Here we go again, another squirming dictator with dire cramps and julaabs, in Libya this time. If it were not for the bloodshed there, his rantings on TV this morning in a womanly voice would have been comical. You know, I had not heard Ghaddafy speak before and with the press terming him a ‘strongman’ I assumed he would have a deeper, manly tenor. Not so, he sounded almost feminine. Ah, well, perhaps he was just nervous with all the fatakras of gunfire going on around Libya. Nightmares, perhaps, dreaming of life in Saudi Arabia with Ali Zain el Abedeen (maybe Mubaarak and others as well?) as neighbors did not agree with his voice box. Perhaps.
What I do not understand is the US and Europeans posturing on these very interesting and exciting, I must confess, developments in the Maghreb and Middle East in general. BBC and CNN have not a clue, as usual, bringing in dubious ‘experts’ speaking awful English to explain why Ghaddafy would open fire on his own people. Duh! For corrupted power! For exactly the same reason blood was shed in Tunisia, Egypt, Bahrain, Yemen and numerous countries where dictators felt cramps of julaabs from a populace fed up with tyranny and injustice. There, I am no expert, but have simply explained why Ghaddafy did what he did. In simple, plain, snotty Queen’s English; put me on the tube!
Corrupted power supported and fed by the same governments that now go “Oh, what happened? How terrible! No bloodshed! Democracy must rule (except in Gaza and Iran where people are stupid and elect wrong people as leaders)!” The US and UK supported Mubaarak for decades while he prostituted himself in selling out the Palestinian cause and amassed a disgusting personal fortune of about 70 billion US$ – read carefully now, that is a B for billion. They welcomed him at number 10 and White House with honor, dignity, patted his fat arse with an attaboy and made him even fatter with fine food and wine. In Egypt meanwhile, where I used to frequently travel on business, poverty and crime improved every time I returned. Arbitrary arrests, confinements, torture and murders by Mubaarak’s thugs were overlooked in the name of regional stability suitable for western ‘democracy’.
In Libya, where a brilliant lunatic has been able to cunningly outfox both internal and external foes, was able to lure the EU for lucrative oil / gas deals. For money; easily forgotten were the killing of a lady cop outside the Libyan embassy in London and the downing of Pan Am 103. The very powers that were loathing of the dictator welcomed him to Italy and France; Tony Blair, tongue hanging, with that sinister, peculiar sneer on his face, landed dancing in Tripoli, praising, hugging, kissing Ghaddafy, all bhai – bhai. Why, Silvio Berlusconi even allowed Ghaddafy to set up tent right in the middle of Rome with a harem of females, a passion very much close to Berlusconi‘s heart; they have met each other 13 times in 3 years, so much their love and devotion to each other.
Now, as I see Ghaddafy fortunes crumble around him, making him squirm and as the noose tightens around his crown jewels, I can only pray and hope Libya will be saved the inevitable bloodletting that seems imminent. The saturation of Muslims in Europe that Sarkozy, Berlusconi and company most feared looks like an ever increasing possibility. Not through violent jihadist or mayhem, but exactly as Ghaddafy jokingly predicted to Berlusconi in Rome; by the influx of Maghreb Muslims. Little did Ghaddafy realize it will be his persecution, his suppression and his outstanding cruelty that will prove this prophecy true.
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
Monday, February 14, 2011
Benapole Is The Largest Land Port In Bangladesh – There Are 172 Villages Under Sharsha Thane!
Except for fatter mosquitoes with meaner stings, Shah Jalal International Airport in Dhaka, Bangladesh is almost the same as I left it some ten years ago. Immigration, customs and baggage clearance is pretty efficient however and I am out of airport into milling crowds outside in less than 30 minutes. The traffic, usually choked, chaotic and unruly I remember, is absent today; result of a strike called by government opposition against corruption (snigger, snigger), stock market, spiraling food, gas prices and power shortages. The drive to our hotel with a seedy name of Sweet Dream Boutique Hotel is a breeze.
I have been to Bangladesh before, several times, with corporate America, as head of International Finance. These were shielded trips, everything first class, from chauffer driven cars to the luxury of Sheraton and meals at some of the finest restaurant foods in the world located in the affluent area of Gulshan. This trip is on a much more modest budget, in service of poor and marginalized minority Muslims on behalf of Comfort Aid International. This trip includes Mujaahid Shareef and Nazir Merali from Orison Charitable Trust of UK as CAI partners to better lives of this community; Aliakberbhai Ratansi of Al Imaan from Mumbai join in as well.
Our first meet is with an all women group, Bangladesh Ladies Welfare Society who are active in the support of education for the poor and marginalized in Bangladesh but desperately struggle due to many funding issues. CAI will support about 100 of most vulnerable children and have committed US$20,000 to this cause. An additional US$5,000 is committed to the welfare of widows whose monthly stipend of US$10 has been stopped due to donor funding gaps.
Real adventure commences as we tour the interior, rural Bangladesh; to Jasore by air and then driving to Noor Nagar, Dobghata, Parulia, Patkelghata, Vlashi, Sharsha Sadar, Narayanpur – remote villages where CAI and OCT have partnered to repair / build small mosques that are shockingly deteriorated / damaged. The drives to these villages are long and stressful with toenail curling stunts from all drivers that see last second swerves avoiding oncoming or other traffic on narrow blacktop roads. It is a miracle we come away unscathed the three days we went driving all these places.
At Narayanpur, an English teacher, God bless him, seated between Mujaahid and me in the vehicle, decides to impress Mujaahid with his English. Speaking with considerable enthusiasm into Mujaahid’s ear, he announces - Benapole is the largest land port In Bangladesh; there are 172 villages under Sharsha Thane! Startled, Mujaahid nods his head wisely and replies, maashaa’Allah. The man is not to be discouraged, he robustly repeats - Benapole is the largest land port In Bangladesh; there are 172 villages under Sharsha Thane! Mujaahid seems alarmed at this, but humors the teacher who is intent on convincing Mujaahid for he goes again - Benapole is the largest land port In Bangladesh; there are 172 villages under Sharsha Thane!
The rest of us have convulsed into uncontained laughter by this time. Mujaahid tries, unsuccessfully, to divert conversation to me, but our teacher seems bent on convincing Mujaahid that Benapole is the largest land port In Bangladesh; there are 172 villages under Sharsha Thane! This is repeated 4 more times before we mercifully reach our destination and Mujaahid is put out of his misery.
