So we were out running errands one of these days during lunch time.

Two of them went to grab a quick bite. R and I went to the Pharmacy and then stopped by at the bank. We were supposed to pick M and K from the fast food joint on our way back to work. R suddenly hatched a master plot. She called up the food joint. The guy at the counter picked up, expecting a routine order of a cold sub or a salad. But this is what he got to hear — “Hi, I am calling to let you know a news about one of your customers named. He is in there right now having lunch. I am his sister. His wife is having a baby! Can you please tell him that she is in labour and that I am coming over to drive him to the hospital?”

A hysteric counterguy did not waste any time in rushing to the floor and declaring loudly “Is there someone out here by the name of M? Well, sir, YOUR WIFE IS HAVING A BABY!!”

Now, M is a seasoned player. He has known R for years now. He knew only too well about this than to react. So he sat there eating his salad. His fellow customers were shocked at how callous he was about this whole incident, and they glared at him. One old lady even went up to him and told him what a prick he was.

“Well, I am not the bastard’s father!”

*Collective Gasp*

Mind you – M is a single man with no wife, let alone a baby

His face was worth a million bucks, when they got into the car. R and I were in the parking lot waiting for them, we did not dare to go inside the food joint. There were two cops sitting in the joint and having food, and they came out to the parking lot when they saw the commotion — so we fled the scene.

Do you think it is a federal offence here if you call up a food joint and tell them that one of their customers’ imaginary wife is having an imaginary baby?

I guess we would talk about this over lunch tomorrow. 

Let us take a moment here and talk about the modes of transport available in the where I live. Oh yes, we have the huge swanky cars with umpteen cylinders – the gas guzzlers – zipping down the highways. And we have superb motorcycles that make heads turn. You can even spot Amish buggies clunking down the lane. Yes siree, I live in the only American state that has Amish settlements.

But nothing prepared me for the scarcity of public transportation here.

“Buses? Who would wanna take that?!”

“Umm – me? I don’t have a drivers’ license yet.”

I always get the deer-in-the-headlights expression when I say that sentence. They are ALWAYS unprepared for that one.

So, I thumbed through the yellow pages and found a couple of cab numbers that I could rely on. Reliability is not their top priority here – for these cabbies. I live in a suburban area where every household owns a car or two. Who the hell would want to take a ride in a stuffy taxi? Well, I definitely could use a ride!

Here are some hard facts. There are FOUR cabs serving this county. And there are four cab companies and there are four drivers, namely, Grumpy Lady (GL) Driver, Indifferent Guy (IG) Driver, Chatty Dangerous (CD) Driver, Rehab Relapse (RR) Driver. Not much of a list to choose from. And it is difficult to keep track of who works for whom because they quit a company overnight. I used to call up IG the most because, well, he is indifferent. But then, one day I called him to hear this: “I don’t drive no more taxis anymore lady. Call some other bas***d”.

Hmmm.

GL was rough and terrible to even sit next to. I moved into my apartment a day before Halloween (that is Americanized… a day after Diwali is more like it…) I dragged in three boxes past the door and tried to put them into the car’s boot. She didn’t flinch. She sat in the driver’s seat and solved her daily crossword. I hated her instantly. And I swore never to call her up again.

CD is not too bad, if only he would stop turning around while chatting and driving at those dangerous speeds. My eyeballs would go deep into the eye sockets every time he revved up the engine, and would pop right out when he slammed the brakes. I am just newly insured, with no desire to visit the hospital or lie in a pristine coffin in a fancy funeral parlour any time soon.

And that is how Rehab guy and I met. Not very romantic, I admit. But this is how I got to work. I would sit in the backseat while he drove and spewed hate literature about discrimination and monologues about how life isn’t really as pretty as it seems on TV.

Television, I thought, now there is a neutral subject I can bring up with this chap.

“I don’t watch TV. Just too much violence. I have a life equally violent. I don’t need to watch it for entertainment.”

