time.

Hugs, kisses and pleasantries exchanged, documents signed and kids are “formally” handed over to me by the ground staff. And off we go – rushing to meet my wife who has been eagerly waiting at the arrivals lounge. We proceed to the immigration counter and I produce all three passports. The immigration officer punches a few keys on his computer and informs me that the kiddos aren’t eligible for visa on arrival. Me being the Paradisian, has no issues, but my own kids aren’t allowed entry to the country.

He tells me that there are only 80-odd eligible countries in the list and the passports that my kids carry aren’t in the list. I know they are, this isn’t the first time they are visiting the island.

I request the officer to check by the passport numbers – since they’d previously held Sri Lankan Residence Visa the reference should be in their system. Bloody hell, this is my country and my kids should be granted visa on arrival, even if they came from Mars.

As I peep across the counter to see what’s going on, I discover the officer punching-in the passport number without selecting the matching country from the drop-down menu. The guy hammers the “enter” key even without glancing at the screen.

The result: Afghanistan. The country at the top of the list. And no visa for Afghans on arrival.

I grit my teeth, take a deep breath, count to 10 and ask him to select the country carefully. The blithering idiot repeats the same performance and insists that I should have applied for kids visa before arriving in the island..!

I was too tired to argue with idiots, or to spare him a lesson from Computer for Dummies. I demand to see his immediate boss.

The supervisor checks the kids’ passports, puts a note on the disembarkation cards, walks over to the same counter and orders the man to stamp the passports. The circus monkey stamps the passports and enters the details – yet again under “Afghanistan” in the computer. Suddenly, I had kids who are related to Mulla Omar and those long-bearded extremists that sleep with their goats.

I have no idea how many tourists were awarded the Afghan nationality that morning at the Colombo International Airport. Hope none had any issues on their departure.

At least my two didn’t, thankfully.

So, What takes you to the toilet?

I know quite a few folks who find inspiration in the bathroom.

I also know creatives who find ideas while they are in the bath, having a shower or sitting in the throne. (No wonder some ads are shisse, right?)

Jokes apart, taking a piss could be quite an inspirational moment too. So much so, a colleague of mine who is a Chicago-based senior creative, used to call every loo-break an “opportunity to find an idea.” Do we find inspiration, do we find ideas, or do we “come-up” with an idea is another point of discussion, but what genuinely baffles me is the connection people have with their bathroom to their brains. Be it a quick dump or an hour-long soak in a bubble bath with a glass of bubbly and someone to share. Both bath, and the bubbly.

I know someone who would take a good book, a pack of cigarettes and shut the door behind – only to spend the whole night on the throne and emerge in the morning with a big smile on her face. A night on the throne without any disturbance and a book covered from cover to cover. (I often used to wonder if she read naked. I wasn’t married then, and I was allowed to have such wonderful thoughts.)

Going back to the topic. I also know people who take the Daily Mirror to the toilet. Then there are some of us who read trash and gossip columns while attending to the matters. Then there are the ones who go in with a book of Sudoku, or a crossword. Oh, the intellectual type.

I’m not even going to talk about the ones who take Playboy to the bathroom.

The new generation (jeez, I feel so old) has their inseparable gadgets and their digital life continues non-stop without a loo-break. Soon there might be a day when there’s a little stamp at the end of a mail that reads “sent from the loo, via my Blackberry.” Be it the Blackberry, the iPhone or a simple phone with a tiny monochrome monitor, 140-character input is all you need to stay in touch with the world. Besides, one’s private life ain’t so private anymore thanks to social networking, and there is no harm in letting the world know that you are taking a good dump. Besides, that’s a sign of good health too. Right?

So what do you take to the toilet? A book? The newspaper? Your mobile? Or just a quick cigarette? I’m not talking about the days you are constipated, I was just wondering about our habitual rituals and morning regimes...

In the Meantime...

