Remembering Ayesha

Ayesha was our maid in Oman for a few years.  When she worked for us, she was a young woman, probably in mid to late twenties.  She got married when she was 10, had a child at 11, left the child with her family in Kerala, India, to join her husband in Oman.  Her husband Jaffer was a kitchen help in one of the many kitchens belonged to the Sultan of Oman.

When we moved to Oman in 2002, she found out that we were looking for a maid, and knocked on our door.  My wife thought that she was 'interviewing' a conservative woman, well covered on purdah, for the position.  I think my wife was half-hearted, so, she asked for my opinion.  We were in need of a maid to look after our two kids,three and one.  I said let's give it a try.

Ayesha joined us as a maid.  Without purdah, she looked young and nice, did not speak much with me, but it seems that she was talking a lot with my wife.  They exchanged recipes, stories of women in Oman, and so on.  She will come to work around 8 AM, and leave by 3 pm, so I hardly saw her except on Thursdays, when we both were home.  In Oman, Thursdays and Fridays made the weekend.  She did not work on Fridays.

The first month came to an end, and we gave her a fifty rial note as her salary.  Its 130 USD, considered a good salary for part-time maids in Oman.  That was the agreement.  Ayesha was not happy.  She thought we gave her a ten rial note, which is a similar color note to a fifty.  Its then we realized that Ayesha could not read.  She did not know the difference between 10 and 50, and she had never seen a 50 rial note.

Later she found that two other families, resided on house numbers 22 and 24, required a part time maid after 3 pm, and she wanted to check them out.  My do-gooder wife wrote 22 in her right hand and 24 in her left hand, and told her if the house is on right its 22 and if its on left it will be 24.  Pretty sad.

Whenever I traveled, Ayesha will stay home over night, she will not do any work on hours other than from 8 AM and 3 pm, but being at home was helpful.

There are many interesting incidents between us and Jaffers.  Once they wanted us to have lunch on a festival day, and we agreed.  Both were so happy.  Jaffer offered me a bottle of whiskey (about 5 USD - still twice as expensive than the whiskeys they drink).  He will come to our place occasionally, and cook some very good food.  The first time, I too wanted to reciprocate, I offered a bottle of Chivas Regal, he cleaned half a liter in no time, as he was cooking.  I could not make similar offers every time he came, it was not easy to get Chivas Regal in Oman.

My wife and Ayesha got along well for a few years, then things started going sour.  My tolerant wife will complain to me, but will not confront her.  She just do not know how.

One day, my wife called me from my kids' school and said Ayesha had to go.  I was in the College, I went home, called Ayesha, and said we do not need her services anymore, paid her dues, and told her to leave.  I was polite but firm.  She was in the middle of ironing, she too was mad at us, yet, she said she will finish ironing and leave.  I told her that there's no need for that and she should leave straight away.  I had to get back to work.  She covered herself, walked out of the house, paused, returned, but finally left without making any fuss.  She was proud too.

So, how come I remembered her after almost 9 years?  I am in Pretoria today, and I had chicken wings for dinner tonight with South African red wine. Ayesha's husband as a kitchen help had access to bags full of frozen chicken wings.  He will send them through Ayesha, she will fry a few every day for me to have it with my whiskey when I come home.  That was good.  Just think about it.  A maid's husband sending  food for her Master.  Funny isn't it.

My wife and I have seen Ayesha a few times later on the streets.  She will wave, we too will wave, make a polite small conversation and move on.  I think she regretted offending my wife.   We have no idea where she is.

Its disappointing when a reasonably good relationship ends on a sour note.  But, that's the way life is.  All good things must and will come to an end.

Tales of Two Traffic Wardens

A red Benz sedan was parked in the portico of Muscat International Airport's arrival hall.  It was early 2000s, the airport was much smaller than what it is now.  The car was blocking traffic, arriving passengers, and the rest.  It was not helpful, and illegal.  A young traffic warden came and looked for the owner for a few minutes.  Stood there, scratched his head, walked around and around.  There were no takers.  The frustrated traffic warden pulled his 'Chalan' booklet, wrote a ticket, put it under the wiper and walked away.

My guests haven't arrived, so, I continued to loiter.

There came a man with a cigar in his mouth.  He looked at the ticket and was offended.  Now, he was looking all over, and finally located the traffic warden.  Clapped at the warden and summoned him to the car.  A conversation ensued, the warden looking at the ground as if he had sinned, and the man with a cigar lecturing in a low,but stern voice.  There was hardly any response from the traffic warden.  Finally after five minutes of scolding, the warden pulled the ticket out and tore it up.  The smoker got into the car and drove away.

