Work, Travel and Retirement

I am not sure what my life is all about.  I am in a different country every week, often in a different continent.  My passport was not with me till the 18th Jan,but since then, I had been to Italy and Ethiopia, and within the next six weeks, I will go to Jordan, Sri Lanka, India, then to Bangladesh, South Africa, Italy, back to India and Nepal.  Then one week in Delhi, two weeks in Sri Lanka, and back to India.  Its all about my work, a real jet setting life style.

Of all these places I will go to, I am really looking forward to my travel to South Africa and Jordan.  I had neve been to the countries, and I dowant to visit them.  In particular, I want to float in the dead sea, and peek at Israel.  Although I am not a big fan of Israel, I do admire them or their tenacity.  Despite all odds, they have money and power on their side, and after all they only fight an unorganised, self centered, self serving opposition.  I am not sure what will excite me in South Africa, but, I must visit a Museum, a township and a irrigation scheme.

Does all this travel means my job is that important, and makes a big difference to others.  I am not so sure.  It is all about what I WANT to achieve in my job.  I WANT things in a certain way, my way.  That means I better travel.

One of my friends once asked, what makes you think that you can CHANGE the way things are.  He has seen me failing at least twice in my career, trying to change but fail.  Yet, I feel that I would rather try and fail, than not try. 

In both instances in my career, although I paid a price, my career did not suffer.  Al Hamdolilla.  Is it because that what I want to change were the right things to do, so, the GODS were with me and showed new and better paths.  If so, then how come these GODs did not help me change what I was attempting to change?  Pretty bizarre, isn't it.

I will and want to do the best I can in my jobs, as long as I make good money and I enjoy it.  If that means a lot of travel, I will do so.  When I do not make good money or do not enjoy what I do, is when I retire.  I hope I do not retire for a while.

Being a BOY - A Confession

During my teenage years, one of my teachers taught me how to grade BOYS.  A graders are those, when come across a walking girl while riding a bike, just look at her and keep riding.  B graders are those, who go  past the girl, turn their head and look at her back too.  The C graders were those who look at her back and ride themselves into the fences (and get hurt).  According to my teacher, those  who did not even look at the girl are not Boys.

I am not sure which grade I would fit in, but,I know I was a Boy, and I never rode into a fence.  So, I am either A or a B grader.  Even when I relocated myself from Jaffna to Peradeniya, to College Station, to Fayettville, to Griffith, to Lahore, to Sydney, to Musact and now to Delhi, I  pretty much maintain my grade, I confess.  There was a time  Jaffna women were most appealing, then Mexicans in Texas, later Punjabis in Lahore.

Now its very simple, the younger ones are most appealing than the older ones.

As I walk through messy and crowded streets of Delhi, my eyes some or other spot a young girl, looking trendy and cheerful.  This is especially true when there is a group of them.  These young mobs of girls ooze in confidence, mostly in a blue jeans but wearing an Indian Kurta as a top, chin up, hair bundled as a pony tail of some sort.  Every step they make, they walk as conquerors of the world.

Where are the boys then?  Or, am I still being a BOY, only attracted to the girls,so that I am unable to see the boys?

Death of a Pigeon

Delhi had some of its coldest nights recently.  Night temperatures were below 2 degrees.  I waited till noon last Saturday for my walk.  It was still cold.

A pigeon leaning on a wall and a curious person near it attracted my attention.  The bird was shivering, and its head buried under its feathers.  The man figured it out that the pigeon needed some warmth.  He collected some papers, sticks and so on, and set a fire, took the bird near it, and he too sat on his haunches.  A few more joined him to keep warm.  The bird on its part stretched its wings and legs and its eyes shone.  All, including me were feeling good.

Then the bird dropped, stretched its legs and died.

The man took some water, sprinkled on the dead bird, said a religious slogan for the soul, then took it and disposed it in a garbage tricycle.  I think it was the first time in my life I watched death.  Many have told me that the soul departs through the eyes.  May be some truth in it.  I felt sorry for the bird, but was happy that I witnessed a humane act of a peasant.  He is a shoe polisher on the street.  He is the kind of people I despise, because they piss and spit on the street.  Yet, within him, there was Godliness.  For a minute I thought that I will give him a few rupees, but did not.  I did not have the right to stain his unsolicited compassionate act.

I continued my walk with my head down.

Pigeons, Dogs and Delhiites

Nowadays fluttering pigeons at the backdrop of a modern Metro is becoming the hallmark of Delhi.  I live about a few kilometers from one of these spots, and I always see pigeons well fed by by-passers.  It appears that they feel something good will happen to them if they feed the pigeons.  Its all feels good and looks nice.  But some of Delhiites park their cars on the road, blocking traffic to feed the pigeons.  How ignorant these people are?