When we are ready for takeoff to Dhaka from Jasore later in the day, the stewardess on our GMG Bombardier Dash 8 36 seat aircraft informs us the aircraft is overloaded and our luggage will follow the next day; this announcement is followed by instant pandemonium and some rather colorful Bengali choice curse words. The stewardess is unmoved, she shrugs her delicate shoulders and says – Your luggage goes, you go or none of us go, take your pick. The air calms down considerable, instantly.
I will have none of this nonsense. I storm towards her and with the most pronounced American drawl I can manage, say: We have an early morning flight to catch tomorrow; our luggage must accompany us to Dhaka on this flight. This is a (white) lie, our flight back to Mumbai is day after tomorrow but we have a packed day of appointments tomorrow, I do not want to be chasing around the airport for our luggage. Miss Delicate Shoulders looks me up and down, purses her lips in apparent frustration and directs a baggage handler to reload our bags, much to the chagrin of others. As we take off, I say a prayer for our bags not to endanger the flight; we land in Dhaka 30 minutes later.
After a busy next day, I have an hour of luxurious deep Swedish massage at Scissors and Razors, a professional all men spa across the hotel later in the evening. The masseur, a young teenager, is an expert with his fingers and hand as he relaxes and eases the aches, pains and stress of last few days out of my body. At US$20, it is well worth the treat.
I have been to Bangladesh before, several times, with corporate America, as head of International Finance. These were shielded trips, everything first class, from chauffer driven cars to the luxury of Sheraton and meals at some of the finest restaurant foods in the world located in the affluent area of Gulshan. This trip is on a much more modest budget, in service of poor and marginalized minority Muslims on behalf of Comfort Aid International. This trip includes Mujaahid Shareef and Nazir Merali from Orison Charitable Trust of UK as CAI partners to better lives of this community; Aliakberbhai Ratansi of Al Imaan from Mumbai join in as well.
Our first meet is with an all women group, Bangladesh Ladies Welfare Society who are active in the support of education for the poor and marginalized in Bangladesh but desperately struggle due to many funding issues. CAI will support about 100 of most vulnerable children and have committed US$20,000 to this cause. An additional US$5,000 is committed to the welfare of widows whose monthly stipend of US$10 has been stopped due to donor funding gaps.
Real adventure commences as we tour the interior, rural Bangladesh; to Jasore by air and then driving to Noor Nagar, Dobghata, Parulia, Patkelghata, Vlashi, Sharsha Sadar, Narayanpur – remote villages where CAI and OCT have partnered to repair / build small mosques that are shockingly deteriorated / damaged. The drives to these villages are long and stressful with toenail curling stunts from all drivers that see last second swerves avoiding oncoming or other traffic on narrow blacktop roads. It is a miracle we come away unscathed the three days we went driving all these places.
At Narayanpur, an English teacher, God bless him, seated between Mujaahid and me in the vehicle, decides to impress Mujaahid with his English. Speaking with considerable enthusiasm into Mujaahid’s ear, he announces - Benapole is the largest land port In Bangladesh; there are 172 villages under Sharsha Thane! Startled, Mujaahid nods his head wisely and replies, maashaa’Allah. The man is not to be discouraged, he robustly repeats - Benapole is the largest land port In Bangladesh; there are 172 villages under Sharsha Thane! Mujaahid seems alarmed at this, but humors the teacher who is intent on convincing Mujaahid for he goes again - Benapole is the largest land port In Bangladesh; there are 172 villages under Sharsha Thane!
The rest of us have convulsed into uncontained laughter by this time. Mujaahid tries, unsuccessfully, to divert conversation to me, but our teacher seems bent on convincing Mujaahid that Benapole is the largest land port In Bangladesh; there are 172 villages under Sharsha Thane! This is repeated 4 more times before we mercifully reach our destination and Mujaahid is put out of his misery.
When we are ready for takeoff to Dhaka from Jasore later in the day, the stewardess on our GMG Bombardier Dash 8 36 seat aircraft informs us the aircraft is overloaded and our luggage will follow the next day; this announcement is followed by instant pandemonium and some rather colorful Bengali choice curse words. The stewardess is unmoved, she shrugs her delicate shoulders and says – Your luggage goes, you go or none of us go, take your pick. The air calms down considerable, instantly.
I will have none of this nonsense. I storm towards her and with the most pronounced American drawl I can manage, say: We have an early morning flight to catch tomorrow; our luggage must accompany us to Dhaka on this flight. This is a (white) lie, our flight back to Mumbai is day after tomorrow but we have a packed day of appointments tomorrow, I do not want to be chasing around the airport for our luggage. Miss Delicate Shoulders looks me up and down, purses her lips in apparent frustration and directs a baggage handler to reload our bags, much to the chagrin of others. As we take off, I say a prayer for our bags not to endanger the flight; we land in Dhaka 30 minutes later.
After a busy next day, I have an hour of luxurious deep Swedish massage at Scissors and Razors, a professional all men spa across the hotel later in the evening. The masseur, a young teenager, is an expert with his fingers and hand as he relaxes and eases the aches, pains and stress of last few days out of my body. At US$20, it is well worth the treat.
Monday, January 24, 2011
Adnaan Saami...I presume?
Emirates Airline 202 bound from New York JFK is bang on time today, a few minutes early even; no routine, vague excuse of a tardy inbound flight to contend with. These airlines must think we travelers are pretty dumb and gullible; as if we care ant’s ass if their inbound flight was late. Anyway, we board the flight and I try make myself comfortable settling down for the long 12 hour torture to Dubai; as comfortable as economy class will allow me, that is.
I am nicely satiated after a wonderful dinner of barbecued salmon at the Emirates Lounge and at peace with myself and the world. I plan to sleep if possible; adequately tired and pleasantly achy from my 6 mile run in crisp 36˚F Orlando, FL weather, calm winds and the road almost to myself this Sunday morning.
I am busy reading a novel, waiting for others to board and take off when a shadow falls over my book and I look up to see Adnaan Saami’s scowling chubby face, glaring down at me. Startled, I do a double take, as do others, seated and standing around me, congesting the area near my seat. The last photos I have seen of this lift karaade singer was a few months ago, in tabloid pages of Mumbai Mirror, all slim and trim, in bitter marital acrimony with his (ex) wife, Sabah, having lost considerable fat. Wow, seems the guy can’t keep his taste buds under control for too long. He is as huge as before, with a massive gut preceding his body.
You are sitting in my seat, he grumbles.
Affronted, I glare back. I am not! I say. I am very territorial; I know my seat numbers all right.
He fumbles around his ill fitting coat, breathing hard, presumably looking for his boarding pass, pulls out the stub and sticks it right under my nose. There, see? My seat!
