Language misuse

I was walking leisurely when a person approached me.

“Do you know where the HK bank is?”

Before I could think, he continued: “This is Wahda Street, right?”

“Ye,” I did not complete the word when he queried, “That parallel road is JAN Street?”

He then pointed out a building at a distance and asked, “Do you see that blue skyscraper?”

“Yes.”

 “Next to that - the yellow building. That must be the bank.” Saying so, he moved off.

I wondered whether I was the one looking for the bank.

The other day a similar incident happened.

A person asked me whether I knew where a restaurant was.

When I blinked, his partner mentioned in Tamil, “What a fool you asked. Look how he is blinking!” He apparently did not guess that I knew Tamil.

However, he is not the only culprit when it comes to language misuse.

I was in a taxi in Mumbai with my wife when I muttered to her in Tamil, “This driver will get an award for slow driving.”

Obviously, I had presumed he did not know the language.

He turned and remarked, “You want me to reach your destination or final destination?”

Driving women nuts

Women who are alone while hiring taxis seem to face an awkward situation: The invasive glance through the front mirror and personal questions from the driver.

My wife takes out a book when she travels alone in a taxi, another friend brings out her make-up kit, my Lankan friend starts knitting, but many  newcomers learn to deal with the situation the hard way.

A comparatively new friend of mine hired a taxi last week. The moment she mentioned the destination and the vehicle started moving, the driver started asking personal questions.

“Are you alone? Where are you working? Is the salary enough?”

Her reply was just “Hmmm.,” to all the questions, but what she could not take was the last question.

“You are pretty. Will you marry me?”

“Are you going to stop the vehicle now or I ring up the police?” she asked in a tough tone.

The questions stopped.

But not all drivers behave in that disgraceful manner.

The same girl had a pleasant experience too. Seeing her in a distressed situation, a taxi driver enquired about her well-being.

When she said she was new to the country and had crushed her finger in a car door, he not only directed her to a doctor but also offered to skip her taxi fare. She insisted that he take the fare, after thanking him.

Oooff, what a world of contradictions.

   

‘Talking’ plants

When I pressed the doorbell of my friend, I could hear his angry voice inside the room. “I give you two days, you fool. I want you to grow fast.”

I was stunned. However, when he opened the door, he was all smiles.

“Whom were you shouting at?”

He laughed and replied, “I heard that if we hurl abuses at our plants, they grow faster.”

“Give them water, not abuses,” I advised him.

Interestingly, new research suggests that plants communicate with each other with “clicking” noises. Scientists at Bristol University used powerful loudspeakers to listen to corn saplings – and heard clicking sounds coming from their roots.

When I mentioned this to my friend, he asked, “You mean our plants spy on us and comment also?”

“Yes.”

He turned to his wife. “You better stop arguments at home or the plants may pass comments about you.”

“I can do that if you start listening to me,” she replied.

“Come on, do not start it all over again,” he began.

I looked at the plants.

“There they go again,” I heard them whispering.  

Peanut for monkeys

As soon as I entered office my colleague remarked, “I heard you before I saw you.”

I thanked my stars. When my dad entered his office, people even from the neighbouring buildings could hear his loud voice.

It is like the elephants of Tamil Nadu that had bells hanging around their necks. The bell sound reached the streets before the elephant made its presence.

“That does not make you an elephant. You will always remain a monkey,” joked my another colleague.

“Thanks brother,” I replied.

Talking of monkeys, I am reminded of a peanut joke.

A boy opened a sachet of peanuts when a monkey grabbed the pack, relished the nuts and laughed at him. The boy slowly picked up another sachet. As the monkey stared at him, he munched gleefully and murmured, “Peanut for you, cashew for me.”

Cheer…2013's here

Sending positive vibes and wishes to everyone visiting this blog: Let 2013 bring good health, peace and prosperity to you. Some blog buddies have been of tremendous help, motivating me personally and professionally. Thanks. I am sure our bond will strengthen further in the coming years. Stay connected. Love you guys and gals.

Dancer with fire in her belly

Albeit UAE’s December cold, Natalia Zakrevska was sweating profusely after nearly 20 minutes of twisting and swirling as she danced her way to the heart of an appreciative audience at a Dubai desert camp.

Several Middle Eastern countries claim belly dance as their own and its popularity is widespread around the world. Many desert safaris and dune driving shows for tourists in Dubai also include belly dancing along with music and food.

Natalia, who hails from Ukraine, says her passion for different kinds of Middle Eastern Music and her inherent love for dance brought her to the UAE. She has been a belly dancer in the UAE for the past three years, though she has been living here for around six years. “I think the UAE is the best place for artistes like me as we find appreciation, respect and security here.”

Among the audience are men, women and children of different ages. “As an artiste I exhibit positive energy and expect the same from the audience. When I perform, I get immersed in the art and this helps me bond and connect with people of all ages. There is so much of bliss. In fact, I get tremendous happiness from the cheerful response of the spectators,” she says.