But the pigeons I want to write about are the Delhites themselves.  Almost everyone I know in Delhi, live in a flat, and these flats are like pigeon-holes.  Almost all the flats are four storeyed, some families occupy more than one storey, but most live in a single storey.  Like pigeons, they come out in the morning, and get back in when sun set.   In between, you may see some of them on their balconies, most 5 m by 2 m.  Well, there is not much of choice in Delhi, the land is premium here.  I too live in a flat like the rest of them, so I am a pigeon too.

My problem is with those  who have pets, specially dogs, in these pigeon holes.  Just imagine an animal, confined to a flat, often a 5 m by 2 m balcony all day.  To me is like they are being punished, for no fault of theirs.  Although, their owners would claim that they are kind to the animals and so on.  But my real problem is with these Delhiites, who bring their dogs for a 'walk' essentially for the dogs to relieve themselves.  The dogs invariably, always liter on the streets.  This is on top of all the filth and garbage that accumulate on the street.  This is just filthy, and it appears it doesn't bother anyone but me.

I remember in the eighties, New York Mayor, Ed Koch, fined those walkers when their dogs littered, unless they clean the mess immediately.  I do not think it is likely such a measure would be imposed in Delhi.

So, I just have to put up with the pigeons and the dogs......

Reminders of Ageing

Every day we age, but we are not conscious about it, unless something, someone reminds you about it.  Today, I checked my ''real age" today on a website:  realage.com.  I am 58.1 years old, 2.8 years younger than my calendar age, so, I feel good, despite being obese.  

 

My childhood on-wards, I am  an Anna (elder brother), I have two younger brothers and three younger sisters.  Around 18, I was called a ‘Master’, because, I did some private tutoring to kids in the neighborhood.  At 24, I was called a ‘Sir’, why not, I am now an Assistant Lecturer at a University.  I did not think these salutations had anything to do with my age.  They were about what I did or who I was. So, none of these made me feel that I was getting old.  

Then the thunder struck.  At 26, I was at a super market in Texas.  I was not used to supermarkets in Sri Lanka.  We did not have them those days.  I needed some help.  I walked to a young shop attendant and sought help.  She was probably not the right person to answer my query, but she wanted to help.  She had to call for her supervisor to help me on their PABX.  She announced to the world that a ‘Man’, needs help at aisle whatever.  The young boy inside me was killed instantly, and a man was born.

Years went by, my friends had children, who would call me an Uncle, that’s OK, and they were only 3 or 4.  Then I had kids, who call me dad.  Its a pure joy.  

 

Life went on till 50, my salutations were recycled as I changed jobs, till I was in a bus in Coimbatore, India.  I was not steady, because of rapid accelerations and breakings.  An old man – well that’s what I thought – got up from his seat, and said, Periyannai – ithile irungo (Elder brother, please sit here), in typical Coimbatore Tamil.  That was very kind, but I am now an elder brother of someone almost my age.  Not a good feeling.  A few years ago, in a Delhi Bus, a man almost my age – well may be a few years younger, called be Bapu – Father, and offered his seat.  Days and months passed by, I became used to being called chacha (Uncle) or a Bapu, in Delhi.  I smiled and accepted their greetings.  

Everything changed when I traveled by a suburban train in Sydney, only a few months ago.

 

I sat in front of a couple, whom I readily recognized as South Asians.  They were about my age, I thought.  The man smiled, I reciprocated.  He then initiated a conversation in broken-English.  Now I know that they are from Pakistan, own a jewelry shop, travel to different countries each year.  They knew that I am from Sri Lanka, but settled in Sydney.  

He wanted to know more about me, and asked for my age.  I said I am 61.  Mashah-Allah, (an Arabic phrase that expresses appreciation, joy, praise, or thankfulness to God), he said and paused.  Then he completed his response by saying that in Pakistan, that I would have been dead by now (or something to that effect expressed in words and gesture of being dead).  I did not know how to react.  But more and more I think about it, I think I should be grateful for being alive and in a reasonable health.

Is ageing such a bad thing?  We get tired quickly as we grow older, and we are more and more impatient, I think.  We are set in our ways, and have difficulties making adjustments to others around.  Younger ones – my siblings, students, subordinates, who looked up to me and sought guidance, do not need me anymore.  Thank God, they can take care of themselves.  Their priorities and needs have changed.  That’s the way it should be.  Still at times my ego is hurt because I feel ignored, I must admit.  Then I talk myself out it.