Ordinarily, in dealing with rude and unreasonable people, I can stand my own and can take good care of myself. But this guy is a giant and even a soft punch on my pretty face could do a lot of damage. So I glance at the boarding pass and smugly say, Not your seat! This seat is 67C, which is mine, yours is 67B, next to mine. Look at your boarding pass. He peers at the stub and a sheepish look crosses his face. Shit, he wails, shit. That bitch of a woman. I asked her 3 times for an aisle seat. Shit! I was hoping he would apologize to me for his rudeness first…
This outburst has everybody around us even more fascinated; something to write home about, Adnaan Saami having a fit. He extricates his massive gut from his coat, throws it and a carryon into the storage bin above and proceeds to park an even heftier butt into the seat next to mine; I (and others) look on, curious and quite alarmed. I am curious as to how the poor seat will accommodate that entire butt and if it miraculously does, alarmed as to how I am going to spend 12 hours sitting next to all that blubber. The seat protests for a second or two then relents, and Adnaan (and others) sigh in relief. I feel like crying; a rim of fat has overflowed and sits comfortably on the armrest, pinning my arm towards one side.
I am now livid, there is no way I am going to sit for 12 hours in this position; I get up and try to draw attention of a cabin crew while others gawk at the whale seated next to me. A giggling striking young teenager squeezes past the line waiting to proceed further inside this Airbus A380 and croons Adnaan, Adnaan! I love your voice, can I have an autograph please? Adnaan scowls at her, I am not Adnaan or a singer, leave me alone. You think I would be flying economy if I was him?
Eh? I do a double take again; the girl is not convinced however, bats her eyelids at him then makes a giggly retreat. He looks like Adnaan Saami all right, at least the one in the lift karaade video I have seen. Does he have a twin? I don’t care, I want out, Saami or a twin; I am not going to be compressed like a card box.
A Pilipino crew finally makes it to me and I take her to a discreet side and begin to tell her about my predicament; she cuts me off in mid sentence. Don’t worry Sir, I already know of the situation and understand, we will not let you sit there. The flight is quite empty and I will sit you where you will have a whole row to yourself. Just wait until cabin doors close and I will re-sit you. I could kiss her; so delirious with relief.
I return to my seat and gingerly park myself in my partly usurped seat; Saami or non-Saami has conked off to sleep and snores away, his head nodding, as if in exited agreement, with every intake of a noisy breath. This gives me (and others) the opportunity to observe him. Some debate if he is indeed Saami, others discuss his voice and (mis)fortune with women and one even tries to take a photo but I and my savior stewardess shoo him away; my face does not come cheap.
Things settle down and I wait to be reseated; even look forward to it as I will be able to stretch out for my sleep. Just as speakers come alive with the announcement that doors have closed and we are bound for Dubai, this guy lets out a snort and a fart so loud and foul, I jump up and scurry for cover towards the rear of the aircraft where safety and comfort that a gold card can afford await me.
I am nicely satiated after a wonderful dinner of barbecued salmon at the Emirates Lounge and at peace with myself and the world. I plan to sleep if possible; adequately tired and pleasantly achy from my 6 mile run in crisp 36˚F Orlando, FL weather, calm winds and the road almost to myself this Sunday morning.
I am busy reading a novel, waiting for others to board and take off when a shadow falls over my book and I look up to see Adnaan Saami’s scowling chubby face, glaring down at me. Startled, I do a double take, as do others, seated and standing around me, congesting the area near my seat. The last photos I have seen of this lift karaade singer was a few months ago, in tabloid pages of Mumbai Mirror, all slim and trim, in bitter marital acrimony with his (ex) wife, Sabah, having lost considerable fat. Wow, seems the guy can’t keep his taste buds under control for too long. He is as huge as before, with a massive gut preceding his body.
You are sitting in my seat, he grumbles.
Affronted, I glare back. I am not! I say. I am very territorial; I know my seat numbers all right.
He fumbles around his ill fitting coat, breathing hard, presumably looking for his boarding pass, pulls out the stub and sticks it right under my nose. There, see? My seat!
Ordinarily, in dealing with rude and unreasonable people, I can stand my own and can take good care of myself. But this guy is a giant and even a soft punch on my pretty face could do a lot of damage. So I glance at the boarding pass and smugly say, Not your seat! This seat is 67C, which is mine, yours is 67B, next to mine. Look at your boarding pass. He peers at the stub and a sheepish look crosses his face. Shit, he wails, shit. That bitch of a woman. I asked her 3 times for an aisle seat. Shit! I was hoping he would apologize to me for his rudeness first…
This outburst has everybody around us even more fascinated; something to write home about, Adnaan Saami having a fit. He extricates his massive gut from his coat, throws it and a carryon into the storage bin above and proceeds to park an even heftier butt into the seat next to mine; I (and others) look on, curious and quite alarmed. I am curious as to how the poor seat will accommodate that entire butt and if it miraculously does, alarmed as to how I am going to spend 12 hours sitting next to all that blubber. The seat protests for a second or two then relents, and Adnaan (and others) sigh in relief. I feel like crying; a rim of fat has overflowed and sits comfortably on the armrest, pinning my arm towards one side.
I am now livid, there is no way I am going to sit for 12 hours in this position; I get up and try to draw attention of a cabin crew while others gawk at the whale seated next to me. A giggling striking young teenager squeezes past the line waiting to proceed further inside this Airbus A380 and croons Adnaan, Adnaan! I love your voice, can I have an autograph please? Adnaan scowls at her, I am not Adnaan or a singer, leave me alone. You think I would be flying economy if I was him?
Eh? I do a double take again; the girl is not convinced however, bats her eyelids at him then makes a giggly retreat. He looks like Adnaan Saami all right, at least the one in the lift karaade video I have seen. Does he have a twin? I don’t care, I want out, Saami or a twin; I am not going to be compressed like a card box.
A Pilipino crew finally makes it to me and I take her to a discreet side and begin to tell her about my predicament; she cuts me off in mid sentence. Don’t worry Sir, I already know of the situation and understand, we will not let you sit there. The flight is quite empty and I will sit you where you will have a whole row to yourself. Just wait until cabin doors close and I will re-sit you. I could kiss her; so delirious with relief.
I return to my seat and gingerly park myself in my partly usurped seat; Saami or non-Saami has conked off to sleep and snores away, his head nodding, as if in exited agreement, with every intake of a noisy breath. This gives me (and others) the opportunity to observe him. Some debate if he is indeed Saami, others discuss his voice and (mis)fortune with women and one even tries to take a photo but I and my savior stewardess shoo him away; my face does not come cheap.
