O P o t B

Now if there is one secret you need to know about Indians, or as we so often fondly refer to ourselves charos, is that we love airports.  Don't believe it, next time you at an airport, take a look around and you will see what I mean. In India, if you do not have a ticket, you are not allowed into the airport. Security they claim, but I know better.  If they allowed people into the airport freely, people would spend days in the airport lobby basking in thought of international travel.  Filling up the eating places and leaving no room for those passengers who are waiting to check in or waiting to catch their connecting flights.  I strongly suspect that this is the same reason they locate airports far from residential areas. I have thought long and hard about this tendency to gravitate towards the airport, have spent hours nay days meditating on this trying to figure out what is it that draws me to airports.  I must admit that even now the reason eludes me. I suppose it must ha

The other day I received an SMS and could for the hell of me me not make head to tail of it, from a number I did not know.  Suspecting that it may be some new encryption routine, I sent it over to a group of encryption experts, whom I happen to know, and after three days of deliberation over the content of the message threw their arms up in despair and handed me a report stating that there was no known cipher that would be able to make head or tail of the message that was sent. Being determined, and I must admit, feeling somewhat like a spy in one of the spy thrillers, that I have been addicted to for years, akin to 007, or the likes, I proceeded on my mission, to determine the content of the message.   Was this some message that related to the impending attack on some government agency that would eventually lead to chaos, or some international organisation that would invariably change the world as we know it. I had to know! The Mall, and into a cell providers store.  Maybe they c

9am, the air stuffy with heat.  The sun beating down on the asphalt and the AC barely able to keep the air inside the car bearable.  My t-shirt damp with perspiration while the driver tries to negotiate the traffic.  I will have to leave this haven of comfort soon and join the throngs that are making there way across the path that leads to our destination. The hot dry dusty air meets me as I step out of the vehicle, quite unusual for a coastal city The pathway, a slab of concrete and rock, is only accessible at low tide. It is wet from the ocean that has barely receded and slippery from the algae that has attempted to lay claim to its rough surface.  The limbless, the destitute, the homeless, anyone in need line the edges of the pathway, sitting or laying down, extending their hands or a cup or a piece of cloth in the hope of receiving some alms. Looking on I think these are the fortunate, and unlike me, they are in need of the material, a need that can more easily fulfilled.  For

Sometimes I wonder what it would have been like if I had made different decisions, taken a different road through life.  Considering the possibilities and thinking how it may have turned out.  But this lasts for but a fleeting moment because the reality of it all is that I am here now and this is where I am right now and all I can do is the best that I can right here and now. I have been bearing the burden of my past failed relationships and finally I have come to terms with it.  It takes two to tango and I can only take and accept responsibility for mine own actions. And more often than not these were at the peril of my own self and my own soul in an attempt to provide and fulfil the needs of my partners in the hope that they will someday reciprocate.  How mistaken I was because in reality how often does one get what one expects from life? Instead I move into a new existence, alone but not lonely, separate but not apart and with the knowledge that my Creator is with me every step

Being a parent is not easy, being a divorced parent even more so.  I remember clearly the day each of my kids were born, such elation, such wonder, at the miracle of creation.  The sleepless nights, nights spent pacifying them, comforting them when they were ill, the tiredness and the exhaustion that resulted pales to the joy of watching them learn and grow into little bundles of curiosity with insistent questions about everything in their environment and, the word that every parent anticipates with trepidation, why? Through their school years, the teenage years and into a young adult.  At each step new challenges for parents.  In my experience, no book, TV program, advice or anything else for that matter can prepare you for these years.  It was during this period of my kids development that I seriously believed that this was the universes way of getting back at me for all the trouble I caused my parents. The thing is that kids bring home to us the startling reality of our own mort

