(or, ‘How I ended up spending $100 on chai after making an ass of myself in office’)
Beaconhouse Regional Office, KL: This tale begins with a case of poorly timed acne and – concurrently – a rather visible tear on the back of my pants. Could it get any worse? Yes, because this beauteous scene is in the midst of our regional office in Kuala Lumpur where I am making a desperate sales pitch to a middle-aged Chinese couple (who probably don’t understand half of what I’m saying) about why they must sell their 2 successful, purpose-built schools to us for half a million Ringgits less than they want to. I have a very large pimple on my forehead which I am somewhat conscious of, because – as much as I would like to consider it a sign of youth – I am past the age when normal people get acne. What I am blissfully unaware of, however, is the large tear on the seat of my pants. My captive audience consists of 3 of our senior managers in KL and the hapless Chinese couple. Suddenly, in an urge to explain how in fact we are paying them the half million extra through an earn-out formula (when in fact we’re not), I stand up and – in the style that my peon in Lahore must now be familiar with – impatiently demand a board marker so I can demonstrate my point. After irrationally accusing the marker-giver of having stupidly handed me a permanent marker vs. the erasable kind – which is of course not the case – I turn my back to the audience and start scribbling on the board. I’m too wrapped up in my ‘sell me your schools’ sales pitch to notice that some people in the room have started shuffling around uncomfortably. As I’m reaching my climactic ending, I am nudged on the shoulder by my finance manager, suggesting that I wear my blazer. I look at him quizzically and assume he’s finally lost his marbles. “Your pants are torn in the…seat”, he murmers apologetically. Momentarily disoriented, I am not sure whether or not to acknowledge my unfortunate situation in front of a roomful of people. Instead, I sit down and shamelessly continue addressing the visibly perplexed Mr & Mrs Tan.
Pyramid Mall, Subang Jaya: Hours later, I have purchased Eucerin’s entire range of skincare products including sebum reducing cleanser, clarifying facial toner, skin regulating cream gel, and of course 25% zinc oxide ointment from the Guardian Pharmacy’s drained pharmacist. As I’m walking away from the pharmacy, I have a sudden urge to turn back and quiz the pharmacist on why she didn’t suggest I buy the more fashionable Lancome range, but then better sense prevails – or perhaps I am distracted by someone staring at my forehead. I am now lost in the endless expanse of the mall. Totally randomly, I drift into a little tea shop, perhaps expecting that the ancient mystique of tea will purge my soul of its indiscretions. I find myself surrounded by a delicate cocktail of aromas as I explore the quaint little shop which claims to boast teas from across the East. An unobtrusive salesman stands by as he undoubtedly observes me – or perhaps my acne-scarred face – staring wide-eyed at exotic looking tins of tea ranging from [the equivalent of] $15 to $300 and more! The salesman tactfully intervenes at just the right moment. “Ah”, he says, “I see you’re looking at the compressed tea!” Handing me a solid disk as hard as a brick, he explains that compressed tea can last for upwards of 50 years. “Compressed teas have been used by the Chinese for centuries; they made excellent travel companions in the old days when people had to go on long journeys. The variety that you’re holding was farmed in the mid 1900s…it is extremely expensive but slightly bitter…a bit of an acquired taste.” He smiles his polite Chinese salesman smile. I am fascinated and start to imagine myself sipping tea from delicate china cups in some ‘Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon’ type of landscape. It’s not long before I am tasting different varieties of tea and – like the keen pupil that I never was at school – learn to distinguish between green tea, oolong tea, black tea, flower scented tea, and compressed tea. Watching the salesman’s even more servile assistant prepare a cup of jasmine tea for me, I am fascinated to see tiny pellets of jasmine literally morph into fresh flowers as boiling water is poured on them. “Notice the fragrance!”, gasps the salesman. “Now I’m going to give you a very special tea…the Tie Guan Yin, a variety of oolong that not only has a delicate fragrance but – unlike jasmine – leaves a sweet aftertaste on your palette which, according to legend, reveals the lingering charm of Guan Yin, the Chinese Iron Goddess of Mercy!” (His grammar was less perfect.) By now, I am gracefully flying over buildings in tea heaven, having forgotten the mall outside and, indeed, the twin ailments of my afternoon.