The artiste, in her twenties, used a stick while swaying to the rhythms of loud music and balanced a sword on the curves of her belly, drawing repeated applause.

Natalia says that she wants to start a dance school and train youngsters. “I am skilled in other dance forms too, including Salsa. The UAE has so many varied nationalities. There is absolute unity in diversity here. Hence this is the right place to teach diverse dance forms.”

Will she go to Hollywood or Bollywood if given a chance? “Why not?” she shoots back. “I will grab any such opportunity. I should say I like Bollywood."

Talk about her future plans and Natalia laughs out loud saying, “I want to get married, have kids and settle down.”

When I blinked like a fused robot

Robots fascinate me.

Arnold Schwarzenegger, Will Smith, Shah Rukh Khan, Rajnikant…many top stars have acted in films depicting robots.

Decades ago, talking about machines when there was no television or computer at home, a Tamil film song went on like, “If we press a button, Idlis (south Indian dish) and coffee should reach us in a plate.” (Button-ai thatti vitaa rendu thattile idliyum kaappi namma pakkaththile vandhidanam).

Now, robots perform amazing deeds. NYT reported that the most valuable part of each computer, a motherboard loaded with microprocessors and memory, is largely made with robots.

Robots are used for critical surgeries. They don the roles of a personal assistant, traffic assistant, gift wrapper, receptionist or a worker of an automotive manufacturing line.  There are home robots that make salads and clean dishes.

When I mentioned all this to my colleague, she looked puzzled for a minute and then asked, “All’s well. But don’t you think we are now becoming robots and they are taking our role?”
I blinked like a fused robot.

Talking about robots, I remember a joke:

A robot displayed at a mall hugged those who told the truth, but slapped anyone who uttered a lie.

The first visitor shook its hand and said, “You are cute.” The robot hugged the guy.

The second person said, “My wife loves me the most.” He got a blow.

Then came Banta Singh. “I think…” he started.  Phattt… came the slap.

Blogs vs print media

http://gulftoday.ae/portal/b95ffde1-d91d-4e08-89cf-004ca1febaa0.aspx
The job of journalists is to reflect social events as they are and when they happen. If the society has scars in its face, the journalists reflect the same, like a mirror does. Do we blame the mirror for reflecting scars in our face?
Some bloggers do not seem to get this message and there has been a series of comments against journalists in the social media. It is portrayed as if journalists “easily fall prey to monetary temptations,” and “do not stick to professional ethics.”
The bloggers are entitled to their views, but generalisation is in poor taste. Every profession evolves and so does journalism. 
I started my career in the mid-80s and there were no computers in The Times of India, Mumbai then. It was the Hot Metal (Letter Press) printing days. 
When the computer system was introduced later, journalists were worried about their future. Dozens of proofreaders and paste-up artists lost their jobs.
The print media was shifting from hard copy to computer editing. Pens, pencils, erasers and scales were silently being discarded. Sub-editors, who were used to sleeping in the office after the edition amid the din of teleprinter machines and antiquated fans making funny noises, were slowly getting used to quiet surroundings. 
Fortunately, we copy editors picked up technology fast. Now, journalists and computers are inseparable. 
I do cry for my adorable Remington typewriter. I sold it to a reporter friend in Navi Mumbai. I could not gift it to her as those were challenging days and pay for journalists under Indian government wage board structure was pathetic.
When I joined as a copy editor, for the entire first month I was given only “Brief” reports to edit. “Briefs” were used to fill gaps between two big articles. And they were never more than one or two paras. Imagine editing two-para stories for weeks. The bosses were so intelligent; they would find a mistake even in those and rebuke me for being careless.
And we had funny names for headline sizes for page layout purposes like “Single,” “Heavy Top” and “Bottom Spread.” That was an extension of British journalism. In fact, the page opposite editorial was called BOR. I never understood that for many weeks until a senior told me it meant “Back of Reuters.” Frankly, I still do not understand what that meant. 
Most of the bloggers who throw mud on journalists may not have come across young men and women journalists working day and night who dedicated themselves as devoted members of the Fourth Estate. 
Just this week, a reporter friend from a Mumbai daily mentioned to me how he wrote about a couple in distress.
After losing one daughter to disease and a second child to a miscarriage from the shock of the death, the couple were struggling to put together funds needed to save their third child, who needed a bone marrow transplant.
The report helped raise Rs1.3 million in funds from 200 donors in various countries including the UAE, Australia, Norway, Canada, USA and Oman.
This is not to argue that there are no rotten apples in this profession. Just like in most other fields, there have been examples in history of unethical mediapersons too. But there is a need to nurture, protect and even cajole mediamen who do their job sincerely and courageously as their role in society is as vital as breathing for human beings.