Those of you unfamiliar with Oman's power structure, there are families, who have enormous informal power over the others.  The Royal family is of course on top, and then depending on their relationships with or recognition by the Royals, varying degrees of power prevail.  I suspect that the smoker is in one of these circles of power, not very close to the Royals, but not very far from them either.  Else, no one would dare challenging  member of the ROP, Royal Oman Police.  That was Tale One.

Tale two.  In 1981, when Mrs Indira Gandhi was the PM of India, her car was  parked 'illegally'.  A young female traffic warden - later became the most decorated female police officer in India  todate - had the car towed away.  The traffic warden is Kiren Bedi, a prominent advocate for transparency in Government.  Despite all it flaws and its lurch towards development, there is something in India which gives hope.

Kiren Bedi is a symbol of such hope.

Sam & Faraq - A Sri Lankan meets an Egyptian

Let me introduce Sam.  That's me.  When someone wants to know my name, and I am sure that the relationship is temporary, I spare them the agony of learning my name - Prathapar.  In 2004, I was in Cairo attending a workshop.  I wanted to hit the town on the first day after the workshop.  As I walked outside the hotel, a man approached me and asked if I needed a Taxi.  I said yes and asked for his name.  He said he is Faraq.  So, now you know who we are and what our relationship was.  It was a five-day relationship, and that was brief.

I negotiated a price with Faraq to take me into town and return, and at the end of the trip, he took his money and asked if I needed to see the Pyramids.  I said yes, of course, and he agreed on a price and time for us to meet the next day, which was a holiday.  He arrived on time, drove to the point where the Nile diverged, and then off to the tourist area.  He introduced a man who had offered to take me on a camel into the tourist park.  I made a mistake; I did not agree on a price.

The Camel owner walked along with me on the camel, did the right things like photos of sphinx and pyramids, tombs, and so on, and when the trip finished after about three hours, he asked for money, more than what a regular tourist company would ask.  Faraq was watching.  I knew the demand was too high, but I was not in a position to argue.  Too late.  I paid him, and Faraq went with him.  I came back when I realized that Faraq had a cut in it, too.

I am upset, but again, I could not confront Faraq.  Instead, I told him that I felt the Camel owner had cheated on me and that Faraq should not take tourists to the Camel owner.  Faraq was quiet and listening.  In my mind, I have decided not to hire Faraq anymore.  When we reached the hotel, I paid his dues, agreed, and was about to go into the hotel.  Faraq called me, "Sam," and I stopped.  "How about this afternoon?" he asked faintly, and I said, 'Don't worry.'  Then, he insisted that he liked to take me around and agreed to a reasonable fare.  I had the afternoon free and needed a taxi, but the fare was reasonable.

Faraq showed up promptly, and we toured all over Cairo, waited where he had to, told me to pretend to be a Muslim when walking into old mosques so I need not pay an entrance fee, took me to the joints where taxi drivers hang out for a snack - good food-cheap price - and it was fun.  Then I told him that I would like to go to a nightclub.

In Egypt, nightclubs open at midnight until the early hours.  He took me to one and negotiated a price for him and me with the owner, and it was reasonable.  The price included an entrance fee, a couple of beers, and dinner for both.  The club had several music troupes performing an hour each, and each one was different.  One of them was a male-only, drum-only band.  Beer, music, food, and Faraq were happy.  So was I, although the smoke started to bother me.  Around 3 AM, I told Faraq that it was time to go.  He dropped me off at the hotel, and we agreed he would pick me up again the following afternoon.

There he was, and he said he wanted me to visit his family.  I said fine, and after an hour's drive, we were at his village.  He took me to his 'one room all in all house,' and the wife was cooking.  She had no warning of this Sri Lankan visitor.  There was no electricity, and firewood was smoking like it used to be in our family kitchen some fifty years ago.  The food was simple and ready.  We walked into his banana patch (a few trees well watered), a few more joined in, a carpet was rolled out, and we all sat and ate.  It was an unexplainable feeling.  I was in a peasant's backyard, eating his hard-earned food.  But I liked the whole thing.  It was about to get dark, and then he said, why don't you come to a wedding in the neighborhood?  Sam, the ever curious, and I could not resist the offer.