G-U-L-P

Over the course of five days, I got to know that he is a sketch artist with no money thanks to the economy. They all love to blame it on the economy and I have trained myself to nod sympathetically and make the appropriate grunts of disapproval. Gosh, I sound like a husband! Coming back to the Rehab guy. So, he goes for classes to a de-addiction centre and is “graduating” next week. I asked him if he has managed to stay clean and he told me that this was his second session after relapse.

After a week of being driven around I wasn’t too sure about continuing this. Money wasn’t much and frankly, I was beginning to worry that strange people knew where I live and where I work. That is when I turned my attention to the second mode of public transport – the bus.

* * *

Allow me to introduce you to the quaint ways of the Rabbit Transit, in other words, the county’s mode of public transportation.

York County has a series of buses plying its roads crisscross, from the suburbs to downtown and back. You can never get lost if you take one of them, because they all go in loops. The bus stops are marked with a bunny picture and a helpline number that will help you identify what bus goes where.

These huge buses are red in color and have–get this—a BUNNY TAIL PAINTED ON THE REAR END OF THE VEHICLE. It is almost always empty and it almost always makes a stop at all the major shopping complexes and similar such outlets. Most of the drivers are women. Not that there is anything wrong with that. They are a chatty lot and they love to read while at work. A very dangerous trend, I have to note.

So, you think you can get a ride on the Bunny Bus? It is not as easy as it sounds. They are so hard to spot. When you are sitting in a car and going some place and when you are not particularly looking out for a bus… that is when you spot the maximum number of these buses. I chased the evasive bunny for days.

One evening, I was determined to hop on to one of them buses. Hop on… that’s a nice way to say that you are boarding a bus. Not to mention, a Rabbit Transit bus. I walked out of the office building and walked in the direction that one of the Rabbit maps directed me to. I did not see any bus stop for yards and miles. Just when I thought I would die of exhaustion, I got to one stop. While catching my breath I noticed what a desolate little spot it was. Not a single human in sight. Why would someone board a bus from here?

I stood there for an hour, it rained, the Rehab Guy ditched me, and finally, a colleague came and got me. She dropped a sad, cold, wet, and stinky me home. That night, while munching on a midnight snack (yes, one of those American vices that I developed), I decided that I HAVE to get on one of those Rabbit buses. Sunday would be a good day, I decided.

I went through the complete drill of waiting for an hour-and-a-half and got a bus. No, in fact, Rabbit Transit rewarded my wait with TWO buses. Oh, I get a choice of routes. I am delighted. I take in the musty ambience inside the bus. The lady behind the wheels gives me a guided tour of the area, since I am new in town. How did she know? I did not know the bus fare and I fumbled with the quarters and nickels and dimes and dollars.

I got back home after three hours.

No points for guessing how I got to work this morning. Oh and did I tell you about the survey I had to fill out, at work? Funny Lady and Funny Man came up with a strange little survey that I had to take. Sample these questions:

1. Does the bus you are riding have a bunny tail, or not?
2. Are the seats clean?
3. Is the bus hostess friendly and serving you complimentary cocktails?
4. Does the person sitting next to you smell?
5. Do you have a sworn affidavit of your identity while traveling on the bus?

 I should stop, for now. My bunny ride is here.

I am beginning to wonder if I should keep a log of some sorts. To record all the crazy things that transpire at work. If I did keep one, today’s entry would go something like this –

Nov 03, ’08: Lady at work reveals that she has an enormous uterus. Funny guy covers his ears in dismay and starts singing church hymns to chastise himself after THAT piece of news. Friendly lady laughs uncontrollably and almost rams her vehicle into a truck – with a terrified me in it.

Later today, at the Diners, Funny man introduces me as his third wife, his new bride. Funny lady plays along and introduces the remaining two women as his first and second wives. Oh and what a jovial bunch we all are. She said, “He married me for my brains, her for her breasts and the third one for her exotic beauty.”

I think I choked on my soup.  

