The Thinking Cow

Name Games

2008-11-23T17:07:00.002Z

I’ve had a few issues with my name recently.

Firstly, I’ve become an expert speller. I spell my name with ultimate eloquence and clarity approximately 50 times a day as I speak to Liberians, Columbians, Americans, Lords, Ladies and teenagers amongst the other wonderful people you encounter in journalism. They just can’t seem to grasp it and I never thought I would suffer from the sheer fatigue of spelling my name.

I often think that for work purposes I should change it to Sarah Smith or Amy Jones. But those of you who know me will agree I don’t look like a Sarah or act like an Amy (if Sarah or Amy look or act like anything)– somehow I just could not pull it off.

Then there’s pronouncing my name. The French guests I speak to give the ‘R’ a run for its money, whilst the British love to turn the ‘U’ into an ‘ooooo’. The Italians make my name sound like a lot of fun, as if they bouncing it up and down.

Names have really been giving me a hard time – and not just my own.

8am, Holborn station and from amongst the crowd I hear a charming voice call my name. I smile at the young lady as she greets me with real joy. And as she walks towards me I turn on the rewind button in my brain. I zoom through my university days, school, travels …. I even go back to nursery – I just do not know who she is. She on the other hand knows my life story.

And therein is the dilemma. Do I embarrass the hell out of both of us by telling her I do not have a clue who she is, or do I play along hoping I won’t get caught out. The torture was unbearable.

And so I ask her after 5 minutes – “who on Earth are you?” She courteously reintroduces herself but I can tell our friendship is over. Even I wouldn’t want to be friends with someone who fails to remember my name and hence leaves me with no identity. We exchange numbers, I spell my name…. again.

This is not the first time I have found myself in such a cringeworthy situation. I cannot seem to mentally imprint the faces of all the people I meet on the walls of my brain. My brutal honesty in telling these people I have not recollection of ever meeting them puts me (and them) in the epitome of embarrassing situations. I should spare them.

But hey, I am from time to time victim to this social crisis myself.

My boss the other day called me Nisha for quite a few hours and I politely went along with it. I did indeed become Nisha for the day and well no one had any problems spelling my name. It was a bit of a social experiment taking on a whole new identity as Nisha. I also did not have the courage to tell him he’d just re-christened me. I’ve had another boss not call me nothing for an entire shift. I’d much rather be Nisha than nameless. They asked a question hoping my head would be the one to pop up from behind the computer. Which of course it always did.

The name game is definately one game I do not like playing.

You Lazy Cow

2008-11-23T17:06:00.000Z

Many of you may think that the Thinking Cow has either gone into hibernation or is plain lazy. Reality is that the Thinking Cow’s brain has been in overdrive, consumed with the various facets of the financial crisis, conflict in Congo and Obama mania amongst other headlines stories. A risky combination of night shifts, early starts and sheer journalistic exhaustion (or exhilaration) has meant that the Thinking Cow has had to switch off for a while. As the winter months draw in though, the Thinking Cap is back on and the Cow is back in action.

Indian Women Flying High

2008-05-25T12:02:00.011+01:00

The Air India girls have long been renowned for their glamour and elegance...the highlight for many of its passengers with an eye for beauty I am sure. The image of a pretty face serving a hot cup of tea with a cheek to cheek smile is quite expected against what is traditionally a patriarchal backdrop. Contrary to all conventions however, India is making headway in breaking down gender stereotypes. A result of a more liberal subcontinent may be...but something has definitely gone on for the glamour stewardesses of Indian Airlines to be largely replaced with a set of uniformly dashing air stewards. And this only gets better.

As I settle into my economy class refuge in preparation for my long haul trip complete with latest Bollywood movie and flying socks, I await the comforting voice of the captain that usually helps to calm my flying nerves... you know, that soothing deep "I will look after you" captain voice. But not this time. Mr Captain, was for the first time a woman, with a team of male elves to serve the tea.

So here I am, on my way to my ancestral land. For the next eight hours I am in the hands of the Captainess and blessed with the service of a complete male set of Air India staff who insist on calling me "Maam". And I could not be happier.

The liberalisation of India's economy it seems may well have opened several mental doors that have long been slammed shut. Domestic violence still runs rife and maternal mortality remains at a record high.Yet more and more Indian women are conjuring up the courage to file for divorce, to leave the boundaries of the house and of course to fly planes. You can't get any more high flying than that. Mark my word, Indian women are going places.

New Age Postman Pat and The Bad Ass Wombles of Central Park

2008-04-15T22:07:00.005+01:00

The news is out. The world’s greatest post man is back complete with his black and white cat. Hail the return of Postman Pat.

Pat may be back, but to my shock horror, he’s lost a few things during his decade on leave. He’s also had a promotion along the way. Pat is now a Special Operator in the special delivery service. His trademark red van is now accompanied by parachutes and helicopters for his more adventurous deliveries.

I’m all up for giving Pat a coat of paint, but the simplicity of the show in its heyday was the beauty of its success. Postman Pat, together with other 80’s classics like Rainbow, The Raggy Dolls, Super Ted, Banana Man and Paddington Bear were simple in creation and simple in mind…reflecting the essence of what childhood should be. Simple did not mean dumbing down. On the contrary, such cartoons focussed on character building rather than the glam technology or image around the character. It is for that reason that such programmes remain on the tongues of every twenty and thirty something and their parents and grandparents and their baby sisters…anyone who ever had the pleasure of watching some of the most beautifully made children’s programmes which are a still a pleasure to watch today.

