Name Games

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

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

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

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

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

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!

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

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

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

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.