Finally, the storm has subsided and there is calmness in my life. Last three months have been extremely hectic and chaotic. Four new business pitches: two short-listed and one won. Eighteen-hour days for three straight months is potentially dangerous to one’s health – I would’ve strangled someone if not for the two quick trips to my paradise isle in-between. Sri Lanka, the small miracle, is an amazing stress reliever. A quick trip is a quick fix, and it works like magic, always. A drink by the sea, a bite of seafood, some quality time with the family and friends and a long drive around the country is just what the doctor ordered.

Then there was Ramadan: the season of fasting and feasting. It is also the season to contemplate and reflect upon life. Since it is the time to forgive and forget, I made some sincere efforts to iron out some hostilities of the past, and succeeded. I’m not the one to hold any grudges, life is too short and too precious to be upset with (and continue to be upset with) people.

Ramadan came and went, sending me off to Sri Lanka just before the Eid-break. Would’ve chosen Beirut or Istanbul if the circumstances were different, but home is home always. Missed out on the usual feasts of biriyani and watalappam – especially the yummy one that comes our way from Spikey’s grandma every year. Instead, we were cooling off in our Kataragama retreat, enjoying the wonderful food and company of “Pans” and the clan. The river seems to have a consistent water-flow since the dam was built, making it the ideal natural spa all year round. A sip of Cranberry+Vodka when immersed neck-deep in river-water tastes a million times better than any Cape Cod I’ve tasted anywhere in the world.

Anyhow, I’m glad that the mad rush is over. I’m rejuvenated and ready for the next lap, back in the holy city of Jeddah.

In the meantime, amongst other worldly happenings:

• Got tagged. Will define what love means to me, in due course. Promise.
• Hijinx and Delilah contemplated quitting. They even wrote the last chapters. Glad they didn’t.
• Got the Saudi driving licence in a day. Was pleasantly surprised to discover that their “computer exam” is offered in Sinhala too – even though I chose English to be on the safer side.
• Received a Dentsu global nomination for some work I’ve done last year.
• Was a member of the jury judging a public awareness campaign in Saudi Arabia.
• Bought the brand new Golf. Being a car that runs less than 10km a day, it is going to take a long time for me to break-in the engine before I could take it for a spin...
• Dee does the much-awaited video collage. Nice.
• My birthday passed by without a sip of alcohol. A record in 15 years, if not more.
• Realised that I am much happier than 10 years ago – even though I have less assets and less people to boss-around.
• Got in touch with the kids, thanks to the ex-wife who decided that the communication channels should now be open. So there’s a lot of Skype and time online. Much to catch up; much less time for blogging. Sorry, priorities are priorities.

Treadmill vs Chicken Kurma and Sex

Been extremely busy. Missed out on a few important things – like Mak’s art exhibition. Amazed at her imagination and talent, but it raised just one question in my mind: aren’t we all a skinny bunch? I mean slim n trim, in a sort of ‘healthy’ way? Except for the fat, dead guy that is.

I’m glad even the old dudes like yours truly and RD are still good-looking. I mean no pot bellies or anything. If only you know how hard it is to burn 400 calories on a treadmill... keeping fit becomes a major headache when one crosses the big three zero, especially when one is confined to an office job. Four hundred calories is like a plate of Chicken Kurma you get at the Elite Restaurant. To put things in perspective, it’s takes five hours of intense sex to burn that much of fat. Come to think of it, I like chicken kurma, and I love sex – only foreseeable problem is the “five hour” factor...

Nevertheless.

Stayed away from the Lankan blogsphere for just a while, and see what they have done. Jerry ditches Blogspot, migrates to Wordpress. Traitor.

Chavie sports a new look. Now that he has the driving license, I guess he could consider stop running. Black isn’t black, it’s psychedelic. At least the title. And the new-found three-wheel fella is quite entertaining. Thanks Dee for the discovery.

DD is third world? Totally new look or is it some kind of a trick I wonder.