Therefore why the need to distort them by giving them the latest technology and swank language bewilders me. We can leave that to the Bratz. If Postman Pat, his black and white cat Jess and his tomato red van hovering around Greendale were good enough for me, then they should be good enough for any child today. On the contrary, the original constructions of these classic cartoons should remain and act as a tool to drag today’s Kidults back to the true essence of childhood.

To support this cause, trade association PACT, which protects all commercial interests related to UK broadcasting, have recently launched a campaign to save British Kids TV. The main stars of their campaign are the Wombles who return to our screens revamped as The Bad Ass Wombles of Central Park. The clip relaunches them as super-stressed Americans yelling lines like Way to go! and Whatever! A word of warning for anyone who does not wish for their fairy tale like memories of the Wombles in Wimbledon to be tainted – do not watch this clip!

I admit that it could be much worse. Pat could have been given a sports car and a Dolce and Gabbana uniform. His return has rather been an excuse for me to rant on about the state of kids TV and I have no doubt that this entry is screaming the words BIAS.

Despite my reservations, I hope Pat does bring just as much joy to children today as he did when he was launched in 1981. So I wish him the best of luck with his return to broadcasting. But like pop stars who try to make a comeback after a decade of getting hitched and having babies, I’m not quite sure if Pat is going to quite “dig it” in the 21st century. Still, its over to the kids to judge…or maybe not... after all “growing old is mandatory; growing up is optional.”

New Kid on the Block

2008-03-29T12:32:00.014Z

Five years old, first day at school? 18 years old, first stay at college? 25 years old, first day at work? Being "new" doesn't get easier with age, as I have recently learnt.

This week I embarked on a new chapter in my life, the start of what I hope will be a dream career. With new beginnings however,come those age old feelings of anxiety and longing for acceptance.

The past few days have dragged me back to my transition from year six in middle school into year seven in high school. Year six was the year to rule. The playground belonged to all eight year olds. Oozing with confidence, we strolled into year seven faced with the shocking reality that we were now meant to be invisible in the face of year twelves. It was a classic story of prince to pauper and rags to riches. From having it all, year sixes had incurred a sort of involuntary demotion. I like to imagine an ant climbing a wall only to be knocked right back down by a gush of water with an evil voice crying, "You ain't so big now are you?"

It all boils down to social acceptance. Whether it's a new job, new school or meeting a new group of people, it is natural to want to fit in. Acceptance provides social security, but requires us to adapt to the social rules of a specific establishment or environment. It underlines the fact that social acceptance is an extraordinary force in our lives - whether we like it or not. Scientists have even discovered a link between social acceptance and personal health. Most importantly however, social acceptance starts by embracing your own true worth. Doing this is the key to being "good" at being "new" - a skill for life.

A slight exaggeration maybe, but starting a new job has felt a bit like my transition from year six to year seven. Being new is just not cool. From knowing the jargon to feeling like you are being spoken to in a foreign language, from knowing where to find that oh so important file to rummaging through what feels like a mile high stack of virtual paper, from knowing where to grab a decent bite to eat to stopping at the first place that sells a cruddy sandwich to avoid looking lost...newness can be compared to leather and fine wine - it only gets better with time.

Cuba's Open Door Policy

2008-03-05T10:46:00.009Z

It’s February 19th, 7am, Cuban time and I receive an SMS from London. “Castro’s stepped down. What’s happening there?” The answer, quite frankly, was to be “Nothing.”

As I dragged myself out of the bed into the lounge of my casa particulare (private home stay) I was eager to hear some reaction to the news. Instead I was disappointed by the acute silence on the matter amongst my host family and in Cuba as a whole. I decided to initiate conversation myself.

“I am shocked that people in London know this news before the people of Cuba,” said one of the family members with an air of resentment. “We expected it, he has cancer. We know Raul will take over. We need change. The people want change. But change must come slowly,” he adds.

I turned to the grandmother of the house who, as is typical of her generation in Cuba was reluctant to share her views. The father of the house was not so hesitant to manifest his joy as he launched into the kitchen exclaiming “The dictators gone!”

This was to be almost all of the reaction I was to observe on the big news. I was based in the small and sleepy town of Baracoa, 18 hours east of Havana. The city as a whole seemed unaffected by Castro’s announcement. Immense effort is made to cut of tourists from the real perspectives on such delicate national affairs. Having a general conversation with a local can be hard enough with the police peering over every street corner, so discussing Cuban politics is a hard call.

Instead life continues as normal. As the sun rises, every home swings its doors open. Neighbours and friends have a chin wag in the front porches and sounds of salsa and reggaton blast from bedrooms and cycle rickshaws fitted with beep-box speakers. With their tall and faded colonial buildings and buzzing people noise, Cuban towns seem like roofed theatre sets miles apart from the real world. The continuous positive interaction between the people of Cuba puts capitalist society, with its dependency on Facebook, mobile phones and MSN messenger to shame.

As my travels throughout the country continue, I meet endless young, talented and educated Cubans with a desire to explore the world that so intrigues them, coupled with a lack of hope that change will come in their lifetime. Leaving the country is extremely difficult for locals, which is why most have never stepped foot outside of Cuba. Some explicitly put their hands over Castro’s photograph – their actions speak louder than words. Some maintain an air of optimism that one day, trade doors with the wider world will open, notably with neighbouring USA helping industries like tobacco to shoot through the roof. Some, albeit dubiously look forward to the day when fast food chains invade the streets of Havana.

As students, Castro and his comrades in the Sierra Maestra epitomised revolutionary idealism which formed the basis of the running of Cuba. But successful revolutionaries do not necessarily equal successful statesmen. Castro’s regime has been widely critiqued from the start for its guess work format, a reflection of a young idealist with a stop-start approach to running a nation and with little experience of running a country.