Things settle down and I wait to be reseated; even look forward to it as I will be able to stretch out for my sleep. Just as speakers come alive with the announcement that doors have closed and we are bound for Dubai, this guy lets out a snort and a fart so loud and foul, I jump up and scurry for cover towards the rear of the aircraft where safety and comfort that a gold card can afford await me.
Sunday, January 16, 2011
Sunday gripes.
I am in a foul mood, perhaps because I am headed to the US tomorrow and will have to spend about 20 plus hours in the air to get from Mumbai to London to New York to Orlando, not counting stopover time. There is another, shorter route through Dubai but incredibly, all cattle class seats to the US from Dubai on Emirates are full for at least a week; business class is available, but I will have to raid and rob the Bank of India branch nearby to make that possible. I usually plan my travels way in advance but this trip is unplanned, abrupt. These bloody Emirates, they have really captured the market with acute logistical finesse and fantastic on-air service. No wonder their Canadian and European rivals find their behinds roasting over live charcoals. My mood is made darker by Kingfisher Airline informing me there are no seats with extra legroom available, so it will be a standard seat. Shucks!
Don’t know about you, but it’s getting harder traveling long distances now that I am a getting grayer and wiser; I adamantly refuse to say older. Huh, if I was getting ‘old’ I could not outrun majority of you men out there twenty years younger. Talking about graying, strange no, I am getting threadbare gray on my scalp, robust gray at the sides of my head, but bloody even healthier gray on my chest, nose and even ears! It seems providence has decided to take hair from top of my scalp and transplant them to these body parts!
Yes, I was talking about the impending trip which may have soured my temperament this fine Sunday morning here in Mumbai. Is it that? It can’t be the weather, as I savor waning days of my stay in this country; January can be a wonderful time of year to be in Mumbai. Calm comfortable days, pleasant cool nights and relief from noise pollution as thousands of air conditioners take a sabbatical in my neighborhood. Of course mangoes and apple custards and jack fruit are all gone now, still, you can’t beat the wonderful pleasant (brief) weather that currently prevail here.
Maybe it’s the price of gas, now raised 11% in 2 months, the damage this will do to the 4 – 5 thousand rupee earner. Maybe it’s the price of onions, skyrocketing to heights she feels she is bloody gold, so indispensable her need in Indian cuisine. Why, one newspaper carried a report about an irate husband getting ready to dismember his 30 old marriage because mama watoto curtailed the quantity of it in her cooking. No, it can’t be the onions. Then it must be the daily, unrelenting headlines of government officials in one corruption scandal after another, for amounts so colossally large, it makes my mind tizzy just counting the zeros. Perhaps Indians need nerves of Tunisians; take charge and bring about a change with corrupt, looting officials. But perhaps I am just sour at the obscene amounts of cash tossed around at the recent IPL auction for current cricket players. God, why didn’t You make me a cricket goddess?
This inflation nightmare is eating into royalty as well, I read in papers. Why, the queen of England (again, why is she a queen in the first place?) has agreed to share her gigantic Buckingham Palace with grandson William so money can be saved. Should not be a problem; I am sure Kate and William will find ample crooks and corners within 818,218 square feet to enjoy a hearty honeymoon and a happy life after.
Oh never mind all my moaning and groaning above, my mood has just changed for the better. I just got a call from Kingfisher Airlines; the representative all exited and out of breath. Kingfisher has upgraded me on the Mumbai to London sector! Business Class? I turn equally exited and breathless, so we communicate each other’s excitement over the phone for a few seconds. I am puzzled however, for I am but a lowly silver member in their frequent flier program; so far. Yes, yes, she says, you have been upgraded to first row in economy with plenty more leg room!
Can I return to my gripping? Perhaps I can write about more inflation woes? No? Well then, can we talk about more upbeat newspaper reports? About this guy’s penis being eaten by a rat in jail? Or a bus driver caught driving with a women sitting on his on lap? Or…
Don’t know about you, but it’s getting harder traveling long distances now that I am a getting grayer and wiser; I adamantly refuse to say older. Huh, if I was getting ‘old’ I could not outrun majority of you men out there twenty years younger. Talking about graying, strange no, I am getting threadbare gray on my scalp, robust gray at the sides of my head, but bloody even healthier gray on my chest, nose and even ears! It seems providence has decided to take hair from top of my scalp and transplant them to these body parts!
Yes, I was talking about the impending trip which may have soured my temperament this fine Sunday morning here in Mumbai. Is it that? It can’t be the weather, as I savor waning days of my stay in this country; January can be a wonderful time of year to be in Mumbai. Calm comfortable days, pleasant cool nights and relief from noise pollution as thousands of air conditioners take a sabbatical in my neighborhood. Of course mangoes and apple custards and jack fruit are all gone now, still, you can’t beat the wonderful pleasant (brief) weather that currently prevail here.
Maybe it’s the price of gas, now raised 11% in 2 months, the damage this will do to the 4 – 5 thousand rupee earner. Maybe it’s the price of onions, skyrocketing to heights she feels she is bloody gold, so indispensable her need in Indian cuisine. Why, one newspaper carried a report about an irate husband getting ready to dismember his 30 old marriage because mama watoto curtailed the quantity of it in her cooking. No, it can’t be the onions. Then it must be the daily, unrelenting headlines of government officials in one corruption scandal after another, for amounts so colossally large, it makes my mind tizzy just counting the zeros. Perhaps Indians need nerves of Tunisians; take charge and bring about a change with corrupt, looting officials. But perhaps I am just sour at the obscene amounts of cash tossed around at the recent IPL auction for current cricket players. God, why didn’t You make me a cricket goddess?
This inflation nightmare is eating into royalty as well, I read in papers. Why, the queen of England (again, why is she a queen in the first place?) has agreed to share her gigantic Buckingham Palace with grandson William so money can be saved. Should not be a problem; I am sure Kate and William will find ample crooks and corners within 818,218 square feet to enjoy a hearty honeymoon and a happy life after.
Oh never mind all my moaning and groaning above, my mood has just changed for the better. I just got a call from Kingfisher Airlines; the representative all exited and out of breath. Kingfisher has upgraded me on the Mumbai to London sector! Business Class? I turn equally exited and breathless, so we communicate each other’s excitement over the phone for a few seconds. I am puzzled however, for I am but a lowly silver member in their frequent flier program; so far. Yes, yes, she says, you have been upgraded to first row in economy with plenty more leg room!
