O P o t B

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