The result? A nation full of loyal nationalists, with tints of hesitant revolt surfacing, notably from the youth of Cuba and parents who want to see change for the sake of the new generation. After all, how long can Cuba live in such an intense degree of socio-economic and cultural isolation in an age when globalisation is creeping into every half empty cultural pocket. I went two weeks without setting eyes on a national newspaper (there are only two with the principal one being a product of the government) or a computer screen. Internet prices are extortionate even for capitalist society standing between 5 to 10 Cuban dollars an hour. This leaves little hope for locals who transact using the weak Cuban pesos.

Cuba needs change, but erasing the existing the regime for swift democratic transition would be too overwhelming for a nation that for nearing half a century, has known of nothing other than one party socialism, or Castrosim as it is often referred to. A deconstruction of Castro’s July 26th Movement to make it more relevant to 21st century Cuba– one beaming with cultural, medical and educational excellence – is what should lie ahead.

For the thousands of tourists flocking to Cuba with urgency to reach there before Castro dies, there is no need to hurry. I do not see Cuba changing anytime soon. The hand me down buses from China and Japan will remain and the dying vintage cars will continue to hover the streets of Havana. As Venezuelan president Hugo Chavez says “Men like Fidel never retire.” A skilled man no doubt, but Castro has been drowned in waves of controversy since day one. His stepping down means very little when the ripples of his revolution will continue to run through the country for generations to come. Castro created an imagined community, based on the nationalist politics of an undoubtedly charismatic leader but lacking clear objectivity.

The revolutionary loyalists have a great deal to be proud of – Cuba has defeated imperialist forces from Spain, America and the Soviet Union in favour of the Cuban way. Yet the sad reality is that much of Cuba’s history has been characterised by internal and external struggle as a result of these encounters, the scars of which live on today.

As I wave goodbye to my host family in Havana, I am aware that it is unlikely that my genuine offer to visit London will ever be taken up. If there is one thing I have learnt from my travels, it is that in Cuba, every door is open except the front one.

Say Aunty and Bob's Your Uncle!

2008-02-03T12:41:00.000Z

If someone was to ask me what the most valuable word in India was, I would have to seriously consider the answer Aunty.

Aunty is somewhat of a wild card term for most Asians. You are guaranteed it will work wonders if you employ it to refer to a friend’s mum (or your mum’s friends), elderly strangers on the street or potential future mother in laws. It’s perfect for when you cannot for the life of you remember the Aunty’s real name, but you know it will never cause offence, the opposite in fact. Aunty works wonders.

Aunty belongs to an emerging language often referred to as Hinglish - English spiced up with Hindi spoken in an Indian-English accent. The word has been taken form the English language, but is so deeply embedded in Indian culture, and plays such a universal role that it has been adopted as one of India’s own little linguistic gems. Aunty isn’t going anywhere, least of all out of the Indian etiquette.

If you are going to use Aunty in Indian society, there are a few fundamental rules to keep in mind. One of the most important in terms of accuracy is word structure. It’s Rosie Aunty, not Aunty Rosie. This is largely because in Indian languages, the words for Aunty (and there are several accordingly to age in relation to your parents and marital status), proceeds the first name of the Aunty. Confusing I know, but if you want to get the full impact, its wise to use Aunty correctly.

All this Aunty talk has stemmed out of the events of Monday evening when upon arriving at my music teacher’s house, his three year old grandson ran up the stars shouting “Bua’s here!” My name is certainly not Bua. Bua is in fact the Punjabi and Hindi word for Aunty (more specifically your father’s sister). I was certainly not this child's father’s sister.

Whilst my music teacher found his grandson’s reference to me absolutely hilarious, I was not sure whether to laugh or cry. Being called Bua has brought to my attention the fact that I am getting old - at least in the eyes of the under-10s. For the under-10s in Indian society, it’s official – I am now a part of the Bua generation.

When I was growing up, Bua often evoked images of an elderly woman in her pale cream sari, white hair and with a walking stick. Today, if you are a modern Aunty, you might ditch the sari for the Punjabi suit and a pair of Reebok trainers. The odd grey hair may be popping out of my head, but my Bua days are not in full force. I like to think I have quite some time to go before I graduate as a fully bloomed Bua.

Whilst I have the utmost respect for Aunty, it’s going to take some time before I ease into the Bua generation. It has all come as a bit of shock but I will soon be ready to face this challenge head on. Here I was thinking I was still mega cool and down with it, when in reality I have been promoted (or demoted) involuntarily to Bua status.

Well, there is an upside. Being called Aunty in your mid twenties may encapsulate the image of being utterly un-cool, but it also brings with it immense respect and motherly responsibility. Whilst this may seem a little daunting to us first time-aunties, it is this sense of responsibility and duty that renders it one of the most beautiful (albeit slightly uncreative) words that Hinglish has to offer. Therefore with this mind, I embrace my new Aunty status and feel honoured to have been made a member of the exclusive Bua club at such a young age.

Girl Power

2008-01-22T21:16:00.000Z

In recent weeks, I have had a rather large dose of Girl-Power. It started with a historical insight into the origins of feminist activism, followed by a dubious measure of the Spice Girls live in concert and topped off with a train passenger who I see every morning ditch her heels for flat pumps. The over-dose of girl power has got me quizzing the power of the girl.

Starting with the third of these triggers, the fellow train passenger is regularly seen tottering about in her high heels. This morning, she was stomping about in a pair of notorious flat Primark pumps. Whilst I shall not comment any further on her choice of shoe, I would like to comment on her walk. She seemed to toddle in her flatties rather than stride into the station as she usually does in her heels. Besides looking four inches shorter, her walk resembled that of a giant plodding away. Gone were her pitter patter steps, and in were her thumping paces with a far from dainty sway.