Recently, after meeting with two childhood friends after 35 years or so, I feel ageing is not bad after all.  If I was able to do many things when I was young and was  happy doing them, I am now able to recollect those fun-filled days and again be happy.  So, as I aged, I am glad that I have accumulated many pleasant memories.  They include various reminders I received as I aged.  

NIMBY Diwali

In the late seventies, the acronym NIMBY, Not In My BackYard came to fore.  I just witnessed what it meant in real world.

This is my second year in a row celebrating Diwali in Delhi.  Delhiites really put out a great show.  Houses decorated with running bulbs, and all sorts of decorations.  Some even hire professionals to decorate their homes.  A walk through the suburban streets at night is a treat, but, its really not safe.  There are firecrackers, loud and very loud everywhere.  Last year Delhiites spent one crore rupees on fireworks on Diwali.  Beautiful rockets and all sorts of fireworks.  So, the safest place is to be on your own balcony.

But there is a problem, no one wants crackers lit n front of their house.  As I watched a young man try to set a cracker on the road, the woman lives in the flat above me shouts - not here go forward, I do not like the smoke.  Then she coughs.  The young man obliges and move his anchor forward.  Guess what, the man from the opposite balcony yells, not here my boy, my new car is parked here.  The frustrated boy puts his head down.  Remove the anchor and gets into his house.  I wondered why he would not light it in front of his own flat.  May be elders in his home told him not to do that.

About 15 minutes later, on lookers from both balconies have gone, except me, I see the boy coming out of his flat with his father.  Puts the firecracker just where he wanted in the first place, as the father provides cover for the operation.  Well  he need not.  There weren't anyone to protest.  But the whole thing ends in anti-climax.  The firecracker fizzled!

Mrs Murieal Fernando’s Cabin - Where Winners are born

I set my eyes by-passing a palm tree on the ship that was receding into the horizon.  I was sitting on a plastic chair, a big one, generously arranged by Mrs. Murieal, the owner of the cabin.  This is a cottage with palm leave roof on Mount Lavinya Beach.   It has a verandah with beach sand as floor, and a few cubicles, face open to the sea providing absolute (well almost) privacy if one, I meant a couple, want.

Mrs. Murieal was sitting in a similar comfortable chair reading an English newspaper.  She sits like a matriarch, there were three young men waiting for her call or instructions.  She fielded one of them to attend to my needs – I needed Arrack, which is not available.  No worries, a phone call arranges the delivery of the Arrack bottle.  She is willing for a brief chat, and I reveal to her that I am from Jaffna, but working in in Delhi.  All is well.

As I sipped my way into abyss, I could not help watching her customers. 

A tall white man walks in after a dip, he was wearing undies- which cover his genitals, but a good art of his ass was exposed.  He is wearing a flip-flopper (we used to call it a sandal), and a baseball cap.  As soon as he gets in a chair and a short table was arranged, one of the young men brings him a brand new note book.  He checks an old note book and starts to write.  Possibly he is writing a journal.  He was there for about half an hour and then left.  Before he left, he instructed that one of his friend is coming.

Another middle age white man came, he was wearing proper swimmers, flip floppers, baseball cap, and he sit and waits.  Then come three young boys to meet him.  They speak to him in broken English, the man checks their age, I heard one saying seventeen.  The man orders coca cola, boys felt treated well, then all walk into the sea, to have fun?!  I could not help thinking that the man is a pedophile; and come to think of it, both were.

This is happening in front of Mrs. Murieal, and she is oblivious to her surrounds and keeping busy reading her newspapers.

Now comes a SL man with his friends and a son.  He gives Mrs. Muriel a big hug, calls her Mom, and introduces his son, of twenty or so years.  I continue my travel to abyss, when I hear him saying, this must be a Tamil gentleman sitting in front.  I straightened myself, turned the chair towards him and said, yes.  Conversation continued, I said the same thing about myself to this man, he said he too is a Tamil from Nallur, a nephew of GG Ponnambalam, had a heart attack, had a by-pass, he is 62, married to a Sinhalese lady, he used to be a sailor, the son wants to play club cricket, and he is trying out in Sri Lanka.   Then he invited me for a drink at his hotel room, I politely declined, and then he left. 

Why am I reflecting on these people?  What do they all have in common? 

All three are from the west, and I think by any standards, all a bunch of losers in the west.  They have a few dollars which convert into a lot of LKR.  So, with that, in Mrs Muriell’s cabin, they are winners.  That’s the magic a thatched roof cabin in SL has!