I got a pair of Christmas Green hand towels from these guys. A tacky housewarming gift. I was beginning to worry if they would gift me the ugly office clown. I hate clowns. They are scary. This little clown sits and bobs its head and sings “It’s a small world after all” Eeks.

Did I tell you that they think I would make a good waitress at Hooters because they think that I am—umm—well stacked?

Hooboy.

I am dealing with a new country and a new continent. I am dealing with air that feels different and trees that look different. I am dealing with non-spicy food and spicy political shows. All in all, I am dealing with change. During comparatively stressful times such as this, humor—specifically at the workplace—helps!

So when I walked into the warm little basement of the office, guided to my workspace in a bare cubicle, I was not expecting to be shown some showgirl costumes stashed away in the locker, or the saucy headgear for those really trying days. I gave an unsure laugh, not sure if that is the reaction they were looking for. I was welcomed to the fold with a couple more crass jokes and free laughter. I am relieved.

I walked around the cubicles and found funny notes all over. I found pictures of happy and hilarious moments. I am in an Americanized Bay26! This is like the mirror world or some parallel universe where everything that’s exactly the same is happening to a different set of people.

I am taken around town during lunch hours, I am given tacky books to read and make book reports of, I am shown secret haunts where things are on sale for throwaway prices. We walked into a store and tried on all the funny hats and made all the necessary noise in there that would be enough to raise some eyebrows and a lot of concern.

Oh and the other day, one of them happily slipped a—ahem—condom into my hand. I wasn’t sure what I should say about her concern about my new life. But before I was required to react she squealed, “Oh look where it is made! INDIA!” I did not know that Latex was such a huge industry back home. Then why such an explosive population?
Hmm.

The apartment hunt is on. And it is a big project out here. They are all looking. And how so! Calls are being made, I am taken around to see places, recommendations for me are being made, I am constantly given tips of how to negotiate with landlords. Furniture places, discount coupons, contacts, carpet places… everything is discussed.

Genie, Welcome to the USA.

I am no longer the one-third of The Troika who has been working in and writing from India. Well, I have still not reached Australia but I have made a beginning. I am now in Singapore – the island of fashion and Americanization. I am telling you, the Singaporeans love the Americans and whatever the latter eat, drink, or wear.

Every morning I leave my fancy service apartment to catch a bus that’d drop me in front of the MRT station, from where I take the metro to work. The whole process takes around 25 minutes and in these 25 minutes I experience many things American, like the crazy queues in front of the numerous Starbucks outlets, the super huge cups of colas being grabbed at the 7-elevens, the clicking of high heels and swishing of business suits on the escalators in the malls that lead to the MRT station. I also lustfully gaze at the showcases of Prada, Louis Vuitton, Gucci, and the like. And if this does not remind you of the big apple, let me tell you that there is also a Hooters outlet to be found here! Do you know what is the only place more American than this? NYC!

I soak all of this and walk into an extremely quiet office. People sit in their smart attire looking into their screens and sipping their coffee. No one looks up, no one turns around, no one says ‘hello.’ I struggle with the wires of my laptop and get it to boot, grab some water and sit down to check my mail, hoping to catch a glimpse of the boss. Now I think this is a point that needs some elaboration. Under normal circumstances I, like most normal people, do not want to see my boss first thing in the morning. But the circumstances I describe are far from normal, at least for me who is still in culture shock. You see, my boss is the only person who acknowledges my presence, hence he is the sole opportunity of human interaction. All day long. Of course, there is also that friendly cleaning lady who is generous with greetings and smiles. God bless her.

BlackHairedGenie’s Version:
Foamy waves teased the beach. There was a buzz of activities along the shore. The ancient South Indian monolithic temples towered over the clusters of tourists. The bedazzling golden sand almost stunned the landscape with its contrast against the clear sunny blue sky. Peanut-sellers, peddlers, curious urchins, cotton candy man and the black temple structures… all perfectly framed within the sky and the sea.