As a regularly flatties wearer myself these days, I ask have hundreds of years of feminist battle fallen prey to the high heel? Can the essence of womanhood really be encompassed in a four inch piece of plastic? Arguably so - I for one feel undoubtedly sexier in pair of stilettos that I do in a pair of grimy trainers.

Such a perspective puts the efforts of feminists like Marie Olympe de Gouges to shame. Gouges was a feminist rights activist during the enlightenment who published the first Declaration on Women’s Rights. In an age of raging patriarchy, she argued for women to have the same rights as men. She was beheaded in 1793 and all political activity for women was officially banned.

Marie is likely to be turning in her grave at the sight and sounds of Posh, Ginger, Baby, Sporty and Scary. Whilst the Spice Girls attempt to project themselves as this century’s answer to patriarchy, they undoubtedly fail in their mission. Granted, they managed to pull in an almost 100% female audience, but their commitment to wearing the skimpiest of outfits on stage and provocative lingerie in their pop video does little to further the traditional feminist cause.

Are we indeed going backwards? What is to be truly feminine? Are we trying to disguise our flaws to live up to the image of perfection that is too often associated with femininity? Is the refusal to shave your underarms really a valid assertion of your right to be equal to a man?

Was it right for Hilary Clinton to be publicly critiqued for turning on the waterworks when she made some headway with her election campaign? Feminism should not come at the expense of restructuring what is natural to humanity, may it be the desire to look and feel attractive (even if it means wearing killer high heels or comfortable trainers) or the need to have the odd sob from time to time.

Likewise, the bra-banning feminists and the likes of their Spice Girl comrades would do better to divert their attention to the real issues facing some of today’s most vulnerable women such as forced marriage, trafficking and female genital mutilation. Feminism does not have to be associated with banners, protests and all in all a bit of a rant and rave. It’s not just about women’s issues, it’s about world issues. The redefining of feminism would allow for attention to be directed in places beyond thighs, breasts and bums.

The Queen of Hugs

2008-01-08T22:47:00.000Z

Meet Amma, the Queen of Hugs.

Several weeks ago, the media reported on Amma’s UK tour. I have needed these past weeks over the festive season to gather my thoughts on this extraordinary “celebrity.” For those of you looking for some career inspiration, there is no better example of following your heart than Amma (real name Mata Amritanandamayi). Amma's "job" is to hug.

Amma (which translates as mother) is famous for giving invigorating, regenerating and calming cuddles. She is said to have shared over 26 million hugs with the citizens of this world since she was 17 (she is now 55 and the cuddles are going strong). Born to a poor family in South India, Amma’s philosophy talks of love, selflessness and meditation and this lady has hugged world over from Chile to Paris. Hugging 26 million people sure comes with its plus points and her efforts have amounted to an endless list of charitable projects.Her organization even holds UN consultative status. Details aside, Amma’s story tells a much deeper tale.

Firstly, amongst India’s drive for prosperity, hi-tech homes and giant super malls, it’s a relief to hear about people appreciating the little gestures in life.

Secondly, it’s amazing how little talent people have to have to be famous these days (The endless list of “save me!” Bollywood heroines and body building Bollywood heroes spring to mind). So it is significantly more reassuring to hear of a woman who is famous for hugging rather than for making a mockery out of herself on TV, or for being the son, daughter, partner or pet of a celebrity.

Talking as someone who had not even heard of Amma before Christmas, or who has since not experienced one of her renowned hugs, I can either call Amma crazy or praise her for going back to the basics of human affection. When I first heard about Amma, my initial reaction was “here we go again, another Saint to pop out of India.” Yet with the dawning of the New Year, I think Amma might be onto a good thing. She has drawn attention to be power of compassion in the most hands on way!

Hugs release positive natural chemicals in the body call Beta-endorphins which promote feelings of well being and relaxation. Whether Amma is a saint or beyond belief is not my concern, but it must take a genius to take the medical power of a basic and simple human touch and convert it into a million dollar charitable activity! Eat your heart out kissograms ‘cos in the words of author Adabella Radici “theres nothing like a mama hug.”

Mission to Minimalism

2007-12-26T17:33:00.000Z

The other day, ploughing through a stampede of human bodies at Victoria station, I stumbled (quite literally) over numerous vagabonds equipped with their dogs, sleeping bags and rucksacks. Bliss I thought – sheer bliss. Granted they weren’t out camping during the festive season and they weren’t quite the free spirits I endeavour to be, but they had one thing I wished for – minimalism.

I am a big fan of the empty room, that’s probably why I adore hotels. The perfect bed, the empty wardrobe, the glossy bathroom and nothing but a lamp on the side table.

To top it all, I spent yesterday evening watching Motorcycle Diaries. Che Guevara’s journey of self discovery through Latin America with nothing other than pen and paper just reinforced my ideal.

So taking inspiration from the vagabonds of Victoria Station and a bit of Che, I overturn my entire room and find myself buried in a sea of sentimentalism. Sitting amongst an endless heap of letters, diaries, school reports, toys and God damn it even dried flowers I realise I couldn’t be any further away from achieving my goal.

Call it is a female frenzy but it seems I am a big fan of legacy. I have kept a diary since the age of 15 and cling onto everything that means anything. This way I can show my 18 grand kids in 2057 (jeez) the first bouquet Granddad gave me, the first letter he wrote to me, the first A* I got in school. As cheesy as it sounds, I would give just anything to see one photo of my Great Grandmother.

So sitting in my heap of “stuff” I wonder what on Earth I am going to do with it all. After much contemplation, I stack up my long line of boxes, pack them up, take a deep breath and...put them right back where they came from. At that moment I discover that sentimentalism is quite different from minimalism.