But, I’m most puzzled by my inability to create a link to Gadget Girl’s blog. Just noticed that it has switched from GG to VVG – and no more purple socks on my blogroll. I guess GG and VVG are one and the same person – there had been far too many cases of mistaken identity in the recent past in the blogsphere, I don’t want to jump to conclusions just yet.

The weeds, turds and trolls seem to have died and gone to hell. And there is relative calm for the time being.

Now that I have caught up with most of the posts that I’ve missed, it’s time to get ready to watch the T20. Sri Lanka and Pakistan deserve to be in the final – they need to wrap up the game that ended up in a military helicopter ride.

Reading a Blog: Tarantino Style

Monday evening, chilling at home. While catching up with the Lankan blogshepere, I find a rather strangely-titled post in Kalusudda’s blog. “Cruel Story of Youth (Seishun Zankoku Monogatari)” it reads.

Click, click and I’m reading the comments. You know there are moments when one’s choice to read a blog or not depends on the length of the post? I was living one such moment. So I start with the comments and begin reading the post, down-up.

The last paragraph, first.

Then the one before. And the one before that.

Soon, I was reading the entire post ‘down-up’ and found myself enjoying the ‘suspense’ in the chaotic order. Like a Tarantino movie.

And... it worked. The post made perfect sense.

The Stupidest Thomian Ever!

The were two students in my O’ Level class who didn’t know how to write their names – even after completing 10 years in school. These two were fortunate enough to attend the best school in the country, even though they were born in the poor shanty town behind St Michael’s Road, Colpetty. The college had to accept the kids residing within the two-mile-radius by default. Since there was no “failing” system in the school, it was auto-pilot until grade 10 for the bright and the dim alike.

Whether they were studious or not, even the stupidest Royalist I know has some common sense. The only exception alive is RW, who continues to make a mockery of himself and the green party he represents.

And finally, our arch rival St Thomas’ College has produced a finest example of stupidity personified, and this one beats RW by a good mile. I was sympathetic to this idiot from STC and little did I know that he was a delusional low-life. The guy is so stupid, that he went and posted “ChiliChocolate” blog under his own name “Branding Blog by NB” and was waging a war with himself.

And the cheap, spineless bastard that he is, picks on two innocent, helpless female bloggers – Mayanthi and Indiyana and black-mails them, forcing them to quit blogging.

Pussy.

My sincere apologies people, for (once upon a time) I too believed that his voice also should be heard in the blogsphere.

Of Gazelles and What Swims the Arabian Sea

After a little over 7,000 kilometres and twenty days on the road, we find ourselves at the end of the journey in Dammam – the gateway to Bahrain on the East Coast of Saudi Arabia. The gora’s (the white skinned) look pink, they have peeled-off quite a few times. Yours truly, the tropical islander – “supposedly” well-seasoned in the sun, is also peeling. Sunburn has been quite harsh on anyone and everyone. Tito’s über cool shades covered most the face except the tip of the nose and the tanning process has worked wonderfully well, leaving him with a black nose. He looks hilarious.

We look horrendous. Ridiculously happy, nevertheless. Happy to have completed the mission and we decide to spend the last few hours around a good dinner table and go our separate ways at sunrise. Pity there are no night clubs or bars in town to raise a glass of toast, so it is going to be soup instead of champagne tonight. Crossing the bridge to Bahrain was a thought, but then, some of the crew had issues with re-entry visas.

Bahrain has to wait for another time, unfortunately.

A wonderful seafood dinner is on the cards, at a restaurant that “you will not forget” says ZeeZoo, the man-in-charge of sustenance. After his previous promises and delivery, we are quite sceptic about the promise, but then again, if you are not ready for adventure, you wouldn’t be here in the first place. He has been feeding us with road-side junk food, and the hospitable locals have been offering traditional Arabic rice and meat: Kharouf and Kabsa everywhere we went. With a slow – but definite – growth of a noticeable belly-pot, it is time to stay away from the local cuisine, however hospitable and generous they are.

Seafood sounds a welcome change, so seafood it shall be.