A lady clad in a bright yellow saree, walked upto us. She had betel-stained lips, and she wore gold bangles. Every little item on her person protested in loud colors, against her shiny ebony skin. She was a palm-reader. She insisted on predicting our futures, even though we weren’t too keen to know what was in store for us. But then again, the prospect of getting to know about the future just for a nominal fee… now, that was enticing. We eventually gave in to her beguiling smooth talks. One of us would become rich, one of us would become famous. One of us would be happy in love, one of us would be blessed with children. She said everything that we wanted to hear, in her Tamil drawl, slowly examining our palms. By the end of the exercise, we were poorer by 20 rupees.

Coarse ochre grains grazed my shins while I drew meaningless wet patterns on the sand. She sat in silence, a little way off, watching the sea in rapt awe. After a tiresome journey into the inlands of Pondicherry and red-soiled Auroville, through non-stop rains, on wobbly bicycles and septic buses, we were quite relieved to be here. We were vagabonds, both of us. In our own respective ways, of course. While one wandered within her own self, the other yearned to see the world. It was a lazy yet perfect moment.

LoneDanger’s Version:
Mahabalipuram is unabashedly a tourist town, so I was prepared for a touristy main course along with a garnish of genuine history. If you want to experience bit of the distant past – and a well-known past at that – you must be prepared to jostle with people who might share – or claim to share – your passion. You may, for a small moment in your existense share your life with hyperactive teenagers who – held hostages by factors such as mobile phones and movies and raging hormones – find everything excessively exciting. You may also share your life with comfortable uncles and aunties who find everything – including teenagers – disagreeable.

I saw a surprisingly large number of camera-toting foreigners in Mahabalipuram, admiring the architecture and probably silently cursing the heat and flies and spicy food. Most of the foreigners perpetually wear a look of vague discomfort on their faces in this country. Perhaps they are as homesick as I was when I was doing time outside India. The squat red-faced camera-slinging man listening with a profound expression to the guide explaining the merits of a sculpture could well be thinking, “I wonder if Ricky lets the cat out every night and feeds it that bowl of milk, the absent-minded dupe…speaking of which – hey, it’s Superbowl Sunday!…heck, I wonder if the Patriots will miss the playoffs again…hey, why am I suddenly thinkin’ of Janet Jackson?…” But before he can figure out why he suddenly connected Janet Jackson with the Superbowl, he becomes aware that his tour group is walking again to another sculpture and hears his wife saying, “Must get those earrings for Wendy. She said she will wear it to school and cause a riot, the dear.”

If you are sufficciently discerning and can separate the wheat from the chaff, you may find Mahabalipuram an enjoyable place. For that matter, even if you cannot separate the wheat from the chaff, you may find Mahabalipuram vaguely enjoyable. We reached there on a Tuesday evening in the hope that we would bump into fewer tourists – for we had few hopes of avoiding them altogether. What captivated me first on arrival was not the clutch of monoliths, but the sea. It was a clear sunny day. When I lifted my head and saw the deep blue, I wondered if I had been transported into a tourist brochure for a space and time. Or if I was in one of those dreams that always elude us in real life, when for once all is perfect and there is a meaning and a resolution for everything in our troubled lives. Perhaps, at least on this day, God was present up there in the deep blue of the firmament and the expanse in front of me, as much as he was present inside those centuries-old monoliths along the shore. I stood transfixed for a few minutes, lost in wonder, utterly alone yet comfortably not lonely, feeling the gentle breeze on my face and the warmth of the setting sun behind me, hearing the sounds of wave upon wave, seemingly random but oh so carefully orchestrated.

3rd May, 2008 AD

My last day in Melbourne…

I had to do something that all blokes dread as much as a visit to the dentist: shopping.

“Oh, you’ve left off shopping to the last day, have you?” Neill the Irishman had said to me in the office, the day before. “What a typical male thing to do! You’re going to panic, like we all do.”