What actually does go for the bin and charity bargain basement is the pointless clothes I have purchased over the years (rest in peace belly tops), jewellery and space eating bits and bobs. De cluttering has massive benefits for personal development (you know the story - a clear room, a clear mind) but it’s distinct from my minimalist ideal. They are two separate entities and it takes a tramp, a Christmas movie and an overhaul of my room to discover that.

I realise minimalism requires you to abolish excessive materialism. Keeping what you need to live and keeping what you want to give. The rest is irrelevant. I realise what I set out to achieve is impossible. You cannot be a minimalist in a society obsessed with materialism.

The World's Forgotten People

2007-12-01T13:32:00.000Z

Last week saw the UK media launch of a documentary by Delhi-based film maker Savyasaachi Jain, Door Kinare (Shores Far Away). The film does what mainstream media has longed failed to do – it gives a human face to illegal migrants.

The migrants who feature in the 48 minute film are not seen as criminals or as statistics. They are rather young men, with a desire to provide as much as they can for their families back home in the Punjab. They are equally men who have realised the hard way that illegal migration is not worth the life threatening travel conditions, exploitative treatment by agents and employers or the loss of dignity endured. They learnt this hard way and know that that they are now stuck in a rut of a life. They now want their shocking testimonies to ensure that other young men do not fall prey to blood sucking agents who falsely promise prosperity in the Western world.

Working with illegal migrants on a daily basis, such testimonies are nothing new to me. But yesterday I heard news that actually did shock me.

A middle aged man, who we had tried to help to get back to India had died. Another client, a young man from Pakistan had committed suicide. Both were illegal.

Sometimes, life in limbo gets the better of you.

The first gentleman had been found living on the streets. He had no status in the UK but equally had no means to get back to India. As is common practise, the agent ensured that the man had shredded his passport upon hitting British shores. First rule of the game, the authorities should not be able to identify your nationality.

We tried to get him back to India, but upon taking him to the Indian Embassy (that hellish place in Holborn) he was refused a travel document on the grounds that he had no proof he was Indian. Unfortunately his lack of English, perfect Punjabi and bright turban were not enough evidence of his Indian-ness. Unlike most other embassies, the Indian Embassy also do not see it necessary to interview such people to investigate whether or not they are telling the truth. A one to one interrogation on the facts and figures of their claimed family village may well prove them to be Indian.

Instead, such people are left lingering in limbo. Their country of origin refuses to take them back whilst their country of destination refuses to keep them. They are the forgotten people and continue to live life underground. The 1948 UN Declaration on Human Rights stating that “No one shall be arbitrarily deprived of his nationality, nor denied the right to change his nationality” doesn't stand a chance in face of national legislations.

These people live on the fringes of society. They have committed an offense by entering the country through irregular channels but upon trying to rectify their error all doors are slammed shut. No mercy for the wicked it seems.

Of course the wider debate on illegal migration is always in the limelight. How do we match supply with demand? How to create structured migration schemes such as temporary or seasonal labour programmes? Should there be an amnesty?

But such debates are jumping the gun. The are thousands of illegal migrants living in the UK that want to go “home” but cannot -not because of war or fear of torture, but because of a piece of paper. This is no way to live. And that is why, some of them do not.

Network on the Network

2007-11-06T17:03:00.000Z

Forget Facebook. Forget Bebo. Forget Linked in. Forget virtual networking all together. Shame on us Londoners for not recognizing the networking opportunity that literally stares us in the face every morning and evening– the tube. Many of us career minded individuals go out of our way to attend networking events, to be in the right place at the right time (careers fairs, book launches or what have you). It’s time we went back to basics.

Yes –believe it or not the tube is more than a sweaty, germ-infested hot pot. Have you ever wondered what the man in front of you does for living? Or where that girl got those jeans from? Or have I not seen you before? Weren’t you the guy who….? How many of you have ever had the person sitting next to you peer over your shoulder to catch a glimpse of what you are reading only to “style it out” when you catch them?

Don’t get me wrong, a hard day’s work topped with sitting on the grotty Central Line does not prepare anyone for great conversation. Likewise, most of us just want to catch up on sleep or get out the mobile phone as soon as we get reception. The rat race doesn’t do us any favours. A combination of germs running riot, stenches exploding and lack of air are a recipe from social hell. Thus there is of course a time and place for tube networking. Being sandwiched between two random strangers liked a tin of stuff sardines is hardly appropriate for a friendly chat.

I take inspiration from a friend of mine who seems to produce a friend, career contact or random acquaintance on a regular basis from her tube journeys home. Her list of "choo choo contacts” include a job hunter looking to break into the media industry (to whom she gave a few tips), a life counsellor (who gave her a few tips) and a newly arrived Norwegian lady joyous to see her carrying a Norwegian duty free bag.

I decided to try it out for myself.

I first helped a lady carry her child’s push chair down a flight of station stairs and spoke to her about her new life in the UK having recently arrived from Pakistan. The other day, I eavesdropped into a conversation between a random Italian lorry driver and budding art auctioneer discussing the best areas to live around Greenwich. These two were like chalk and cheese, making their conversation ever lightening and my train journey that bit more entertaining than staring out of the window at derelict industrial sites.

I am getting better at this tube networking business. I have successfully shared my jelly babies with a baby who was avidly checking out my sweets, told a litter bug to pick up his junk, shared my views on international development with a guy who had the guts to inquire about my reading material, exchanged a smirk with a fellow lady passenger upon listening to the teenage rants of five barely sixteen year olds. I even assisted a hysterical young backpacker after she crumbled in frustration because she was totally lost in the underground tunnels. Ironic how you can travel the world and it is ultimately the London underground that resorts one to tears. I once chatted to a random Aussie on the Central Line about his perception of us Londoners. “You’re cold and never smile, " he said. "You’re the first Londoner that has randomly spoken to me on the train.” A compliment or not I don’t know.