A shower and a quick peek at the inbox, and we are ready to discover what swims in the Arabian Gulf, and how they would taste on my dinner plate. A brief drive (yes, 35 km IS brief for those who just drove across the country) and we are at a restaurant that is pretty much occupied by men in crispy white thorbes and chequered head-gear. It’s not easy to find a table for a dozen, in a busy restaurant. Looks like we made a fatal error in not reserving a table beforehand.

However, the restaurant host doesn’t want to disappoint us. He is keen on entertaining us, and we are taken up the stairs, around a few nooks and corners, and shown in to a private dining room.

Suddenly, we find ourselves tele-ported in time. From a regular restaurant, we were ushered in to the Barouqe era, and there is a huge gap between the two sides of the door that separates them. Inside the door is a room that reminds me of Anastasia and the Russian Empire. Or it could be a page from the Arabian Nights with a touch of Morocco. I was too tired, and too hungry, to decide which it would be. Could be both, or neither – it looks like an interior experiment horribly gone wrong. The décor is far from my minimalist taste.

The room has two regal tables that sits possibly a dozen and a two. There are some lazy sofas on one side, furnished in velvet, and supplemented with cushions that are decorated with intricate handwork: lace, frills, fancies, mirror-work and the whole nine yards. In the middle is a hand-painted star-shaped coffee table that’s detachable, in case if you want to keep your coffee next to you.

The floor is carpeted, wall to wall. The ceiling has detailed patterns carved and coloured with soft yellows, blues and the pinks. Walls adorn various paintings, trophies, and memorabilia.

And, for a moment, I didn’t know whether to call it a dining room or a museum.

The wall right in front of us held the prize winner: a torso of a huge stuffed gazelle (or an Arabian Oryx, I have no idea). Big beady eyes and majestic look – he surely must have been a gorgeous creature roaming the earth before he came to the seafood restaurant.

On the left wall, there was a stuffed lamb on a pedestal. Tiny thing, that would’ve found itself useful in Sri Lanka around Christmas. Then there was this angry looking dog-like thing – possibly some kind of a hyaena – frozen in time in another corner. Obviously his angry look or the ferocious bite that could’ve been, didn’t work in his favour either. Poor thing: all guts, no glory; I thought to myself. There were some stuffed birds as well, but you get the picture. Right?

I resorted to a culinary expedition I’m comfortable with: spicy seafood soup, baked lobster with cheese, followed by a platter of grilled seafood. They also had the best bread fresh from the oven, the food was just amazing.

All in all, it was a fitting finalé to the road trip.

And Zeezoo was finally right – I won’t forget the place. For two reasons: the great food and shocking décor.

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.

April ain’t Christmas, but it’s New Year!

I get woken up at the wee hours in the morning with some door-bell ringing under my pillow. It isn’t the time to contemplate or question why I set the door-bell ringtone as the SMS alert, my brain isn’t awake yet.

So it is the Sinhala Tamil New Year in Paradise, and the wishes keep pouring in, filling up my SMS inbox. For some unfortunate mortals like us – who are far away from home – it’s yet another day at work. Another day, another dollar. Be it Tokyo, Shanghai, Jeddah, Toronto, Connecticut or London.

From what I hear, the mood at home is not as celebratory as it would have been, or should have been. There is a certain somber feeling in the air – all of us are feeling the suffering of our fellow countrymen. There may be joy and happiness over-pouring in one’s own cocoon, but the island at large isn’t in the mood for fire-crackers and laughter. We cannot ignore the war. It doesn’t matter which side of the earth-bund your opinion lies, this is one of the most significant days in our calendar that reminds us how closely inter-knitted, and inseparable, the Tamils and the Sinhalese are, in Paradise.

Economic situation has only added to the misery. Pavements of Nugegoda used to be very different just before the New Year, in the good old days. The excitement is gradually disappearing year by year – slowly, but surely. Or I’m just getting old sooner than I ever imagined.