Can I return to my gripping? Perhaps I can write about more inflation woes? No? Well then, can we talk about more upbeat newspaper reports? About this guy’s penis being eaten by a rat in jail? Or a bus driver caught driving with a women sitting on his on lap? Or…
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
5 Days In Iraq – Through My Eyes
Maaha Zainab, Alihussein, Tasneem and I are blessed with a visit to Iraq immediately after this past Aashoora in Dubai. Tasneem and I have been to Iraq earlier, under Goddamn, sorry Saddam Hussein in 1998, sailing from Dubai to Basra and overland to Najaf, Karbala, Bagdad, Samara and Kadhemain. It was a memorial trip, leisure one, even if tainted with fear of Saddam’s goons stalking us most places we went.
The flight from Dubai to Najaf via Bahrain is delayed by over an hour, but we make up by a shorter break in Bahrain. Najaf airport, a modern warehouse really, is deserted when we land; the immigration / customs process is painless. The officers and security men all smoke, in open defiance of signs to the contrary; this is the norm all over Iraq, men (and a couple of women I saw) smoke and smoke – a lot. We are met and assisted by our agent, Ali Shamsi, a smooth talking Iraqi who has plenty of right connections in Iraq; it is obvious from his employee’s subsequent behavior Ali is a man not to be messed around with.
The drive to Karbala is uneventful, the landscape not very much different from Afghanistan, a country I often visit. Private cars are not permitted within 3 miles of the twin shrines of Imam Hussein (A) and his brother Abbas (A) so we change from our vehicle to a taxi and then, the final mile, walking, our luggage on a hand propelled taxi cart. At the final security stop, we run into turbulence. A cagey cop, young and brash, pockets our passports once he sees we are ‘Amriki’. The guide who Ali Shamsi has assigned us protests, the cop is unmoved. Our luggage is thoroughly checked, passerby’s into the shrine vicinity that go through a routine, bored check glance at us curiously, then hurry along. We are made to walk about half a mile to security headquarters for further scrutiny before another young cop, after profuse yakking over his walkie-talkie, apologizes and lets us go. I guess us Americans are not very popular, even in countries we supposedly liberate.
Our hotel, Bab ur Rehma, a stone throw away from Haram of Imam Hussein (A) is small and cramped but modern enough, rather ornate. There are however, no towels and our room is not cleaned the entire 3 days we stay there. ‘Insha’Allah soon’ and in ‘5 – 10 minutes’ is the standard response I get whenever I ask. When I protest firmly, loudly, we are unceremoniously given a few damp, smelly towels, obviously used; I give up.
We visit the twin shrines that evening; a blessing obviously, but also a delight and wonder and amazement at Allah’s compensation to His servants who fell on these holy grounds over 14 centuries ago but now stand high and proud; a beacon for all humanity against all injustice and oppression. The experience, again, is unreal. Much has changed from last time; the shrines have become more comfortable with plenty of lush Iranian carpets to cushion long stays or cold marble floors. The crowds are orderly, perhaps 90% from Iran, until I get closer to the actual place of burials when they become almost unruly, an elbow to my rib and head and Zainab squeezed so hard she bursts into tears. I see Iranians, Turks, Indians, Pakistanis, Nigerians…all lost in awe and pleading with the holy personalities there. Some are so caught up in emotions, they weep and wail openly, some repeatedly kiss the gold and silver, some rub their bodies, jerking around as if suffering from epilepsy against the doors, the floor, the shrine itself, oblivious to the cries of guards to let go, give others a chance…
The municipal authorities in Karbala are super efficient (listen up Mumbai!). With crowds that visit the city, peaking at almost 14 million during Arbaeen, it is a miracle indeed city services survive at all! I am told everybody visiting can be fed free here every day, even at peak periods. Indeed, I see lines and lines of people waiting patiently for a hot meal. These same poor people sleep under the sky at night below heavy, warm blankets made available by the city. The streets next morning are clean and a pleasure to walk through. We have a grand tour of Karbala - Til e Zainabia, the various shrines, sons, friends and companions of Imam Hussein (A), Khaimegah, river Furaat, home of Imam Saddiq (A) and of Imam Mahdi (A).
We leave very early, at 5AM, for Samarra next day. It is super cold, maybe just at freezing as I notice frost on our vehicle. Both the driver and guide smoke inside the car. When I protest, the driver gives me an option – Either I smoke, or fall asleep; so I shut up. After quick Fajr salaat stop at Aun / Mohammed, the gallant sons of Zainab (A), we drive the 120 kilometers to Samarra. There are so many security checks along the way, I lose track after counting 25. Just a quick look inside by a bored policeman who then wave us through. Very heavy, unruly traffic slow us down as we approach the outskirts of Bagdad (déjà vu – Mumbai?). The security is more thorough as we near Samarra, with our passport checked and bomb detectors on overtime. At the shrine of Imams Naqi (A) and Asghari (A), where there are numerous checks and re-checks, our guide urges us to hurry up; he seems nervous. The work on destroyed tombs of the Imams (A) is in full swing, with construction works curtailing a complete, satisfying ziyaarah. A fully armed security guard overhears us discussing the number of security stops along the way and tells me there are 120 between Samarra and Karbala, one after every kilometer. Our return to Karbala via Kadhemein is at 8PM. Exhausted, we eat dinner and crash for our drive to Najaf tomorrow.
Thankfully, the drive to Najaf has only 2 checkpoints, sign of less insurgency. We see the majestic dome of Imam Ali’s (A) shrine; an emotional visit for Zohr prayers follow, then time spent at the courtyard in contemplation and meditation with this great noble and holy personality – a very lucky treat indeed. The hotel is great, even more ornate but with excellent buffet meals; the choice of salads are amazing. Popular as well; there are people staying here I know from elsewhere who I meet. After Fajr prayers at the Haram under numbing cold and breakfast next morning, we tour Masjid Sehla, Masjid Koofa, Masjid Hanana, Masjid Koomail and the shrine of Abudhar. Our last night in Iraq, we say Magreeb at the Haram and then shop for gifts before packing up and readying for our uneventful flight back to Dubai via Bahrain the next day.
Iraq seems on the mend actually. The grinding poverty I saw in 1998 is not evident and people seem well fed, decently clothed and obviously have disposable funds, because they overwhelmingly smoke. Business booms, mainly form zawaar trade and the construction industry is thriving, with hotels and homes coming up all around. I am disappointed not meeting Aagha Seestani; his office informs me they need 5 - 7 days prior appointments now. I am met byAli Shamsi at the airport who gives me my bill which is US$700 more than earlier agreed. Stunned, I argue but it’s no use, he insists it is a misunderstanding; I pay up. Not a big price to pay for the opportunity to be with my Imams (A) but the episode does leave a bitter after-taste in my mouth in otherwise 5 delightful days in Iraq.