I have no idea where the couple were, and the party was on a back street.  Chairs were arranged in circles, men sat with their friends, and a local band sang.  I sat with Faraq's friends.  A man brought room-temperature beer, someone bought a six-pack, and I, too, bought another, and we started to drink.  Then I heard the band singing Sam Something Something.  At Faraq's instruction, the band was welcoming me!  I was called to the stage; I obliged, waved at all, and returned to the seat.  Suddenly, I saw one of the men ripping tobacco out of cigarettes, raising my curiosity.  He then took a small plastic packet of Marijuana, mixed it with the tobacco, and started to roll the mix into cigars.  Well, I thought I better get out of there.  I told Faraq that I was feeling tired.  Faraq and I said bye to everyone, and he dropped me off at the hotel.

The next day was the final day.  Faraq was there to take me to the airport, and I needed a small handbag for various souvenirs I bought.  Faraq took me to a travel bag maker; he bought me a sturdy, well-made bag for a very good price.

It was almost lunchtime, and Faraq insisted that he buy me lunch because I had been paying for his meals for the past few days.  I said OK, we went to a cafe frequented by Taxi drivers.  It was not a street cafe; Faraq wanted to treat me well and ordered a meal - a mixture of noodles and fried rice.  We had our lunch and were ready to head towards the airport.

Faraq asked if I needed to buy anything more.  I said, "No, my money is finished".  What I meant was that I am running out of Egyptian shillings.  Faraq thought I had no money and offered money from his car's dashboard.  I told him that I meant Egyptian schillings, and since I am now leaving Cairo, I do not need it either.  He understood.  Faraq dropped me at the airport; I gave him whatever Shillings I had, a bit more than the taxi fare, and he reluctantly accepted it.  We bid bye to each other.  A poor taxi driver had shown me good times in Cairo.

I still wonder why he was nice to me.  Was it because I expressed my unhappiness with the Camel man and indirectly accused Faraq of dishonesty, and he wanted to show that he was a decent man?  Or was I a friendly customer, and Faraq was enjoying my company?  I am sure Faraq is not doing this to all his customers.

I will never know why, but I will never forget Faraq either.      

Memorable Air Travels

For a Jaffna boy born in the fifties, contemplation of air travel itself is something extraordinary.   I knew air travel is possible, but did not think about it much, and fancied it to a much lesser extent.  Travel within Sri Lanka is always by road or train.  I do however have a vague memory of going to an Airport when I was less than five to receive an aunt who was returning from India.

My first air travel eventuated in 1980, when I traveled from Colombo, Sri Lanka to Bryan-College Station, Texas, USA.  I got myself a pin-striped suit made for the travel.  Two of my uncles and a few friends came to the airport to see me off.  I could come out of the airport after checking-in to say bye to them.  The plane went from Colombo to Karachi, to Athens, to Amsterdam where we changed planes to travel to London.  I stayed over-night there and flew to Washington DC where I was a guest for a few days.  Then I flew to Houston, Texas via Jacksonville, Florida.  Finally, I flew from Houston to Bryan-College Station.  I think the reason for hop-scotching across Asia/Europe, was not the capacity of planes, but a lack of passengers.  A lot has changed since then, one could fly from Colombo to Europe, and then to Bryan-College Station without delays. 

The Boy who left Jaffna in 1980

Since it was my first air travel, I thought of collecting the boarding passes as souvenirs.  It did not take long to give up on that hobby.  During my days in the US, I traveled very cheaply by air.  A ticket from Houston to New Orleans cost me 27 dollars, and another from Houston to New York cost me about 50 dollars.  I had figured out that if I take late night fights, I could save money on air travel and hotels.

In 1987, when I migrated to Australia, I had to go from Sydney to Griffith, a sleepy Australian country-town, an hour away by air.  A friend dropped me at Sydney airport, I checked in my baggage, identified the boarding gate, and there were no one.  A few passengers gathered later, and the crew of two came along.  They told us to board the plane, probably a twenty seater, did a head count and took-off.  They were the days without security scares.

Griffith:  My Home from 1987-1996

In the 1990s, I had to travel from Canberra to Griffith in a four-seater plane, and my flight was to depart around 6:30 pm.  I was at the airport by 5 pm, and went to a coffee bar before departure.  As I sipped my coffee, I noticed two young men walking to me, both in their twenties, wearing flight jackets.  I looked up, and one of them asked if I was Prathapar.  I was dazed that someone in Canberra knew me by name.  I said, yes, and was waiting, not knowing what more to say.  One of them then said, 'Sir, when you finish your coffee, we can take off'.  I just fell off the chair, well almost.  I had two pilots waiting to fly me home, and willing to wait till I finish my coffee.  I felt VERY important, but did not want to keep the young men waiting.  So, gulped the coffee in a blink, and marched to the plane with my private pilots!