I call home, wish my parents. And call my favourite cousin who has been giving me some attitude, just because I didn’t ask him to pick me up from the airport when I arrived in Colombo for the big-match last month. I thought I was doing him a favour, but wasn’t so it seems. Amends made, albeit some sense of hostility. Some of us Sri Lankans get offended if favours aren’t imposed on them.

I make a few more calls and pull myself out of the bed. Do the usual round and settle for some pita bread and hommus. I wish I had a nice “avurudu” (New Year) breakfast, instead. Kevun, kesel, kiribath...

I turn the television on, and sit in front of my laptop with a cup of tea.

Gmail.

Well, I have a pleasant surprise. A new year gift, all the way from Tokyo. Sach the one nominates a couple of my blogposts for the Top 100 Sri Lankan Blog Posts Book Project by Cerno. One on Sri Lankan Superbrands and the other on Being a Single-Dad in Colombo. Whether they get published or not, this, indeed, is a grand gesture from a fellow blogger.

Suddenly, it feels like New Year. In the middle of the desert in Saudi Arabia.

Sach, thank you. And may a hundred Sakura flowers shower on you when you walk the lonely streets of Tokyo.

And, Happy New Year – to all of you.

Toyota Corolla vs the Apollo 11

During a meeting with one of my clients yesterday, I made a startling discovery. Startling to me, because I never paused to actually think of such mundane things in life.

Can you believe the car you drive in pot-hole filled narrow streets of paradise is more intelligent than the rocket that carried people to the moon and back? Today’s Toyota cars (as well as the others) boast of so much sophistication and technology, the Apollo 11 fades in comparison. From the more familiar VVT-i, SRS and ABS to Vehicle Stability Control (VSC) – to satellite navigation and auto parking – cars today carry more computer chips than Armstong’s lunar vehicle. Can you ever even think of comparing a trip to the moon with your grocery-run?

The first ever Apple Mac that I used in Sri Lanka was the Classic II in 1991, probably the first ever to arrive in the island. It had a 512k hard disk. To put things in perspective, that’s half a floppy disk, 0.05% of 1GB USB stick, and smaller than most of my emails.

It had a black & white screen with less resolution than a PDA or an iPhone.

In the early ’80s, I sat in front of a Home Computer for the first time in my life. It was a Sinclair ZX81, that was plugged in to the TV screen that acted as the monitor. And I wrote my first programme, beginning with: Let “milk” = X...

Today, there are no “Home Computers” and I walk around with a laptop that’s capable of editing Toy-Story, in my back-pack.

My work as an Art Director in an advertising agency for the whole year of 1996 is archived in a 88MB Syquest Disk. Now I consume more data in chatting with my family on Skype in just 3 hours.

Our domestic telephone line in Nugegoda had just four digits. Diyatalawa house had just three digits and we had to call the “exchange” and “book a trunk call” and wait by the phone for anything between 5 to 30 minutes for them to connect the calls. Now I walk around with a little gadget in my pocket that not only connects me to anywhere in the world, but also takes pictures, records audio and video, and checks email as well as offers a multitude of other tasks.

My mother waited for six years to get a telephone connection in the early 1980’s. It takes less than an hour today, kind of an OTC (Over-the-counter) affair, just like buying medicine from a pharmacy really.

My father paid a sum of Rs 62.50 to STC Prep as Grade 1 admission fees when I was a kid. The fee included books as well as the term fees. I paid around Rs 140,000 to have my son admitted to one of the Colombo schools, and the books weren’t even included. That’s over 2,200 times more, in just 30 years!

All this, I have witnessed in my lifetime. And I’m not even 40 yet!

Newton’s Law & the Undesirable Bloggers of Paradise

I know I should’ve paid more attention in my advanced level Physics class – to the subject, not to the pretty teacher. Mrs K was quite something, even more so complicated than the subject she taught. She was the kind of teacher every young lad wishes for, and she was the kind of teacher who makes every boy-student wish he was good ten years older. Never thought that the boring stuff in A/L class would ever be used in real life, but suddenly, I find myself with a keen interest in Physics, Newton’s Laws, to be precise.