Most of us get on the train at the same time each morning and unknowingly form a fascinating human relationship with people we see everyday, but with whom we exchange few words. I remember at the time of the July 7th bombings, a friend of mine had taken the day off and was overwhelmed with concern for the people she barely knew who had boarded her train that morning. These were the people she had traveled with for the past two years. These were her “travel family.”

The more I tend to see the same faces everyday, the more curious I become. The man in the swede jacket who doesn’t look Indian– where did you learn Hindi? The lady with the red hair – I hear you work for The Times? The angry old man – what makes you so angry every morning? The style queen who gets on the train at the stop after me – where do you shop?

The logic from a professional perspective is of course clear. If you work in the city and are heading towards Canary Wharf, you are traveling with the finance crew. There’s always room to move up the ladder. If you are heading to Westminster, you’re mingling with the civil service posse – there’s always a chance for a promotion. I once read that those who make it to the top do so because they are most social and positively interact with fellow professionals. So why stop on the train?

Networking on the train is more than mere banter. It’s an opportunity. Hat’s off to the London Lite and London Paper for their get it off your text section and even better the love struck column whereby people who haven’t had the courage to approach someone they have an eye for on the train do so through cheesy messages. What these papers have done is acknowledge and give a voice to the silenced relationships that are formed on the London underground every day. It’s ever so ironic the way us confident Londoners resort to placing an ad in the paper to hunt down someone we fall for on the tube.

However “confident” us Londoners think we are, it’s high time we unburied our face from our London papers, put a smile on our faces and started to network on the network. Love thy neighbour and all that. You just never know….

Ethical Egoism

2007-10-27T14:17:00.000+01:00

Take on photo of a chronically malnourished child. Add to this the fact that he is stark naked, his stomach bloated, his lungs ripping through what is paper thin skin, a grossly disproportioned head and a line “for when we complain” and what do you get? The feebleness of mankind.

I came across this photo on a friend's Facebook profile. The image did not disturb me, as I encounter such scenes in my everyday work. What got me were the words. Are we so self engrossed and materialistic that at times of supposed struggle, we juxtapose ourselves against the disadvantaged sectors of society? Further, is such a justification ethically justified? Should we resort to pitying the troubles of others just to comfort ourselves?

Very few could claim they have never been guilty of the line “it could be worse,” or “At least I am not…fat…ugly…dying…”

As a development professional working with vulnerable migrants, I could easily be accused of the above crime; In response I could argue that helping the disadvantaged stands a long way from using the disadvantaged for self-comfort. The key is helping is to do it selflessly. Yet an increasingly egoistic world leads one to ask – does altruism even exist or is it a mere utopian condition? Further, in today’s day and age, have we created such a thing as ethical egoism?

You see the problem, in my view, really arises when we convert the advantaged-disadvantaged dichotomy into a means for rationalizing out woes. If you are down with the flu, you reassure yourself by remembering those at death’s door. If hate your job, you accept that it could be worse if you were unemployed (ok granted – some people might prefer the latter). How many of us were told by our parents as children that we would be sent to Ethiopia or some other conflict-ridden part of the world at that time if we did not ensure our dinner plate was licked clean?

So, is such ethical egoism a part of natural human behaviour? Buddhist and Hindu philosophy (as I am sure other religions assert as well) would argue not. I have been indulging in a bit of Dalai Lama in recent months from which I have learnt that the ideal mental condition is to be able to rationalise each thought and treat each emotion as a unique entity. Imagine you have some weighing scales in front of you. The perfect condition is to treat all of our emotions – the good, the bad and the ugly - equally and worthy of the same respect. Now that could be translated as don’t go too flipping mental when you get good news and don’t go contemplating the unthinkable when you are down in the dumps.

I endeavor to reach this destination of supreme consciousness, but I do not think I am quite there yet, nor am I in any hurry either. I continue to jump up and down on the bed when I get some good news and I continue to drench my pillow with tears when I have one of those days. I continue to sing in the shower when I am on top of the world and equally, flip into fury when I am stuck in traffic. So for now, I’d like to be content by rationalizing my bad days by valuing my good days instead of against someone else’s sorrow. The chronically malnourished child on Facebook cannot compare his fate to anyone else’s but his own, so who am I to compare my woes against his?

“Peace comes from within. Do not seek it without.”
Buddha, Hindu Prince Gautama Siddharta, the founder of Buddhism, 563-483 B

The Quarter Life Crisis

2007-10-19T13:08:00.000+01:00

Yes folks, my time is fast arriving. I am entering the quarter life crisis. The time when you realize that your hopes and aspirations whilst growing up have not quite worked out as you planned. Your “to do” list is never quite “done” when you hit 25.

Last week I read an article in the YOU magazine in which a handful of young women were interviewed about their successful lives and how by the mid-twenties it all seems to come together. Miss X was a fashion assistant for some leading designer, Miss Y was a lawyer in Dubai and Miss Z was presenting a TV show! These young and glamorous ladies seem to have life sussed at the wise age of 25 – great jobs and a great future.

The article had a point. 25 means you are now slowly rolling down the twenty something hill. If you are single, the search for the one becomes a lot more serious than laughing at a few flunk dates. What the heck, if you’re Asian then Mum and Dad start panicking that you are doomed to a life of spinsterhood if you are not settled by 25. If you are not in your dream job you start to devise a strategy about how to get it. If you haven’t completed your trip around the world you start to plan it now. If you are not on the property ladder you start to decide how you are going to climb it. Suddenly at 25, as you get closer to hitting the chunky 30, everything seems to become real.