I nearly did panic, but finally managed to put together something. I went to one of those huge supermarkets where there are few salespeople around and just about everything – including a kitchen sink – is available. I get edgy when I am trying to figure out what to buy and have a salesperson breathing down my neck. As it is, I am taking on the supreme challenge of shopping and am in jitters and want to just get over with it; what I don’t need is some salesperson hovering about, and then giving up on me after 3 minutes. I lose whatever little confidence I have in my shopping abilities, and bolt – or worse, end up buying some trashy substandard stuff that will grace the shelf.

***********************************
I am always a little sad when I leave a place. I was a lot sadder when I left home, of course, but the fact remains that I have grown rather fond of Melbourne. I was initially wary of the place because it seemed completely at odds with the chaos and insolent apathy that I was used to in my own city. Notoriety usually makes one uneasy, but sometimes, so does goodness. I found that my wariness – in this case – was misplaced.

Melbourne is no Paris or New York. It cannot lay claim to be the centre of chic and high fashion (though in a sense it is the “Paris” of Australia), nor can it promise you breathless excitement through its sheer pace and notoriety. Melbourne is just a guy who wears clean clothes and keeps his life clean, pays his taxes, minds his own business, barracks in a football or cricket game, and sometimes goes to the opera because he realizes there are some things in life that are noble and rare.

Melbourne is cleanliness with no litter except fallen leaves, it is clouds and dull drizzle, it is elegant old buildings and cafes and churches and parks, it is the quaint trams ringing their bells, it is the matronly woman who stood on Flinders Street promoting gifts for Mother’s Day, it is a representative of an gentle orderly way of life of an essentially civilized society.

//A post by the Lonedanger. He can’t log in for some strange reason!

Society has strange rules. I am sure picking one’s nose is frowned upon here, though back home it is nearly an art form. Sneezing is allowed here, of course. Amelia lets go 3 or 4 times each day and invariably gets “Bless you”s, to which she invariably replies, “Thank you Barry” or “Thank you, Stu” as the case may be.

Strangely enough, blowing your nose seems to be acceptable. I have often been startled by the sounds of people putting their hankies to their noses in the office, and honking like geese at various decibels.

This has the potential to become an art form. Perhaps a couple of them could set up outside the Telstra Dome or MCG before the next footie match, and go honking together, a small suitcase placed in front of them. (They won’t need a big suitcase because the earnings will be lower than those for a saxophone and a trombone.) Could be a bother though if one of them catches a cold in this chill weather:

“Wot’s the matter with ya, mate, you sound out of tune today?”

“It’s the cold, sunshine, you don’t expec’ the same timbre as Kenny G when a bloke had a cold, do ya?”

“Well, you better get rid of that cold fast. We’ve got that Collingwood game coming up soon, and we could rake in some money. We want our noses to be in top condition.”
===

About those nose blow – err – jobs… it bothered me BIG time. And I really did wonder if it was just me, or a cultural thing. So, when I got there, I was down with this really bad cough and I would wrack like a TB patient in the advanced stages of the ailment — without much hope left. And you should have seen the stricken faces that looked up from the files, the worried ashen looks. Oh the looks! Sometimes, I wished I just blew my lungs out… through my nose, noisily, into a hanky, of course.
===

The names of the streets out here are a reminder—or is it remainder—of the British Legacy.

There is King’s Street, where I work. There is Queen’s street. Alas, like in a Shakespearean tragedy, King’s and Queen’s streets run parallel and the twain never meet. Running parallel to these two streets is – inexplicably – Elizabeth Street. Hullo, I though she is Queen, isn’t she? Or are they referring to Queen Elizabeth I? Running parallel to these streets is Williams Street. As for the Empress, I’m not sure if there’s a street named after her, but she shouldn’t complain. Apart from a whole State, there’s a market named after her – Victoria Market.