Newton’s first law, which is often referred to as the law of inertia, is simplified as:

“A body persists its state of rest or of uniform motion, unless acted upon by an external unbalanced force.”

There had been quite a number of “unbalanced forces” acting upon the “bodies that were in a state of rest or of uniform motion” in the local blogsphere, and the results have been quite entertaining to watch. Some were well deserved victims of such forces, but some, like DeeCee weren’t. The poor lass got hit by shrapnel, very hard.

“To every action there is an equal and opposite reaction”

says his third law. This, somehow, seems invalid in Paradise, just like the recession and the laws of economics that doesn’t affect the island nation. We seem to defy convention somehow. “Equal and opposite reaction” is not what the bloggers who lack good judgement and common sense practiced in Paradise, they just took pleasure in hitting hard and blowing things out of proportion. Worse than my 11 year old son playing Counter-Strike on a good day. At the end of the game, there was shite all over the place. Lots of casualties, but the terrorists are still at large.

Blowing things out of proportion is not heroism, unless you are mentally disturbed or secretly Taliban. As far as I know, we the bloggers of Paradise are a peaceful bunch who enjoy a certain level of camaraderie and we do not entertain trolls, bullies or anything undesirable in our back yards. Arrogance has no place in the civilised world. Threats don’t mean shite to us. Professionalism is not limited to worlds, it’s how one conducts himself in public that matters. Age is not in the numbers, its the maturity demonstrated that matters.

One of the best advices I have received in my adult life, is from a great man I admire the most. Talking of what he would wished me to be, my father uttered just two words. He said, “be nice.” Yes, son, just be nice to people.

Going back to Newton, the law number two says:

“The alteration of motion is ever proportional to the motive force impressed; and is made in the direction of the right line in which that force is impressed.”

Which, simply put means, if the Bloggers United push the undesirable ones out in a certain direction, he is bound to travel in one straight line. Straight to hell.

Now, that’s a thought.

The second law also explains Gravitation, which reminds us of how hard we could fall, no matter how high we fly.

Thank you Newton, now I understand how Physics and the forces work, should I ever decide to put them to test.

And... We Are Back!

As I was flying back to my prison, I had my last gin and tonic just before the SriLankan A320 entered the Saudi airspace. I held the disposable plastic cup in my hand for a brief moment, and gulped down the contents promptly, stretched myself to relieve my benumbed nether regions and prayed to God that there won’t be any hassle at the Saudi Customs. Not because a considerable amount of my blood cells have been displaced by a great volume of alcohol – thanks to my liquid diet over the last 5-6 days – I was seriously worried about the two books on Buddhism hidden amongst the other reading material in my back-pack. Detecting the books on Buddhism could lead to alcohol, and vice versa – both of which are banned in the Holy Land of the Moslems. Saudi authorities are known to be one of the worst (if not the worst) in the entire world, one must be unfortunate enough to experience them first-hand to understand the true meaning of this statement.

A knew a British couple who lived in Jeddah a while ago. Their latest addition to the family was born in the Kingdom and the couple decided to head back to England for the Christmas holidays. They were stopped at the airport and not allowed to leave, because the baby’s birth certificate claimed he’s a Christian, just like the parents. Naturally.

Technically, and according to tradition, NO non-Moslem is born in the Holy land of the Moslems.

The parents had two options. Change the kid’s religion – which could take as long as “Inshah Allah” takes, or call the British Embassy for assistance. They resorted to the latter and managed to head home just in time for the annual family gathering, albeit the hassle and delay at the airport over silly technicalities.

Then there was this other friend of mine who was followed around the block by the religious Police in an unmarked car, as he went jogging along, one fine Friday morning. He was stopped, taken in, and detained for 24 hours – for “wasting time and not getting ready to get to the mosque for Friday prayers on time.”

These, and many other horror stories were flashing before me as I stood there at the long queue at the Customs. I was thanking my gin and tonic intake for preparing me for a possible good night’s sleep on a cold cement bench somewhere, should the unthinkable happen.