So if they say that 40 is the new 30 - does that make 25 the new 15?

At 15 I started to keep a diary – my legacy that I hope is discovered by my great granddaughter when rummaging through the family garage 100 years down the line. At 15 I was an inspiring musician and a budding journalist. I now have my foot in the door of the international development sector. I didn’t even know with the international development was back then. At fifteen you can get away with being asked “What do you want to be when you grow up?” and reply (with conviction) “a police officer, a lawyer, a doctor, a singer, an astronaut!”

Today when I am asked “what do you do?” I start an exhausting recital of my life history over the past five years. My career cannot be summed up in one word. For those bankers, lawyers, accountants, doctors and dentists out there – you guys have it easy. That said, my little career speech does initiate what used to be great conversation. These days it’s a little repetitive.

But as I count down the days to my quarter life crisis big day, I am beginning to try and dig up when I left behind when I went to university where I decided to just go with the flow. In the same way that our parents are supposed to rediscover their youth when we fly the nest, are we meant to rediscover our childhood aspirations when we hit 25? Is their still time for me to thrown in a number one chart topping hit? Does true success really have a sell by date?

If we look at it from a gender perspective then maybe it does. Between 21 to 41 we find most people make a name for themselves. And whilst men can concentrate entirely on that career goal, women also have to keep an eye on the clock. The body clock. Trying to plan motherhood is another chunk of life that needs to be slotted into a woman’s post -25 life.

I like to think I am on the right track but I doubt I’ll reach my destination within the next three weeks. Maybe if I ask nicely, Ill get an extension to catch up on my aging “to do” list. Another decade should do it….

All Change at Southall Station

2007-10-12T14:12:00.000+01:00

So, they want to take the Punjabi out of Southall? Who are they kidding?! The martial race has firmed engrained its official stamp across the suburb and will not let it go without a battle.

Last month, First Great Western Trains decided they would take the Punjabi train station sign out of Southall station due to complaints from other ethnic minority groups. The sign has been the suburbs treasure for over 12 years. The train authorities decided the sign is insensitive to the several other communities who have made Southall their home and the situation was going to be reviewed. Now that might mean we will have a whole collection of train station signs written in Arabic, Punjabi, Urdu and Tigrinya, or it might mean that we are stuck with English, that is to say we have a choice between chaos or standardization.

The other day I passed through the station and to my relief the sign was still there. After all, the sign is one of the most famous in London and has featured in endless films and documentaries. It’s a landmark comparable to the Sunrise Radio tower, Glassy Junction Pub, and the golden Gurduwara dome as commuters make their way to Paddington.

Punjabis arrived in Southall in the 1950s and form a fundamental part of the town’s social composition and history. Moreover, the town is a tourist destination not just for fellow Indians but for tourists alike who come to catch a glimpse of the glamorous temples and chaotic markets. Without a doubt, it is the closest the Western world is going to get to India in Europe. I have taken friends on a day trip to the tourist hot spot and they have been overwhelmed with the street music, exotic scriptures and large choice of fresh fruit and textiles.

According to the 2001 census, Southall has a 78% ethnic minority (or rather majority) population which is sure to have increased over the last six years. Of the 63% who are of Asian background, three quarters are Indian and Sikhs comprise 31% of the religious make up. Southall is changing however with new communities becoming increasingly visible (Sri Lankan, Russian, Polish, Somali and Afghan to name a few) and the community overall tends to breed and bond off its excessive non-Britishness. In terms of resources, the city is severely deprived, partly due to the excessive weight on local infrastructure from irregular migrants. The multicultural face of the city renders it a comfort zone for illegal migrants in need of employment, refuge and welfare.

Now there are two sides to this debate. One is that the landmark represents the suburb's identity; the other is the message the sign gives off - “Come to England and don’t bother to learn the language”. The latter proves true for Southall in which only the half the population has a grounded grasp of the English language. Yet it is unlikely that removing a train sign is going to change that. Either way, the Punjabis won’t let it go without a fight. A few months ago, the Dominion centre (the heart of Asian arts and community activities in the area) was under threat of closure only to be saved by petitions and protests from the Punjabi community. Today the centre is ever thriving.

First Great Western might find their attempt to change the sign has come a little too late. Southall is firmly stuck in its ways after 60 years of Punjabi settlement and to change this even in the slightest is going to prove exhausting. In this ongoing struggle to create unity amongst diversity in British society, Southall might have to be embraced as the one exception.

Small Talk

2007-10-12T11:42:00.000+01:00

The other day I stumbled across a fascinating documentary on giants. Growing up, you associate the Giant with Jack (and the Beanstalk) and maybe with a tin of sweet corn (that’s the Green Green Giant). You think giants are out of this world, wacko and freakish. But you never quite realize how real giants are.

Take Ukrainian Leonid Stadnyk who at 8ft 5 inches is the world’s tallest man. Whilst some of the giants featured in the documentary (including Stadnyk) stated staring and abuse as two of the downfalls of being huge, others embraced their celebrity status by taking part in advertisements or making guest appearances at public events. Former title holder Bao Xishun (pictured above left and right) has certainly learnt to make the most of the limelight.

As an almost five footer, I cannot compare with the giants of this world. I also don’t compare to the world’s shortest person He Pingping (pictured above) from China, who measures a mere 2 ft and 5 inches. But like the giants and miniatures of this world, my life does come with its ups and downs – quite literally. Swinging on the monkey bars has never really worked for me.