The flight from Dubai to Najaf via Bahrain is delayed by over an hour, but we make up by a shorter break in Bahrain. Najaf airport, a modern warehouse really, is deserted when we land; the immigration / customs process is painless. The officers and security men all smoke, in open defiance of signs to the contrary; this is the norm all over Iraq, men (and a couple of women I saw) smoke and smoke – a lot. We are met and assisted by our agent, Ali Shamsi, a smooth talking Iraqi who has plenty of right connections in Iraq; it is obvious from his employee’s subsequent behavior Ali is a man not to be messed around with.
The drive to Karbala is uneventful, the landscape not very much different from Afghanistan, a country I often visit. Private cars are not permitted within 3 miles of the twin shrines of Imam Hussein (A) and his brother Abbas (A) so we change from our vehicle to a taxi and then, the final mile, walking, our luggage on a hand propelled taxi cart. At the final security stop, we run into turbulence. A cagey cop, young and brash, pockets our passports once he sees we are ‘Amriki’. The guide who Ali Shamsi has assigned us protests, the cop is unmoved. Our luggage is thoroughly checked, passerby’s into the shrine vicinity that go through a routine, bored check glance at us curiously, then hurry along. We are made to walk about half a mile to security headquarters for further scrutiny before another young cop, after profuse yakking over his walkie-talkie, apologizes and lets us go. I guess us Americans are not very popular, even in countries we supposedly liberate.
Our hotel, Bab ur Rehma, a stone throw away from Haram of Imam Hussein (A) is small and cramped but modern enough, rather ornate. There are however, no towels and our room is not cleaned the entire 3 days we stay there. ‘Insha’Allah soon’ and in ‘5 – 10 minutes’ is the standard response I get whenever I ask. When I protest firmly, loudly, we are unceremoniously given a few damp, smelly towels, obviously used; I give up.
We visit the twin shrines that evening; a blessing obviously, but also a delight and wonder and amazement at Allah’s compensation to His servants who fell on these holy grounds over 14 centuries ago but now stand high and proud; a beacon for all humanity against all injustice and oppression. The experience, again, is unreal. Much has changed from last time; the shrines have become more comfortable with plenty of lush Iranian carpets to cushion long stays or cold marble floors. The crowds are orderly, perhaps 90% from Iran, until I get closer to the actual place of burials when they become almost unruly, an elbow to my rib and head and Zainab squeezed so hard she bursts into tears. I see Iranians, Turks, Indians, Pakistanis, Nigerians…all lost in awe and pleading with the holy personalities there. Some are so caught up in emotions, they weep and wail openly, some repeatedly kiss the gold and silver, some rub their bodies, jerking around as if suffering from epilepsy against the doors, the floor, the shrine itself, oblivious to the cries of guards to let go, give others a chance…
The municipal authorities in Karbala are super efficient (listen up Mumbai!). With crowds that visit the city, peaking at almost 14 million during Arbaeen, it is a miracle indeed city services survive at all! I am told everybody visiting can be fed free here every day, even at peak periods. Indeed, I see lines and lines of people waiting patiently for a hot meal. These same poor people sleep under the sky at night below heavy, warm blankets made available by the city. The streets next morning are clean and a pleasure to walk through. We have a grand tour of Karbala - Til e Zainabia, the various shrines, sons, friends and companions of Imam Hussein (A), Khaimegah, river Furaat, home of Imam Saddiq (A) and of Imam Mahdi (A).
We leave very early, at 5AM, for Samarra next day. It is super cold, maybe just at freezing as I notice frost on our vehicle. Both the driver and guide smoke inside the car. When I protest, the driver gives me an option – Either I smoke, or fall asleep; so I shut up. After quick Fajr salaat stop at Aun / Mohammed, the gallant sons of Zainab (A), we drive the 120 kilometers to Samarra. There are so many security checks along the way, I lose track after counting 25. Just a quick look inside by a bored policeman who then wave us through. Very heavy, unruly traffic slow us down as we approach the outskirts of Bagdad (déjà vu – Mumbai?). The security is more thorough as we near Samarra, with our passport checked and bomb detectors on overtime. At the shrine of Imams Naqi (A) and Asghari (A), where there are numerous checks and re-checks, our guide urges us to hurry up; he seems nervous. The work on destroyed tombs of the Imams (A) is in full swing, with construction works curtailing a complete, satisfying ziyaarah. A fully armed security guard overhears us discussing the number of security stops along the way and tells me there are 120 between Samarra and Karbala, one after every kilometer. Our return to Karbala via Kadhemein is at 8PM. Exhausted, we eat dinner and crash for our drive to Najaf tomorrow.
Thankfully, the drive to Najaf has only 2 checkpoints, sign of less insurgency. We see the majestic dome of Imam Ali’s (A) shrine; an emotional visit for Zohr prayers follow, then time spent at the courtyard in contemplation and meditation with this great noble and holy personality – a very lucky treat indeed. The hotel is great, even more ornate but with excellent buffet meals; the choice of salads are amazing. Popular as well; there are people staying here I know from elsewhere who I meet. After Fajr prayers at the Haram under numbing cold and breakfast next morning, we tour Masjid Sehla, Masjid Koofa, Masjid Hanana, Masjid Koomail and the shrine of Abudhar. Our last night in Iraq, we say Magreeb at the Haram and then shop for gifts before packing up and readying for our uneventful flight back to Dubai via Bahrain the next day.
Iraq seems on the mend actually. The grinding poverty I saw in 1998 is not evident and people seem well fed, decently clothed and obviously have disposable funds, because they overwhelmingly smoke. Business booms, mainly form zawaar trade and the construction industry is thriving, with hotels and homes coming up all around. I am disappointed not meeting Aagha Seestani; his office informs me they need 5 - 7 days prior appointments now. I am met byAli Shamsi at the airport who gives me my bill which is US$700 more than earlier agreed. Stunned, I argue but it’s no use, he insists it is a misunderstanding; I pay up. Not a big price to pay for the opportunity to be with my Imams (A) but the episode does leave a bitter after-taste in my mouth in otherwise 5 delightful days in Iraq.
Friday, December 17, 2010
Comfort Aid International – The Beginning.
How did CAI start? What inspired you? I get asked this question very often. The answer is quite lengthy which I had documented way back in 1996. I share and blog this experience now; hope you will find it interesting, informative.