My bones were cold, and I felt frozen in time. I felt the longest minute in my life as I waited for my turn.

Five minutes later, I discovered God.

I mean, I discovered that he exists. Somewhere. Somewhere, where he could watch me, and watch over me.

For a brief but essential moment, he was looking down on me. No hassle, no harassment at the Customs and and He let me out in a flash. I almost regretted the fact that I didn’t copy some naughty movies to my iPod, or tuck-in some Playboy magazines, but then again, that would have been pushing my luck, just a tad too much.

I think even the Almighty himself agrees that there is no punishment worse than having to spend time in Saudi Arabia. This country is not exactly the most desirable place on earth – and He must have spared me from the tiny trouble at the Customs. He must have been looking at the big picture and spared the details, since I am paying for my sins already.

I’m sure He must have watched me with a cheeky grin on his gracious face as I walked out of the terminal unhindered by the authorities – to my own prison, at my own will...

God or not, I was out – unharmed and untouched, and in one piece.

So here I am, back after the Big Match. And the Stag Night. And the Cabaret. And the Russian Lesbo act. And... and, and... lots of things that are “haram” in the land of the two Holy Mosques.

Here I am, miles and miles away from home, away from my Paradise isle. Here I am, back in my virtual life in Taprobane.

Much has happened in my absence, much to be read and much to be digested and deliberated. There is the Part 3 and beyond of the “Advertising in Sri Lanka” that needs to be written – all in due time, since time is all I’d have in abundance in the days to come.

Temporary Notice

International Men’s Day: An X-rated thought

International Women’s Day passes by and Jerry wonders why can’t men have a day reserved for them too.

I too was thinking more in the lines of a day for us once a month, not once a year.

I was actually thinking why couldn’t men have the power to control the “egg” business? I mean the fertility thing that keeps the human race alive? What if we were shooting blanks all the time and once a month we shot the real thing?

There wouldn’t be any need for condoms – the couples could do what they are meant to do the way the nature intended, without anything getting in-between, right?

There won’t be any “Oh my god, I forgot the pill” businesses and we wouldn’t have to run around pharmacies or pineapple markets, either.

Guys will never be spending weeks and weeks in “wonderland” in torment and agony wondering if the female party is actually pregnant, our life would be totally stress-free for sure.

And most of all, the tables would turn... it would be up to US to populate the world – as and when WE fancy, and as and when we are in the mood! The women would be begging us – and the world would be at our mercy, totally!!!

Plus, once a month holiday... to get drunk and make sure the real thing doesn’t go anywhere near a woman – friend or foe!

Just imagine the perks...

Oh wow!

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.

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.

Thank you, Your Holiness. Awesome Speech!

The world is going to miss the classic statements that came out of the mouth of the Ex-American President George W Bush. From reading a nursery book upside down and peeping through a telescope the other way around to the Easter Egg Hunt in Ei-raaq, he single-handedly kept the entire world entertained. Here’s a bit of the legacy – some of his more notable malaprops and mangled statements – he left behind, courtesy News 24 and my friend Fareed:

“I know the human being and fish can coexist peacefully.”
September 2000, explaining his energy policies at an event in Michigan.

“They misunderestimated the compassion of our country. I think they misunderestimated the will and determination of the commander-in-chief, too.”
September 26, 2001, in Langley, Virginia. Bush was referring to the terrorists who carried out the September 11 attacks.

“There’s no doubt in my mind, not one doubt in my mind, that we will fail.”
October 4, 2001, in Washington. Bush was remarking on a back-to-work plan after the terrorist attacks.

“It would be a mistake for the United States Senate to allow any kind of human cloning to come out of that chamber.”
April 10, 2002, at the White House, as Bush urged Senate passage of a broad ban on cloning.

“I want to thank the dozens of welfare-to-work stories, the actual examples of people who made the firm and solemn commitment to work hard to embetter themselves.”
April 18, 2002, at the White House.