One trillion. Can you imagine exactly how much is one trillion? Written down it is a one followed by twelve, yes you have it, twelve zero's.  Come to think of it, it is only in recent times that we have come to hear about this number when the world was in the midst of a financial crisis.  But to be honest, I had heard the number once before when Dick Cheney, as the secretary of the Department of Defence, stood before Congress and said the DOD could not account for one trillion dollars! Now here is the thing how do you misplace one trillion dollars? It's not like it is a single bill! Google it and see how much dough it really is. To put it in perspective, you could spend a million dollars a day for a million days which means that in order to spend all that you would have to live for 2737 years!  In the last few weeks the US deficit was increased by another 2.3 trillion, and I stand corrected, it now exceeds 14 trillion dollars.  Imagine that, cause I am simply having a huge pr

the sky has turned blue black the world finally silent searching the recesses of my soul perchance I find peace from need or want need or wants of... the material the spiritual the egotistical the physical the realisation dawns peace is needing nothing freeing myself filling with love peace at last

It always fascinated me how people who have immigrated tend to gather together, in there country of immigration, to talk about the home that they have left behind.  This to seemingly justify, or rather, quell the doubts that they have or the reasons for them taking the big step. "It's the crime", as someone recalls a horrifying experience that had occurred to them or someone close to them. "It's the political situation", a second backs up the argument as they explore the corruption of man in politics.  And so it goes on and on each argument laying to rest the doubt that exists and the questions that go unanswered. I am a South African of Indian origin, yes my ancestors made there way here many years ago, and while I retain many traditions of my Indian origins I am wholly South African.  I have travelled far and wide, to most countries in the western world and to a few on the eastern side, and I must admit, if I am honest, that South Africa is one of the

At the risk of giving away my age, not that that is any real secret, I was reminiscing about the time when I started in the field of IT.  Eons ago before the venerable desktop but not quite as far back as the punch card or patch board, but never the less far enough.  Far enough for me to have witnessed, what was probably the last, Punch Card Operator.  For those of you who are wondering, the Punch Card Operator was the person who took your coding sheets, yes we wrote our programs on special paper called coding sheets and in the process wiped out a huge number of forests, and a Punch Card Operator, using a punch card machine, punched holes into a card of approximately 3x6 inches.  These cards were then read in by a punch card reader and translated into a stream of characters which could then be viewed on a screen, edited and turned into a computer program if you managed to get it compiled. I was fortunate enough to skip this era of computing and arrived when monitors and keyboards wer

"The best sandwich bar in Mumbai", he said closing the door.  He muttered some instructions to the driver and we were on our way along the backstreets of Mumbai.  Out of the business come residential area through a slum.  Piles of filth dot the sidewalk just out of reach of the stalls selling tea, food and other odd and ends.  A pool of oil in front of a motor cycle repair stall.  Helmets decorate a stall selling motor cycle assessories.  Goats plunder the piles of filth seeking something to eat.  On the left, a river and on the opposite bank shacks, two or three stories high skirt the edge of the bank.  Sewer pipes reach out from the shacks and terminate in mid air dumping their load into the river below. Over a bridge and into an area where the stores are decorated quite tastefully. Through narrow winding roads and finally under a freeway.  The vehicle comes to a stop and I slide open the door.  I avoid a pile of dirt and mud the monsoon has not helped much.  I follow as

"How much for the watch?", I ask looking at the watches spread across the table.  All the brand names are there, Rolex to Tag and everything in between. "Number one copy", mutters the store owner. "How much?", I enquire. "Don't worry I will give you good price", he replies. My friend and I rummage through the watches being laid out on the table.  We pick out a few and settle on three.  The look in my friends eye tells all, he has taken a liking to one of the three. "How much for these?", I ask pointing to the selected watches. "5000", the store owner replies. "Too much", I start walking away. My friend reluctantly turns to follow. "Wait, 4500", the store owner calls. "Too much", I counter. "Look, it has moon phases, second hand and date", picking up the watch my friend has taken a liking too. "How much do you want to pay?", he says. "2000", I counter.

Through the crowded streets of that most famous of Indian cities, where the multitudes flock in the hope of fulfilling their dreams, of being discovered, and, hopefully, finding a way out of the existence to which they were born. An existence which is typified by shacks which slowly morph into permanent dwellings with narrow lanes and the piles of detritus which merges into the landscape. The have and have nots interspersed creating a contrasting landscape of emphasized opulence with squalor of basic human existence. For the have nots, a treadmill, seeking whatever means is available for a couple of rupees to stem the hunger for a day, or for the more fortunate, saving and betting against the odds of creating a better lifestyle.  Of moving into one of the high density apartments, which form the core of the residential quarters, that make up the city. Stores and stalls of all shapes and sizes compete for space as the myriad of entrepreneurs fight to lure the throngs that are constan