Perpendicular to all these streets – King’s, Queen’s, Elizabeth’s, Williams and several others – is Flinders Street, which is another big street in the downtown area. The Flinders Street station is a big, important hub. At the meeting point of King’s Street and Flinders Street is the Melbourne Aquarium.

The admission fee is steep at $25 per head – plus I paid for the train ticket to Flinders Street since I was too lazy to walk. The Aquarium delivers partially – I would reckon it is worth $20, at the most. It doesn’t begin too promisingly. It starts off with a few creepy-crawlies from the Australian seas. Then you come to a point where the sign on the right says, “The Way to the Lair of the Dragon” and the sign on left says, bluntly and without ceremony, “Toilets.” This is what prompted Robert Frost to write, “”Two roads diverged in an aquarium and I took the one less traveled – and that has led me to the wash room.” I think he wrote that.

But the aquarium builds up well after that. Everyone knows that people really come to see the big sharks and rays. The other fish are merely appetizers. I was disappointed that they did not have the Box Jellyfish, one of the most poisonous creatures in the marine world. Well, it was a good experience to be in the midst of so many sharks. In my professional life, I have to swim with them all the time and survive. It was a welcome change to see real sharks, and safely behind glasses.

When is the last time you did something for the first time? I did two firsts today: I saw an aquarium, and – yippie – I rode in a tram!

I also inserted $5 worth of coins in the railway ticket vending machine, but failed to pick up the $1.20 change, because I could not figure out where the darn coins came out from. But I shall not count that as a first.
===

Hahaha!!!

I was thinking about the disappearance of the loose change! But it isn’t something that I should be laughing at, really — The other day, I decided to use the microwave in the pantry, and I had such a tough time trying to open the darn door. Looked all over the place for the knob and tried to pry it open with my fingers and even contemplated lifting the appliance and dropping it on the floor nonchalantly. Thankfully, a woman walked over, gracefully pressed a miniscule button with her manicured finger, warmed her lunch and strutted off on her high heels… or what seemed like tiny skyscrapers.

Anyway, let’s focus on your eccentricities for now.

So, you had your tryst with the Rays and Sharks. I think anyone visiting Down Under gets a taste of life in the wild. The country is pretty civilized and very very swanky and modern and all that. But they consider their wildlife to be one of their main USPs. Everything has a touch of strange furry marsupials or venomous snakes or that of a drowsy Koala. Every state in Australia has a zoo to boast of and an aquarium with the most amazing deep sea stuff. I wish I had seen the Great Barrier Reef. Oh well!

I loved the Sydney Aquarium. There was this one segment where you get to see the sharks, while walking through a glass tunnel, with the creatures swimming all around you. For some strange reasons—maybe to sooth your nerves—they were playing western classical pieces in the background, while the sharks bared their teeth. It added a very—errmm—Hannibal-like feel to the whole thing.
*shivers*

All streets and nooks and crannies in Australia reek (yes, I choose this word) of their British legacy. We lived in the Kent-Liverpool street crossing. Our office was on Kent St., while the Sussex St was located just behind it. We could cross the signal and—whoa—we were in George St. Then there’s a Hyde Park and a King Street too. The King St in Sydney was originally called ‘Queen St’ and the folks would confuse it with another street named Elizabeth. So, the authorities renamed it. Have you noticed something? Their imagination really runs dry when it comes to naming streets. Everything is so repetitive!

Hey, if you do get the chance, please check if they have any of those tourist buses — the hop-on-hop-off ones. They are fun!
===

I haven’t come across any the hop-on-hop-off tourist buses. The Melbourne version – since Melbourne is after all quainter, more cultured, and steeped in the past than Sydney is, see – is the City Circle Tram. (“You’re talking like it’s your own bloody hometown, mate.”)