Sheraton Subang, 2.30 am: It is thus that I sit insomniacally at my laptop, turning nouns into adverbs, admiring my loot of tea which includes a rather expensive tin of Tie Guan Yin and 3 tins of jasmine tea. I have no idea whether Mr & Mrs Tan will fall for my earn-out formula but I’ve already spent a tiny portion of the anticipated savings on a lifetime supply of some of the most spectacular tea known to mankind – or the Chinese, anyway, who seem to comprise most of it. Guan Yin have mercy!
Friday, September 26, 2008
Monday, July 7, 2008
An infrequent blog
My ‘new’ blog has turned out to be about as vacant as the new government of Pakistan (which, I should add, was not the government when I rather grandly started ‘blogging’ in December 2007…those were the good old days in which my friend SA governed the forests and fisheries of the Punjab, and my relative WS broke all known records as teenage minister.) It was then, in the darkness that delivered this now not-so-new year, that I was finally driven to write. (Also, the fact that there were no New Year festivities in Karachi, where I was then, and I am now, may have played a minor role.)
I have thus been troubled by the fact that my blog has not quite become a blog; it is but one sad Entry made over 6 months ago, when I was young and carefree (Not) and the world was a braver place. I have derided myself, psychoanalyzed myself, and even flirted with self-important ideas like ‘writers block’, and what-have-you.
It was after some soul-searching that it finally struck me.
Certain things can only happen once in history (and thank God for that). Like that fateful midnight 60 years ago that carved two nations out of one, my ‘Blog’ was also borne of a cataclysmic event – the assassination of Benazir Bhutto – and thus belongs to history. To expect it to perpetuate does not, perhaps, augur well for the other great leaders of our nation… Differently put, nothing has quite touched me since. I am clearly the antidote to a certain distinguished family interviewed recently by the scholarly GT whose matriarch declared: ‘We are an eccentric family – things touch us.’ Well, things do not ‘touch’ me.
In my defense, however, between 27 December 2007 and 6 July, nothing of any significance has happened…unless of course one considers that today – 6 July – is the birthday of George W Bush…a fact I was forced to discover when somebody forwarded me an email with a photograph of a road sign greeting drivers entering the state of Connecticut: ‘Welcome to Connecticut, birthplace of George W Bush’, it read, followed by ‘We Apologize.’
So what is one supposed to celebrate – apart from W’s birthday? The fact that Mr. Z, who till recently was plotting his revenge from a jail cell, is now leader of the pack? (He plotted well.) Or do we get misty-eyed (or perhaps mystified?) at his newfound ‘closeness’ with NS, the protégé and prime beneficiary of Mr. ZAB’s killer? Or, perhaps, do we delve into the latest brainteaser and try to figure out who’s the ‘Old PPP’, who’s the ‘New’, and which one counts Aitzaz Ahsan amongst its members? Speaking of whom: I am also not ashamed to say that I don’t give two hoots about the ‘judiciary’, which to me has become nothing more than an over-hyped election issue. (I mean, who was the first to storm the Supreme Court anyway?) And what’s more important: massive food and fuel insecurities compounded by backbreaking inflation and back-to-back ‘load-shedding’, or the reinstatement of some dude called Iftikhar Chaudhry? It almost seems like a poorly-hatched film plot: keep harping about the cross-eyed guy, and hope that the 16 crore awaam will somehow lose sight of the real issues!