Griffith:  The land of fruits & wine

A few years later, I had to catch a 5:30 am flight from Griffith to Melbourne in a seven-seater plane.  My wife drove me to the airport around 5 am; we were expected to check in 20 minutes before departure.  As we approached the airport, the airport was dark, and we thought we were too early.  Then I saw a young woman rushing to our car, asking me if I was Prathapar, and I said yes.  She then ran to a public phone and called someone and within a few minutes, a plane landed for me to travel.  The plane had just taken-off from Griffith without me.  The departure time was changed, but I was not informed.  These were the days before smart phones.  I had a smug on my face relishing that a plane returned to pick me up, but I did notice the angst on my fellow passengers face.  

Flying into Central Asia and Caucuses had always been memorable to me.  I think it is largely because of the differences in bureaucratic processes from their Soviet era, and due to the difficulties in communication.  They hardly speak English, and I do not speak Russian. 

In 1999, I had to attend a meeting on a Monday in Tashkent, and the agency hosted me sent an invitation letter in Russian with the date corresponding to the Monday.  I submitted it to their Embassy in Islamabad to obtain my visa, and landed in Tashkent a day earlier, the Sunday, around noon.  In the visa, the Embassy has recorded the date of the meeting, and I have arrived 12 hours earlier before my visa could come into effect.  Despite the difficulties in communication, I conveyed to them my predicament, and they agreed to inform my host agency.  However, rules are rules, and I can’t be permitted to enter Tashkent without a visa for the day I have landed.  Consequently, I was DETAINED.

Samarkand:  The Home of Indian Mughal's Ancestors

A young soldier with a Kalashnikov escorted me in a full size 50-60 seater bus, to the detention center within the airport premises, probably a km away from the arrival lounge.  It was a very modern building, and one of the rooms was the detention center.  There were only two of us – my guard and me.  As we waited, I heard music coming from another room which doors were closed.  I asked the guard, what it was, and he smiled and said it’s a bar.  I tried to persuade him to go to the bar, he did not agree, but I started to walk.  He had no choice but to follow me.  The bar man opened the door; another man and a young girl were dancing to the music.  I sat on a very comfortable lounge, ordered vodka, and watched West-Indies playing Pakistan for 1999 Cricket World Cup on a very large plasma TV.  It was a pity that I was detained only for two hours or so, by when my host managed to come and rescue me. 

Mirzo Ulugbek:  A 15th Century Astronomer & Mathematician 

Again in 1999, I had to attend a meeting at Tbilisi, Georgia.  When I landed, I heard someone calling me by name within the Business Class.  My organizers have sent a Guide to take me from the plane to the hotel.  He spoke in very good English, and said he was a University Lecturer.  He collected my passport, and as we came down the stairwell (there were no air-bridge then), there was a Volvo Limousine on the tarmac for me and I was driven to the hotel.  My luggage and the passport were delivered later.  Very nice!

But the best of all was when I was a member of a University delegation led by the Vice Chancellor.  A fellow member of the delegation was from the Royal Family.  During the entire travel in Europe, I was reminded of a Tamil adage, which loosely translates into, “when rice is irrigated, the weed too gets water”.  Yes, the Royal Family member was the rice receiving the protocol she was entitled to, and I was one of the weeds, benefiting from the hospitality wherever we went.  We always flew First Class in Emirates, which offered a suite with a full-size bed, private mini bar and on-demand menu full of exquisite food and wine.  When we landed in Dubai, we were taken from the plane through its emergency exit by a limousine to a very private lounge- just for our delegation.  It was better than the first class lounge, I bet.  I do not think, I will ever enjoy a flight like that.

Sultan Qaboos University of Oman

Emirates Airbus 380 - The First Class is pure luxury

Because of airplanes and air travels, I was able to visit at least forty countries around the world.  I haven’t been to Southern America yet.  May be one day I will go there.  Having said so, nowadays, I am a bit averse to flying.  Fortunately in my current job, my flights are short duration ones, a maximum of two hours.  I do not have to catch flights in the middle of the night and do not have to land in unusual places at awkward times. 

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.