It is a hot and humid monsoon July Saturday some 16 years ago; dark, pregnant skies above threaten to open up any minute and drench me, but worse, make my travel to Govendhi miserable and perhaps impossible. Govendhi lies about 15 miles northeast of Mumbai that takes about two hours to reach on a good day. It is very densely populated, stench - puke smelly, dirty beyond descriptive words dirty, and full of slum flies. And yes, it is populated predominantly by Muslims and by over 12,000 families of the Ahle Tashayyo persuation, overwhelmingly Sadaats.
I get to Govendhi all hot and sweaty and harassed and almost swoon. This place is unreal; houses are made of rags with garbage bags for a roof, the lanes between homes squelch and slide wherever I delicately put my foot down, covering my once shiny shoes with a thick sludge of mud, the air is ripe with the stench of raw sewer and flies torment every open skin on my body.
There are people everywhere, packing lanes, hurrying here and there, vendors shout their wares or vegetables or fruits amidst cows, goats, dogs and chicken. I sneeze once and two flies enter my mouth and I almost gag. I feel I cannot breathe, the world swims in my eyes and I stumble. My guide, who is increasingly alarmed at my distress immediately props me up until we reach the steps of a crumbling mosque where he parks me on a dry veranda and hurries to get me a cold drink.
I take deep breaths and try to regain my composure, feeling silly and mad at myself for being so weak. I drop my head down, trying to get blood back to my brains and feel better. I look around and simply cannot fathom my surroundings; animals live better in the US.
My attention is diverted to a pair of children, a girl and a boy frolicking in a shallow pond of rain water near the wudhoo area outside the mosque. They seem to be oblivious to their surrounding, filling empty water bottles and dousing each other with its filthy contents, and having a bloody merry time of it. They are both clothed in rags and have bodies so thin, I feel either one would fracture or break a bone, falling upon each other as they were. I get a sudden urge to run away from this misery, for the despair and sudden fear I feel makes me break in a cold sweat and I suddenly start shivering violently.
I return to my luxury hotel room at the Leela Kempensky, tear off my clothes and have a long hot shower, trying to rid my body of the grime and sweat and the smell that still cling to it. I resolve never to go back to that hell hole, to hell with what Mullah Asghar has to say about it, the benefits of experiencing what the poor in this world we live through. I was not going back. Ever.
Allah (SWT) however, has different plans for me; and who is the best Planner? That very night, as I nestle and snuggle amongst the lavish linens of the five star hotel I am put up, I dream of the two children frolicking in the filthy waters of Govendhi. I awake but strangely, cannot fall asleep again. I toss and turn amongst the bedcovers; I switch on the television, hoping it will lull me to sleep. Nothing works. Who are these children? Why are they not in school? Why are they so thin and in rags? Are they orphans? They look obviously happy…. On and on and on.
Strangely, this dream reappears in my sleep the next day and I spend another night tossing and turning, restless and disturbed. And so it goes on for the whole week; my mind keeps me awake with the thoughts of these two children.
When it is Saturday next and my day off, it is as if the skies have decided to open up and it pours non-stop the whole day; I stay at the hotel, brooding of the kids and Govendhi. So I make a covenant with Allah, a selfish covenant, thinking I can outsmart Him. I promise Him if it stops raining tomorrow, if the sun is out, I will revisit Govendhi and try finding the two kids and at least feed them. Now, the chance of a bright and sunny day in the middle of July in Maharashtra is equivalent of winning a lottery jackpot. Almost. When I walk outside the hotel after my workout and breakfast the next day, it is cloudy all right and I smile, smug I have won. But exactly at that moment, the sun reveals itself and keeps on smiling its hot rays on the humid air, making me sweat immediately.
I cajole and promise my guide a hefty bonus if he would leave his family this Sunday and accompany me to Govendhi. He does not look too exited; I guess he is unimpressed with my behavior from last Saturday. Money wins however, and off we go to hunt for my tormentors. I am better equipped this time around, with sneakers and a handkerchief doused in perfume. We spend a couple of hours looking for them and finally, when I am losing hope, we spot them very near the pond, engrossed in making a living. When we approach them, they scatter and run away, fearful. Much to the annoyance of my guide, I dangle a fifty rupee bill from my fingers and they return, cautious, but very interested.
We take them to a local restaurant and both demolish a heap of greasy chicken biryani; I cannot believe such thin people had such appetites. When I offer them falooda after biryani is over, their eyes light up with undisguised delight. The falooda disappear in minutes; both wiping their glass bowl clean. Over orange Mirinda, we extract their life details.
Sakina is seven (she thinks, not sure) and Alireza six (he thinks, not sure), both born in the slums of Govendhi and have never been to school. Both were put to work supporting their family of six by the time they could put razor to slice rubber. These two scavenge scrap electrical cables off construction sites and pull out its copper guts. The copper is then wound into a ball and if they have enough (cricket ball size), it earns them about ten Rupees. They give this to their paan guzzling father who would in turn purchase a little rice and daal and their mother would then feed them dinner, their only meal for the day.
Sakina is so thin, I can see ribs jutting out from her skin through a rip on her dress and so is Alireza, who cannot sit still, constantly moving around in his chair, playing around with the salt and pepper shakers or dipping into the hot chutney container. I feel very sad for them, for I know this is temporary and they will be out on the streets as soon as we depart. On an impulse, I ask the duo to take me to their parents, to their home. They look at each other uneasily and balk. I reassure them, telling them that I may help them but want to talk to their parents first. After some more debate, they escort us inside the slum, with lanes getting narrower and the filth filthier.
I see a girl child, totally naked, nose running, wailing at the top of her lungs with no apparent guardian around. I see two children sleeping out in the open, near a stream in which flow human feces…I make maximum use of my perfumed hankie.
We arrive at a small hut, similar to hundreds like it around and enter a dark room; it takes me several seconds to focus before I can see clearly. The hut has dirt floor, I notice immediately, three charpoy beds occupy three corners of rusting tin walls and the remaining corner has beaten up pots and pans hanging from it. Clothes hang from strings strung across all four corners and a charcoal stove glows amber, emits sharp acrid odor that begin to sting my eyes. On one of the bed lie an emaciated looking aged woman, probably a grandmother, who stares at me unblinkingly and follows me with her eyes as I am made to sit on an empty charpoy. By her side, fast asleep, is a tiny baby, looks newborn, with a black streak of evil eye across a frowning brow. On another bed, sitting cross legged is Mr. Shahed Rizwi, lord of the hut. Rizwi looks as me suspiciously, does not offer a handshake, but does wave my guide and me to the empty charpoy. He looks very much like Sakina. I do not see Mrs. Rizwi around.
Sakina serves us water from dented tin glasses but I decline and sip from my safer water bottle supply.
I ask Rizwi if he is well, but get the typical wag of the head from the neck and bare of paan stained teeth for an answer. I ask him why his kids are not in school.