Trams are an integral part of the city’s ethos, and you see various types of trams. There are the new, sleek, silent trams; the somewhat older and rumbling trams; and the very old City Circle Trams that travel through the CBD and the Docklands area. They stop at the same designated stops as the other trams, but a voice-over provides commentary on the important parts of the city. And yes, they offer you a free ride.
===

Wait a minute. If those Talking Trams are free, and if they stop at all the regular stops, then who would pay and go in the non-talking ones?!
===

Well Einstein, these trams are free, but they go round and round in a circle over a small area. They may be ideal if I want to see the downtown and Docklands area and admire the old and new buildings, but if I have to get back to my suburb on time so that my wife (fictional) does not murder me for turning up late to pick my in laws (fictional) from the airport, I wont get into a city circle tram. I will either get into a tram that will get to my suburb, or I will take a train.

Fact:

Two-thirds of the Troika has traveled to Australia at some point in time, or the other.

It’s chill and windy here.

I have managed to remain a vegetarian.

–

You have a couple of weeks more to go – lets see how many animals you will eat!

–

I walk home down the hep, organized streets along with the suited-and-booted crowds, all the time pining for the chaos of Delhi. Then I reach the hotel and face the four walls.

–

I totally know the feeling.

I had started writing a lot, during those days. Its a sight to see – -the morning office goers. They wait at red lights, minding their own business. Then, when you hear the pic-pic-pic sound and when the lights change you resume your walk. All of them crisp and purposeful. I did pine for familiarity too, but I did not miss the lecherous looks or the dust or the Himesh songs. I missed the familiar scents, the trees, and the morning reading-in-the-bus routine.

–

Yesterday was one of the windiest days in Vic in recent history. Wind speeds reached 130 kmph in several parts of the state. The town of Bondorrah had a bad dust storm. A TV station managed to get hold of a farmer Donald, who said he was driving down a country road and couldn’t see a thing. A radio station said a guy was on a motorbike when it was blown right off. I am not exaggerating when I say that at one point, I could not walk for the sheer force of the wind. Some trains were cancelled; power was out in some parts of Melbourne. Sounds like Bombay during the monsoon, doesn’t it? My clients insisted that I take an umbrella home, and offered me a huge one – that looked like those things they put up outside restaurants.

The people are disarmingly friendly here, at least the ones in the office – touch wood. Having lived for a long time in circumstances where I am left alone in one corner of Bay 6, and approached only when someone needs help, I found this unnerving. Also, given my somewhat introverted nature, I realized that acting extroverted all the time was downright exhausting! Yesterday, when I was having lunch on my own, an employee – a blonde – who sits not far from me came over and struck up a friendly conversation. She “Hi Merlee”, and said how windy it was, and discussed AFL, and cricket, and what a creep Ricky Ponting is, and how she wanted Harbhajan out, etc. I was waiting for her to ask me for advise on her design document, or a review, or something – but no. It was all so disappointing – she just wanted to talk to me! And today morning, she asked me if I managed to reach home safely through the weather. Well, really! – and I hardly know her!

I found someone “motherly” – an Indian originally from Cal – to advise me on food.

And yes, they do say “yeeeeh” all the time.

–

“Yeeeeeeh..I Knouiii!!!”

Don’t they also say — “Exactly raaaaight” a lot?

I am glad that you like the way how things are shaping up!

You know, I found the folks out there really friendly too. They smile at you whenever they meet your eyes. They say hi and they make small talk. There was this guy who used to sit right across where I sat. He would chat up with me and was really friendly. Well, almost to the level that K thought he was flirting with me!! He wasn’t, really. That’s how these folks are

Oh, by the way, on the last day of work, I did leave a tiny little gift for him, at his desk

And oh yes, I have an umbrella story to tell you too — So, it was raining crazy out there and the lady in the office insisted that she give us both one umbrella each. They are MASSIVE ones, not like the ones that we use out here. And yes, you could start a lemonade stall if you own one But then again… have you seen the umbrellas the folks in the Himalayas use? They are huge too!

–

Yeeeh, that’s true, That’s what they sai. Also they also sai “exactly roit” )

Today, I have to buy a 1 GB memory stick and some yogurt. I lead an interesting life.