Indeed, it would not be a lie to say that I have stopped reading newspapers (although it could be a lie to say that I ever really read them)… and let’s not even talk of the ‘Breaking News’ alerts (yawn) that flash endlessly across 800 new channels at a breathtaking pace. But despite this newfound detachment, what did irk me tremendously was when, on a recent visit to New Delhi, a friend of ours, while twisting and turning on a barstool in a much sought-after new Japanese restaurant (we couldn’t get a table), declared: ‘The way things in Pakistan are happening, I think we’ll all soon be…together.’ There was a brief lapse before the meaning of the gratuitous remark sunk in. I realized she hadn’t even prefaced it with the customary ‘I hope you don’t mind’ (or equivalent thereof), almost as if I would instantly embrace this idea of oneness with Bollywood and Shining India. I dropped, from mid-air, the California roll that I was about to stuff my face with.
I have thus been troubled by the fact that my blog has not quite become a blog; it is but one sad Entry made over 6 months ago, when I was young and carefree (Not) and the world was a braver place. I have derided myself, psychoanalyzed myself, and even flirted with self-important ideas like ‘writers block’, and what-have-you.
It was after some soul-searching that it finally struck me.
Certain things can only happen once in history (and thank God for that). Like that fateful midnight 60 years ago that carved two nations out of one, my ‘Blog’ was also borne of a cataclysmic event – the assassination of Benazir Bhutto – and thus belongs to history. To expect it to perpetuate does not, perhaps, augur well for the other great leaders of our nation… Differently put, nothing has quite touched me since. I am clearly the antidote to a certain distinguished family interviewed recently by the scholarly GT whose matriarch declared: ‘We are an eccentric family – things touch us.’ Well, things do not ‘touch’ me.
In my defense, however, between 27 December 2007 and 6 July, nothing of any significance has happened…unless of course one considers that today – 6 July – is the birthday of George W Bush…a fact I was forced to discover when somebody forwarded me an email with a photograph of a road sign greeting drivers entering the state of Connecticut: ‘Welcome to Connecticut, birthplace of George W Bush’, it read, followed by ‘We Apologize.’
So what is one supposed to celebrate – apart from W’s birthday? The fact that Mr. Z, who till recently was plotting his revenge from a jail cell, is now leader of the pack? (He plotted well.) Or do we get misty-eyed (or perhaps mystified?) at his newfound ‘closeness’ with NS, the protégé and prime beneficiary of Mr. ZAB’s killer? Or, perhaps, do we delve into the latest brainteaser and try to figure out who’s the ‘Old PPP’, who’s the ‘New’, and which one counts Aitzaz Ahsan amongst its members? Speaking of whom: I am also not ashamed to say that I don’t give two hoots about the ‘judiciary’, which to me has become nothing more than an over-hyped election issue. (I mean, who was the first to storm the Supreme Court anyway?) And what’s more important: massive food and fuel insecurities compounded by backbreaking inflation and back-to-back ‘load-shedding’, or the reinstatement of some dude called Iftikhar Chaudhry? It almost seems like a poorly-hatched film plot: keep harping about the cross-eyed guy, and hope that the 16 crore awaam will somehow lose sight of the real issues!
Indeed, it would not be a lie to say that I have stopped reading newspapers (although it could be a lie to say that I ever really read them)… and let’s not even talk of the ‘Breaking News’ alerts (yawn) that flash endlessly across 800 new channels at a breathtaking pace. But despite this newfound detachment, what did irk me tremendously was when, on a recent visit to New Delhi, a friend of ours, while twisting and turning on a barstool in a much sought-after new Japanese restaurant (we couldn’t get a table), declared: ‘The way things in Pakistan are happening, I think we’ll all soon be…together.’ There was a brief lapse before the meaning of the gratuitous remark sunk in. I realized she hadn’t even prefaced it with the customary ‘I hope you don’t mind’ (or equivalent thereof), almost as if I would instantly embrace this idea of oneness with Bollywood and Shining India. I dropped, from mid-air, the California roll that I was about to stuff my face with.
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