I am back, back from the country of my origin and straight back to the grindstone.  Travelling and seeing the monuments that have existed for some 450 years or more has left me in awe of the rich culture and heritage which bore my roots, it has been a humbling and soul satisfying journey. To experience the full extent of tradition that has shaped our behaviour and thinking is something to experience.  It makes plain my own mindset and explains my certain rather odd behaviours and or quirks, which are, in my opinion, somewhat inherent in my genetic programming having evolved over hundreds of years. The inherent business acumen that is prevalent of Indians throughout the world, proof being given by the economic contribution of the Indian populations in countries across the world.  The love for congregating with family and other figures of society, the love of spicy good home made food, the tendency to look for the best value for money item and the look and feel of most areas where th

Nothing can prepare you for it.  No photograph, no book, nothing.  Not even the monuments that lay claim to being the precursor to this.  None can prepare you for its majesty.  It is as if all others built before have been built, to iron out the imperfections, so that this could come to being. Entering from the Western gate, the red sandstone, so familiar from other places rise up to approximately six meters.  The gate, a large wooden door shaped like an arch, split down the middle and hinged onto the pillars of sandstone that support an arch, above that pillars supporting white domes.  Entering the first court yard, the expansive gardens bordered by red sandstone walls that support buildings and are bisected by the East, West and Northern Gates, the paradoxical sense of intimacy and open spaces fills my heart.  To the South the main entrance, with its twenty two domes one for each year of construction. Walking through the main entrance is like drawing a curtain before the main per

A two lane thoroughfare that has turned into a six lane freeway jam packed with motor vehicles, motor bikes, scooters, tuk tuks, a cauldron of chaos as cars turn and squeeze their way through the traffic.  Taxi's and tuk tuks, eager to get their fares to their destination as quickly as possible are by far the most aggressive, in the hope of securing a return fare. Buildings in various states of repair and disrepair, recently painted or bearing the signs of damp and the damages caused by damp, line the streets. Newly constructed buildings with a network of bamboo scaffolding reaching to the heavens dot the landscape, modern in design and stick out like sore thumbs between makeshift shacks and older buildings.  Stores squeeze into every nook and cranny and any unclaimed land is home to shacks and teaming with those eking a living from a city that never sleeps.  Vendors selling street food, tea, cigarettes and various other wares occupy the excessive spaces on the sidewalks.  A sh

There is a heavy wind blowing.  Clouds, pregnant with rain, covers Sir Lowry's Pass in contrast to the sunny skies of Cape Town.  I follow the winding road up to the top and pierce through clouds which stretch as far as the eye can see.  Fine drizzle veils the scene as wipers try their hardest to keep the water off the windscreen.  I am on the last but final leg of my journey to Port Elizabeth. It has been a long time since I visited the family in P.E. and I look forward to renewing my family ties.  The road is wet and the vegetation rich, green and lush.  It is hard to believe that there are water shortages in the area but I suppose although it is wet, it is so, in the wrong places. Traffic along this scenic route, affectionately known as the Garden Route, is quite heavy as the multitudes of holiday makers make their way to the various destinations along this stretch of the country. The Garden of Eden, The Big Tree, The Elephant Park etc.  There is much to see and do, but not

I am happy and sad at the same time.  Happy, because I had strengthened the bond that binds us and sad because I had had to leave home for the next stage of my journey, and it is never easy to take leave from the love and warmth of home, but go I must. Back on the paved road I head towards Springbok and after refueling the car, on towards Cape Town.  The road winding its way through the mountains.  Kamieskroon, Garies, Verhynsdorp, Klawer, Clan William, Citrusdal, Piketberg and Moorreesburg, towns seemingly forgotten along the way, before the familiar Malmesbury and Cape Town. A distance of some six hundred kilometres. Mouille Point, Cape Town.  A fresh wind blows across the parking lot.  The smell of the ocean assaults my senses.  The apartment is modern and tastefully furnished but it is the balcony which becomes my haven.  An early morning cup of coffee overlooking the most stunning of beach fronts is very hard to beat. A trip to Franschoek with its quaint streets and famous r