“School?” He asks, surprised, as if the thought has never occurred to him. “If I send them to school, who will bring roti home?” he asks, gesturing with pinched fingers towards his mouth.
I feel a sudden rash of irritation for this man so I promptly and recklessly reply “You?” My guide finds this funny, for he giggles shrilly and as quickly, covers his mouth, stifling it.
A flash of anger spreads across Mr. Rizwi’s face and he lets out a string of protests; that he is sick, that his mother, gesturing towards the old women, is old and sick, that he cannot find decent work, that his wife has natal problems…
But I insist that education is important, that his children will not stand a change in adult life doing what they did. Mr. Rizwi shrugs his shoulders and exposes paan stained teeth again “Allah’s will…” he mummers. I honestly feel like slapping him silly.
So I bribe him, this Mr. Paan Rizwi. Through my guide, I promise him Rupees 300 a month to keep the kids in school at the nearby Jafri English School. I also arrange to feed Sakina and Alireza one hot meal a day. We arrange to get the kids to school the next day; I take the Monday off. I bring along a local social worker from Bandra mosque and we take the children for a bath and Alireza for a haircut. After the bath, both Sakina and Alireza have haircuts, for we cannot comb through Sakina’s hair, they are a mess of impossible tangles from years of neglect, so we chop them off very short; now, she looks little different from Alireza.
Much has changed in Govendhi since this episode took place. The slum with its decay, hovels, filth, flies and smell still remain. There has been startling development in the edges of the slums, as if an attempt to cut off and hide the eyesores at the core. The roads are mostly asphalt now but hovels still have no running water and most power lines are stolen by gangs and crudely distributed for profit.
Sakina, masha’Allah, turned out to be a brilliant student, scoring above average marks all her school life. We enrolled her in computer programming studies after high school and she excelled here as well. She got married in November of 2006 and now works for a multinational company as a computer programmer, earning about US $1,200 a month. She speaks excellent English, one reason she secured the nice job position. She migrated away from Govendhi with her husband and recently called with good news she is a mother of a daughter and owns the apartment she lives in.
Alireza does well, not as well as Sakina but reasonably well, working as a sales representative for a mobile company, earning about US $250 a month. He moved out of Govendhi as well.
Mr. Rizwi still whiles away his time, talking to cronies in Govendhi, consuming paan supplemented by Sakina; Alireza has stopped giving him money but secretly gives to his mother every month.
Mrs. Rizwi had three more children after the one I saw sleeping by its grandmother. Mrs. Rizwi misses Sakina very much.
All other siblings of Sakina attend school; CAI supplements their fees, Sakina helps out with food and clothing.
The grandmother passed away some years ago.
I tell this story because it was my first investment in humanity that paid off handsomely; because the experience gave birth to CAI.
Contemplate the results; for very little investment:
1. Two innocent kids were pulled away from the gutters of slum life.
2. Both got an opportunity to a decent education.
3. Both succeeded, pulled from the brink of poverty and destitution.
4. Both broke the cycle of poverty; for them and their posterity.
5. More importantly both will ensure their kids are never denied an opportunity to education.
CAI focus on education in India has paid off exceedingly well, thanks to Allah and CAI’s very many donors and well wishers. I am trying to repeat the successes in Afghanistan, which is facing many more trails and challenges, more so than India ever did. For more information, please visit www.comfortaid.org and insha’Allah be motivated into action.
Ali Yusufali
Saturday, December 11, 2010
Corruption galore
Living in India, I have to deal with hundreds, thousands, lacs (one hundred thousand), ten lacs (one million) and then caror (ten million). One caror, that’s a tidy sum of money, especially in India. About US$225,000 at today’s exchange rate. To put this amount into perspective, I just sold my apartment (they call it flat here) at about 2 carors Rupees. So you can buy a comfortable 3 bedroom 1,250 sq ft apartment for about UD$450,000. Yes, tiny size and steep in price by US standards but pretty normal here in the upper middle class neighborhood of Andheri West, Mumbai.
Why am I yapping on about Indian money, you wonder? Well, what if I told you that a minister in the current government (allegedly) stole, yes, stole 176,000 caror Rupees. He gave away licenses for mobile phone technology to corporations at 2001 rates, causing the exchequer the colossal loss. That is 176,000,000,000,000 Indian Rupees or US$ 39 Billion, almost two times the entire GDP of Tanzania (2009 statistics). This is a toenail curling amount.
I knew this country was knee deep with corrupt officials; what I did not realize how deep, brazen and unconscionable the politicians involved are. This dude got caught with his pants down, literally. But watching his demeanor and haughtiness on television makes my blood boil. He knows, he bloody well knows nothing will happen to him as the culpability of colluding officials benefiting from this scam run deep. Yes, the newspapers will scream murder, yes there will be an inquiry, yes he will be banished for a year or two. But he will return, yes Sir, he will. Just like past ministers, chief or otherwise, caught with their dirty hands in muck, dismissed, banished and then incorporated back into the system; cleansed and laundered like black money to white.
Tragedy is, citizens of India don’t care. These things happen so jan do, yaar, chalta hai. Not a day goes by without the media lambasting Pakistan, China as enemies, out to destroy India. I suggest these countries may not cause as much destruction to India as, sadly, sleaze will sink her faster, deeper.
Why am I yapping on about Indian money, you wonder? Well, what if I told you that a minister in the current government (allegedly) stole, yes, stole 176,000 caror Rupees. He gave away licenses for mobile phone technology to corporations at 2001 rates, causing the exchequer the colossal loss. That is 176,000,000,000,000 Indian Rupees or US$ 39 Billion, almost two times the entire GDP of Tanzania (2009 statistics). This is a toenail curling amount.
I knew this country was knee deep with corrupt officials; what I did not realize how deep, brazen and unconscionable the politicians involved are. This dude got caught with his pants down, literally. But watching his demeanor and haughtiness on television makes my blood boil. He knows, he bloody well knows nothing will happen to him as the culpability of colluding officials benefiting from this scam run deep. Yes, the newspapers will scream murder, yes there will be an inquiry, yes he will be banished for a year or two. But he will return, yes Sir, he will. Just like past ministers, chief or otherwise, caught with their dirty hands in muck, dismissed, banished and then incorporated back into the system; cleansed and laundered like black money to white.
Tragedy is, citizens of India don’t care. These things happen so jan do, yaar, chalta hai. Not a day goes by without the media lambasting Pakistan, China as enemies, out to destroy India. I suggest these countries may not cause as much destruction to India as, sadly, sleaze will sink her faster, deeper.
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