“There’s an old saying in Tennessee - I know it’s in Texas, probably in Tennessee - that says, fool me once, shame on - shame on you. Fool me - you can’t get fooled again.”
September 17, 2002, in Nashville, Tennessee.

“Our enemies are innovative and resourceful, and so are we. They never stop thinking about new ways to harm our country and our people, and neither do we.”
August 5, 2004, at the signing ceremony for a defence spending bill.

“Too many good docs are getting out of business. Too many OB/GYNs aren’t able to practice their love with women all across this country.”
September 6, 2004, at a rally in Poplar Bluff, Missouri.

“Our most abundant energy source is coal. We have enough coal to last for 250 years, yet coal also prevents an environmental challenge.”
April 20, 2005, in Washington.

“We look forward to hearing your vision, so we can more better do our job.”
September 20, 2005, in Gulfport, Mississippi.

“I can’t wait to join you in the joy of welcoming neighbours back into neighbourhoods, and small businesses up and running, and cutting those ribbons that somebody is creating new jobs.”
September 5, 2005, when Bush met with residents of Poplarville, Mississippi, in the wake of Hurricane Katrina.

“It was not always a given that the United States and America would have a close relationship. After all, 60 years we were at war 60 years ago we were at war.”
June 29, 2006, at the White House, where Bush met with Japanese Prime Minister Junichiro Koizumi.

“Make no mistake about it, I understand how tough it is, sir. I talk to families who die.”
December 7, 2006, in a joint appearance with British Prime Minister Tony Blair.

“These are big achievements for this country, and the people of Bulgaria ought to be proud of the achievements that they have achieved.”
June 11, 2007, in Sofia, Bulgaria.

“Mr Prime Minister, thank you for your introduction. Thank you for being such a fine host for the Opec summit.”
September 2007, in Sydney, Australia, where Bush was attending an Apec summit.

“Thank you, Your Holiness. Awesome speech.”
April 16, 2008, at a ceremony welcoming Pope Benedict XVI to the White House.

“The fact that they purchased the machine meant somebody had to make the machine. And when somebody makes a machine, it means there’s jobs at the machine-making place.”
May 27, 2008, in Mesa, Arizona.

“And they have no disregard for human life.”
July 15, 2008, at the White House. Bush was referring to enemy fighters in Afghanistan.

“I remember meeting a mother of a child who was abducted by the North Koreans right here in the Oval Office.”
June 26, 2008, during a Rose Garden news briefing.

“Throughout our history, the words of the Declaration have inspired immigrants from around the world to set sail to our shores. These immigrants have helped transform 13 small colonies into a great and growing nation of more than 300 people.”
July 4, 2008 in Virginia.

“The people in Louisiana must know that all across our country there’s a lot of prayer - prayer for those whose lives have been turned upside down. And I’m one of them. It’s good to come down here.”
September 3, 2008, at an emergency operations centre in Baton Rouge, Louisiana, after Hurricane Gustav hit the Gulf Coast.

“This thaw - took a while to thaw, it’s going to take a while to unthaw.”
October 20, 2008, in Alexandria, Louisiana, as he discussed the economy and frozen credit markets.

Life-cycle of Banda and the Mexican Fisherman

Banda is born in a beautiful village in the paradise, in a traditional home overlooking the paddy-fields and the mountains in the distance.

Banda attends school in the nearby town.

He comes to Colombo for higher education.

A few years later, he finds himself in the West, chasing the “American” dream or its equivalent.

A yuppie, with a great job, caught-up in the rat-race.

Passport. Family. House. Car. Kids.

And the time passes by. Kids grow up and they leave home as Banda retires.

He’s tired of the hustle and bustle and comes back home to Sri Lanka seeking serendipity in his old-age.

And decides to spend a quiet, retired life, away from it all.

Banda spends his hard-earned dollars to buy a plot of land in a beautiful village and builds a traditional house, overlooking the paddy-fields and the mountains in the distance.