I have discovered 3 Indian restaurants. Yeeeh.

–

Today when you buy yoghurt, ask for the sim recharge. Take the 29 AUD one. It will last long enough and will give you value for money.

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When Melbournians talk about traffic jams, they must be referring to Dabri Mode at 6 in the morning. They wouldn’t be able to imagine the chaos of Dabri Mode at 9 o’ clock.:) Most of the drivers in the cabs in which I have travelled have been Africans – except for one driver, a kindly old Queenslander, who chatted with me pleasantly all the way to the office. The Africans tend to keep quiet like the Indian cabbies. Yesterday however, the cabbie turned around and asked me, “You’re from India?” I brightened up and said yes.

“Mumbai or Delhi?” he said. When I answered, he said he had been in Delhi once. For two weeks, back in 1973. I would have probed a little and asked him about the circumstances had I not glanced out of the window and been riveted by the sight of a silent line of office-goers, mostly dressed in black, some holding coffee cups , all walking like zombies towards their destinations. So they could all scamper like frightened rabbits out of the offices and into trains at 5.00 PM – back to their suburbs. I may seem to be making fun of them, but I wish we Indians would be more like them in this respect.

Yesterday evening, there was a big “footie” game at the Telstra Dome in front of the hotel, and a sizable crowd had gathered to watch it. Such crowds usually get boisterous, and this one had started getting boisterous even before the start of play. I had been warned to keep away from such crowds, especially if the home team lost (it did). I went out to buy some potato chips. When I came back to the hotel on level 4, the lift “came along”, the doors opened, and a woman got out. She asked me, “Are we on the 8th?” I replied, no, she had just reached Level 4.

She got back in, giggled in a friendly sort of way as we started up, and said to me, “I cant figure these things out sometimes, you know. They move so quickly.” I nodded back politely, and smiled. I was amused. Half an hour back, on the way back from the office, I had ridden the lift with an Indian girl, who kept a safe distance from me in one corner of the lift, hands tightly folded, and steadfastly looked away. Made me feel like Jack the Ripper.

Well, it takes all kinds to make to make up this world. I have my own powers-that-be, who – even in the call we had yesterday – have still not asked me how I am getting along in a strange city. And then, there’s the Malaysian expatriate who sometimes sits next to me: when I told him I would urgently need to make a call back home when I reached the hotel, immediately pressed a calling card in my hand, and insisted that I could use it to call home from the office.

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You are right about that — it takes all kinds to make up this world.

When I went to Sydney, it really wasn’t the first time I was travelling abroad. But still, a lot of things hit me quite on the face — the main thing being FREIDNLINESS. Well, with a better spelling of course. The thing about us Indians is that we are very wary about everyone around us. I don’t know if we can blame our race for it or not. I am still trying to find the answer.

Lots of strangers smiled at me when I walked to work. There were courteous car drivers who would let you cross the road while they waited patiently. I made it a point to look back at them, smile and wave a thank-you. They would smile back and drive off. It really made my day(s). Construction workers would nod a good morning and allow the ‘Indian gals’ to walk past. No whistles, no comments, nothing.

You have ‘African’ cabbies? In Sydney, in three weeks, I saw ONE black guy. And that too, a tourist. It was worrying. So much to the extent that… I was beginning to get worried about what did happen to the blacks out here! We just had Asian folks all over the place (yes, Indians are Asians too! South Asians). The very first cabbie we encountered, the one who took us to the apartment from the airport, played the friendly guide. He showed us around, named the streets, gave a few tips and asked us to have a pleasant stay in his country. He would have been Malaysian. But that is another story, really. Did I tell you of this Malaysian guy at work? He loves gaming, and he loves pirated software. We were fast friends, in no time.

The morning office-going crowd, coffee cups in hand, coated and suited and booted. I almost loved the mechanized routine. If it weren’t for the fear of running late to work, we would have stopped at a bistro or two. The non-smoking ones. Aussies smoke a LOT. Or maybe not.