Let’s consider the problems small people have at big public gatherings. I am a firm believer that people should be positioned according to height order to enable a fair share of the view. Nelson Mandela’s guest appearance at the unveiling of his statue in Parliament Square a few weeks ago sums up this frustration. It doesn’t matter how early small people get to these events, we are always be deprived. I resorted to being lifted up by my not so tall colleague just to take one snap. The rest of the morning was spent hearing the great man make a speech whilst staring directly into the face of someone’s nicely tamed Afro. I did succeed however in starting a game of Chinese whisper passing the message down to tall man in the front row to take off his cowboy hat and bend down. All in all, my once in a lifetime opportunity of seeing Nelson in the flesh and blood was over in a split second.

So besides the usual being stuck under peoples armpits, being invisible on a packed bus, being used as an arm rest and being unable to find trousers that don’t resemble a flipper suit, there’s always an up side to being small. You get a lot of “awwwwwwww you're so small” and if you work this to your favour you might get the odd piggy back after a manic night out. You get the best views of the human back and are obliged to indulge in lady-like 4 inch stilettos to exert a bit of authority. You can always get away with being under 18 if you fling on some trainers and sling the hair back in a pony tail. People tend to think you are extra fragile so you get away with the non- heavy duty stuff. The bus driver might let you come on a crammed bus because he knows you won’t take up much space.

Short men must have a much harder time. Various studies claim that tall men have it all – the powerful job, tons of money and a larger family! But then you get mega stars like Tom Cruise and Danny de Vito who defy such bogus theories. Giant Bao Xishun gave up on finding his life partner several years ago because his height got in the way. His celebrity status however means that he is now married to a woman half his age and just over half his height. It can’t be all that bad.

It seems that tall and small people may well share similar anxieties from opposing ends of the scale. Yet these two groups of people often turn against each other. For example I rage with fury when Mr. Tall decides to sit or stand in front of me at a concert or in the cinema when he could go to the back and see perfectly well. I often forget however that he didn’t ask to be so tall like I didn’t ask to be small. And so maybe (just maybe) I should learn to be more sympathetic towards the Mr. Talls of this world.

The fact of the matter is, being extra tall or extra small isnt too bad as long as we are not sold short . What should really matter in life is from the neck up. But as the documentary proved, height matters, and too much or too little of it can be a real physical and social disability.

Skin Sin

2007-10-10T16:05:00.000+01:00

Those who are blessed with Zee TV in their homes will know that Scar Repairex is the new self proclaimed wonder cure to injury marks, burns, insect bites and Acne scars...correction - Ugly acne scars as the TV advertisment screams.

Today I did what I seem to be doing a lot these days - I complained to an absolute stranger. Last week I demanded that a young man on a Central Line train pick up his chewed to death piece of gum off the floor (to my shock horror he listened to me!) and today I wrote to Scar-Repairex.

The ad features three glamorous models in the politically correct shades of white, black and Asian who use the super cream and have their skin (and lives) transformed.

Now you probably think this post is heading down the road of the "Why do Asians want to be fairer?". Wrong. That ongoing debate is currently in the limelight due to Shah Rukh Khan's appearance in an ad in which he advises a twenty-something Romeo to use fairness cream to woo some bimbo looking lady. Zee TV also boasts a similar ad for Litenex featuring the same story - boy wins sensual women because he is fair. Unfortuantely in a lot of communities, this is probably the truth. Anyway, it's best if I dont get started on the fairness issue.

I would like to draw your attention to the way in which mainstream Indian society's attitude is summarised by Scar Repairex's use of the tag line "Do you have ugly acne scars?"

Some key points to make here

1) As a former acne sufferer myself, I can clearly say that acne sufferers are already conscious of their marks and do not need reminding of their existence during every Zee TV break.

2)Why is it that in narrating a long list of different scars during the ad, acne gets the 'ugly' adjective?

3)Do the makers of Scar-Repairex not know that severe acne sufferers often experience social anxiety, depression and in some cases commit suicide because of their marks? In what way does hailing acne scars 'ugly' on TV help their situation and show a degree of sensitivity towards the needs of their target audience?

4) Why is it such a sin to have not so "perfect" skin in Asian society?
( "perfect skin"= fair (the fairer the better), creamy, spot free and mark free)

I can count endless situations where I have had aunties ask me what is wrong with my skin and that I should try X and Y herbs and gunk to get rid of the acne. Gosh I even been hounded in a mall in South India by a shop keeper's assistant wanting me to purchase 20 bottles of Ayurvedic acne eradicating tablets from the in-house Ayurvedic doctor. Another incident saw me walking into a mobile phone shop wanting to top up my phone credit only to be asked by the retail assistant if I would like to be given some special medicaition to get rid of "that"...dont' even mention trips to the beauty parler.

Acne is no joke and it is about time Asian society woke up to the sensitivities associated with it. "This is our culture" is no excuse. We are talking about real people, real feelings and a real condition.

Baptising the Blog

2007-10-08T18:45:00.000+01:00

The Thinking Cow has emerged after a lot of pondering. The Thinking Cow is no ordinary cow. She doesn't come from the fields and is not under farmer's orders. She adapts to all environments and considers herself a free spirit - a roamer. She sits in the middle of the road, unaffected by the sounds of cars honking, people yelling and flys buzzing.

Some people call her lazy - I call her a thinker. For what else does the Indian Cow do when she fixates her large self in the middle of the highway for hours on end? Her thoughts protect her from death, even in the face of a dozen gaudily decorated "Ashok" trucks or a stream of super-speed "Hero Hondas".

The Thinking Cow is peacefully poised in her endless thoughts. We have a great deal to learn from her - patience, contemplation,serenity, elegance but equally courage in the face of danger and assertiveness in the face of confrontation.... A source of inspiration for all? Hence the baptism of the blog.